Summer of the Big Bachi by Naomi Hirahara Read Free Book Online

scrawled on each photo: “To Mary, Good Luck and Good Playing, Bob Witt.”
     
     
Chizuko wasn’t sure if they should let Mari go to the game: After all, she would be missing Japanese school, held every Saturday in a bare two-story building next to a nursery.
     
     
Mari herself didn’t seem that excited. It was night, and she was wearing her headgear, apparently one of the last stages of her orthodontic work. A hideous contraption, the headgear had hooks and bands that tightened around her skull and stretched down to her metal braces. She pulled her long hair out from underneath the bands into rectangular sections, hanging spongy curlers from the loose strands.
     
     
Even when Mari remained unresponsive, Mas insisted. “Mr. Witt give to me. An insult if we no use.”
     
     
“Get one of your friends. How about Haruo?” Chizuko said, cutting out an article on high school SAT scores in the Los Angeles Times .
     
     
“No. Mari.”
     
     
“But she has perfect attendance so far.”
     
     
Mari clipped the last curler in place. “Who cares, Mom? It’s not like real school.”
     
     
On the day of the game, Mas bought everything. He purchased the three-dollar color program, Rams banners, hot dogs— cotton candy, even.
     
     
Mari didn’t seem that interested in the game. She instead kept adjusting her hair, which rippled in lines where her headgear was positioned at night.
     
     
Mas tried to get excited about the game. But the plastic seats seemed too hard, the sun too bright, and the men in front of him drank too much. They yelled and hooted at the cheerleaders, analyzing the merits of each one. The Rams weren’t doing so well, either; balls were intercepted or else thrown out of bounds, hitting the green field beyond the chalk lines.
     
     
It had been easier to be with Mari when she was younger, around five or six. When Mas brought home an old Cinderella book that he’d found in a customer’s trash can, her face brightened. She ran into her bedroom, reciting the story of the two evil stepsisters and the mice that helped the poor servant girl.
     
     
At Christmastime, she waited for Mas to come home with cheap gifts wrapped in red-and-white paper, gifts of fruitcake and chocolate-covered almonds from his customers. She didn’t care that inside was just junk; she still arranged the presents under the flocked Christmas tree as if they were treasures of real gold and silver.
     
     
But as she grew, her breasts peaked, her mensu started, and she became more and more distant, a stranger with secrets behind her bedroom door.
     
     
They left the game early. As they turned back onto McNally Street, Mas parked the Datsun in the driveway, behind the Ford truck.
     
     
“Oh, wait a minute,” he said, going into the garage. “Here, he gave you this.” The three black-and-white photos with the personalized message.
     
     
“He spelled my name wrong. And he wasn’t even very good.” Mari frowned, flattening a bump in her hair. She left the photos on the car seat. Eventually Chizuko found them on the floor, underneath the car mat, and stored them in a box with other old photos that they knew they had, but never saw.
     
     

     
There were no photos of Mr. Witt in his former house now. Mas stood in the hall and smelled something that made his nose itch, probably some perfume from an aerosol can.
     
     
“Mas, I’m glad you made it.” Mrs. Witt placed her hand on her hip. Her arms were freckled and leathery like old snakeskin. “I have something to discuss with you.”
     
     
“Dis so?” Mas pulled back his Dodgers cap. He had a feeling that he wouldn’t like what Mrs. Witt had to tell him.
     
     
“Well, first of all, I wanted to discuss the trees, the ones we grafted last spring.” Mrs. Witt’s reading glasses hung from her neck.
     
     
“The broken branches.”
     
     
“Yes. Well, Mas, it’s a disaster. I think it may be the combination. I don’t know.”
     
     
Mas followed Mrs. Witt into the grove in the back of the