Ink and Ashes (4 page)

Forrest rested his head on my desk with a blank expression.

“You don’t have to do this anymore,” I said. “But I want to try to finish this sentence.”

Forrest pushed his chair away from the desk and stood. “I’m going to get us something to eat.”

I nodded and kept working even though a break would’ve been nice. But if I stopped and went downstairs, Avery would give me a hard time about being lazy. It wouldn’t matter that he had spent the last few hours playing video games.

I matched and clicked and matched and clicked, and when I had the last of the words in the sentence, I raised my fists in triumph, then pasted the sentence into the translator. It hadn’t been translating everything perfectly, but there seemed to be enough correct here that I wanted to find out what the rest of the letter said.

Forrest returned with a plate in each hand. He set one down next to me filled with a peanut butter sandwich and carrot sticks.

“Look at this!” I pointed at the screen.

He sat down and read.

In my situation, they do not often suspect letters sent by post.

“WHO’S
THEY
?”
Forrest asked.

“And why would anything sent from my father be ‘suspect’?” I said.

Forrest tore off a corner of his sandwich and threw it in his mouth. He barely chewed before he swallowed. “Let’s finish the rest of the letter and see if it gives us more information.”

“How about we each translate every other character?” I said. “You take the first one, and I’ll be looking for the one that comes next until we’ve matched all the characters in the word.”

“Let’s do it.”

We took turns pecking at the keyboard, the timing evolving into a steady rhythm. The sound of machine guns and horrifying deaths sailed up through the vents from time to time, reminding me there were better ways to spend a weekend. By early evening, Forrest and I were able to merge our sentences to complete the letter.

Dear George,

Thank you for your answer. It seems old to communicate this way. In my situation, they do not often suspect letters sent by post.

Here is the information.

15-8192-45

15-8192-46

15-8192-47

81-80-50722259

This is his telephone number if you need to contact him.

Thank you for helping me. It is much importance to me. I always feared I would not be able to take care of this if at all times.

—Henry

“Maybe the translator got it wrong,” Forrest said. “Was anything else with the letter?”

I shook my head. From what I could tell, the letter suggested my father trusted my dad. The translation could be wrong, but I couldn’t shake my mom’s reaction in the kitchen. There had to be a reason for her to hide this relationship from us. Did she have an affair with my dad? And if so, is that something I would I want to know?

“What do you want to do?” Forrest asked.

“Maybe my parents are hiding something, and maybe they aren’t,” I said, “Either way, I know the questions will fester until I know for sure.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Forrest said. “I already knew you weren’t going to let this go. What do you want to do?”

I pressed my back against the chair. Theories tangled in my head, yet I couldn’t ask the very people who could give me answers. “I’m calling the phone number.”

“But you don’t even know who that is,” Forrest said.

“I can find out.” I turned back to my laptop, went to a reverse phone number lookup website, and entered the phone number. All it gave me was a location: Tokyo, Japan. I attempted several other sites, and all of them gave me the same information.

“Maybe I don’t know who this person is, but it sounds like he was important to my father, so I figure they must have been good friends. And if they were good friends, he must know something about my father, right?”

“Makes sense, but how do you know if he speaks English?”

“He’s in Tokyo. Everyone in Tokyo speaks English.”

“Are you sure?”

Butterflies danced in my stomach. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.”

I picked up my phone and had just entered the number when Forrest said, “Wait.” I ended the call.

He reached for his wallet in his back pocket and dug around until he found a white plastic card. “Use this. It’s an international calling card that I use to call Oma in Germany. Otherwise it’s going to be really expensive, and I think your parents are going to notice the charge on the bill.”

“And your mom won’t notice a charge to Japan?”

“The card has a certain amount of money, so depending on where you call and how long you talk, it deducts different amounts. When the card runs out, Mom gets me a new one.”

“Good thinking.” I took the plastic card from him and followed the directions on the back, dialing 011 first and then the rest of the number. “And thank you.”

Each passing second propelled my pulse faster.

After six rings, I had decided to hang up, when a man’s gruff voice answered. “
Moshi, moshi
.”

THE MAN ANSWERED
in Japanese. My lips went numb, words frozen in my throat. Even though I had been the one who had called, I hadn’t actually prepared myself to speak to anyone. Forrest rustled my sleeve.

“Uh, hello,” I said. “You don’t know me, um, but my name’s Claire Takata.”

Silence.

“And uh, I don’t know if you speak any English, but if you do, I was just wondering if you might happen to know my father, Henry Sato.”

Silence.

“Can you tell me who I’m speaking to?”

Silence.

“Okay, I’m guessing you don’t understand what I’m saying. I’ll just hang up now, so, um . . . good-bye.” Another thought occurred to me. Something my grandfather had told me. “Wait! His Japanese name was Hideki. Maybe you knew him by that name. Hideki Kawakami.”

Silence.

“Or maybe not. Okay. Bye.”

“Yes,” he said.

Not expecting a response, I panicked. “Yes you knew him, or yes you want me to hang up?”

The line went dead.

Forrest searched my face for answers. I set down my phone.

“Nothing,” I said, but wondered if the silence of
nothing
might mean
something
. I brushed away the thought. “Apparently not everyone in Tokyo speaks English. Probably a wrong number anyway.”

I plunged onto the bed, sorting through what my next step would be as I stared at the ceiling.

The silence had almost made me forget anyone else was in the room when Forrest said, “Claire, let all of us help you.”

I sighed and sat up. “No, I can do this. I just—”

Forrest rose from his chair and left my room. When he returned, Parker was with him. Parker crossed the room and came over to my laptop. He read the full translation before he sat on the floor with his back against my closet door. “We need to call a meeting.”

“This is a family matter,” I said. “Why get everyone involved?”

“Because we’re all family.” Forrest placed himself next to me on the bed. He scooted himself toward the headboard so he could stretch his long legs. “You’re the one who always says we need an APM. Call Nicholas and make sure he brings Fed. Fed knows a lot of Japanese from those comics he reads.”

APM: Axis Powers Meeting, a meeting used for strategizing and discussing important things. When Parker and Nicholas were in the sixth grade, they learned about three countries that had joined forces during World War II. They then dubbed our three families the Axis Powers, and it had stuck ever since. Nicholas and Fedele Russo were the Italians; Forrest Langford represented the Germans; and the Takatas—Parker, me, and Avery—were the Japanese.

The next year, when Forrest and I were in sixth grade, we learned the Axis powers had not only been defeated, but they had done really terrible things—atrocities so despicable, I was convinced Parker and Nicholas hadn’t paid any attention in class at all. But by then, the name had stuck, and we decided we’d write our own history.

“We know how you are, Claire,” Parker said, “and you aren’t going to be any fun until you feel like you’ve done everything you can to get answers.”

Though I didn’t want the help, Parker and Forrest wouldn’t be satisfied until a meeting was called. Most likely Parker just wanted to get everyone together to play their new video game,
Song of the Assassin
. So I fumbled for my phone. “Fine. Get Avery, and I’ll call.” I pressed speed dial for Nicholas, and when he answered, I said, “APM. Now. Bring Fed.”

Nicholas Russo was a year older than me, a senior like Parker, and Fedele, who went by Fed, was a year younger than me, a sophomore like Avery.

Within a few minutes, they arrived. Avery trailed behind them and headed directly to a rug in the middle of my floor. He lay facedown and rested his head on his folded arms, ready to sleep.

Nicholas pushed past Parker at the door and planted his thick body at the side of my bed. His deep mahogany hair was hidden beneath a Seattle Seahawks hat, and his dark eyes peered down at me with a serious expression.

“Who hurt you, Kiki?” Nicholas asked. His low voice filled the room. At six foot four and with the body of a linebacker, most found him intimidating.

Not me.

I grabbed a pillow and swung it at him. “That’s not why I told you guys to come over,” I said. “And even if someone had hurt me, I wouldn’t need you to fix it.”

He shoved my shoulder. “I know, I know. I’ve taught you well, Kiki.”

I ignored him and turned to face my computer.

Forrest pointed at the letter on the monitor. “
Claire
called you over to look at this.” I don’t remember when Nicholas nicknamed me Kiki, but Forrest had never cared for it.

Fed bounced over and plopped into the chair at my desk. A million freckles splashed his pale cheeks, and his hair had a lot more red than Nicholas’s, but his eyes were the same dark brown. He was almost as tall as his brother, but he hadn’t inherited the same muscular frame, so his gangly ape arms swung from one side to the other when he situated himself to get a better look at the screen. “So what is it?”

I tried to explain everything the best I could.

“This is so cool,” Fed said when I’d finished. “Totally reminds me of Yama Katana volume one:
Incipient Soul
. The ghost of Kaito’s dad comes back and says, ‘You have to protect your mother and sister,’ and Kaito’s all like, ‘I’m only fourteen. How am I supposed to do that?’ And then ghost-dad says—”

Avery lifted his head from the floor. “Fed, can you help or what?”

Sometimes I wondered how they had ever become friends. Fed glared at Avery, then returned his focus to the note.

His eyes moved from side to side as he looked at the image of the original letter on one side and our translation on the other. “So we have numbers . . .”

Fed mumbled to himself for some time. Then he gasped and pointed to one of the last sentences. “Okay, I could be wrong, which I’m not, but I’m pretty sure this part right here is translated incorrectly. Your translation says ‘I always feared I would not be able to take care of this if at all times.’ But it’s not
if at
all times
. This phrase means, ‘if I die early’ or ‘if I die an early death,’ which I know ’cause Kaito’s mom says this in volume seven.”

Early death? I swallowed hard. Fed had to be wrong. Maybe it should have been “before I die” but even then, something concerned my father enough to want it handled if he couldn’t.

“Are you sure?” Avery said.

Fed nodded. “Almost sounds like he knew he was going to die or something—I mean, before he, you know, actually died.”

Nicholas and Parker walked over to the computer and surrounded Fed.

If he died an early death.

My heart drummed faster. “There’s no way he could’ve
known
he was going to die of a heart attack.”

“Maybe he didn’t die that way,” Fed said. “You know, like how Kaito’s dad was murdered by the Gushi Clan?”

Nicholas jabbed Fed’s bony side.

Fed glanced up and cringed. “What was that for?”

Nicholas wrangled Fed into a chokehold. “I think what Fed meant is that if your father knew someone was after him, it might explain how he also knew his death was coming.” His voice was steady, even though Fed wriggled against him.

“There’s no way that’s true,” I said. “You’re saying my father knew but didn’t leave a note behind for his kids? That he actually could have said good-bye in case something happened, but didn’t?”

Avery’s face grew tight, his eyes narrowing. “This is messed up.” He dropped his head back to the carpet.

Fed broke Nicholas’s hold. “In Yama Katana volume forty-three,” he said, lit with excitement, “the ghost of Kaito’s dad comes back and says, ‘You gotta get shards of yellow crystal from the heart of Mount Hakai.’ But Kaito says—”

Avery sat up. “So are you suggesting we get shards of crystal from a mountain?” His face puckered into a deathly look. “This isn’t a manga. This is reality.”

Fed turned in my direction. “All I’m saying is that Kaito goes on this journey.” He brushed his dark hair out of his eyes over and over again as it fell with each head bob. “And in the end, it turns out Kaito woulda been better off if he’d never gone looking for answers in the first place. I vote we forget about all of this.”

“Because of your manga?” I said. “Who knows what else my parents have been hiding?”

Fed bit his lip, then said, “I’m just saying . . .”

The air felt too thick to breathe. “Okay,” I said, “meeting adjourned.”

“We’re not finished,” Parker said. “We need to discuss a plan.”

I shut my eyes. “What’s left to discuss?”

“How about making sure we know how our father really died?” Parker asked.

“So we’ll find out how he really died,” I said. “Meeting adjourned.”

Parker sighed and shook his head. “Don’t you think we—”

“Nope.” I rotated my chair around and stared at the letter on the screen of my laptop.

My room felt crowded. I didn’t know what to do with all this information. I needed to get out of here. If I left now, I could drive to somewhere in California and be relaxing on the beach tomorrow.

Like that would ever happen.

Parker folded his arms. “We should at least consider—”

“Not now.”

Parker dropped his arms to his sides and motioned for everyone to follow him out of the room.

Only Forrest stayed behind. He straightened his back, hung his arm around my shoulder and pulled me closer, the scent of fresh linen mixed with musk washing over me. “You okay?”

The words froze in my throat when I tried to speak, so I shrugged. His chest moved with steady, even breaths. I focused until my rapid breaths slowed to match the pace of his.

“I know this could end up being nothing,” I said. “But I can’t get rid of the twisted knot in my stomach telling me something isn’t right. At the very least, my parents have lied to us about my dads knowing each other, and it’s hard to trust—” Anger forged a path through my head and chest. My neck and shoulders stiffened. My breaths quickened again. I struggled to regain focus.

Forrest squeezed my shoulder and put his chin on the top of my head. “Do you remember when we were in the fifth grade, and someone stole the model airplane Oma sent me from Germany?”

“Yeah.” I grabbed a Hello Kitty pillow and hugged it against my chest.

“You told me you were going to help me figure out who stole it, no matter what it took. And then you asked Mrs. Banks if you could make an announcement, and you stood in front of the class and said your dad was in charge of the whole US military, and if the plane wasn’t returned to my desk by the end of the day, you would have your dad hunt them down and take them to jail.”

“And you got your plane back,” I said, smiling a little.

“It was sitting on my desk by lunch.” He pulled away so he could face me. “I’m going to help you figure this out no matter what it takes.”

I looked down. The pillow was in my lap. My breaths had slowed. The tension in my muscles had melted. I glanced at him and stared into eyes that were soft and lips that knew the right thing to say even when I didn’t. Always.

My hand reached up to touch his cheek, but I caught myself and pulled back. “Thank you.” I vaulted off the bed and threw myself into the chair in front of my laptop.

He sat next to me in the same folding chair he’d been using for hours.

If there was any chance my father knew he was going to die, I needed to know. I typed my father’s name, Henry Sato, into Google, like I’d done many times before during moments when I wanted to remember him. Previously, I’d avoided some sites, run by people who had been in his courtroom, who didn’t like him.

What would give him a reason to fear an early death? Would any of those people have had a grudge?

I scrolled through page after page, until I got to the link of one of my favorite articles, written when my father died. The writer listed all the wonderful things Henry Sato had accomplished, including the fact that he was the youngest judge ever appointed in the first circuit. A quote from his clerk said how my father had made a difference in Hawaii. She said he was always the first one there, usually arriving at 6:00
A.M.
with a coffee in one hand and Zippy’s Loco Moco in the other. His bailiff mentioned how respected my father was by fellow judges and coworkers despite his playing elaborate pranks on them every April Fool’s Day. One of the people on the maintenance staff said my father never forgot a name or a birthday, and on his own birthday, he would bring Dobash cake for everyone in the courthouse because it was his favorite.

Forrest’s hands fell on my shoulders. I lifted my chin to see his blue eyes gazing down at the screen.

My heart grew heavy. “They all knew him better than I did.”

Dear Otochan,

Mom made me help her clean out the garage today. I don’t understand why we couldn’t do it next Saturday instead when Avery and Parker would be home to help. You’d think we could’ve done some fun mother-daughter bonding thing. But no.

And then when we were organizing the shelves, there were three boxes that had your old clothes in them. Mom wanted to donate them to Goodwill, but I wanted to keep them. I told her if I kept the boxes in my closet, she’d still have space on the shelves to store other stuff. She said to give her one good reason why I needed them, and I couldn’t. What if I want them because they were yours? She told me I could choose
ONE (!!!) of your old shirts. I chose your University of Hawaii
sweatshirt that says “Go Rainbow Warriors” on the front. Mom shook her head and said, “You’re just like your father sometimes.” So I said, “Good-looking?” That’s funny, right? And then I got grounded for being “sassy.”

So I’m sitting here in my room, wondering what Mom really meant when she said I’m like you. I think she meant I’m stubborn, but I don’t remember you enough to know how I’m like you. I’d like to think I have some of your good qualities. You must have been brave because you moved to America even though you didn’t speak English. And you must have been smart because you were a judge. I wish Mom talked about you. She gets all weird whenever I ask too many questions, so I don’t bother anymore. I may not remember much about you, but I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t have grounded me today over something that stupid. She’s going to miss me when I move to London.

Love,

Claire, age 13