Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  Lane reached out, unable to save the memento in time. “Mother, you don’t have to do that.”

  She watched the flames devour the corners with greedy bites. It was her wedding portrait, a picture he hadn’t seen since boyhood. Heat animated their kimonos by bubbling the black-and-white image. Their stately pose gained a semblance of celebration it had never appeared to have. But then her headdress recoiled. Oval holes grew as if spurred by drops of acid, wiping away the bride’s youth.

  On occasion, Lane would recall a trace of the innocence she’d once had. How she used to smile with a warmth that reached her eyes—like on the Mother’s Day he had proudly given her a lopsided clay pot; or the morning his father had first launched a toy glider, after a month of painstaking assembly, only to have the plane crushed by a passing truck. His wife had burst into such unbridled giggles, she’d forgotten the cultural female habit of covering her mouth.

  What had happened over the years to both thaw and return her to ice?

  The sound of his name sliced through his pondering. His mother’s impatience indicated she was repeating herself. She pointed to their house, where a doorbell rang. He could sense her desire for protection, despite an exhibition of strength.

  “I’ll get it.” Probably another junk dealer. Lane had shooed off two of the vultures this week. In cheap suits and tonic-saturated hair, they’d had the audacity to come here, citing reports of an impending Japanese American evacuation, offering to buy up belongings for half their worth. Those were the types of people who should be locked up by authorities.

  He divulged none of this as he turned to go inside. While entering he glanced back, and a sight brought him pause. Something peeked out from his mother’s sweater pocket. An envelope. The same one, he would guess, that he had caught her embracing. A family letter? He found it improbable, and not just because she was an only child.

  Like most Issei, his parents’ connections to kin in Japan essentially ended the minute they boarded the boat for a new life. Only in rare instances would he catch a relative’s name tossed out, like a puff at a dandelion. Then, bound to its seeds, Lane’s interest would just as soon drift away.

  A double ring of the bell reminded him of the caller. He hastened toward the foyer and swung open the door. For a moment, he just stared.

  On his porch was TJ Kern.

  From beneath the curved lid of a baseball cap, TJ spoke first. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hi.”

  A grueling quiet. “So, I heard about your dad.”

  The intent unclear, Lane found himself on the defense. “They’re just questioning him as a formality, because he worked at the bank.”

  TJ shifted his weight, his hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans. He nodded slowly, as if organizing his words. “Listen, there were a lot of things said between us. But what’s done is done. All that’s important is how we move forward.”

  Lane became aware, right then, how much he had been hoping for this conversation. Admittedly, TJ’s words had left a bruise that continued to throb. But the fact was, the guy had made an effort by coming here.

  Lane stepped out onto the porch. Beneath their shoes were the same planks they had sanded and repainted as kids, when their carved designs from TJ’s new pocketknife weren’t a hit with Lane’s mom. They’d screwed up; they’d learned. They’d repaired the damage.

  “I want you to know,” Lane said, “that I am sorry. I shouldn’t have kept it all from you, but you have to understand why.”

  “Maddie told me.”

  Lane blinked at this. Last he’d heard, she and her brother weren’t on speaking terms. “She explained—about the arranged marriage?”

  “She told me enough,” he said. “Besides, none of that matters. All I care about is how to square away this mess.”

  Relaxing, Lane nodded. “Believe me, I’d love to get back the way things were between you and me—”

  “Lane, I’m not talking about you and me.” More jarring than the frustration in TJ’s reply was the use of “Lane” rather than “Tomo.”

  “Then what are we talking about?”

  “Maybe you two did have a chance at making it. Maybe you actually thought through your finances, and job, and her schooling. Even where you were gonna live. But you’ve gotta see that the situation’s changed.”

  “It doesn’t change how I feel about her.”

  “I didn’t say it did.”

  “So what are you suggesting? That I walk away because things are tough right now?” Lane cringed at the idea of living without her. Seeing Maddie only twice over the past week had been hard enough. “They’re not going to stay this way. It’ll all settle down.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “Just hear me out—”

  “We’re in a goddamned war! With Japan, for Christ’s sake. It’s not fair what you’re doing to her and you know it!”

  Fair? The concept had become laughable. Lane’s volume rose to the challenge. “My family’s being treated like criminals, and for what? Huh? What’s fair about that?”

  Their eyes held, a silent standoff.

  How did they come to this?

  What’s more, how could Lane possibly do what TJ was asking? Since the car accident, he understood TJ’s protectiveness. But he also understood that Maddie had grown up without her brother noticing. Now Lane wanted to be the one to protect her, as a husband who cared for her as much as TJ. Maybe more.

  “I love Maddie,” Lane told him. “You have to know, I love her more than anything.”

  Without pause, not even a humoring of consideration, TJ’s answer came low and firm. “Prove it, then. If you really love her, do what’s best for her—by letting her go.”

  The words sank in layer after layer. They reached down to the bruise inside, reviving a throb as TJ turned to leave.

  When Lane finally went for the door, he found his mother in the entry. Darkness raged in her eyes. Lane waited for a rebuke, but none came. She simply gathered her anger and walked away.

  20

  Impossible hand positions on stubborn strings nearly drove Maddie to fling her bow out her bedroom window. Through sixty-four phrases of a repetitive bass line, the notes marched in twos, then threes and fours. They waded through each maddening section of Bach’s Chaconne, a fifteen-minute marathon of advanced arpeggios and chord progressions.

  It had been two long months since America declared war. Yet her armor of melodies, until today, had managed to keep her emotions in check. Behind their shields, she could temporarily forget the empty visits with her father, even the resentment between her and TJ, masked by what had progressed to civil exchanges.

  Perhaps Bach’s partita itself was the problem. This movement had, after all, been their wedding processional. Now each measure of its three-beat bars reminded her of the perfect future she’d glimpsed with Lane, only to have it swiped clean from her fingers. Stolen by strangers.

  But what else should she spend her time playing? Without the Duchovnys as benefactors, Juilliard was no longer an option. Thus, maintaining mastery of Mazas’s Thirty-Sixth Opus or Viotti’s Twenty-Second Concerto was pointless when auditioning would merely taunt her with what she couldn’t have.

  And so, she persisted in tackling the Chaconne, until her back ached and fingers whined. She obsessed over stumbled trills and missed double-stops. As if conquering the piece could close the gap forming between her and Lane. She could feel the void gaining mass every time they met. It stalked them at Hollenbeck Park, straining their conversations. It hovered in Lane’s car as their bodies joined in the backseat, failed attempts to re-create the intimacy they’d once found.

  She wanted to scream, to yell until the world came to its senses.

  Instead, she trained her vision on the sheet music propped on the metal stand. Or at least she tried. An image in the lid of her violin case competed for her focus: a small copy of her wedding photo, taken by the minister’s wife. There it was, nestled in a spot previously reserved
for Mozart.

  Common sense told her to shut the lid, but she couldn’t. She needed to keep those memories alive. She reached out and traced Lane’s smile, her mother’s bouquet. Relationships, like spiderwebs, required such care in the beauty of their weaving—only to be severed by a single rain. There had to be something Maddie could do to prevent her marriage from meeting the same fate.

  She glanced around the room, at belongings now bearing little value—the perfume bottles and figurines, the posters of classical performances. From the thought, a solution materialized. While no umbrella existed large enough to protect them, somewhere out there the skies shone clear.

  On the Moritomos’ front porch, Maddie crossed her arms, unwilling to yield. “Give me one reason why.”

  “I can give you a dozen,” Lane argued.

  “I’m not talking about leaving forever. Just a month or two. Until things calm down, like you said.”

  “Forget about what I said. Haven’t you read the papers?”

  She hadn’t because she didn’t have to. She’d overheard enough from customers in the shop—of suspected spies and espionage labeled “Fifth Column” activity. From the Hearst and McClatchy newsies to coastal farmers and fishermen, anyone harboring anti-Oriental sentiments had been handed a long-awaited excuse to vent in the open.

  If nothing else, her family’s misfortune had taught her to recognize inflated dramatics for what they were. Gossip that would gradually lose its luster. Which was why her plan made sense.

  “All of this is going to pass,” she persisted. “Things will get better.”

  “Or,” he said, “they’ll get even worse.” He spoke with a resignation that scared her.

  “Lane, that can’t be the case everywhere.”

  “So you just want to pack up and run off?”

  “We did it before, didn’t we?”

  “That was different.”

  “How?” she challenged.

  “Because I have my family to think about now.”

  Maddie hadn’t fully considered what it would be like to travel with his mother, a woman whose brittle silence spelled out displeasure over their marriage like the bold letters of a marquee.

  “And what about your brother?” Lane added. “Don’t you think he’s going to have something to say?”

  “It isn’t his decision. This is about you and me.”

  “But it’s not, Maddie. Not anymore.” He rubbed his temple as if fending off a headache.

  Something else was troubling him. His father, maybe. They still hadn’t heard from the man. Since his transfer to New Mexico—a detention center in Santa Fe—Lane had penned inquiries to more than a dozen officials, including the President.

  “Have you received a reply,” she ventured carefully, “from any of the letters you sent about your dad?”

  “Nobody’s answered,” he said. “Well—except for one.”

  “Oh? Who was it from?”

  “Congressman Egan’s office.”

  The gentleman knew Lane personally. Of course he would be helpful.

  “What did he say?”

  “His secretary sent a letter. Said I should take up my concerns with the Department of Justice directly. And oh, by the way, with restructuring due to the war, they won’t be in need of my services, after all.”

  Maddie remembered the elation in Lane’s voice the day they had offered him the job. She longed to hear that voice again.

  He crossed the porch, gripped the rail with both hands, and stared into the muddled afternoon sky. She could see the light inside him dimming. Striving to keep it aglow, she followed him over and laid her hand on his back. He was wearing the maroon sweater-vest she had made him for Christmas. The annual holiday had grown grimmer—as would all the days if they stayed.

  “I can imagine how horrible you must feel. But if you think about it, this is one more thing not keeping you here.”

  “And what about your dad?” he said without looking at her.

  “My dad?”

  “Your visits. Don’t you need to be there, to play for him every week?”

  She almost replied that her father wouldn’t notice. But then she saw a vision of him waiting by his window, even vaguely aware that his daughter had abandoned him, and her stomach turned cold.

  “Besides,” Lane said, “what would we live on? My parents’ cash savings won’t last forever, and who knows if we’ll ever see our money from the bank. Then there’s school to think about.” He shook his head and faced her. “Just because I’m not going back doesn’t mean you shouldn’t follow your plans for New York.”

  Although the timing wasn’t ideal, she had to tell him. She’d been keeping it from him too long. “I’m not going,” she interjected.

  He looked at her as though she’d lost her marbles.

  “With the war, it doesn’t seem right,” she said. “One more year isn’t going to make a difference.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You have someone willing to pay your way. You can’t turn that down.”

  She wanted to avoid explaining. She’d lie if she could, yet his eyes forced out the truth. “The Duchovnys have changed their minds. But it’s all right. With all that’s happening—”

  “Why would they do that?”

  The question conveyed more disbelief than bewilderment. Despite the challenge, she replied quietly, hoping to soften the impact. “Their son. He died at Pearl Harbor.”

  Layers of comprehension unfolded over Lane’s face, followed by something more. His unjust, indirect responsibility in the matter. The revelation deepened the lines in his forehead he had only recently gained. “How much is tuition?”

  Maddie suspected where this was leading. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Just tell me.”

  “It’s too much, for either of us right now.”

  “What’s the amount?” he insisted.

  “Fine. It’s three hundred, but that’s just for classes. Room and board is at least four hundred more, another two hundred for lunches and incidentals. So you see? It’s an outrageous amount for anyone, especially now. We’re all supposed to be saving.”

  He opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it and again turned away. Maddie went to reassure him, but felt an added presence. She swiveled toward the window. Centered between the swooped drapes, Mrs. Moritomo stood behind a white veil of gossamer curtain. The woman threw a glare before stepping out of view.

  Perhaps fleeing with his family wasn’t the wisest choice. Though what else could Maddie do to keep him close? There had to be another option.

  Unable to think of one, she confessed to the greatest reason behind her proposal. “Lane, I’m just so afraid of losing you.”

  After a moment, he connected with her eyes. Only a tinge of sadness appeared in his soft smile. Gently, he pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Maddie,” he told her. It was all he needed to say.

  She rested her head on his shoulder and inhaled the scent of his skin, like leaves after an autumn rain. She had missed this smell, this feeling, even more than she realized.

  “Em!” Lane called suddenly, and broke their hold. “Emma, what is it?”

  Stifling sobs, she sprinted onto the porch. She clung to her schoolbooks as she disappeared into the house.

  Lane sighed. “Probably just another kid teasing her. You stay here, I’ll be back in a minute.” He brushed Maddie’s lips with a kiss, then headed inside.

  Left alone, she perched on a rail. All her life she’d lived only minutes from here, yet this was the nearest she had ever been to Lane’s front door. She wondered about his room. What color was his bedspread? Which treasures had he kept since childhood? What decorations adorned his walls? Assuming his mother permitted any.

  At last, Lane reemerged.

  “Is Emma all right?”

  He held up a crinkled flyer. Sketched in the middle was a buck-toothed boy with squinty eyes mounted on a plaque, like the head of a deer, topped with a banner of neatly penned cursive. Ja
p Hunting License. Open Season. No Limit.

  “Where did she get that?” Maddie said, aghast.

  “A kid from school gave it to her, thought it was funny.” His tone made clear what he wanted to do with that kid, given the chance.

  Maddie was searching for something to say when a cannon of slurs pelted them from the street.

  “Get out, you traitors!”

  “Go home, Jap rats!”

  Maddie turned and spotted a red object being slung toward the house. A brick! Lane pushed her down, covered her body with his. The window shattered into a downpour. Tiny shards sprinted down her arms as she breathed against the porch floor.

  Victorious whoops and whistles overlapped, then quickly waned.

  Lane raised his head toward the attackers. “They’re gone,” he assured her. He helped her up, brushing off her arms. “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head tightly. Her heart was beating at a hummingbird’s pace.

  Around a distant corner, the gang of boys jetted away on their bikes. No older than twelve, they had already learned to hate.

  Lane continued to stare after them, long after they vanished. When Maddie clutched his hand, he dropped his gaze to her fingers. “You’d better go,” he said.

  She wanted to object, but his mother had made clear Maddie was far from welcome in their home.

  Neck still trembling, she kissed him on the cheek and whispered good-bye. Although the impulse to run for safety itched at her, she maintained a steady pace through the neighborhood.

  Seeing her house brought a wave of relief, which ended at another sight. Her left hand. Bare of a wedding ring!

  She had forgotten to move it from her necklace to her finger, as she’d always done before their visits. She told herself Lane hadn’t noticed, distracted by their discussion and the vandals and Emma—but deep inside, she knew he had seen.

  21

  What a load of bull!

  TJ marched out of the locker room. He continued across Bovard Field to reach Coach Barry, intent on putting the rumor to bed.

  Around him the USC players were stretching and warming up beneath the buttery tarp of sun, readying for the scrimmage. This used to be TJ’s favorite time of year. Spring training. He’d loved the promise found in the scent of fresh-cut grass, the feel of tight seams on a new ball, like a clean slate in his grip. Sanded bats would whoosh in effortless arcs, his spikes would find balance in the leveled dirt, and he knew he was home.