Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  Maddie shook her head no.

  This couldn’t be about TJ. Regardless, she was hesitant to relax.

  “Well, we got to chatting about the shop and what have you. Turns out, she’d heard all about your playing the violin for your daddy, and about your not going to Juilliard on account of—well, due to the war.”

  A gentle way to put it.

  Maddie almost asked how Mrs. Valentine had caught news about her financial and marital predicament, but then, who in Boyle Heights hadn’t?

  “So then,” Bea said, moving closer, “she tells me how her brother-in-law plays for the symphony up in San Francisco, and how he owed her a favor for something or other. Naturally, I told her you’d be grateful if there were anything he could do. And much to my surprise, she marched straight over to the phone and dialed him up. O’ course, she didn’t go into a whole lotta detail with him—men get all flustered from too much information—and well, he tells her there should definitely be entrance scholarships available from the school.”

  Maddie was well aware of that option. What she didn’t know was how to respond without drizzling on Bea’s parade. Maddie had never heard the woman carry on with such excitement, her pace contending with that of Mrs. Duchovny. Or rather, the Mrs. Duchovny people more fondly remembered.

  “He’s right,” Maddie gingerly affirmed. “They don’t give out more than a handful, though. And once you’re accepted, you have to audition for the scholarship in person, in New York, just days before the term begins.”

  The scenario seemed unendurable: scraping together money for application fees and travel fare, while towing a year’s worth of clothing in an oversized trunk, only to be informed she couldn’t attend.

  “Yes, yes,” Bea said. “But apparently, it helps to have a faculty member’s recommendation. He says that if the person listens to you play and speaks on your behalf, presuming you’re good enough—which heaven knows you are—your chances of a scholarship increase by leaps and bounds.”

  This still did nothing to help Maddie’s situation, or her somberness. For weeks, she had been distracting herself with extended hours at the shop. As if sewing shears could trim away the jaggedness of Lane’s departure and the frays of her father’s dream.

  “Bea, it’s splendid of you to do this for me. I’m terribly grateful. But I don’t know a single person on the Juilliard staff, and I don’t suspect I’ll be meeting one anytime soon.”

  “You, my dear, have a month.”

  A month ... “For what exactly?”

  “To practice. You see, it just so happens that Benjamin, Mrs. Valentine’s brother-in-law, is an old acquaintance of Mish—Mish-nauff,” Bea stammered. “Oh, bother, how did she say it?”

  Recognition bristled Maddie’s posture. “Mischa Mischakoff?” “Ah, good! You know of him.”

  Maddie had heard the Ukrainian violinist play a recital years ago, and the magnificence of his performance, the tonality he controlled as it flowed from his Stradivarius, still reverberated in her ears.

  “Here’s the thing, sugar,” Bea continued. “He has a trip planned to San Francisco. Benjamin will be hosting his visit, and is sure the man would be delighted to give you a private audition. As Benjamin’s guest, he could hardly say no, now could he?”

  Assembling the swirling pieces, Maddie asked, “Mischakoff is teaching at Juilliard?”

  “Newly added, I believe they said.”

  “But how did—Benjamin couldn’t have spoken to him yet.”

  “No, but he gives his word, and Mrs. Valentine claims that’s good as gold. You just need to mosey on up there, prepared to show your stuff.”

  An audition for Mischa Mischakoff. Was it possible?

  Maddie’s hands flew to her cheeks, pulled by an urge to keep her grin from floating to the ceiling.

  Then she considered the time line.

  “Did you say a month?” Four weeks never seemed so short.

  The grin that slipped off Maddie’s face had transferred onto Bea’s. “I’d say you’d best get busy.”

  “But, a month ... I haven’t been keeping up like I should have.”

  “Then I suggest you stop lollygagging and get to work.”

  Audition pieces swam through Maddie’s mind as Bea handed over a sweater and purse, and shooed her out of the store. Maddie turned around, remembering. “Are you sure? There’s a pile of alterations waiting, and more ironing to be done.”

  Bea shook her head, fists on her hips. “Seeing where your head’s at, you’ll be useless to me anyway. Hems going this way and that. Iron burning holes clear through. Now, go.”

  Maddie threw her arms around the woman before following the order. “Your father would be so proud,” she thought she heard Bea say. Then she realized, yet again, the words had come from within.

  As the bus rumbled toward home, Maddie didn’t feel a single bump. Her body levitated over the seat, her surge of joy like a magic potion. She couldn’t wait to share the news with TJ and Jo and her father—whether her dad showed outward signs of hearing didn’t matter today. But most of all, she was dying to tell Lane!

  Seized by reality, her heart plunged into a free fall. Too late she recalled the danger of permitting happiness to raise her spirit to such heights. The higher the jump, the more destructive the landing. She brushed the thought away, and froze at the sight. An Oriental woman was seating herself six rows ahead.

  Maddie would swear the passenger was—

  Mrs. Moritomo?

  From the back, the woman’s figure appeared identical. Familiar pearls encircled her dainty neck. A comb adorned with sparrows, Kumiko’s favorite bird according to Lane, secured a smooth black chignon.

  Nonsense. She couldn’t be Lane’s mother. They were gone. Across the country by now.

  Yet Maddie watched her, unable to move. The bus paused at one stop, then another. Passengers got off, got on. They rocked in unison, tilted around corners. Finally the woman rose—for the approaching stop that used to be Lane’s—bolstering Maddie’s excitement.

  When the vehicle squeaked to a halt, Maddie joined the line to exit. Her gaze clung to Kumiko, the key to locating Lane. Could his family be staying in their old place? Changed their minds, turned the car around? Twice Maddie had gone to their house, just to be sure, and found it vacant. A sign on the door: For Lease.

  Treatment in other towns might have been worse. Their father could have been released, prompting their return....

  Possibilities multiplied until the Japanese woman turned to de-board. Her profile revealed her age to be thirty at most. With a narrower face than Kumiko’s, rosier cheeks, and a higher bridge of the nose, she looked Chinese, not Japanese. Assuming Time magazine’s comparative illustrations held any validity.

  Either way, she wasn’t Mrs. Moritomo.

  Maddie sank into the nearest seat, her hopes kicked out from under her. The bus rolled onward, as did her thoughts until settling on Juilliard. She pictured the application, its signature line as black, solid, and blank as the one for her divorce. Countless times she had stared at Lane’s petition, even hovered a pen over the pages. But a thin thread of faith had kept her from signing. A thread that now fully unraveled.

  The instant Maddie entered her house, she headed for the document she could no longer avoid. She refused to mull over what she couldn’t change, no matter how much she’d always love Lane. Instead, with divorce papers in hand, she said good-bye through a sting of tears. And she signed her name.

  27

  TJ waited for the target with his finger on the trigger. He braced his hip against the circular rail mounted on the bed of a pickup, the butt of the twelve-gauge snug into his shoulder. The truck bumped and rattled beneath his boots as it rounded the track. Behind him sat two privates who’d finished their turns. Now they were tasked with keeping score and feeding ammo.

  Another clay pigeon soared from the trap. TJ followed its arc and fired, bursting the disk into fragments.

  In his mind, that one was Paul L
amont.

  A few guys here at gunnery school had asked TJ for the secret to his accuracy, his hits being unusually high. His answer was truthfully simple. “Picture the enemy.” He just never elaborated with specifics. Better to let them assume he was referring to Nips or Krauts, not enemies closer to home. Paul had easily become his favorite target, followed closely by his father and Lane. Sometimes TJ himself.

  The vehicle slowed after the final curve. TJ wasn’t quite ready to give up the relief of moving air, nor the activity that passed the hours, but what choice did he have?

  He relaxed his grip, lowering the shotgun. Thanks to the Vegas sun, the metal barrel could cook a Western omelet. Man, an omelet sounded like paradise compared to the mutton stew they served for chow. Between the sorry meals and sweat marathons, he hadn’t been this lean since junior high.

  With a rag from his uniform trousers, he mopped his neck and forehead. “Dry heat, my foot,” he muttered.

  No one deserved to be stationed in a barren wasteland like this. But at least he’d left the humidity of Keesler Field far behind. Basic training in Mississippi had ended not a day too soon.

  The truck pulled over to the entrance, where the gunnery sergeant coordinated skeet shooting. “Gotta take a leak,” Sarge told the driver, and strode away.

  A small cluster of Air Corps privates waited to board. As always, Vince Ranieri stood at the helm. He wore his Italian smile like his black wavy hair, slick and suave. His magnetic confidence drew in just about everyone—except TJ.

  “Save any ammo for us this time?” the guy scoffed.

  TJ set down his weapon, though he suddenly found it tempting to hold on to, and climbed down with the others. He headed for the barracks without responding.

  “C’mon, Kern. Don’t tell me you’re still sore over me tanning your hide.”

  Muffled snickers leaked out from the group, slowing TJ’s feet. Consistently, when it came to the top spots, he and Ranieri had been neck and neck since first arriving at the airfield. From aircraft recognition to turret maneuvering to air-to-ground firing.

  In the machine-gun drills, however—disassembling a .50-caliber and putting it back together—TJ had yet to have his time bettered by a classmate. Till this morning.

  “I wouldn’t celebrate too much,” he flung over his shoulder. “Even a busted watch is right twice a day.” More snickers from the bystanders.

  “Ahh, so it was sheer luck,” Ranieri said. “You sure about that?”

  The whole scene felt too much like a repeat of TJ’s last scuffle at the baseball field.

  “’Cause if you’re sure, real sure, maybe you’d like to put some money on it.”

  TJ told himself to keep walking, to ignore the dope. A few swings and they’d be tossed into the greasy pits of KP duty.

  “What do you think, fellas? Surfer boy lost his stuff?”

  Whether it was the excess of heat and testosterone in the air or being challenged before an audience, TJ’s patience evaporated. He swung back around and caught eager anticipation on the other gunners’ faces. In the middle of the desert, it didn’t take much to constitute entertainment.

  “So what’ll it be, Kern?” Ranieri pressed. “Ten bucks on tomorrow’s drill?”

  TJ leveled his gaze at the smirking Italian and shrugged. “Why wait?”

  Remarkable how fast news could spread about a pissing contest. That’s basically what the hoopla amounted to, a stupid kids’ game, but TJ’s competitive streak made it impossible to back down.

  In a training building, stocked with machine guns, he and Ranieri prepared for battle. They stood at opposite ends of a waist-high table, their M2 Brownings poised before them. A circle of three dozen airmen created a makeshift arena; all traded shouts of numbers, a mix of odds and dollars, with the gusto of a title fight at Madison Square Garden.

  Next came blindfolds. TJ imprinted a fresh image of the machine gun in his brain. When the cloth blackened his vision, he released a long exhale. He pumped the stiffness from his hands and wrestled down the possibility of losing. With equal effort, he pushed away the ever-present thought of What the hell am I doing here? For a whiskey-glazed minute, enlisting had seemed the best way to care for Maddie. In spite of her recent assurances, he still questioned his own judgment.

  Especially now.

  “Pipe down,” a guy bellowed at the room. “Let’s get on with it. You boys know the rules. No shortcuts, no cheating, and the fifty-cals gotta fire to count. On your mark ... get set ... go!”

  TJ was off, starting with the barrel group. One piece at a time, riding the border between speed and precision, he worked to disassemble the weapon. He removed the backplate. Pulled out the driving spring assembly. Took the bolt from the receiver and proceeded without a hitch.

  Once he’d completed disassembly—halfway there!—he immediately charged into reversing the steps. A cough from someone off to the side reminded him he wasn’t alone. The whole air base seemed to be holding its breath.

  Concentrating, he replaced the barrel buffer assembly. He paused only to swipe his palm on his shirt. Collective body heat was intensifying his sweat. With the notch joined on the shank, he aligned the breech lock depressors. He snapped the spring lock and secured the parts and told himself not to rush. He was picturing the clearance hole when the bolt stud slipped from his fingers. Damn it! Blindly he fumbled for the piece. Following the sound of rolling metal, he recovered it next to the drive spring.

  He couldn’t panic. Just had to get back on track. He continued through the steps and heard Ranieri struggling with the retracting slide handle. TJ still had a chance. He unscrewed the barrel two clicks. The finishing line within grasp, he removed the link, closed the cover, and declared his win with a—

  “Done!” Ranieri shouted.

  A throng of cheering voices sucked the air from TJ’s chest. Nothing like having your pride walloped in a public forum. Exactly what he needed, a demonstration of another shortfall.

  TJ ripped off his blindfold as the ringleader shushed the mob and said, “All right, Ranieri. Let’s see it.”

  With an arrogant grin, the guy replied, “My pleasure.” He laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles to gear up for the formality. After all, he had yet to fail a function check.

  TJ turned away, itching to scat before salt could hit the wound, just as Ranieri went to pull the trigger.

  But it didn’t click.

  His face fell as he yanked harder.

  Still no sound.

  Half the room burst into celebration.

  “Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” the announcer warned. “Gotta make sure yours is in working order, Kern.”

  Ranieri stared at his machine gun, clearly stumped by where he’d gone wrong.

  TJ felt the jolt and dip of a mental roller coaster. He readied his weapon for the test. Bolt latch released, he rode the bolt forward and placed his finger on the trigger. Please work, please work. And he pulled.

  Click. The tiny sound was as beautiful as an ump yelling, “You’re out!” at an opposing runner, sealing a win.

  In the hustle and bustle, greenbacks transferred pockets. TJ stepped away from the table, almost giddy from the trivial upset, and found himself face-to-face with the competitor. Grimness had replaced the Italian’s boastful glee from only moments before. Was he looking to go to blows?

  TJ rolled his hands into discreet fists. But instead of a punch, he received two folded five spots. A nice surprise. He had to give the fellow credit. Ranieri was a far better loser than he himself would have been.

  As TJ started away, Ranieri piped up. “So you gonna sport me a beer at least?” His signature grin had returned in full force. TJ couldn’t help but smile back.

  “I thought you meatball types only drank wine.”

  “Wine on Sundays, my friend. Beer every other day of the week.” He offered a handshake, which TJ accepted, and by the third round that evening, in different ways it seemed both of them had triumphed.


  28

  Lane didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this. He walked through the eerie stillness, his tweed cap pulled low, and turned from San Pedro Street onto First. Shadows spread over the block like an almighty hand. The hustle and bustle of pedestrians, the scent of udon broth, the ringing of bicycles and hollers of beckoning vendors—all were gone. Little Tokyo had been gutted.

  Signs on building exteriors and in every window told a story. Going out of business. Everything half price. For sale. Sold. Closed. We hope to serve you again. I am an American.

  For as long as Lane could remember, he had preferred to shop elsewhere. He’d chosen Sid’s Drugstore over Nippon Pharmacy, Leaders Barbershop over Nakamura’s. He had compiled reasons for the superiority of each. But perhaps the real basis of his favoritism had stemmed from nothing more than the quality implied by their “all-American” names.

  Judging by the streets around him, a ghost town of his heritage, his view hadn’t been unique. Thankfully, his father wasn’t here to see this.

  Just then, a silhouette moved in Ginza Market. Lane looked closer. Nobody there. A mere reflection from the retreating sun. Where would he find a snack for Emma?

  He had ventured out of the Buddhist temple, his family’s temporary shelter, on an errand for his sister. Her eyes had told him she wanted to tag along but understood that remaining with their mother took priority.

  Mochi cakes, Emma had requested. Aoyagi Confectionery made her favorite of the glutinous rice balls filled with sweet red beans. He’d agreed, wanting to distract her from concerns over their destination, some camp in the state’s eastern desert. Rumors of the place had circled like mosquitoes, nipping away, swelling fears of deportations and forced farm labor. They described roving coyotes and scorpion infestations, families separated and traded for American POWs. Mass executions if Japan invaded the mainland. All preposterous.

  Or not.