Sayonara Slam (15 page)

He had been called a detective once before, and he deeply resented it. He hated the thought of sticking his nose into someone else's business. But he also realized that he'd been doing just that ever since that first baseball game between Japan and Korea.

“And for the record, I didn't do it. I didn't kill Itai. And I certainly wouldn't have done anything to harm Mrs. Kim.”

Mas believed Amika about the last thing, but frankly, he wasn't sure of the first. Either way, tonight the girl needed someone to believe in her. Mas could at least fake that much.

Chapter Thirteen

W
hen he got home, Mas studied the letters and numbers in Itai's notebook at the kitchen table. The first line was “T HR HR HR.” Second line: “S 340 HR 320.” And so on.

The back door opened. Lloyd stepped in and took off his work shoes, leaving them by the door.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hallo.”

Mas noticed that Lloyd didn't have the weariness of the past couple of days. He seemed tired, but a good tired. “It was a good day,” he said, explaining that they'd finished fertilizing the entire field.

Mas grunted. In that way, he and Lloyd were the same. The completion of a hard day's work, especially if it involved readying the soil, was energizing rather than taxing.

“What's that?” Lloyd looked over Mas's shoulder.

“Sumptin.”

“I can see that. Related to baseball? If so, a lot of home runs.”

Mari, who so far had been quiet in their room, appeared in the kitchen, pulling a suitcase with rolling wheels. “I'm just about packed,” she announced.

“Where'su you going?”

“Jill's wedding. This weekend. Didn't I tell you? I guess everything has been so hectic lately. Jill and Iris—remember her?—are getting married. In Canada. Where it's legal.”

Mas had forgotten about the wedding and wondered if Tug and Lil had decided to go.

“I figure Tug would have told you,” Mari said, not giving Mas a chance to respond. “Jill is convinced that her parents won't show up. I mean, she puts up this tough-girl front, but you know that she's dying inside. She was always their shining star. Remember how Mom used to compare me to her? ‘Look at Jill Yamada. Why don't you be like her? Nice girl. Straight As. Going to be a doctor someday.' Only now she's a struggling mixed-media artist who is also a lesbian. Funny how these things work out.”

“Mari, don't be like that,” Lloyd said.

“No, my mom was always on my case, Lloyd. At least with Dad, there were no expectations. Sometimes it was easier that way.”

Mas frowned. He hated when Mari got into these moods. She wanted to punish Mas and Chizuko for all they did wrong. She was often correct in her assessment, but Mas felt that she should at least keep Chizuko out of it; she had no way of fighting back.

“Ease up, okay?” Lloyd continued to try to calm her down.

“I just feel bad for Jill. She needs her parents to back her up. This is going to be one of the most important days of her life, and her parents aren't going to be there.”

Mas felt the full burn of irony. He hadn't been there for Mari and Lloyd's wedding, either. But he wasn't given a choice. He hadn't been invited.

“Tug and Lil gotsu their reasons. They don't need to prove nuttin' to Jill. They behind her every step of the way. Sheezu gotsu know dat.”

Mari rolled her eyes.

Mas rose with his notebook. “I mighta wanted to go to my daughter's wedding, too, youzu know. People make own decisions. There's nuttin' to do about it.”

The next morning, Mas forced himself to sleep in. He'd turned off the ringer on his cell phone, but not the vibrator, so now it was practically dancing on his dresser like a hyperactive giant bug. It was probably Yuki; Genessee usually had a seminar with graduate students at UCLA that day. But just in case it was Genessee, Mas, his bones cracking, lifted himself out of bed. Barefoot, he padded over on the carpet to see who wanted his attention. It was no number that he recognized. Without thinking clearly, he flipped open the phone.

“Hallo.” Mas's voice was more muffled than usual.

“Masao-
san
. Is that you?”

“Whozu dis?”

“Akemi. Akemi Kimura.”

“Ah, ah…” Mas said, eloquent as usual.

“I haven't been able to get in touch with Yukikazu. He gave me your phone number earlier this week.
Sumimasen
, calling you like this.”

“Nah, itsu orai. His phone turned out to be no good.”

“Did it stop working?”

The story was too long to delve into.

“Is he there with you?”

“Heezu wiz Neko Kawasaki.”

“Oh, no,” Akemi said. Mas didn't expect that reaction. Akemi obviously knew who Neko Kawasaki was, so shouldn't she be more excited? “He's been so obsessed with her. I thought that by seeing her in person again he'd be more realistic.”

Mas didn't know what to say.

“You know that she's going to break his heart, Mas. What would a woman like that want with Yukikazu?”

Akemi had had her moments of being highfalutin' at times, even when she was young. Chizuko would have quipped,
hana ga takai
. That her nose was up in the air.

“Ah, well, heezu nice boy,” Mas said, both shocked and mortified that he was coming to Yuki's defense. “Don't hurt nobody's feelings.
Gambatteru
.” As soon as Mas finished talking, he knew that he was describing himself.

“That's all well and good that he's trying hard, but that's not enough. What's going to happen when the honeymoon phase wears off? Yukikazu will be by himself. Destroyed.”

“Akemi-
san
, I gotsu go,” Mas told her. “I tellsu Yukikazu that you called.”

Mas didn't bother taking a shower. He quickly dressed. In the bathroom, he patted a palmful of Three Flowers oil on top of his head and pushed his dentures into his mouth.
He will be destroyed
, Mas said to himself.
Destroyed.
He shoved the phone and Itai's notebook into the back pockets of the jeans he'd been wearing this week.

He got into the Impala, backed it out of the driveway in record time, and tore down the street. He didn't know quite what he was going to say, but he had to at least try.

He felt like he was driving for a lifetime. Parking was even worse than usual. He'd only gone to the room once before, but it was on the first floor and in the corner, so it was easy to find.

He didn't even wait at the door or bother to knock. He flung it open, finding Genessee at the front of a line of desks all pushed together in the center of the room. About seven seated students stared blankly at him.

“Mas, what are you doing here?”

He took a deep breath. “I'zu been a big
bakatare.
” He was indeed a huge fool. “I'zu just too scared. Scared I'zu be destroyed.”

“Oh, Mas.” Genessee came right up to him, placing her arms around him. “Just open your heart to me. Even a little bit. Nothing bad is going to happen.”

And in front of the Origins of Indigenous Music in the Pacific seminar at UCLA, Mas had his very first experience with a public display of affection.

After the encounter with Genessee in her class, Mas felt like he could do anything. Or at least should do anything. Like find Tomo Itai's killer.

When he first encountered Itai, Mas didn't care for him one bit. He was like those
kuso
-heads who parked their car in two spots or cut in line at the betting window at the track. No class and no thought for anyone else. Yes, Itai had been like that, but there'd been more to him. Whether it was the
ianfu
or mixed-race minorities, he'd been committed to the underdog. Itai had believed that he could save the world, a motive that was irritating to Mas, but at least in his writing, the journalist wasn't just out for himself. In his effort to make himself out to be a savior, Itai seemed to have done some good along the way.

Mas parked in the lot for the hospital and went to the reception desk to get a sticker with Mrs. Kim's room number written on it.

He was walking down the hallway toward her room when someone called out, “Arai-
san
.” Yuki was seated in the open waiting room with the two knuckleball-pitching cousins.

“This is Mas Arai. She has helped me so much,” Yuki introduced Mas to both Neko and Jin-Won in English. Mas
at first balked at being identified as “she,” but what could he say? He'd lived in America for fifty years himself and still wasn't getting words right. He could ignore a wrong pronoun, especially since he was being paid a compliment.

Mas shook Neko's hand and then Jin-Won's. He had to admit that it was a thrill to touch the hands of professional baseball pitchers. English had to be the language of record, linking the Japanese, Korean, and American together.

“Howsu your grandma?” he asked both Neko and Jin-Won.

Neko's face flushed pink, and at first Mas thought he had said something wrong. Maybe to have identified that intimate relationship so clearly was a mistake.

Neko fanned her hand in front of her face, signaling that she wasn't offended. “No, it's the first time for me to hear that. Grandma. It is so…so like family.”

Jin-Won squeezed Neko's shoulder. “Would you like to see?” he asked Mas.

Mas didn't know what to say. It wasn't like he didn't want to see Mrs. Kim, but he barely knew her. He was here for support, to be in the background. Not to be a participant.

“
Ojisan
, go,” Yuki said. And then he added in Japanese, “I've told her about you.”

Mas took a few steps into the hospital room. Mrs. Kim was lying down, a sheet and blanket up to her chin. She was wearing glasses and her eyes were expectant, ready to see what was around the corner.

“Hallo,” Mas said.

“
Konnichiwa
,” she replied, and they both laughed in
recollection of their first meeting.

He placed his hands in his jacket pockets. His right hand felt the hard outline of the baseball he'd found in Dodger Stadium. He drew it out.

“You play?” she asked in Japanese.

“When I was a boy. A long, long time ago.”

“May I?” She gestured toward the ball, and Mas was only too happy to present it to her. She gripped it in her right hand, blue veins extending from her knuckles, and then palmed it in her left. “I played, too. In school. I was pretty good.”

Mochiron
, Mas thought. No doubt. Her genes had been passed down to her grandchildren.

She studied him for a moment through her glasses. “You are a
hibakusha
.”

Mas nodded.

“It must have been so sorrowful for you.”

Mas felt blindsided by Mrs. Kim's comment. “I try not to think about it.”

“Me, too,” Mrs. Kim said. “All these years, me, too. All these years, I see women outside the Japanese Embassy in Seoul. Protesting what had happened during World War II. Fruitless, I think. Useless. But now I think that I was wrong. I need to tell my story. If I didn't, I wouldn't have ever found my granddaughter, Neko. If I keep talking, who else will I find?”

Mas wanted to warn her that there were people out there, people in the unknown, anonymous internet, who might want to hurt her. But perhaps it was like boxing
with shadows. What was the use of always being afraid of a shadow?

“I'm not like you,” Mas told her.

Feeling like this meeting had come to an end, Mas bowed his good-bye.

“Sayonara,” she said, returning the baseball to him.