Gasa-Gasa Girl by Naomi Hirahara

Mari’s, and now the grandson’s.
    “I don’t want to pass on my problems to Takeo. Keep him from knowing you because I don’t. But now with all of us together, I realize that it’s too much.”
    Mas’s heart began to drop, from the base of his throat down to his stomach.
    “I thought that I could handle it. But I don’t think I can, Dad.” Mari placed the pot in the rice cooker.
    “I go.” Mas had heard enough.
    “Maybe it’s because too much is going on. And now with Kazzy—”
    “I go,” Mas repeated. He didn’t want to hear her excuses.
    Mari nodded. “I thought that you’d understand,” she said. She put the lid on the pot, pressed a button on the rice cooker, and then disappeared back into the lighted bedroom.

    I t wasn’t hard to pack his things. He hadn’t changed his clothes or even bothered to take a shower during his first twenty-four hours in New York. His yellow Samsonite, in fact, was in the same spot where he had left it. Mas couldn’t stand being in that underground apartment for another minute, and went to take a walk around the neighborhood.
    He went back to the first stranger he had spoken to in New York. The operator of the small grocery store across the street.
    Ever since Mas had gotten all his rotted teeth pulled out to make room for his ill-fitting dentures, he never could properly get the hang of chewing gum again. Tonight he didn’t care. He placed a large package of Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit gum on the counter. He figured that he could at least suck the sugar out of three sticks at one time.
    “Marlboro?” This time it was just the old man.
    Mas shook his head. “Nah, just dis. Izu go back to Los Angeles.” He didn’t know why he was offering any personal information, but there was no one else—not Tug, not Haruo—to talk to.
    “Short trip,” the shopkeeper said. “
Mijikai sugiru.
”
    Mas widened his eyes. He shouldn’t have been surprised. The man was most likely Korean and old enough to have been there when the Japanese had forced their language on those they conquered.
    “Yah, too short, but whatcha gonna do?” Mas shrugged his shoulders. In these situations, Mas felt awkward speaking Japanese and opted to use English instead. Here the Japanese language seemed bitter and sad, remnants of a weapon that had been once used to wipe out a people’s identity.
    The shopkeeper laughed. “Yah, what you gonna do?”

    T he minute Mas reentered the apartment, he knew something was wrong. Takeo was wailing, and the door to the bedroom was wide open.
    “They said they’ll be here in five minutes,” said Lloyd, placing the telephone back on its cradle on the kitchen wall. Two large bags, bursting with the smell of strong spices, had been left on the counter. Instead of whetting his appetite, they made Mas feel like throwing up.
    Lloyd grabbed his leather jacket from a hook on the wall. “We’re going to take Takeo to the hospital,” he explained to Mas.
    Mari brought out the baby from the bedroom. He was wearing a knit cap and blue jacket, and who knows how many layers of clothing underneath that. Takeo’s jacket arms were so stuffed that they poked out from his body like the plastic legs of an overturned toy animal.
    Lloyd noticed, too. “He’s already burning up, Mari. Don’t you think he’s wearing too much?”
    “It’s cold out there. I don’t want him to get worse.”
    They hurried back and forth, packing blankets, diapers, and bottles into nylon bags, when a car honked out front.
    “The cab’s here.” Lloyd, who stayed back to lock the door and the gate, seemed surprised to see Mas follow Mari outside.
    At the top of the stairs to the adjoining apartment stood a middle-aged
hakujin
woman wearing a long sweater decorated with leaping deer. “Is the baby all right?”
    “He has a high fever; we’re taking him to the hospital.” Mari bounced Takeo in her arms.
    “Call me if you need anything.”
    “You’ll be the first one we call, Mrs.