Summer of the Big Bachi by Naomi Hirahara

she threw one book after another into the tiny fire. The books were all thick, and written in English. Mas sat with her all morning until the last book fell apart into flat pieces like dried seaweed. “Thank you,” she said, her fingers black with charcoal. “I wouldn’t want to do that alone.” She gathered Mas’s face into her hands and kissed him hard, her teeth sharp against his gums.
     
     
When Mas went back into the house, his second-oldest brother was lacing up his boots on his way to the naval station. “Where have you been?” the brother asked. “And what’s that black stuff on your face?”
     
     
All this time in America, Mas had thought Akemi was dead. He, in fact, had not seen or heard anything about her since August of 1945. But now everything was off balance. Akemi and Riki, together? Impossible. Riki had mercilessly teased Akemi— calling her white-radish legs, even though they couldn’t see her legs in monpe pants. He even followed her around with a dirty sweet potato, holding it below his waist and making obscene noises. Through all of this, Joji remained silent. Mas himself had four sisters who seemed only trouble, but even he would have put an end to such torment.
     
     
And now, why had Shuji Nakane and this red-badger boy descended upon Los Angeles at the same time? It was as if goblins had been released from tightly secured boxes. Who had let them loose? Mas had a sneaking suspicion that it had been Joji Haneda, seeking a final bachi that would send them into hell.
     
     
“Oh, I’m tired.” The reporter sank into the plastic chair next to Mas with a steaming cup of coffee. “Got in last night. Jet lag.”
     
     
Mas could get a better look at the boy. Why hadn’t it hit him before? The physical similarity was there. He was tall and lean. High cheekbones. And those eyes, sharp enough to see a lie fifty meters away. On the boy’s arm was a tattoo, barely visible because of his dark tan.
     
     
Mas must have stared too long at the tattoo, because the boy responded. “It’s a wild boar. Ugly, huh?” he said proudly. The creature was squat and hairy, like a mountain yam with tusks. “I was born in the Year of Inoshishi . Like my grandmother.”
     
     
“So . . .” Mas said without thinking. He remembered. Akemi had told him once that she was as stubborn as a warthog.
     
     
The reporter placed his cup on the floor. “How come you’re not in there?” He gestured toward the different rooms in which doctors measured blood pressure and heart rates.
     
     
Mas shrugged. “What for? What can they tell me that I dunno already?”
     
     
“It’s for the future, desho ? For my kids and their kids.”
     
     
“You got kids?”
     
     
“No.” The reporter laughed, and Mas noticed that his lower front tooth was pushed in. “I’m not even married. But I’m speaking generally.”
     
     
Mas pulled at some callused skin around his thumbnail. “Everyone knows the Bomb is bad. All the tests in the world don’t change anytin’.”
     
     
“A lot of people don’t know. They don’t even care anymore. Most of the hibakusha have died—” The reporter then blushed a little. “Gomen,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean—”
     
     
“Don’t worry,” said Mas. “I am dead. Just look alive.”
     
     
The reporter looked puzzled for a minute.
     
     
“I’m kidding,” Mas said. “Itsu a joke.” What was wrong with young people these days? he thought. No sense of humor.
     
     
“Oh,” the reporter said. “Well, I even go in for exams. Back in Hiroshima.”
     
     
Mas pinched his dead skin into a tiny ball. “You not there fifty years ago.”
     
     
“They want to test the second generation, and even the third, like me. See if there are some latent effects.”
     
     
“And . . . ?”
     
     
“And nothing conclusive.”
     
     
“Ah—”
     
     
“But my first test results came back with an abnormal number of white blood cells.”
     
     
Mas shifted in his seat. “You get it checked out?”
     
     
“They couldn’t figure out