Summer of the Big Bachi

by Naomi Hirahara

  Mas drummed his fingers against the seat’s torn upholstery. “I gotsu to borrow your car, Haruo. I can drop you off at Tanaka’s. I sure Stinky or somebody give you a lift home.”

  Haruo’s good eye focused on Mas’s face. “You not gonna get yourself in trouble?”

  “Ah—” Mas spit out some air, but inside he knew that new trouble was always waiting around the corner.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Mas didn’t know quite why he was heading to Ventura. He didn’t think that it had to do with either his or Riki’s confessing. Confessing didn’t change anything. Couldn’t make the past right. But Mas knew that he had to travel back—not to the beginning but to where he once saw hope and possibilities.

  Mas had discovered the spot in Ventura during one of his fishing trips in Oxnard. He preferred ocean fishing—casting over the rough foam of the waves—to the idyllic quietness of lakes. Ocean perch, lake trout, they were pretty much the same—white meat and lots of fine bones—but at the beach you could grill your catch with the grit of sand, the hush of the sunset over the sea, and the never-ending crash of the tide, a sound that lulled and prodded Mas into getting out of his sleeping bag and unzipping his tent.

  Ventura was sprawling, a city ready for something big. Mas felt it. Along the coastline were the gigantic summer homes, two-story and freshly constructed. These beaches were much cleaner than the ones down south—it was a surprise to see even a single beer can abandoned in the sand. And farther inland were the new housing developments, quaint shopping malls, all in need of plants and landscaping.

  Farther north of Ventura, past Santa Barbara, was Pismo Beach. Every summer from the time Mari was six, Mas had taken the family out to the dunes for a week. Holding a sharp, long shovel, he sloshed in the surf in his rubber boots and overalls. Chizuko squatted by the yellow bucket and poked her index finger at each clam and counted quietly, while Mari created a maze of footprint patterns. Mas called her over, handed her a shovel, and pointed to the delicate air bubbles emanating from the perfect round holes in the sand.

  “Inside there,” Mas said, forcing Mari’s hand and shovel in the sand. They scooped quickly until the tip of the shovel hit a clunk, and then Mas revealed a sandy striped clam, its siphon extended a couple of inches. Mas placed the clam against a metal measure attached to the worn wooden handle, jiggled it back and forth, and shook his head. “Too small,” he said, his lit cigarette tipping out of the side of his mouth.

  “Not that small.” Mari’s thumb could barely fit in the space between the clamshell and the metal measure.

  “Too small.” Mas bit into his cigarette and chucked the clam out toward the diluted gray sun. “No good, you know.” He looked at Mari. “Can’t take it too soon.”

  One summer day in 1972, he saw the nursery on the corner of a large intersection in Ventura. The metal sign read BUD’S TREES AND PLANTS, next to a symbol of a fish. There were rows of yellow and purple pansies in plastic squares, African daisies, and clematis vines tied to wooden stakes. Arranged in the back were ficus trees and succulents. A few bonsai trees were placed by the cash register.

  A hakujin man who could have been as young as fifty or as old as seventy turned from arranging packages of seeds. “Well, hello.”

  “Hallo,” said Mas.

  “What can I help you with?”

  “Lookin’.”

  “Well, look away. That’s what I’m here for. My name’s Bud Ryan.” The man had a soft chin, which dipped down toward his chest. “You’re a professional man, I bet.”

  “Excuse?”

  “A man of the vine, I call them. As precious as the good book itself.”

  Mas checked some buckets of cymbidium.

  “You know our Maker was a gardener, and I consider it one of the holiest professions around. He knows when to prune, how to produce good fruit. But the thing is, He does it through us.”

  Mas grunted. The cymbidium was healthy, with taut stems and waxy flowers.

  “I would’ve been a gardener myself, but I don’t have the patience for it. I leave it for all of you to contend with. I just sell the stuff. But can’t complain; would have been in business for twenty-five years next year. Too bad we’re not going to be open for that.”

  Mas glanced at the row of gardening tools. “You close?”

  “Well, I’ll be outta here. What can I say, affairs of the heart. Lost the wife two years ago. Thirty years we were together. But the Lord provided. Met this one at a church retreat for singles. But yes, Shirley had to be from Florida. Just couldn’t bear to leave her kids, even though they’re all grown. So here I am, lookin’ around for potential buyers.”

  For Mas, this was his window of opportunity. He didn’t understand Mr. Bud Ryan’s talk about Maker and producing good fruit, but he could smell “potential.”

  He located a Motel 6 down the street and went back and forth from Altadena to Ventura at different times of the week, monitoring the flow of customers, their ages, making note of their cars. At night he drove in different areas of town, stopping at each new construction site and logging it on a piece of paper he kept in his wallet.

  Once he decided for sure, he told Chizuko. He thought she would be happy about the lower crime rate, the clean air. The schools were even better, he figured.

  “Mari’s education. Just think. Lots betta ova there,” he said, crumpling the bedsheets in his palms. It was five o’clock in the morning, the best time for talking about the future.

  “Don’t include her. You just thinking about yourself. Never mind how we feel. Kattenahito.”

  “But this means future. This place just gettin’ worse and worse. Just look around.” Last week someone had painted obscenities on every mailbox on the east side of the street. Dogs ran wild. Naked toddlers splashed in the dirty water in the gutters. A few homes had even been boarded up by the government.

  “Drag me around from place to place. No relatives. I have to make friends all over again.”

  “My father, mother, not here when I came the second time.”

  “But you hated them. That’s different. It was your choice. It’s always about you.” Chizuko, slight bean-shaped marks by the sides of her nose, sank her head in her pillow. “And don’t think you’re going to use my parents’ money to pay for any of it.”

  Later at breakfast, Mari clattered her spoon against the half-empty cereal bowl. A marshmallow green clover floated in the thin milk. “We’re not going away, are we, Dad? My friends just started a new club. They voted me secretary. I’ve always wanted to be secretary.”

  Mas even went by Wishbone’s place to discuss the pros and cons.

  Wishbone leaned against a lawn mower motor he was repairing. “Think it’s good. There’s fresh land up there, not like L.A. More opportunity.”

  “But the family—”

  “So they’re upset. They’re women. They’re supposed to be upset. If you had sons, it would be a whole different story. They’d shut up, and so would the wife. A lot easier that way, I tell you.”

  Mas picked up a loose spring from the counter and pressed it in and out like a mini-accordion.

  “They’ll get over it. But hell, don’t back down. If you do, they’re always going to have the upper hand, here on out. You better not wait any longer. You know what they say: ‘Snooze, you lose.’ ”

  Mas nodded, soaking the information in.

  “By the way,” Wishbone added, as if he just remembered something, “we got a new card player over here. He says that he knows you.”

  Mas just grunted in reply. He had little use for either friends or acquaintances now. His mind was focused entirely on his business deal and the opinions in his household. If he had just paid more attention, everything would have been different. He had been too distracted to tell Wishbone that the deal was confidential, that no one else, especially new gamblers, should be told of Bud’s Trees and Plants on the corner of PCH and Second.

  Mas collected the cash he had hidden in his tool chest and wen
t to Ventura to seal the deal. A CLOSED sign hung from the front window, but Mr. Bud Ryan was in, packing circles of hoses in large boxes.

  Mas rapped on the glass window and waited for Mr. Ryan to open the dead bolt. “What’s goin’ on?” Mas asked.

  “Mas, been trying to call you. Had to make a quick sale. Wanted to wait for you to get back to me, but it has been two weeks. Shirley’s been calling. She can have any guy she wants. Can’t let her have second thoughts.”

  “Who buy?” I’ll offer him a better deal, thought Mas. “I can give you more.”

  “No, Mas, it’s all signed, sealed, and notarized. It’s official.” Mr. Ryan went into a drawer and lifted a document stapled onto light-blue paper.

  Mas felt his knees buckle a little and the tips of fingers tremble. This was his way to make good. A deal like this came your way maybe once in a lifetime. “But you knowsu I wanna buy—”

  “Mas, this guy had the cash. In fact, he’s here, in the back.” Mr. Ryan gestured toward a stack of boxes down a narrow hall, and Mas noticed the shadow of a slight man with a hooked nose.

  “Hallo, Mas,” the man said.

  Mas felt the wind whoosh out of his gut. He knew the voice—older, thinner, yet still hard as nails.

  “Welcome to my nursery,” said the man who called himself Joji Haneda. “Now get the hell out.”

  Mas could’ve blamed Wishbone for not keeping his big mouth shut, or yelled at Mr. Ryan for being ruled by a woman and not honoring a promise between two men. He could have berated Chizuko and Mari for their sniveling, which made him delay a decision on a good deal. But when you came right down to it, it had everything to do with bachi and Joji Haneda.

  Mas had not been back to that intersection for more than twenty-five years. Now he stood on the gravel parking lot, facing the large metal sign, haneda’s nursery.

  Riki had remodeled and added a new greenhouse and showroom of propane-powered mowers. Mas walked to the building and pressed his face against the glass. There were lines of gardening products: pruning knives, pesticides, parrot-beak shears, saws, leather gloves, sprinkler heads, and hose attachments. Large bags of fertilizer were stacked against the wall. Mr. Bud Ryan’s old cash register had been replaced by a computer.

  It didn’t surprise Mas that Riki had so dramatically improved the nursery. He had been good with money from the beginning. Even during the war, he had figured out, through paying some servants a few yen coins, where a closed-down sake manufacturer had stored its old inventory. Soon Riki had his own inventory in his backyard, which he sold to soldiers passing through Hiroshima. Mas never asked any questions, but took those few sips while playing hana cards with Riki. Just that had been enough to seal his mouth shut.

  Mas edged toward the front of the nursery. A statue of a white good luck cat, its paw beckoning customers to come in, had been placed at the foot of the glass door. Just above it was a handwritten sign, CLOSED DUE TO ILLNESS. Letters, bunched together with a rubber band, were stuffed through the mail slot in the glass door. What the hell. Mas pulled out the letters and glanced at the return addresses—banks, gas company, pizza delivery companies. Bingo—the last one read OXNARD CITY HOSPITAL.

  Mas got back on the freeway and headed south. Lines of eucalyptus trees shielded freshly plowed fields and tiny farmhouses. Bushes along the freeway swayed from the wind, and the fog brought white mist over the skyline.

  Mas steered Haruo’s Honda into a parking lot and followed the arrow for visitors. He parked between two white lines and stopped the engine. Leaning against the Honda, Mas drew out a new package of Marlboros, tore open the plastic wrap, and slid out a cigarette.

  He looked at the three-story building. The hospital must have been built recently, over the past five years. There were baby palms planted outside the building and boxwood shrubs in grass islands in the parking lot.

  A Mexican woman parked her car in the employee parking area on the other side of Haruo’s Honda. She was dressed in a white uniform, with a light-blue sweatshirt that opened in the front, and carried a plastic bottle topped with a jumbo straw, the ones people purchased at gas station mini-marts. She was heavy; her uniform top bulged. She didn’t seem happy about going to work, almost indifferent.

  Maybe she would be the nurse on the next shift to take care of Riki, thought Mas. What would she say to him? “Hello, Mr. Haneda? How are you doing, Mr. Haneda?” Would she be the one to prick his skin, give him a sponge bath, take his temperature, give him painkillers?

  Mas exhaled and felt cold. The sun was still out, but a breeze, smelling salty, rustled through the boxwood leaves. The shrub in the island closest to the Honda was only three feet tall, but then boxwoods always tended to be small.

  Mas zipped up his windbreaker and shoved his hands in his pockets. Last thing he wanted to do was to meet up with Riki again. But then, he remembered what the ramen lady had said about dreams. It wasn’t fair that Riki had offered them with no intention of following through.

  The sliding glass doors automatically opened as Mas stepped on the rubber mat. Families with Mylar balloons sat quietly in the waiting room. The gift store was neatly stocked with magazines and a cooler full of flower arrangements. Rows of different-shaped bottles lined the brightly lit pharmacy.

  Mas wandered around the gift store and pharmacy, stopped at the information desk, and then found himself taking the elevator to the third floor. He got off and stared at an erasable plastic board matching doctor with patient.

  “Are you here for Joji Haneda?” asked a young woman in a pink cotton top and pants, a stethoscope hanging from her neck. She was Asian, her skin dark. Filipino, thought Mas. “The rest of the family went down to the cafeteria. It closes at six. He’s over there, in three twenty-six. But don’t stay too long.”

  The door of room 326 was wide-open. After waiting for a cart full of meals in plastic trays to pass by, Mas could clearly see a figure wrapped in a sheet and blanket. Riki had an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth. Tubes connected holes in his arms to machines and bags to his side.

  There was the steady beeping of a morphine dispenser. Mas knew it well from Chizuko’s final days in the hospital. One press of a button, and a shot of clear liquid entered one’s veins.

  The curtain to the window was drawn shut. A fluorescent panel of light poured a yellow hue over Riki’s body, a withered plant, shrunken and dim. He has aged so much in just a matter of days, thought Mas.

  He wanted Riki to rise and sneer, as Mas always remembered him. Here the oxygen mask covered his hooked nose and sharp mouth below his chestnut eyes.

  Riki didn’t seem surprised to see Mas, and greeted him with the press of his morphine machine. He gestured Mas to remove his mask so Riki could talk.

  “Pretty good, huh, to die this way.” Riki’s voice was raspy, as if these were the first words he had uttered. “No pain.” Riki looked old, as if he were eighty, even ninety. His voice was thin, like the buzz of an electrical wire.

  Mas studied the squares of white and gray linoleum on the floor. He wanted to hear the din of a television set, anything to fill the silence. Finally, he cleared his throat. “Sheezu still alive,” he said. “But barely. They give her fifty-fifty.”

  Water seeped from the edge of Riki’s eye. “I thought so. She look pretty bad.”

  “So itsu you.” The killer had struck again, fifty years later.

  More water ran down the side of Riki’s face. Then his eyes, like bullet holes, focused on Mas. “No, you gotsu it wrong. Why would I try to kill her? I care for her.”

  Mas shuddered. He couldn’t imagine Riki showing affection for anyone.

  “Gonna leave my wife for her. She didn’t believe. Then I tole her. All about me and Haneda.”

  So the mistress did know. Mas wasn’t surprised. After all, it had taken only a few glasses of yam wine for her to reveal half of her life story.

  “I just needsu money. Money to take her back to Japan. Some comin’ out of card game in Little Tokyo.”

/>   “Da nursery—”

  “What? You think I’m makin’ money off of that place? Youzu have last laugh, Masao-san. Big chain stores runnin’ me down to the ground. A gardener a betta living.”

  Mas didn’t know how to react to Riki’s revelation. Maybe Riki was just trying to get on his good side. It would be just like him to try to pull a fast one on his deathbed.

  “I didn’t hurt her,” Riki insisted again. “Was outside her place. Five in the mornin’.”

  “What, you just go?” Like I abandoned them, thought Mas. “Water, water,” Joji had murmured. “Just a little longer,” Mas had told him. “A little longer.”

  “I was scared,” said Riki. “Police was already there. Even watched the ambulance take her away.”

  “Well, the police gotsu a suspect. A young guy, heezu name Kimura. Yuki Kimura.”

  Riki’s face looked as blank as rice porridge.

  “You knowsu,” Mas said, “your grandson. Akemi’s, too.”

  Riki’s wrinkled face contorted and finally broke out into a black grin. “What kind of stories you been hearin’, Mas? I gotsu no grandchildren back in Japan.”

  Mas found himself enjoying this, even at the foot of Riki’s deathbed. It was what he deserved. Bachi during his last days on earth. “I knowsu, Riki, what you did with Akemi. I knowsu it all.”

  “Well, you knowsu sumptin’ I don’t, because I didn’t do anytin’ with that Akemi Haneda.”

  “Thatsu not what I heard.”

  “What, some woman saysu sheezu Akemi. Some kind of liar. I hear she die in the pikadon.”

  Mas stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. “She had a son,” he finally said. “Hikari.”

  “Hikari?” Riki snorted. “What kind of crazy name is that? If you think I had anytin’ to do with him, your mind gone completely pa, Mas.”

  Was Riki telling the truth? Then what about the boy’s story? What did he even know about the boy? Maybe he didn’t even work for a magazine. Maybe he was up to no good. Maybe he really had done something to that Junko Kakita.