Naomi Hirahara - Gasa-Gasa Girl

“Whatchu making?” he asked Mari, whose hands were stuffed in oven mitts.

“Corned beef and cabbage. Lloyd’s favorite.”

“No, that’s your favorite,” Lloyd said. Mas had to agree. Every St. Patrick’s Day, they had gone to the Japanese Catholic church just east of Little Tokyo to eat corned beef, cabbage, and sticky rice in Styrofoam bowls on plastic trays outside on tables covered with butcher paper. They had gone at the invitation of friends, but soon it was a tradition that Mari insisted on every year.

Chizuko also made her version throughout the winter, long, peeled carrots floating alongside a slab of red meat and cabbage. One year, Mari had gotten her tonsils removed, and seemed content eating her special diet of 7-Up and ice cream-that is, until she saw the steaming pot of her favorite food and burst into tears.

“Rememba after you got your tonsils out-”

“Oh, yeah.” Mari smiled, lifting the meat and vegetables with a pair of tongs. “I can’t believe you’d remember that. I was only about six years old.”

For a moment, Mas felt normal. The corned beef was tender, falling apart in his mouth without much effort of his dentures. They laughed, the noise and the scents filling the corners of the underground apartment. Takeo was safe in his crib, sleeping, hopefully not being terrorized by any nightmares.

After their early dinner, Lloyd insisted that Mari go to the gathering at the Teddy Bear Garden, the community garden trapped in an enclosed triangle.

“Get out of the house. Breathe in fresh air. It’s just a few blocks away.”

Mari was still wary about leaving Takeo, who was now awake and lying on a blanket on the floor. “Well, I’ll at least change his diaper before I go,” she said.

“No, Mari, I can handle it. You just go.”

“Izu help Lloyd,” Mas added.

Mas knew the drill now from babysitting Takeo. Fresh diaper-disposable paper ones with stickers, not cloth and safety pins like in Mari’s baby days. Take off the dirty diaper and clean oshiri. Lloyd pulled up Takeo’s legs and wiped his bare butt with a Wet One.

“ Ara- ” Mas pointed to the blue-black mark above Takeo’s behind. He hadn’t noticed that before.

“Yeah,” said Lloyd. “I guess he’s more Japanese than hakujin.”

The bald man, the night gardener, remembered Mas as he and Mari approached the gate of the Teddy Bear Garden. “Yes, the gardener from California,” the man said.

“My father,” explained Mari.

“I had no idea. Well, welcome to the family. Have something to eat, something to drink.”

They stood in line, holding small empty paper plates and napkins. Mari seemed to know most of the people, and Mas recognized a few of them from the blood drive at the hospital. They ate chocolate cake on a damp bench, and Mas could sense that Mari, her eyes darting back and forth at the crowd by the barbecue, wanted to make more conversation with her friends, yet stayed behind with him.

“You pack everything?” she asked.

“Yah.” There wasn’t much to pack. Lloyd had gone over to the Laundromat and washed Mas’s underwear, socks, jeans, and long-sleeved shirt. All that was rolled up and pushed into the hard plastic shell of the yellow Samsonite.

“Who’s going to pick you up from the airport?”

“Haruo.” Mas wasn’t looking forward to all the stories he would have to listen to on the hour’s drive back to Altadena.

“It’s good that Haruo’s there for you, Dad.”

“Um,” Mas grunted. He stacked Mari’s finished plate on top of his and made his way to the garbage can a few steps away. He passed a couple of women who didn’t look like the rest of the crowd. Instead of jeans and knit scarves, they wore pressed slacks and gold jewelry.

“Who’s that?” he heard one woman ask the other.

“Oh, he’s connected with the Waxley House. He’s their little Takeo Shiota,” one of the women said.

Mas bared his top dentures. He wanted to snap at the women, but he would never dare to do so. He turned toward the bench, and there was Mari, her head tilted back, a small green sycamore leaf in her hands. Her mouth was wide-open, the short staccato of laughter starting to ring from her throat. It sounded somewhat familiar to Mas, yet different, like an old tune that was made new again.

NAOMI HIRAHARA is the author of Summer of the Big Bachi, the first book in the Mas Arai mystery series. A writer, editor, and publisher of nonfiction books, she previously worked as an editor of The Rafu Shimpo, a bilingual Japanese American daily newspaper in Los Angeles. She and her husband reside in her birthplace, Southern California. For more information and reading group guides, visit her Web site at www.naomihirahara.com.