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’s 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.
Pain shoots through my forearm as something bounces
off. Crash! 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.
“Sorry, Mister!” The boy and his mom bow.
“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. Only when she’s out of sight does my head hang.
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
the cut wasn’t an accident. It was that or punch something.
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.
Letting the old swagger back into my step lacks the feeling of control it used
to give.
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 scrub and fill the bucket at my feet to rinse off. I could use a
shave. Should I ditch the mustache to fit in better? It covers the knife
fight scar. So either way, I don’t fit the norm. Shit.
With a slam, I flip the small hanging mirror over.
Don’t want to see the reflection that stared back. Before everyone knew I had
been a mobster, could they tell I was just trying not to stick out?
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. It was used up after the incident to pick up a dark long-sleeve
T-shirt to go under my work’s white button-up. 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 contacts my 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.
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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. 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. Why’s she so aggressive? Aren’t little old
ladies supposed to be sweet and polite?
“Well? Are you?” she presses.
While I deserve 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? Make your
vicious aunt heel. I don’t wanna do something stupid, because she’s really
making my hackles raise. “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. But I’m caught flat-footed because I can’t use any of the
in-your-face phrases that bubble up to get her to lay off. I haven’t done a damned
thing to her. What gives?
I take a breath. No attitude. “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 gokudou 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. So, I bow deep. “I apologize that my tattoos offend. If I
could turn back time, I’d not have done it. 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. My fists clench,
pulling on the stitches from yesterday’s wound. 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, the mob taught you the tenants of bushido. The honorable way of the
warrior. It’s one of the few things I can carry over from the yakuza. Give
it your all. My voice almost cuts out as I ask, “Nakamura-sama, may I carry
your groceries?”
She grumbles, lumbering off. Where’s the grace she
had?
“Aunt Hisako is 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, “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 mutter under her
breath.
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 as if my touch might poison the food
inside.
Fine. If this is a war of attrition, I’ll fight it 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 damn 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. The one connection I have left with him.
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 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. 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 it’s my choice.
With reverence, I place it at the doorway to avoid
stepping inside and sullying the building. Then, after a deep bow, two claps,
and ringing 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. I’m being watched? A glance behind me doesn’t reveal
anyone, but someone is definitely there.
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. I shouldn’t follow superstitions, but years
of experience taught me to trust my instincts. The animal is long gone and
knows this area. I’d not seen a wild one before. Despite the unease, I hope to
spot it again.
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