“Yes, yes.” She turned her wheelchair with both hands. Her arms were still strong, judging from the force she used to turn herself toward him. Ayako’s eyes, however, looked strange, sickly. They were yellowish, and the surface was a bit milky. It was as if her eyes were melting.
“It’s not going to be long,” she said and they both knew that she was talking about her death.
“Dis is Haruo. Dis is your brotha.” He presented the bag with both hands, his palms up with the bag of ashes resting on top. He bowed as low as he could manage.
To his astonishment, Ayako snatched the bag from him, as if it was filled with gold dust.
“I knew it. You were hiding his ashes all this time. To watch me suffer.” Her hands wrapped around the bag, practically strangling it.
Ayako seemed unhinged and Mas became worried about her state of mind.
“You cared about my brother.”
Mas nodded. My best friend. He didn’t say that out loud.
“His wife said that you were like his brother. That you were the only person she trusted to bring over the ashes.”
He thought it was because he was the only one available.
“Let me ask you this. What kind of person do you think my brother was?”
What a question. “Nice guy.”
Ayako cackled, a string of spit shooting out of her mouth onto her cotton robe. “Is that the best you can say about your ‘brother’?”
Her sarcasm was not lost on Mas. This was not a good look on her.
“Let me tell you some things about Haruo Mukai. He was lazy and a simpleton, unaware of how half-human he looked with that ugly scar on his face. Because of that scar and missing eye, everyone felt sorry for him. He didn’t have to lift a finger because someone would appear to take care of all of his needs. What did he do instead? Pursue fun. Gamble away the little money he had. He was certainly not a ‘nice guy.’”
Mas was well aware of Haruo’s gambling addiction, which had followed him from Japan to the US. His weakness had led to one broken marriage, but he reformed himself through counseling.
“When my older brothers got into some trouble, who was there to take care of it? Oh, not Haruo. He had fled to America. My younger sisters were married with families of their own. No, it was up to me, the nesan, to handle it. I had to rely on my brains, my know-how, to dig us out of poverty and rebuild our good name. I was able to go to college and get my doctorate. Become a professor to support us.” Ayako put her wrinkled hands over the bag of ashes on her lap. “And now I’m left here, on this island of an island, to spend my last days.”
She coughed, first a rasp and then a series of hacks that caused her whole body to shake.
“Youzu orai? I getsu someone to help out.”
“No, no, no!” Ayako was insistent. She flailed her arms for emphasis. “Take me to the bathroom.”
Mas grimaced. The absolute last thing he wanted to do was take an old lady into the benjo.
“Do it!” she ordered. Shikataganai. After everything that had happened on this trip, this wasn’t a big deal, he told himself.
He wheeled Ayako into the private bathroom. The toilet was low with metal grab bars installed on the wall. Mas was beyond embarrassed and stood there helplessly. But Ayako didn’t move from the wheelchair.
“You never forget this. You watch this and tell Haruo’s wife, children, and grandchildren where he ended up here in Japan.” With that, her bent fingers clawed through the plastic and she released the ash of island shells into the toilet and flushed.
After her angry display, Ayako was satisfied. She brushed her hands of any remaining ash and rolled herself out of the bathroom and back into the main room. She returned to her original place by the window, her back to Mas.
“You may go now,” she said.
Mas nodded. He was only too happy to.
As he returned to the hallway, he felt weak in the knees. Haruo, the gentle, harmless Haruo, was viewed by his older sister as a pariah, a user. The Haruo she knew and distorted in her mind was not the same Haruo who had matured and grown old in America.
Mas stumbled to the vending machine in the cafeteria, this time pressing the button for an iced coffee. Caffeine and sugar could perhaps jolt his heart into beating again. The cafeteria was empty and he sat down to get the coffee in his system.
He was halfway through his drink when the last people he wanted to see entered the room: Kiseki Kondo and her mother, Kondo-Obasan the thief. Kiseki wasn’t wearing her trademark scarf or head covering. Her short hair was snowy white and almost feathery like the back of an egret. Instead of a walker, Kondo-Obasan was using the bend of her daughter’s elbow to help her shuffle forward.
He was making his getaway when Kiseki said, “Ah, Arai-san. May we join you?”
Mas was shocked, to say the least. He was, after all, the man who’d helped lock up her brother-in-law.
Kondo-Obasan settled in a seat at the end of the table as her daughter returned with a tray of three cups of steaming hot tea.
They sat for a while in silence as they sipped their green tea. Kondo-Obasan did not make eye contact and she seemed more interested in the way the sun was hitting the windows.
“I saw my brother-in-law this morning,” Kiseki said.
“Yah?” Mas was tongue-tied. Was Gohata set loose or still in the storage room of the community center?
“He admitted it all to me,” she said. “He’s promised to report it all to the police tomorrow.”
“Oh.”
“I guess Toshi-san has appointed himself the new district representative. And jailer. My brother-in-law has returned to our house but Toshi won’t leave his side. I guess we now have a boarder.” The wrinkles on Kiseki’s leathered face were deep. The vertical lines between her eyebrows made her look like she was perpetually frowning.
“He shouldn’t have done that. Not to that poor boy. But Bunpei lost his head. He was doing it for the family’s sake. For his granddaughter’s. For me and for his wife, my sister.”
Mas refused to excuse Gohata for any reasons of filial piety.
“He didn’t mean to raise a hand against the boy. He just wanted to warn him not to say anything to anybody. But the boy wouldn’t listen. He said that he was tired of being pushed around and no one could tell him what to do.”
“So Gohata hit him with his walking stick.”
Kiseki widened her eyes. “How did you know? Did you see it?”
Mas shook his head. He had figured that for the detective to return to the island, a new cause of death had been determined. It wasn’t accidental drowning. And when he heard that Gohata had met Sora under the cover of night by the oyster farm, he knew there must have been an altercation. Gohata had said he practiced kendo for years. A master kendoist would know where to strike his opponent. It was second nature.
“But for your sake? And your sister’s?” Mas still didn’t understand that reasoning.
“Whatever you may think of Bunpei, he’s a good man. He married my sister Yoko, knowing about our family’s history. There weren’t many like him back then. And then Yoko was struck down by a mysterious sickness, causing people to wonder if it was connected to the Bomb. Then news came about my grandniece’s possible engagement. We all felt the pressure to stamp out any rumors that our blood may be tainted.”
Hiring investigators to look into one’s family lineage for an impending marital union used to be commonplace in Japan, especially during Mas’s youth. But to hear that it was still taking place was a surprise.
“Here, Mama, drink.” Kiseki held the handleless Japanese cup to Kondo-Obasan’s chapped lips. She took a few slurps before nodding her head that it was enough.
“I was going to be married once,” Kiseki said, wiping a few drops of tea from her mother’s blouse. “A long time ago. Bunpei was the go-between. But then people were talking about our eldest sister.”
The one whose bones had been stored in some secret location.
“She was
born damaged. Broken. Because of the Bomb. Who would have known how long she would have lived?”
“How did she die?” Mas had to ask. He had his suspicions, but he wanted an answer, whether it be the truth or a lie.
Kiseki’s face transformed into its usual hardness. She wasn’t going to talk. As her mother started to murmur something, Kiseki rose and helped her to her feet.
“We have to go. I just wanted you to know that my brother-in-law is not a bad man.”
Mas bowed. That, of course, was a matter of opinion. Gohata may have had good intentions, but they didn’t erase the fact that a boy was dead.
He went back to his room, the clashing combination of the sweet coffee and bitter green tea remaining in his mouth. After making sure that his airline ticket to go home was still in a zipped compartment in his suitcase, he lay down on his futon, thinking that it was quite fortuitous that he was to leave on a red-eye flight the next evening. It was certainly time to go home.
Someone rattled his door. He slid it open to reveal Tatsuo, who got right to the point. “I believe that this may be what you were missing.” He produced the bag of Haruo’s ashes tied together with green gardening twine.
“Where—”
“Because today was the sixth, I went to the memorial outside to do some cleaning. I found the ashes placed in between two markers. Based on the dust and dirt on the plastic, it must have been there the whole time.”
Mas was stunned. Kondo-Obasan must have figured out what the bag contained and left it in the most appropriate place.
“We have a locked safe at the bottom of the memorial for ashes. Do you want me to keep them in there?”
Mas shook his head. He wasn’t sure where they should be left, but here wasn’t the place. “How is Rei-san, by the way?”
“A social worker has come to talk with her. She’ll need other people to help her through this. She’ll be released tomorrow.”
Mas grunted. He was grateful that Rei would not be alone.
“I didn’t know what Gohata-san did. To the boy. I would never have left the money in the factory if I knew what was going to happen.”
Mas believed him. Tatsuo was one of these straight-arrow types who did well in a world that was black and white. Unfortunately reality was rarely that way. “I’m sorry that I caused all sorts of problems for you,” said Mas. “Everything I did back at the oyster factory. I know you were just doing as you were told.” He did feel bad that he had considered Tatsuo a bit of an oni when he was actually more of a guardian angel.
“I said things that I regret,” Tatsuo said, referring to when he called Mas a stupid American.
“I am baka. At times.”
With the addition of “at times,” they both laughed. More times than not was a better answer. But that much latitude was allowed between friends.
Chapter Eleven
When Mas slid open the door to his room at the nursing home, he discovered a gift that had been left for him. It was blue-green, actually the color of his old Ford truck, and had four working wheels in excellent condition. A brand-new suitcase, compliments of Thea.
She had left him a handwritten note. She dotted her ‘i’s with hearts; Mas had never received a letter with so many hearts on the page. In his mind, he wished the girl well. She was actually quite extraordinary to tackle a new country, especially a closed one like Japan, by herself at her age.
He dumped out everything from his broken-down bag. Tatsuo had allowed him to use the home’s washer and his garments were all dry—albeit a bit stiff—after being on hangers for one night. He stuffed his clean clothing into his new suitcase. Just that simple act energized him.
Leaving his packed suitcase in his room, he went into the cafeteria and served himself some okayu. He knew that he must be starting to lose his mind on the island, because the rice gruel tasted okay. When he was half finished, the cafeteria worker came to his table with her personal stash of kobu squares. Twisting open the jar, she offered it to Mas.
“We’ve made a deal,” she said through her paper mask. “I’ll bring the food and he has to come regularly to feed it.”
“Huh?” Mas struggled to understand her abrupt announcement.
“The boy. Kenta. I saw him this morning looking for the cat. He even brought an old pickle container to serve as a dish. I’ll have some table scraps and pet food to feed it.”
“Domo arigato.” Mas bowed his head a couple of times.
His flight was not due to leave Kansai Airport until midnight. He had promised Rei to accompany her on the ferry to Ujina. Then he had several hours to be bura-bura before boarding the bullet train to the airport.
While he sipped his green tea, one of the workers placed a second bowl of okayu on his table. Before he could respond, Kondo-Obasan sat in the seat across from him.
“Musume is asleep now,” she said, spooning up some gruel. Musume was daughter in Japanese, and Mas had a feeling that she wasn’t talking about about either Kiseki or Yoko.
Mas picked up a few seaweed squares with his chopsticks and popped them in his mouth. He chewed them thoroughly and swallowed. He watched as Kondo-Obasan struggled with her spoon. It took a couple of tries, but she finally got it into her mouth.
In the light of day, she seemed to have a new lease on life. Mas could even make out a pair of pupils underneath her flaps of skin. Would she be ready to talk?
“What happen to musume-chan?” he asked, as if they were longtime friends.
“Ah, musume. That was something else, wasn’t it?”
“Unn, unn.” Even though he had no idea what she was talking about, he wanted to encourage her to keep going.
“They took her to take a bath. And then she didn’t come back,” Kondo-Obasan reported, bits of gruel stuck on the sides of her lips. “But I found her and hid her so they wouldn’t take her again.”
“Who gave her a bath?”
“My husband,” she said. “He took care of everything.”
Mas figured that someone in the family had ended the deformed daughter’s life, and now based on what he just heard, it could have been the baby’s own father. It was such a sad business, with no easy answers. How would Mas have dealt with a brain-damaged child who might be in pain and suffering? Through the window, he could see that someone had strung loops of origami cranes next to the Buddha statue.
“Don’t cry,” Kondo-Obasan said. “She’s fast asleep now.”
Mas rolled his new suitcase down the corridor and met Rei in the lobby of the nursing home. Her hair had been freshly washed and blown dry into the same smooth bob she’d had when he first met her. She was skinnier now and had bags underneath her eyes, but she gave him a quick smile.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” she responded.
Instead of her handbag, she carried a plastic bag. They stepped on a mat in front of the glass doors, causing them to whoosh open, and then were surrounded by the heat and tsuku-tsuku chirps of the cicadas. Mas picked up Rei’s umbrella, which hadn’t been moved from the original spot where he’d left it.
They reached the ferry landing in the nick of time. The boat had already anchored, with the portly captain collecting yen coins.
As Mas walked onto the boat, he wondered if he would miss Ino Island. This trip to Hiroshima had changed the course of his life, or at least what was left of it—whether it was several more years, months, weeks, or only days. It was making him reconsider everything and everyone, including his fellow Kibei Nisei like Joji and Akemi Haneda, Riki Kimura and, of course, Haruo. For the first time, he regretted that he never had a chance to spend time with his siblings as adults. Even at eighty-six, how much did he not understand about himself and his family?
He also wondered about Rei. She was leaving the place where her son had died, but would soon be arriving in the city where he had lived. Which was easier to deal with? At least she wouldn’t be spending time alone in the same apartment. She was headed for her cousin’s place outside of Hiroshima.
Maybe the country air and the wildflowers would lift her spirits.
They sat outside on the deck, salt water misting their faces.
“Maybe you move out of Hiroshima?” Mas asked.
“No, I only know Hiroshima. Not many can leave and make it.”
“I haven’t made it,” Mas said.
“You raised a daughter. Have a new wife. Maybe I’ll find a new husband when I’m seventy years old.”
To hear Rei make a joke encouraged him. And she spoke about getting older, which was the most optimistic goal she could commit to right now.
While the boat powered toward the city of Hiroshima, they watched the green mound of Ino Island become smaller and smaller until it was a simple green triangle, merging into the sky and the sea.
Before they reached Ujina, Rei turned to Mas. “Oh, and I saw a social worker. She told me about that counseling you were talking about.” She lowered her voice as if she was afraid that another passenger would hear. “She gave me a name of someone in Hiroshima. I’m thinking of going.”
Mas almost had to laugh. He didn’t know how Haruo was able to do it, even reduced to mere ashes sitting in his suitcase. When Haruo was alive, he constantly poked and prodded Mas to consider telling a professional about his problems. Although Mas refused to heed this advice, he had somehow become his dead friend’s messenger.
As the boat docked, a woman about Rei’s age stood on the landing, grasping the long handles of a handbag with both hands. A boy and a girl ran circles around the woman; their mischievous behavior signaled that they were related.
The woman waved to Rei, who raised her hand in acknowledgment and then bowed from the boat. This must be the cousin, and she had children. Would they remind Rei about what she had lost? Or perhaps they could be the repository for Rei’s love, which currently had no home.
Mas didn’t like emotional, public goodbyes and made sure that he said his sayonara on the deck of the boat. “Take care of yourself,” he said to her, standing and bowing.
“I hope we keep in touch,” she replied, her eyes shiny with tears.
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