Blood Hina (12 page)

Genessee, whose mother was Okinawan and father was black, was obviously trying to bring Japan to America. But attempting to plant Japan overseas sometimes didn’t work out that well.

“Umm. Koi pond,
ne.”

“You don’t think it’s a good idea.” Genessee was able to quickly read Mas’s face, a skill he appreciated.

“Animals outside getsu hungry, you know. Ova in Altadena, we gotsu put chicken wire all ova. The raccoons like koi.”

Genessee nodded. “We don’t have that many raccoons, but I’ve smelled my share of skunks. One of my neighbors runs into possums all the time. Nasty creatures.” She sucked in some air through her lips. “Maybe a koi pond wouldn’t be such a good idea.”

“I make youzu a rock garden,” Mas declared.

“A rock garden.” Genessee looked disoriented for a
moment.

“Small round ones, smooth all ova. And maybe a couple of big ones, too.”

“I think I’ve seen a few in Japan. And maybe in photos.”

Mas let the concept sink in with Genessee. Americans were often in love with bright colors and gaudiness. They didn’t quite understand
shibui
, restraint, the celebration of nothing balanced against something. It was hard to explain; it had to be felt. And Mas thought that if anyone could feel it, Genessee, the lover and scholar of Okinawan music, would be the one.

“Rocks, huh?”

“Hard to getsu. Used to be easy, we go to Los Angeles River. Against the law now.”

“It won’t look like that hideous granite lawn down the street.”

Mas shook his head. “Dis one natural.”

“Natural,” Genessee said, rolling that word around in her head. “I like that.”

After touring the backyard, Genessee invited Mas in for a cup of coffee in her kitchen. Truth be told, he should have been on his way to his customer back in San Gabriel, but one cup of coffee? What could that hurt?

He sat at Genessee’s oak table. There seemed to be something reverent about it, so Mas removed his cap and placed it on an empty seat. He hoped that the top of his head wasn’t fluffed up like a rooster’s crown.

Genessee served her coffee strong, in thick homemade mugs the color of red clay. Mas liked the rough feel of the handle in his hands.

“I made that,” she announced, with unabashed pride.

“Honto?”

Genessee laughed. “Yes, really. It’s so good to hear some Japanese. I miss hearing that from my mom and other old-timers.”

Mas didn’t know if that meant Genessee looked at him as a father figure, but she quickly squeezed his upper arm.

“I didn’t mean that the way it came out. Just that it felt… what’s that word—
natsu wa
—”

Mas frowned and then grinned.
“Natsukashii.”

“Yes,
natsu
—” she continued to stumble over the word. “Nostalgic, right?”

Mas nodded and they talked some more, about how she had attended American school in Okinawa, so she was raised more American than Okinawan. She moved on to the present and said she was thinking of retiring from teaching at UCLA. Academia, she said, had changed so much. The students had changed. She wanted to spend her time making ceramic pots and drinking coffee outside in front of her new rock garden.

Mas nodded his head. He didn’t insert any
aizuchi
, any “ah,
sodesuka,” “hai,”
“um,” or “yah.” He didn’t have to give any verbal cues that he was listening, because it was obvious that he was soaking up every word. When Genessee seemed to have finished telling her story—at least for that day—Mas still didn’t want to go. So he began to share as well. About the dream he had to be an automobile engineer and
how he fell into gardening because for a Japanese American man who couldn’t speak English too well, it was the thing to do. About the worry he carried for his daughter, Mari, even though she was close to being middle-aged. And finally, he couldn’t help but to go into what had happened recently with Haruo and Spoon and the theft of the
hina
dolls. Genessee, who appreciated antiquities, was especially intrigued with the dolls. “Do Japanese Americans still put them out?” she asked.

“Some,” Mas said, explaining that his family never did. He remembered one gardener friend with a lot of family
hokori
who displayed dolls every March. “Those guys full of pride.”

“Well, pride’s not necessarily all bad, Mas.”

He wasn’t quite sure what was Spoon’s intention in her acquisition of her husband’s family dolls. But he didn’t care—at least that’s what he told Genessee. “Dat Spoon, she took Haruo for a big ride. And three thousand dolla, how come she lie about payin’ dat much for those dollsu?” Bitterness seeped into his voice. Apparently Genessee wasn’t a fan of bitterness, especially the kind directed at an old woman, because it was her turn to fall silent. Mas brought the homemade mug to his lips even though the coffee was long gone.

“You know, Mas, I think you have to cut Spoon a break,” Genessee finally said. “I think you’re being too tough on her.”

Mas hoped the heat rising to his cheeks was not noticeable.

“I don’t agree with what she’s doing to Haruo, and I know you’re so close to Haruo, so I laud your loyalty. But
there are two sides to the story. I don’t know Spoon well, but I did get a chance to speak to her at that dinner at Tug’s last year. She mentioned her late husband. They were very close, it seemed.”

“Heezu gone more than twenty years.”

“But Mas, you never forget. You can’t tell me you don’t think about your wife.”

To hear the word “wife” from Genessee made Mas’s heart grow cold. He pictured Chizuko’s piercing stare—what would she be thinking if she was watching Mas now?

“I think of my husband often. Sometimes I even forget that he’s gone. I think,
I need to tell Paul this story
. And then it dawns on me, he’s dead.”

Mas could relate to that confusion. One day in a customer’s backyard, he noticed that the fig tree was filled with ripe fruit. Figs weren’t well liked by his customer, nor even by Mas, for that matter, but they were Chizuko’s favorite. He considered pocketing some to take home before realizing that she wouldn’t be there to enjoy them.

“The wedding planning must have brought up some old memories of Spoon’s first marriage. Do you know if she had a fancy ceremony?”

“Camp mess hall, I thinksu. Manzanar.”

“Of course, of course.” Genessee fingered the lip of her mug. “Well, they got together during a sensitive time in their lives. The memories must be very deep. And those dolls, they must have been very precious to the family.”

Mas didn’t even consider any of that, but he understood how a person could be blindsided by the past. Like old monster movies that used to be shown on weekend afternoon
television, buried bodies sometimes wormed out of the ground when you least expected it.

“Mas, the mind and heart are very mysterious. It’s like holding water. It’s tight in your fist, but when you open up your palm, it’s all gone.”

Mas grunted, then glanced at his Casio. Already past eleven. He’d hoped to finish his customer by noon, but that wasn’t going to happen today. Palms on the table, he pushed himself to his feet. “I gotsu go.”

“Oh yes, it’s already late,” Genessee said. Did Mas actually detect a glimmer of disappointment in her eyes?

“Thanksu so much for the coffee,” Mas said. “Best I eva had.”

Genessee shook her head, insisting that Mas was an
ogesa
, a master exaggerator, but he was telling the truth. It wasn’t only the taste of the coffee, but the whole experience of drinking it in a vessel Genessee had made herself. Sure, Chizuko’s Yuban version had been tasty as well, but she served hers in factory-made mugs that usually had something quite unseasonal on them, like reindeer and snow during the heat of summer.

Mas stood by the door, cap in hand.

“You’ll call me then?” Genessee said. “I mean about the rock garden. All natural, right?”

Getting back on the 10 freeway, Mas wondered if his head was completely
kara
, empty of any brains. Genessee was just interested in his so-called expertise in gardening, nothing
to do with him as a person or as a man. Then why had her hands seemed warm and moist when she squeezed his elbow goodbye? There had been a spark—Mas was sure of it. That’s when he came to the conclusion that he was close to losing his mind.

It was high noon, and Mas was just arriving at his customer’s house, just south of the San Gabriel Country Club and not far from the San Gabriel Mission, where six bells hung from its aging wall.

The job was easy, just a postage stamp of St. Augustine grass. Despite its small size, the yard still managed to do the trick of sweating some of Mas’s anger away. He was short-tempered, even back in the days with his seven brothers and sisters in Hiroshima. His temper always seemed to get the best of him, and as he grew older, he thought his fuse had gotten much longer, only to find himself spontaneously combusting when a certain button was pressed.

He found an old towel in back of his seat and wiped the sweat pooling in front of his ears. Removing his cap, he gave his whole face a good rub, tasting some remnants of lawnmower oil from the towel.

Genessee’s words softened him. Had he been too hard on Spoon? He knew, perhaps more than anyone alive (well, maybe Haruo’s first wife Yasuko might know even better), what a mess Haruo actually was. Could Mas blame Spoon really for having doubts about him? Marriage at their age literally meant “until death do us part.” Here he was complaining about Haruo staying a couple of weeks at his place, and Spoon was facing a life sentence.

Mas realized that he had indeed said too much to Spoon.
Maybe he should have minded his own business and not gone over to Hina House. He had to offer her something of an apology. So he headed over to Montebello, picking up a six pack of Coca-Cola and, as an extra bonus, a can of cashews from a corner liquor store. If this didn’t say, “I’m sorry,” Mas didn’t know what did.

But once he reached Spoon’s, no one seemed to be in, no cars in the driveway. In fact, the whole street seemed dead quiet. These days in the L.A. suburbs, robbers came in the broad daylight, because like this street in Montebello, everyone was out working or running errands. Mas learned his lesson from the last time and stayed put in the truck and waited. It was still spring and was only in the seventies, but he rolled down the window just for good measure.

He soon fell asleep and only stirred when he thought he heard something outside. His face was smack against the banana-yellow passenger seat, his cheek wet with drool. He sat up and wiped his face with the back of his wrist. Sure enough, the sound of glass breaking. He got out of the truck and was in the middle of the street when a silver Oldsmobile Cutlass dangerously sped by him, almost clipping the monster side mirror he and Tug had installed. The Oldsmobile veered into the neighbor’s driveway and screeched to a stop. Out of the car appeared that woman with the crazy birds’ nest hair. It wouldn’t do to have someone call the police again, so Mas attempted to explain himself.

“Hey you,” he called out.

The lady ran toward the back door.

Sonafagun, Mas muttered to himself. What kind of jumpy woman was this? He thought better of pursuing her.
Forget about it. Mas needed to hightail it out of there before Officers Gallegos and Chang made their way over. He hadn’t even reached the Ford when he heard a high-pitched shriek coming from her house. Mas ran toward the house and up the front steps, only to have the door fly open with two men in ski masks heading right at him.

CHAPTER SEVEN

R
eflexively, Mas closed his eyes for a second. He knew that in self-defense closing one’s eyes didn’t make sense. You needed to face and clearly assess your opponent, both his weaknesses and strengths. But under Mas’s skin was that forever experience, when the skies turned black and his eardrums felt like they were exploding and then the whole world—his schoolmates, the train station, everything he knew in downtown Hiroshima—was on fire. Closing his eyes was a hope that he was dreaming, that the bad thing coming at him was imagined, not real. So when the two masked men ran toward him, Mas closed his eyes.

When he opened them, the magic seemed to have worked, because he was still standing, albeit a little wobbly. The men were gone from his field of vision, but he heard their footsteps behind him. He turned around and saw the men jump into a cable-company van (why had Mas missed that earlier?), rev up the engine, and speed down the street.