Mari accepted the name tag and her cell phone. “Takeo’s fever has gone down. He’s going to stay overnight for some more tests, and they’re going to let me be with him.” She then shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “I know Ghigo told you that you can’t leave New York, and you know what, I think that it’s good that you’ll be around. I’ve been fighting off this postpartum depression, you know, feeling bad after having a baby. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m saying or feeling anymore.”
Mas couldn’t remember if Chizuko had suffered from this postpartum sickness-it had been more than thirty years ago. But Mas was so relieved that his grandson was doing better that he began babbling promises, promises that later he wasn’t sure he could keep.
The first promise was that he would check on Lloyd. But it was now getting dark, and he had no idea how to get to this Seventy-seventh Precinct. Just the number-seventy-seven-scared him, because it meant there were at least seventy-six other precincts and who knows how many dozens more. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and thought about his alternatives. He could try one of those underground trains; he saw the stations here and there marked with red and green signs. But everyone was gasa-gasa; they probably wouldn’t have the time to hear the troubles of an old Kibei man. He thought about the neighbor, the middle-aged hakujin woman with the flowing sweater, but they had not formally met. And then there was the Korean shopkeeper, but Mas had already shared too much about himself in a short time. He couldn’t impose more, or his debt would be too great. Japanese straight from Japan always said, “ Osewa ni natta ”-“I have been in your debt”-but that usually applied to little things like being bought a meal or borrowing a cordless power drill, not going to a police station to rescue a son-in-law. In cases like this, it was best to lean on someone familiar, and tonight that person had to be Tug Yamada.
Mas first went back to the underground apartment to make good on his second promise to Mari-that he get something to eat. He was practically running on empty, fueled only by bread and Nescafé. He must have looked as tired as he felt, because Mari had commented that his face seemed pale and dragged down. Mas replied that it was the weather: how could a California man survive in thirty-degree temperatures? At least Mas was hot-blooded, and not a samugari like Chizuko, who had always complained when the house dipped below fifty-nine degrees.
The apartment smelled of the richness of Thai food and steamed rice, which seemed to almost lift the rooms above their subterranean level. Mas first called Tug at his daughter Joy’s house. No answer, but an answering machine with strange music and a female voice mewing like cat. Mas couldn’t believe that Joy would have such a message (what happened to a plain “Hello and leave your name and number”?), so he hung up and called a second time. What the hell-he left a message and hoped that somehow the human cat would deliver the message to his friend.
In the meantime, Mas began his mission of getting food into his stomach. He was grateful for Mari’s making of the rice. Their rice cooker wasn’t one of those high-tech, streamlined kind decorated with pink flowers or tiny elephants. Instead, it was the standard of the sixties and seventies, a white one with black handles that stuck out like ears. Mas put two scoops of rice on a plate and then foraged through the paper bags of take-out food. A strange stew of vegetables covered in a sweet-smelling sauce that was the color of yellow chalk. Chicken on skewers that reminded Mas of yakitori barbecued on hibachis at Japanese bars. And finally, thick rice noodles that were folded like pillows in brown gravy. Mas had never had Thai food before, but tonight he ate as if there were no other.
As he was chewing on the last chicken skewer, the phone rang. It was Tug, apologizing and telling him that he was without his rental car. Mas told him everything that had transpired: from Kazzy’s death to Takeo’s medical setback to the appearance of Detective Ghigo at the hospital. “Needsu to get to Seventy-seven police station; check on Lloyd,” Mas told Tug. They made plans to meet at the Atlantic Avenue subway station ticket booth in the northeast corner. Mas had no idea how he was going to get to the Atlantic Avenue station, much less any specific corner of it, at eight o’clock at night, no less. At this point, he would just have to go out there and try. “Snooze, you lose,” his former friend Wishbone Tanaka once told him regarding an opportunity to buy a nursery. At that time, Mas lost a business deal; but this time, he could lose much more.
Mas had put his old long underwear from his fishing and camping days on underneath his wool sweater and nylon jacket, but the blast of cold air still seemed to soak through the layers of clothing into his bones. He adjusted his Dodgers cap, but that was hardly any help in retaining warmth. At least it would disguise his age; he figured looking seventy years old would attract lazy thieves seeking an easy target.
On his subway map he had already traced the route of the green line with the edge of his dirty index finger. Unfortunately, the Atlantic Avenue stop was a good seven blocks away from the underground apartment. Seven blocks during a winter day in L.A. would be nothing, but this was New York City at night. Luckily the path was a straight one along Flatbush Avenue, so Mas figured that at least there was no danger of getting lost if he went in the right direction.
He traveled alongside the moving wall of cars until he came to a gated area next to a sporting goods store. The gate was open, and an overhead light from the side of the building shone on a man digging around a small pond. The Teddy Bear Garden that Tug had talked about, Mas remembered. Mas couldn’t help but walk a few steps into the dirt.
“Well, hello-” A balding hakujin man turned from his shoveling job. Mas noticed a flat of daffodils in square plastic planters. The man didn’t seem afraid that a stranger had invaded his space, and Mas wondered if the night gardener might be a little kuru-kuru-pa. “Got kind of behind from the rain last weekend,” the man said. “Wanted to at least get the daffodils going.”
From what Mas could tell, the garden would look pretty good in late spring. But right now, the bare trees and planted seedlings only held a promise of what could be.
“Are you interested in gardening?” the man asked.
Mas didn’t know how to answer. He had been doing it for more than forty years, but he honestly didn’t know how interested he was in it. “Izu a gardener,” he chose to respond. “In California.”
“Wonderful, that’s just wonderful.” The man went to a folding chair and pulled a piece of paper from a stack that was held in place by a round polished rock. “We’re having a barbecue here in a couple of weeks for anyone who wants to join us. We would love to have you.”
“Izu be out of here by then.” Mas glanced at the colored flyer, which was printed in English on one side and Spanish on the other.
The bald man looked sincerely disappointed. “That’s too bad,” he said. “But if you’re around, please come.”
As Mas left the gated garden, he just had to shake his head. He had had contact with plenty of strange hakujin in California, but the ones in Park Slope might even top them. He almost stopped by a wire garbage can to toss the flyer, but had second thoughts and stuffed it in his jeans pocket instead.
Mas should have been warned about the size of the Atlantic Avenue station by the long line of letters and numbers encased in circles and diamonds on the sign in front of the station’s stairs. There was an M, N, two Qs, R, W, 2, 5, and 4, their desired train line, in a green circle. As Mas descended the steps, he hung on to the metal railing, his left shoulder and elbow banging into passersby, plastic bags, and briefcases. The railing was cold and sticky, yet the last thing he wanted was to tumble down, break his neck, and be squashed by commuters.