Chapter
1: Hiding In Plain Sight
Mid-November
Kneeling to stock the low shelves at TaniMart makes my knees ache.
Though I’ll give no complaint. I’m lucky to have this job, even if it is
mind-numbing. Someday, I’ll have my own business. Right now? I have to save up
since the feds took every yen of my savings when they threw me in the slammer.
Crash! Pain shoots through my forearm. Years of fight-or-flight reflex
have me jumping to a defensive stance. What the…
Shattered glass and pickled plums litter the polished floor.
Reflections of the overhead lights glare at me in the puddles of brine. Then
the green, spicy scent of shiso hits my nose. Breathe, Umeji. It wasn’t an
attack. Where did Matsuo say the mop was?
“Sorry, Mister!” The boy and his mom bow in the culturally ingrained
apology.
“No worries. I’ll clean it up. Please, finish your shopping.” When I
reach to pick up the remaining shards, my heart sinks as the distinctive
blue-black wave and red maple leaf designs of my tattoo sleeve show through the
transparent wet fabric of my shirt. Despite the deafening silence, the hint of
the ink that marks my past wails like a siren, warning all in my vicinity. Why
the hell does our uniform have to include a white shirt?
Eyes with huge black pupils are framed by the woman’s ashen face. She
hunches, tensed as if ready to run. Backing away, she wrenches her son along in
a white-knuckled grip.
My hand crushes the shards in my palm as heat fills my core and my head
hangs.
When I report the injury to Satou, my volunteer parole officer and
boss, he drives me to the doctor to get stitches in my hand. He made me promise
not to lie to him when he took me on as a parolee, so I fess up that the cut
wasn’t an accident.
I opt for the hour walk home, then he doesn’t have to waste any more
time on me. So much for blending in. My attempts to ditch the Tokyo accent are
probably worthless now. Satou said there are fewer than 1,300 people in
Nonogawa, so everyone in town will know by tomorrow. Something in the mix of
traditional and modern housing looks less friendly than it did at first.
My insides continue to twist as I wait for my boss to return home.
Tomorrow’s gonna suck. Might as well get in a good soak to relax, instead of
pacing. I’d place good money down that Satou picked this old traditional house
based on the big wooden tub. When I can afford my own place, a good bath will
be a priority for me, too.
It’s been years since I had daily access to one of the most relaxing
aspects of Japanese culture. First, because of my jail sentence. Second, most
public bathhouses ban gangsters. They say our ink threatens. The previous
generations won’t forget the yakuza heydays, and sporting ink was part of the
tough guy act.
Naked and settling onto the low wooden stool beside the tub, I lean
into the mirror hanging above the faucet to shave and wash. Before people knew
I had been a mobster, could they tell these eyes have seen too much? And maybe
I should ditch the mustache to fit in better. It covers the knife fight scar.
So either way, I’ll stick out. Shit.
Splashing water on my face rinses away the questions. Despite the chill
of the tile floor on my feet, I revel in not having to hurry as I scrub and
rinse. Damn, it’s good to not have the prison guards timing me anymore. My
chin-length hair needs some attention, but I don’t have the cash for a trim. I
was lucky the prison didn’t make me get a buzz cut. Most do.
Finally, I slide into the tub. A hiss escapes my mouth as the
fire-heated water comes in contact with chilled skin. The tattooed kitsune
frolicking in their traditional designs over my shoulders and back seem to
enjoy the warmth, too. Soon the heat seeps into stiff muscles, and I lean on
the edge, soaking it in.
Satou said the community is hard to break into. So, I’ve got to avoid
sticking out any more than I already do. In a small town, once you’re known for
something, it’s never forgotten. With a determination to focus on one day at a
time, I sink deeper into the water.
#
On my next shift, whispers and side glances greet me. The yakuza taint
broadcasts its presence stronger than the stench of diarrhea.Everyone gives me
a wide berth. Not even a week in town and I’m an outcast again. The only way
out is hard work and humility. I will endure.
The mom returns just before my shift ends. She avoids the aisle I’m
stocking, but her little boy points, announcing, “Mama! There’s the guy with
the tattoos!”
Her shushing causes him to insist all the louder. Focus on the task at
hand, Umeji. I force myself to look away as she lugs him out of the building.
That’s the moment Satou’s elderly aunt gives me the stink eye.
Shuffling up, she waggles a crooked, accusing finger right in front of my nose,
causing me to back into the shelves and knock several plastic tubes of mayo on
the floor.
“Get your head out of the sand, boy. Don’t bother playing stupid. I
know you saw that. I advised my nephew not to take in a stray like you. To make
things worse, yesterday I heard you’re covered in irezumi tattoos. Nonogawa may
be in the sticks, but we all know what that means here.”
I blink. Aren’t little old ladies supposed to be sweet and polite?
“Well? Are you?” she presses.
While Ideserve the disdain, why is this woman putting down her family
in public? “Ma’am, the community respects Satou-san. I’ll do my best for his
sake.”
She draws out the syllables. “You dodged.” As she crosses her arms, her
sharp eyes shift to a predatory glint. “If you won’t answer, roll up your
sleeve. I know yakuza ink when I see it.”
My head swivels. Satou, where are you? Please, make your vicious aunt
heel. “Ma’am?”
In the mob, I was good at remembering names, because the alternative
could be costly. What did my VPO say her name was? Oh yeah—Nakamura Hisako, the
town’s beloved matriarch. As part of the Hiragi clan in Tokyo, I would have
never let a little old lady corner me or make my palms sweat. I’m not some kid
who stole from her cookie jar. I haven’t done a damned thing wrong here. So
what gives?
I take a breath. “Nakamura-sama, it’s becoming more common in the
cities. People keep ‘em out of sight to avoid the stigma.”
As if I’ll tell this biddy the full truth. Later, I can scream
rebellion in gokudo drawl all I want. But her outburst is the proverbial piano
hanging overhead, threatening to crash down on the little hope I have in this
town.
At twenty-four, I should have a high school diploma and a college
degree or employment experience. This is my only chance. Suck it up, Umeji.
I bow deep. “I apologize that my tattoos offend. If I could turn back
time, I’d not have done it. Please, allow me to return to work. How may I help
you?”
Harrumphing, she turns on her heel with the grace of a ballerina. How
does an old lady move that fast?
When I finish stocking, I grab my baseball-style jacket with its
embroidered fox on black and gold silk and beeline it to Satou. Just my luck,
his aunt beats me there. Don’t look cocky.
I wait behind her and examine my shoes. Faint reflections of
fluorescent lights show on the tile floor.
“That tattooed punk is bad for business.” She points, doubtless aware
of how rude she’s being. “He dares to flaunt his past wearing that rebel
jacket, instead of considering this store’s reputation. I’ve heard all manner
of rumors. Mark my words, Kazuo, people will stop shopping here.”
Full-to-the-brim grocery bags strain her arthritic knuckles.
While Nakamura’s concern is understandable, does she care that this
‘rebel jacket’ is the only one I own? I was fortunate someone dropped it by the
penitentiary after emptying my apartment. Why does this town love her, anyway?
Satou clears his throat and tilts his nose toward me. “Aunt, tattoos or
not, he’s being much more polite than you. I’ve never seen you in such a
state.”
Umeji, you were taught the tenants of bushido. The honorable way of the
warrior. Give it your all. In a whisper, I offer, “Nakamura-sama, may I carry
your groceries?”
She grumbles, lumbering off. What happened to the grace she had?
“Aunt Hisako is always opinionated and protective of our community. But
she’s almost always reasonable. Wish I knew what got her undies in a bundle.”
With a raised eyebrow, Satou says, “You rendered her speechless. That’s quite
the feat.”
Shoving my arms into the sleeves ruthlessly, I shrug on my coat.
“It’ll be ok, Umeji-san. FYI, I need to stay late, but you can wait in
the break room.”
Most days I remain beyond my assigned hours to assist with the day’s
tasks. Every dutiful employee does. But I mumble, “Thanks. Think I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself.”
In the parking lot, a shitzu puppy breaks loose from its owner’s grasp.
The mutt charges for Nakamura as it barks its head off to warn of an intruder
in its domain. Nakamura, calm as a windless day, lifts her index finger toward
the potential attacker, halting it in its tracks.
The owner scoops up the stiff, silent pet and bobs. “I’m so sorry,
Nakamura-san! I can’t imagine what little Taro-chan was thinking.”
“Thank you for catching him. I think he intended to bite my leg off.
Didn’t you, pup?” Satou’s aunt flashes a wry smile that must have created most
of the lines in her wrinkled face. It causes the other woman’s eyes to widen in
horror. She bows again, scurrying off.
Unperturbed, Nakamura sets her groceries in her red Nissan sedan. But a
can drops and rolls, causing her to let out a string of undignified swearing.
Here we go again! Scooping it up before it’s flattened under a moving van
and jogging over, I hold it out in my hands—a peace offering. Her lips purse
and she snatches the item from my grasp as if my touch might poison the food
inside.
Fine.If this is a war of attrition, I’ll fight it with kindness and
humility to show regret for what I’ve done.
Mid-afternoon, I’m almost to the house. Strolling through the forested
farmland, sunshine and the warm, late fall day breathes life into me again. The
dense, fiery landscape of reds, oranges, and yellows set off by the evergreens
of bamboo, cedar and cypress has me grabbing for my cellphone. I’d seen parks
like this, but not horizon to horizon beauty. Then my shoulders sag. The feds
took my cell, too.
Compared to the compacted cityscape I’d grown up with, the open
farmland leaves me exposed. Tall buildings always surrounded and protected me
before I came here. A weight fills my chest. Despite being in the middle of
nowhere for a week, I keep half expecting to see some tall structure around the
next bend. Out of habit, I shove my hands in my pockets to fiddle with the
dog-eared collection of Japanese myths. My breathing slows upon contact with
the book from my father.
A glint of vermilion in the trees stands out even in the bright foliage
beyond the rice field, so I squint against the sun to get a better look.
Beckoning me, a path leads through the paddies and over the river to a torii
gate.
My mob leader insisted that our clan appear to be dedicated followers,
though I only ran through the motions to appease him. Shoving belief into a shoebox
in my mind, I labeled it as ‘Umeji’s too unclean to deal with this stuff’. That
box got pretty damned full.
My stride turns to a jog as I’m greeted by the fox statues with red
bibs at the top of the stairs. Pausing for a brief bow at the gate, I bound up,
skipping every other step. I shouldn’t run because I’m entering a sacred area.
But a tug on my heart invites me to peek at what I’ve avoided so long.
Memories flood in as I climb. When I was a child, my dad would read to
me. My favorite stories were of the kitsune. Whether they were the messengers
of Inari or the shape-shifting trickster spirits, they fascinated me. Mom also
fed my obsession with the mythical animals by buying me a fox mask and taking
me to the Ouji Inari shrine to be in the Kitsune Parade when I was ten. After
that, I drew foxes on everything and devoured every myth I could find.
When my mob brothers went to get inked, dragging me along, I hoped the
artist would agree to my plan. Traditional tattoo artists are picky and may
refuse an idea. On top of that, they charge a fortune.
I’d printed a picture of a Meiji era photograph with a man showing off
his tats—a nine-tailed fox on each shoulder with them chasing each other, one
red with a flame above it and the other white with a scroll in its mouth.
My brethren teased me because kitsune aren’t the typical symbols
gangsters pick. They quit when the tattooer was so intrigued he did the initial
outlines of the ancient design for free.
At the summit, I follow the dirt path through the foliage to find a
squat shrine building that probably never had a lick of paint. Moss covers
sections of the tiled roof and footings. Yet, the steps and floor are spotless.
A bell and a few crisp white paper ornaments, hanging from the rope that
demarcates the spiritual space, decorate the simple place of worship, urging me
to pray.
Do I want to open that jam-packed shoebox? My fingers shake. The things
I’ve done. The offering coffer makes me look away. I won’t get paid for a
while, and my last cash went to buy necessities. No coins to throw. Nothing to
offer. Coming here was a mistake.
As my fists slide into my coat pockets, there’s a crinkle—the salmon
onigiri that was supposed to be my lunch. Unwrapping it releases the scent of
the fish, rice, and vinegar, making my stomach growl. I’ve gone without meals
before. This time is my choice.
With reverence, I place it at the doorway to avoid stepping inside and
sullying the building. Then, after the customary bows, claps, and ringing of
the bell, I pray. My throat constricts as I dare to voice my request to the
kami. “Help me stay on this new path and assist others as Satou-san has me.”
Heading back down the trail, my tally of all the things that could go
wrong tomorrow is interrupted by prickles forming on the back of my neck. Am I
being watched? A glance behind me doesn’t reveal anyone.
After passing under the torii, I hear a rustling. The tail of a gray
fox disappears into the dense foliage. Did it enjoy my meal? My love for the
creatures drives me to follow it, but I stop after my first step past the gate.
Idiot. The animal is long gone and knows this area, unlike me. With luck, I’ll
spot it again.
