Naomi Hirahara - Gasa-Gasa Girl

Upon reaching the small island, they debarked from the ferry and stood at the foot of Lady Liberty. Dodging the lenses of cameras aimed by Chinese and European tourists, Mas couldn’t really take in much of the statue, aside from the folds of her skirts. Tug explained that they could take an elevator to climb three hundred fifty-four stairs to the statue’s crown, but again, Mas thought, what was the point? Then Tug took him to the edge of the water so that they faced the skyline of Manhattan.

Tug told him about all sorts of Nisei who had made it-men and women who constructed skyscrapers, built sculptures, created paintings, and established trading empires.

The Nisei who flew away from the Pacific Coast were indeed a different species. They could stretch their wings without fear of being clipped or captured. Even Takeo Shiota, an Issei, had made a name for himself. But then Mas remembered how Lloyd had told him that Shiota had been left to die in an internment camp. Why? thought Mas. Why would a gardener who placed a giant orange gate in a pool of water be a threat to anyone?

Mas remained quiet on the ferry ride back to Manhattan. The wind whipped through his hair, causing the sides to stick straight up like the ears of an aging bat.

“There’s one other place I want to show you,” said Tug.

Mas’s legs were so darui, weak, that he thought that his feet and knees would detach from their joints. But again, no monku, no complaints.

They took the subway, and from there, more walking. The sun seemed to drop all of a sudden, painting a silvery glow in the gray skies. At least the sidewalks were pristine, not a crack or a bump from an overgrown tree root in sight. The drapes of the exclusive apartments were wide open, showing off the units’ contents-antique lamps and polished tables. Mas would be worried that revealing all that wealth would invite robbers, but this was an area so rich that any evildoers would instantly stand out. In fact, Mas was surprised that an undercover policeman didn’t pop out from a hiding place to question him. He was, however, with the best alibi he could ask for, the all-American Tug Yamada.

They finally stopped in front of one of the multilevel apartments. “This is New York ’s Buddhist church,” said Tug.

“Ha-” Mas kept his mouth open as he checked out each floor of the concrete building. Didn’t look like any temple he had come across before. Even the Seabrook Buddhist Temple seemed more sacred than this.

Tug explained that he’d visited this temple a couple times in 1946. Outside, it couldn’t compare with the grand temples in California, but inside was the familiar smell of incense and the golden altar, Tug remembered. Christianity had touched Tug by then, so he had hidden his dead friend’s worn Bible underneath his coat while he listened to the familiar chant of the priest.

“Look, Mas.” Tug pointed to a huge statue of a Japanese man standing behind an iron fence outside the neighboring apartment. The height of at least two men, he wore a curved, umbrella-shaped hat and cloak. He held a staff in front of him like a candle that would give off light. “This is new to me.”

“Izu see dat before,” Mas murmured. Some kind of erai leader, but he couldn’t place the name. Wasn’t that the same kind of statue standing on the grounds of the eastern-most temple in Los Angeles ’s Little Tokyo?

Tug walked over to a plaque. “This statue is originally from Hiroshima. Survived the bomb, like you.”

Then Mas faintly remembered seeing the statue a couple of miles northwest of Hiroshima ’s ground zero. How had it come to be moved to New York? thought Mas.

At first the statue looked totally out of place, fenced in behind an iron gate on New York ’s Riverside Drive. But the longer Mas stared at it, the more at home it seemed to be.

Mas walked through the long plastic strips hanging from the doorway of the grocery store. The Korean shopkeeper was perched on a stool next to the cash register this time. Maybe business was slow this morning, thought Mas.

“Haven’t seen you in a couple of days,” the shopkeeper said as Mas approached the counter.

“I really goin’ home now,” Mas announced, drumming his callused thumbs against the counter’s rubber surface. “Tomorrow.”

“Good to go home.”

Mas nodded.

“Talk to my sister last night. She says it’s seventy degrees over in L.A. ”

“Oh, yah.” It would be good for his muscles and joints to feel the beating of the sun again. Yet a part of Mas was going to miss the coldness. It made him move around more than he ever would, even in spring.

“Marlboro?” The shopkeeper started to reach for a carton of cigarettes, but Mas shook his head. He remembered what Takeo’s doctor had said. You need to cut back or quit altogether, Mr. Arai. Don’t you want to see your grandchild graduate from high school? That was a ridiculous challenge; Mas didn’t even know if he could count that high, but what if he beat the odds, confounded all the handicappers and prognosticators at the local lawn mower shop? Instead he reached for a package of Juicy Fruit gum. A jumbo pack almost as wide as a deck of cards. Seventeen sticks should keep him busy on the plane. And in terms of overdosing on sugar, who cared about that? Since he had no teeth anyway, it didn’t make much difference.

He took out a dollar, but the shopkeeper pushed the money back toward Mas. “Free,” he said. “On the house.”

Mas got on an underground train on his way to the Eighteenth Street station for Joy’s exhibition opening. Lloyd had plotted Mas’s path on both subway and street maps so carefully that Mas thought that each footstep had been calculated. Neither Lloyd nor Mari could make it, because of Takeo, so Mas was supposed to be the Arai-Jensen household representative.

As he sat in the train car, Mas thought about what it was really going to be like when he returned to the house in Altadena. He had spoken to Haruo earlier, updating him on all the news, including the latest, that Larry Pauley had been arrested at the Canadian border. He had been carrying one hundred thousand dollars in cash and was on his way to purchase a Thoroughbred reared in British Columbia.

Haruo had news of his own. “When you get back, there’s sumbody you gotsu to meet,” he said. “Izu gotsu a new friend.”

Mas’s ears perked up. He had heard this tone of voice before. He knew what it was about even before Haruo went further.

“She’s a routeman. You knowsu, buys flowers at the Market and delivers them all ova the place. Sheezu been doin’ dis ever since the fifties.”

A routeman? Must be a big, strong woman, one who could easily toss Haruo from one side of the room to another. But then Haruo was partial to strong women, as all Japanese American men were.

“How’s Tug doin’?” Haruo had asked.

Sitting in the train car on his way to the art gallery, Mas honestly wasn’t sure. Tug had said some strange things last night, that Joy would never get married and have children like Mari. How do you know? Mas had asked him. Joy still young. Has time. But Tug had just nodded his head sadly, saying that it wasn’t in the cards for her.

Mas ended up at the gallery a little late-he had taken a couple of wrong turns, in spite of Lloyd’s detailed maps-and sure enough, there was Tug, wearing a light-blue suit and a red and blue striped tie. With all the cigarette smoke from the young people waiting outside, Tug looked like he was emerging from a mist from the heavens.