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

house. The trees, spaced out about three feet away from one another, stood like thin, emaciated bodies. Branches lay on the ground like amputated limbs. Only one tree seemed not to have rejected the grafted branches.
     
     
“It’s a damn killing field,” said Mrs. Witt. “I haven’t had time to do anything with them.”
     
     
Mas examined the bandages of the branches still connected to the root stock. “You’ve been cutting regular?” He pointed to the buds growing below the grafting tape.
     
     
“Like I said, I haven’t had the time.”
     
     
Mas took out a pair of clippers from his belt and cut off the invading buds.
     
     
Mrs. Witt played with the tips of her glasses. “Actually, Mas.” Her voice grew higher, the rhythm faster. “I wanted to talk to you—”
     
     
Mas looked up from a grafted branch. Mrs. Witt looked paler than usual. She took a deep breath, as if she were entering an ice-cold pond. “I wanted to tell you— oh, I guess I just need to spit it out. I’m going to sell the house, Mas. I wasn’t quite sure until a few days ago.”
     
     
Mas blinked, hard. “What, you move?”
     
     
Mrs. Witt nodded. “I’m going to move into a condo in Colorado Springs. My daughter lives there. I don’t get to see the grandchildren enough. So my real estate agent insists on digging up this grove and putting in Bermuda grass. I know that it’s a job for many people. But can you come over next week, survey, then maybe we can come up with some ideas?”
     
     
Mas’s hand slipped away from a grafted branch.
     
     
“Well, of course I’ll recommend you to the new owners, whoever they are,” added Mrs. Witt. “I mean, they may have their own gardener they like to work with, so I can’t make any promises. And, of course, there’s Mexicans who do mow and blow at any price. It’ll just depend.”
     
     
Mas returned his clippers to the leather case on his belt.
     
     
“I just need to get out of here, Mas. Make a new start. There’s just so much of him, everywhere. I mean, I love this house. But then, all it is, is a house. It can’t give me my grandchildren. You know how it is, Mas.” Mrs. Witt leaned against the trunk of the only healthy tree. “How’s your daughter, by the way? What was her name— Mary, was it?”
     
     
“Ma-ri,” Mas said clearly. “And she fine.”
     
     

     
Mas spent the rest of the afternoon collecting the rejected branches. He threw them down in a large pile on top of a tarp in his truck. As he stared at the broken branches jutting out in all different directions like severed arms and legs, he felt sick to his stomach. Must be the heat, he thought. Maybe I am getting too old for all of this.
     
     
The thing about gardening was that you had plenty of time to think. Mas figured that’s why so many gardeners turned out to be gamblers, philosophers, or just plain crazy. The younger ones who dropped out said that the work was just too darn hard on their bodies, but Mas knew better. They didn’t know how to fill their heads.
     
     
Today Mas felt numb, as if someone had banged him good. Nothing seemed to go right, like a gear had jumped to the wrong place. He tried not to think about the income lost if the new owners decided not to keep him on. Extra cash in the empty coffee can that he kept on the bottom of the closet was getting low; he would have to hit it big at the track just to come out even this year.
     
     
As he loaded his equipment back in the truck, his thoughts returned to Haneda. Why was he blowing his money like some big-shot gambler? Mas hoped that he had stayed in Las Vegas, but he knew Vegas was only a place where vultures landed for a few days before coming back home.
     
     

     
As Mas turned onto his street, he saw a black, shiny Lincoln Continental parked alongside the curb. A few neighbors had the same car, but theirs were twenty years older, with a generous share of dents and scratches. This one looked all wrong in front of his house, and when Mas walked up to his porch, he