by Unknown
But memory filters everything, distorts and idealizes it. Nearly everyone is convinced that their younger years were happy. The mushrooms tapped into that filter to send out its hunting call.
Matsuoka, what did you really see that day in Kyushu? Those ghosts writhing in the flames—who did you see? You couldn’t tell me, could you? Now I know. I feel your revulsion and the wretchedness.
The parasite will travel with the winds and rain and infect every corner of Japan. There’ll be no need for quarantine zones. Ghosts will ride the toxin. Japan will be full of them. People will blunder to their doom, drawn by a phantom’s call. They’ll wallow in spores and think they’re in paradise. Like Mimura.
I trudged on, eyes on the ground. To escape from the quarantine zone. To return to my wife and son.
But I was saturated with the toxin. If I was going to get out, I had to concentrate, because the road back was teeming with ghosts. From black clouds that refused to shed a drop, they streamed toward me, arms extended, pleading.
Help me. Help me.
Father and Mother. Erika and Mimura. My wife and my son.
A man named Ito lived modestly with his sister on the edge of a dark wood. One night, after they had just come home from the capital, a serving maid appeared at their door and said that her mistress had seen Ito in the wood and wished to meet him. Nothing lived in the wood but ghosts, wolves, and spirits, as Ito knew, but he agreed to go anyway, though his sister wanted him to stay.
The maid led him through the trackless wood to a tall house he had never seen before. Light glowed from all the windows and noble men and women with the manners of past generations greeted him kindly, asking him what had lately passed in the world, being particularly interested in the ruinous baronial wars. Among them was a woman with raven hair and white skin who seemed to be illuminated by her own pale light, and he saw that she was watching him closely. She told him she wanted to show him the flowers she had arranged, and led him behind a succession of paper screens depicting bloody acts of war and the gruesome torments of hell, and as they passed each screen she removed another of his garments. Ito knew he was among spirits but did not care.
In the morning the pale woman saw him to the door and kissed him, her mouth tasting like fog, and said that they’d be married in one year.
As the year passed, Ito became ill and feeble, and as the fever racked him he spoke on and on about his lover. His sister nursed him as best she could, but he was almost dead and fading fast when the same serving maid appeared and said it was nearly time for Ito to wed her mistress.
When the maid had gone the sister kissed Ito and then called on a friend and said they were going mushrooming. They got baskets and took the path into the dank wood where the morels flourished in the deep pine shadows. The sister said, “Something marvelous has happened—my brother is engaged to a lady of noble birth and real consequence. This is quite a move up in the world—we look like country samurai, but our true station is actually rather humble. Tell no one, but the truth is one of our grandfathers hauled night soil, and the other loaned money at interest. Think of his fiancée’s humiliation if she knew!”
Ito soon recovered, and though he looked for her, the serving maid never came again. He went looking for the house in the wood but found only a meadow of high, rank grasses where, he was told, there had once been an execution following a battle.
When I had heard about this side job, it sounded pretty good. Of course, life wasn’t that easy.
“It’s in pretty rough shape,” the manager said, “but the face is cute, right? Nice colors too. It’s too small for any of our employees. Their eyes won’t line up with the eye holes.”
He cheerfully remarked that my petite frame would make for a perfect fit.
I said, “My friend told me all I had to do was hand out balloons to the customers.”
“That’s right. You’ll be handing out balloons. That’s all. And I want you to wear this while you do it. The families will love it.”
I wasn’t so sure about that.
The subject of our discussion, terribly worn out and slumped against the wall of the employee locker room, was a pink rabbit mascot costume. Like the manager had said, the costume seemed distinctly smaller than a typical one you might see in a theme park.
“When did you get this thing?” I asked.
“Let me think … Five years ago. The owner’s wife brought it in for the customer appreciation sale for our fifth anniversary. I think she said something about buying it in Asakusa.”
The manager explained that a petite employee had worn it in front of the store for the big sale and handed out balloons and candy.
“It went over so well, we’re going to do it again for our even grander tenth anniversary customer appreciation sale.”
I imagined the costume five years newer, with colors far more vivid. Had it been cute back then? The children brought in tow by their mothers might have really enjoyed it.
But now? You could hardly look at the thing.
Had it been shut away in some storeroom for five years straight? Its color hadn’t faded—if nothing else, it must have been kept out of the sunlight—but its fur was speckled with gray mold. Its two long ears drooped listlessly. I lifted the right ear, and it immediately flopped back down. White spots on its body might have come from bleach splattered by some mop-swinging janitor. Only where the chemical had stuck had the pink color faded. What, had they left this costume uncovered, out in the open in the storeroom?
An oily film of dust clouded its two plastic eyes.
“Something stinks,” I said. “I think it might have bugs.”
The manager gave me a broad grin. “Dry it out in the sun today. It’ll be fine. Some good whacks will get that dust right off.”
I touched the costume. It felt clammy. I searched around for the rear zipper and unzipped it. The inside felt even wetter. My face twisted in disgust.
He anticipated my remark and said, “I’m telling you, it’ll be fine once you dry it out.”
He patted me on the shoulder. “Tomorrow’s the big day. We open at ten, but I’d like you to get to the office by nine. Thanks. And if you want to do any mending today, use the parking lot. It’s got good sunlight.”
The upbeat manager made a swift exit.
The swampy costume and I had been left behind. Seething, I batted the suit’s nose. That was all it took to send the hollow rabbit crumpling to the ground beside the wall.
I thought, This totally sucks.
For a poor college student, part-time work was a lifeline. “I’ve got this good job for you,” my friend had told me. “Ten thousand yen for one day’s work. It’s helping out at a supermarket, so it’s legit.”
At the time, I thought his face looked like the Buddha’s. But no more. He was a con artist. A human trafficker.
If only I’d had one extra day, I could have taken this nasty costume home and given it a full cleaning. I sighed.
“Well now, are you helping out for the big sale today? Thank you for coming in.”
The voice came from behind as I had just put my legs into the costume in the locker room.
Standing there was a woman around my mother’s age, with plump cheeks and a broad smile. She walked to one of the lockers and opened it. The name tanaka was on the door.
“I am,” I said. “It’s only for one day, but it’s nice to meet you.”
“Nice to meet you too.”
Ms. Tanaka changed into a light blue uniform, then gestured to my costume and said, “That’s hard to put on by yourself. Let me help you.”
Even with two of us pushing and pulling, putting on the outfit was hard work. When we’d finally stuffed me inside, I had already begun to sweat. I didn’t yet need to be completely in my rabbit guise, so I left the head dangling back like a hoodie.
“It’ll be hot and humid in the sui
t,” she said, “and it’s quite heavy, so your shoulders will get stiff. And when you’re walking around, be careful where you step. Also, you take up about twice as much space as you normally do, so you’ll bump into things you wouldn’t expect.”
Her advice rang of experience.
“Ms. Tanaka, have you worn a mascot costume before?”
Her bright laughter resounded in the little locker room. “Sure I have. I wore that one five years ago.”
Now that she said it, I noticed she was small like me.
She patted her stomach. “I’ve put on some weight in these five years.”
Like she said, she did have a belly.
“Twelve kilograms,” she said. “Even still, the manager tried to get me to put it on again, at first. Absolutely impossible. And even more impossible for any of the other workers. Since we’d be taking on some help for the day anyway, they decided to have one of you wear it.”
She gave me a cheerful apology. I responded with a vague laugh, meanwhile thinking heatedly, deep down, Well in that case, you could have at least washed the rabbit after.
I had done the best I could cleaning it the day before, but the inside of the suit still felt moist. Where the bare skin of my arms and legs made direct contact with the suit’s interior, I had already begun to itch.
“Do you want to try on the head?” Ms. Tanaka asked. “You should get some practice walking around before you go out front.”
She lifted the top for me, and I twisted to slip my head inside. I was all the way in now.
“What do you think?” she asked. “It’s a little scary at first, because you can’t see much.”
I maneuvered my eyes to the eyeholes and looked around the locker room. I could see the row of lockers and the wire mesh glass window. As she said, my view was restricted, but it wasn’t so bad. What got to me more was the stuffiness. My only ventilation was a single hole beneath my chin.
Pleased, Ms. Tanaka said, “Oh, how cute.”
I had sensed her move, and her voice came from ahead and to the side. But I couldn’t see her. The light blue of her uniform was nowhere to be seen.
Instead, I saw something peculiar. I saw a thick, gray mass of fur. It was huge—almost exactly as big as Ms. Tanaka. And it was standing right next to me.
It took me a moment to realize it was a costume of a bear.
“Ms. Tanaka?” I asked.
“I’m right here. You’re having trouble seeing out of that, aren’t you?”
As it replied in Ms. Tanaka’s voice, the bear mascot waddled right up in front of me.
Ms. Tanaka? That’s Ms. Tanaka? Why is she wearing a bear costume? When did she put it on?
“Umm …” I said.
Reflexively, I reached out to touch her gray fur, and I lost balance.
“Are you all right?”
She was supporting me, holding me up—this gray bear with Ms. Tanaka’s voice.
What the heck is going on here?
I shouted like I was on fire. “Take—take this off me!”
I threw off the rabbit head, and Ms. Tanaka was right in front of me—the plump woman in the light blue uniform. My eyes widened in shock, and I started to back away.
I was holding my breath.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is there something inside your suit? A bug?”
Not acknowledging her questions, I closed my eyes and put the rabbit head back on.
“Ms. Tanaka, don’t move from that spot.”
“Huh? Okay.”
When I opened my eyes, that gray bear was in her place.
The gray bear was gesturing in surprise. “What’s gotten into you?” she exclaimed, her voice high pitched.
Inside my costume, my mouth was hanging open.
“I’m … going to take a walk over there,” I said. Feeling my way along the wall, I tottered out of the locker room.
Everyone, one and all, was wearing a mascot costume.
Rather, they all appeared to be wearing costumes, as long as I was looking through the eyeholes of my pink rabbit guise.
The employees coming into work seemed a parade of stuffed animals. This one was a cat. That one was a raccoon. This one was a monkey. They even had tails. Since nearly all of the workers were women, the stuffed animals had cute voices and feminine laughs. Naturally, their movements were feminine too. The scene felt a little bit like some dubiously themed bar. A cosplay bar, maybe? Except those establishments typically stuck with schoolgirl uniforms or nurse outfits. Anyway, I passed by a number of these costumed people and arrived at the front of the supermarket.
The manager was there, looking up at the storefront’s decorations. Atop a ladder beside him, a man was fine-tuning the level of a horizontal sign, which read tenth anniversary appreciation fair.
“A little higher,” the manager was saying. “No, that’s too far. Keep it level, keep it level.”
“How’s this? How’s this now?”
I knew the one on the ladder was a man because he had a male voice.
Neither of them appeared human. But this time, I couldn’t quite describe them as stuffed animals.
Because they were made of plastic.
The manager was a robot. A Gundam, maybe. The man atop the ladder was … what was that … some kind of soldier, I thought. Maybe one of the Turborangers.
I called out to the manager.
The Gundam turned to me. “Wow, that looks good on you.”
I yanked off the rabbit head. The Gundam and the Turboranger were gone, replaced by the manager and a man on the ladder. The manager was wearing a white button-up shirt and a striped necktie. The man on the ladder—boy, actually; younger than me by the looks of him—was in work wear.
I plopped the rabbit head back on.
Wow, the Gundam and Turboranger return!
“What’s wrong,” the manager asked, “is the suit uncomfortable?”
“No, it’s not that,” I replied in a monotone. I blinked the dust out of my eyes.
What the heck is going on?
“Excuse me,” I said, then did an about-face and headed for the locker room.
The manager’s voice came after me. “Where are you going? I need you to start handing out those balloons soon!”
The locker room had a mirror. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see what form I took inside the mirror.
All the other workers were out in the store now, leaving the locker room unoccupied. With the rabbit head on, I slowly approached the mirror.
I saw a rabbit costume.
But it was a different color than the one I was wearing. The one in the mirror was white. And its ears were a different shape. The right ear was sharply folded over in the middle.
I knew this white rabbit. It was … it was familiar.
It was Chiyoko.
When I was a little girl, I loved that stuffed rabbit. I slept with her every night. I carried her on my back to go play in the park. I even carried her with me on family trips.
She had two black, round eyes. Her left one was the original plastic bit, but the right was my father’s coat button, a replacement for the one that had fallen off on our way home from a friend’s house. I was around six years old.
Crying and making a fuss, I said, “Chiyoko lost her eye!”
My mother gave me a solid scolding, but then sewed on the button for me. As a result, the rabbit’s eyes were somewhat differently sized.
Right down to that detail, the white rabbit in the mirror was identical to Chiyoko.
I looked down at my arms. Through the mask of my costume, my arms were Chiyoko’s, white fur threadbare and wrists frayed, revealing the stuffing within.
This was Chiyoko. I was sure of it.
How much time had passed since I’d last thought of her?
Even af
ter I’d stopped playing with her and holding her in my sleep, I must have left her in my room at least through fifth or sixth grade. But then I went into junior high and high school, and as I grew up, I forgot about her. This worn-out, white stuffed rabbit was a childish thing, and I’d cast her out from my room. And now, I couldn’t even remember where I’d put her.
My mother never threw anything away, and the stuffed rabbit would have been no exception. I figured the toy was tucked away somewhere. I had to find out for sure.
I hugged my arms around myself, holding Chiyoko like I used to, and thought, It’s been a while. Sorry I forgot about you.
Then the realization—was everyone else like me?
The costumes worn by the other workers were each their own Chiyokos. I felt certain of it. They were the toys they had loved in their childhood; the toys to which they had been so attached, and that they had played with for hour after hour; the treasured, treasured imaginary friends who had remained by their side as they slept and accompanied them in their dreams. To the children, at the time, the toys were their true companions.
And when I put on this pink rabbit costume, I could see it.
I rushed out of the locker room. Ms. Tanaka was manning one of the registers, typing something on the keyboard.
“Ms. Tanaka!” I said.
“Yes? Oh, it’s you.” She drew her chin back. She must have thought I was a freak. Not that I could blame her.
“When you were a girl,” I asked, “did you have a gray stuffed bear that was important to you?”
Now she drew her whole body back. Luckily, a woman on the next register stepped in, saying, “Oh, what’s that, a new kind of fortune-telling?”
“Yes, it is,” I replied.
“A long-eared stuffed dog was my little friend. I got it as a present for my fifth birthday. I brought it along when I moved in with my husband, and he laughed at me. But it’s still important to me.”
This woman appeared to be a long-eared, droopy-eyed stuffed dog. The strands of long fur had gotten a little thin, but it wasn’t frayed or dirty at all. The stuffed animal was still serving active duty, after all.
