“We’ll take the interior lock off the mailbox, and on Monday you can use it again. In the meantime, here’s a claim slip for your mail. Go to counter number five.”
I obeyed her, noting that it was now five minutes to noon and almost everyone was gone. There were two customers waiting ahead of me in line when the public address system began playing “Auld Lang Syne.” The clerk slapped a closed sign on the counter, and the smattering of customers dispersed. I went straight up to the counter.
“I’m sorry, maybe okyaku-sama didn’t hear we are closed.” Even though the male clerk was referring to me as an honorable customer, his tone was decidedly starchy.
“I cannot leave until I pick up my mail.” I placed the claim slip in front of him.
“This section is closed,” he repeated.
I didn’t move until he finally shrugged and walked off with my slip. He came back with a slim packet of letters. “Next time, come before the last minute, please.”
I thanked him profusely with a toss of my plastic mane and hurried out the post office, scanning the envelopes. Two were addressed in Japanese and one was in English, from a Miami law firm called Mulroney, Simms, and Schweiger.
I wanted to read the English letter fast. I ran across the intersection just as the pedestrian crossing music had stopped and charged into a Mosburger shop where I sat down at the counter. In the midst of teen-agers munching odorous hamburgers, I slit open the envelope and pulled out a crisp sheet of paper dated December 20.
Dear Ms. Ozawa:
This letter is to update you on developments regarding the institution of a patrimony suit against the estate of Mr. R.P.S.
Our office has conducted some preliminary investigations, as per your request on November 3 about the basis for bringing about a suit and the likelihood of its success. Although the possibility that you might prevail cannot be ruled out entirely, we do not think that the evidence is strong enough to support your contentions.
The documents you sent to our office, personal letters spanning 25 years, were all signed as “Father.” Without a formal signature or other evidence of identity, the case would be dismissed for failing to meet the burden of proof necessary to institute an action against the estate. It may be possible to conduct handwriting analysis; however, even this approach would have to overcome strong objections and contrary evidence that would be produced by the defense. Additionally, since there is no mention of you in the will, the estate will make the obvious argument that the deceased had no intention of including you in his will.
On a side issue, regarding your communications with the wife of the deceased, I urge you to not make further efforts to contact her. My private investigator has determined that, contrary to your beliefs, she is not a frail widow with a passive attitude toward your views. It was our impression that she is a rather vigorous person who has expressed considerable anger upon learning of you and the letters you have written to her son and daughter.
I trust you will let matters rest as I have recommended. Please feel free to contact us if you are in need of further assistance.
Very truly yours,
James R. Mulroney
Attorney at Law
I jammed the letter back into its envelope, cursing myself for all the work that could have been spared had I gotten to the post office faster. I found a pay phone and inserted a telephone card which just had four units left. I wouldn’t have time for a long conversation with Hugh.
An answering machine came on in an English woman’s cool tones. I would have thought it a wrong number, but for the fact I recognized the voice as Winnie Clancy’s. Had she moved in to take care of Hugh? I left a brief message and told him I’d call from home.
“It’s me,” I said when Mr. Waka appeared to look straight through me after I walked into Family Mart thirty-five minutes later.
“Your hair—” his eyes bugged out.
“It’s a wig.” I flipped the long hair back over my shoulders.
“You look more Japanese now.” From the way he pressed his lips together, I could tell it wasn’t something he approved of. “I’m tired of your running in and out. Won’t you stay for a cup of oden?”
The pot looked even murkier than usual. “I’m on a New Year’s diet, so I better take a couple of rice-balls. Did the fax go through?”
“Yes, but if you waste away, you won’t be able to hold up those fancy dresses. Do you miss your American food? How about a hotto doggu?”
“No thanks, I don’t eat meat,” I said, unwrapping the sweet tofu and rice snack.
“It’s no good, not healthy. In Japan, we believe in eating thirty different foods every single day! Meat, fish, rice, pickles, soy beans—”