Read Online Gasa-Gasa Girl by Naomi Hirahara - Free Book Online Page A

told Mari. “She supposed to help you out. At least thatsu what my friend G. I. Hasuike says.”
    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