Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  Things were clearly getting desperate for him to be daydreaming about Japanese staples rather than good ol’ American burgers.

  Unfortunately, all that awaited today were more impetus for the “Manzanar Runs”: Canned hash and sauerkraut, boiled potatoes too hard to eat. “Slop suey” that spoiled from refrigeration failures. Evacuees acting as cooks, with little knowledge of cooking.

  It was the same routine for every meal. People in line for the mess halls would stare in through the windows. Their famished eyes spurred those inside to rush. Mess tins and forks had replaced elegant bowls and chopsticks. Kids would eat with their friends, same for the parents. Table manners and family meals were things of the past.

  Lane’s constant appetite, however, sadly remained.

  “Hey, Lane,” said the worker next to him. A Burbank native, he used to be an encyclopedia salesman. “We missed you at the block meeting again.”

  “Yeah,” Lane said simply.

  The guy nodded in understanding. Together, beneath the twenty-foot ceiling, they used a pulley to raise another net for weaving. Dyed white, it would camouflage tanks in the snow.

  “You going to the picture show tonight?” he asked Lane, adjusting his rolled-up sleeves.

  Although Lane was willing to do just about anything to break up the monotony—even watch a fuzzy projection on a white sheet in a sandy firebreak—the last film had ruined any allure. The Hunchback of Notre Dame. If he’d wanted to see people scorning a love-starved outcast from society, he could have replayed his own memories. “I don’t think so.”

  “You sure?”

  Lane was about to confirm his answer when he noticed a rash forming on the guy’s arms. He’d seen it before, a reaction to the dyes. “You’d better go see the doc,” he said, pointing to the swollen skin.

  “Ah, great.”

  The fellow left the factory without seeking permission. Army engineers were there to supervise, but still this was “voluntary” work. Sixteen bucks a month for eight-hour days, six days a week. The scenario teetered on the brink of comical. Here they were, unjustly imprisoned by their own country, contributing to the fight for freedom and democracy.

  The thought, if nothing else, suppressed Lane’s appetite.

  “Moritomo-san!” A civilian patrolman peeked in from the doorway. “You got someone here to see you.”

  “Who is it?” he hollered back, muffled through his mask.

  The man left.

  Lane groaned. It had better not be another person trying to convince him to run for block leader. He’d had his fill of government. From Congressman Egan to FDR, they were nothing but performers on a stage—ventriloquists—giving lip service for audience approval.

  Shucking off his gloves, Lane threaded his way through workers and equipment to step outside. A low sun scorched the valley and a wave of dust brushed over his eyes. He blinked hard to clear the grit as a throng of schoolgirls strolled past. In their arms, they toted preparations for the annual festivities. Paper lanterns and dragon kites, bright obi to belt their kimonos. Even barbed wire couldn’t hinder Obon, a tribute to the dead, an ancestral prayer for good fortune.

  For the Moritomo family, of course, it would be just another August day. Lane’s mother had discouraged their involvement in the celebration since he was a kid. He couldn’t recall why. Evidently mingling with ghosts violated a superstition.

  “Somebody here want to see me?” he said over the commotion, and yanked down his mask. No one spoke up. He squeezed his gloves with impatience. Then a hat-covered woman angled toward him, and the sight snagged his breath.

  It was Maddie. Here. In front of him.

  A smile spread over her lips. Her hair caught a drift of wind, lifting it from the collar of her traveling suit. He knew this outfit, the burgundy number she wore on the train to Seattle. He’d never seen her so beautiful.

  Could his mind be playing tricks on him? The heat and desert could do that to a person. So could three months of loneliness.

  Tentatively he moved toward her, afraid she was a mirage. “Maddie?”

  Her smile widened, losing none of its sensuality.

  He risked breaking the moment by touching her face. She layered her hand over his. The feel of her creamy skin, like satin to his roughened fingers, eliminated any doubt. She indeed was real.

  In a reenactment of a scene straight from his dreams, he brushed strands of hair from her neck. Then slowly, to savor the moment, he leaned in for a kiss.

  Clang, clang, clang.

  The iron triangle announced lunchtime and entrapped him back in Manzanar. His heart twisted like mochi, a glutinous mass formed from stretching and pounding. Maddie was never supposed to see him in this godforsaken place.

  “Come with me.” He seized her upper arm. He felt her wince, but marched onward to the rec building.

  “Honey, what’s the matter?”

  He gave no explanation upon entering. In a back corner, he released her, though he didn’t speak until stragglers sprinted for the bell. “What are you doing here? I told you not to come. Why didn’t you listen?”

  Looking confused, Maddie rubbed her arm, where he’d left a handprint of factory dust on her sleeve. The last thing he ever wanted to do was hurt her.

  Again, though, that’s what he had done.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to grab you like that.”

  “It’s okay ... it’s just tender from the shot.”

  The shot?

  For typhoid, he concluded in near disbelief. “So they’re making visitors get shots now too? What is that, some new policy because we’re so filthy?”

  All evacuees had endured a multitude of vaccinations. Emma, like most kids, had taken days for the effects of fever and vomiting to subside. Yet after all that, they weren’t considered clean enough.

  Maddie stared, a new reaction in her eyes. “How long has the camp allowed visitors? When you wrote to me, you said ...”

  He knew very well what he had said. White lies flowed easier through a pen.

  He crossed over to the window. Work gloves in his grip, he rested a hand on the sill. His reflection in the glass—a dusty, sweaty, blue-collared laborer—confirmed his cause for reservation. This wasn’t the man she had married.

  “Lane, please. Tell me what’s going on.”

  He averted his gaze to an American flag flapping in the distance. Alkali stained its white stripes, sunlight bleached the red. How many gusts would it take before the stars simply blew away?

  Maddie’s shoes clacked on the wooden floor. He didn’t know which direction he wished they were moving.

  “Sweetheart, listen to me,” she said, close behind him. “Just like your father, you haven’t done anything wrong. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of.”

  From the words, or her hand on his shoulder, something cracked. An internal shell that had formed without his awareness.

  Hesitant, he twisted to face her.

  “Don’t shut me out,” she told him. It wasn’t a plea, but a command. Her eyes, though glowing with warmth, had acquired a newfound strength, powerful enough to override his fear.

  After months of separation, pride had no business tainting their reunion.

  Lane reached out, as he should have the second he spotted her, and reclaimed her in his arms. The ache in his gut faded away, dissolved by a memory of hope. A reminder of the reward that waited at the end.

  He rested his cheek on Maddie’s, and whispered in her ear, “How much time have we got, before visiting hours are over?”

  Although he dreaded the answer, there was one thing he knew for certain. The less time she spent here, the better. For her own sake.

  “Well,” she said, “the truth of it is ...”She drew her head back and her mouth curved upward. “I’m not exactly visiting.”

  36

  Beverly Hills. That’s what they called the segregated living area for Manzanar’s managing staff, all of the buildings fittingly painted white. Facilities
were upgraded, barracks were pristine. Japanese gardeners manicured the grounds.

  Maddie wondered how else their conditions differed as she trekked back from the laundry troughs. Trying not to dwell, she focused on the afternoon air rippling above the heated sand. She kept her eyes there while passing two teenage Japanese boys. She had nothing against them in particular. She avoided contact with anyone she didn’t know at camp—which, even after several weeks, included everyone but Lane’s family.

  What good would come of reading in strangers’ faces how much she didn’t belong? She received enough of that from Kumiko.

  Left arm tiring, Maddie adjusted the apple crate of laundered clothing on her hip. She’d folded and ironed each article exactly as her mother had taught her. The woman used to whistle show tunes while pressing her husband’s shirts. Maddie would stifle giggles, watching her father sneak in to hug his wife’s slender waist.

  Would a day ever pass when missing them didn’t hurt?

  Just then, the wind whipped back a corner of the towel draping the crate. Dust assaulted the exposed garments. Her right hand raised the flattened Oxydol box, a four-foot shield. The carton would be her best peace offering yet, if it didn’t soar away before reaching the barrack.

  At the intersection, elderly men played Go on a handmade table. Their black and white stones battled in strategy on their gridded game board. A young girl nearby squealed over a hopscotch victory.

  Distracted, Maddie stumbled on the bumpy road, but prevented a disastrous fall. In her relief, she glanced up. A mistake. An armed guard in a high wooden tower peered at her from the observation platform. He blew cigarette smoke out the corner of his mouth. Had they been alerted to keep an eye on her, to decide if she were a traitor? Did they suspect she wasn’t pregnant?

  She imagined an array of consequences. Jail time, a monetary fine, a media frenzy.

  Hurrying off, she used the Oxydol box to conceal her waistline. She’d already untucked her blouse as a precaution. If, as she feared, the war crossed the threshold of 1943, a pillow wedged into her skirt could buy a little more time. While her actually conceiving would be ideal, lack of privacy greatly reduced that possibility.

  Beside the entry of her barrack, a man paused while trimming his garden. He looked to be in his fifties, wore a Japanese wraparound shirt and straw sandals. According to Lane, he’d started his own flower nursery after serving in the Great War, even earned a Purple Heart while fighting for America.

  She opened her mouth to say hello, just as she spotted his left hand. The pinkie and half of his fourth finger were missing. Irrational guilt overcame her. He sent her an amiable look and bowed. Then he returned to his plot, a tidy design of plants and rocks that would help reduce the dust.

  She awkwardly tipped her head in kind, though he didn’t see her, and she continued inside. There, a pleasant surprise awaited. Lane stood by his cot, fastening the buttons on his jean pants. A sheen of perspiration graced his bare torso. The V of his shoulders had gained definition from long hours at the factory.

  When he turned to face her, she felt her skin flush from being caught gawking. Intimacy felt less natural in daylight.

  “What are you doing home so early?” she asked, and busied herself with closing the door. She used her foot for lack of a free hand.

  “Some meathead spilled dye on me, so I had to change my clothes. Here, I’ll help you.”

  Maddie let him take both the crate and the cardboard.

  “What’s this for?” He held up the collapsed Oxydol box before propping it next to the laundry stack.

  “It’s a little something for your mom.”

  His forehead scrunched a question.

  “I thought she could use it in the restroom as a divider.” Portable makeshift walls were in high demand for the latrines, all un-partitioned like the showers. Hopefully, the gift would earn Maddie a few points.

  Lane bent over and grabbed a clean shirt from the crate. With Kumiko at a painting class and Emma running around with friends, finally Maddie was alone with him. She couldn’t recall when that had occurred last, and hated that even this would be short lived.

  A yearning propelled her hand to touch his back. “Can’t you stay a little longer?” Her request, without planning, came out breathy and swung him around. A sudden spark in his gaze said he misinterpreted her intentions. She went to clarify, but it dawned on her how much she meant exactly what he’d heard.

  As he leaned in, she closed her eyes to welcome his kiss. His mouth joined hers in a motion that fueled desire. Then his lips broke away and his tongue traced the side of her neck. She explored the landscape of his chest and stomach with her fingers. His muscles hardened beneath her touch. He laid her down on his mattress and heat shot through her body.

  Only an oil stove separated their cots, yet since her arrival at Manzanar something about him felt unreachable. His initial reaction to her moving here hadn’t been the elation she’d expected; he’d mostly voiced concerns over her schooling, her safety.

  But any reservations seemed to now burn away in the fire rekindled between them.

  Lane’s hand traveled under her skirt and up and down her thigh, taking time they normally weren’t afforded. For the sake of hot water and crowd avoidance, three A.M. had become Kumiko’s regular bathing hour, her absence providing their sole opportunities for romance. Well, as romantic as a couple could get in the span of twelve to fifteen minutes, and with Emma sleeping on the other side of an Army blanket tacked to a beam. No wonder their lovemaking had felt groggy and shameful and rushed. The exact opposite of this moment.

  She ran her fingers through his hair. The scent of burning orange peels, meant to drive away mosquitoes, drifted from a neighboring apartment. Wind rattled soup-can lids nailed over knotholes. She grew heady from the certainty of his wanting, his abandon.

  Perhaps he had been cautious of getting too comfortable. The uncovering of her charade, just like before, could threaten their reunion.

  With her mind rotating on the axis of this revelation, it took her a minute to comprehend that Lane had stopped moving. His breaths fell heavily on her neck. Voices of a married couple resounded off the peaked roof. Their volume was increasing in a standard argument. Once more, the man was accusing her of making eyes at another fellow.

  Lane slid away and rose to his feet, the magic dispelled. They weren’t alone, after all, and this was no place for abandon. Maddie sat up while tugging her blouse into place. Emma could have walked in at any time. How careless to forget to lock the door.

  “I gotta get back to work,” Lane said, pulling on a clean shirt.

  She agreed through her discomfort. “I’ll ... see you at supper, then?”

  He answered with a smile, the kind reserved for putting a person at ease, though it only reinstated a maddening sense of distance. He flew out the door without another word.

  Pushing down her frustrations, Maddie sought an activity. Any activity. She could always reread her latest letters—reports from Jo on Maddie’s house, and Bea about the shop. But those just made her miss her old life more than she already did, and writing them back would mean crafting another glossed-over update. Responding to her brother’s post, a demand she return home, wasn’t any more appealing. Nor was playing her violin. Musical memories of her father would scarcely lighten her mood.

  Her attention shifted to the window. Fingers of a breeze ruffled the polka-dotted apricot curtains. They offered a touch of home, with the practical benefit of blocking nighttime searchlights. She had purchased the material through a Sears, Roebuck catalog, the sewing supplies from the camp’s co-op general store. With nervous zeal, she’d presented the accessories to Kumiko, who barely gave them a glance.

  To win her approval, Maddie would need to do something drastic. Something Kumiko couldn’t ignore.

  She rose up on her elbows, her gaze wandering and calculating. The mother and daughter who’d been assigned to their quarters had relocated to Poston, a relocation camp in
Arizona, to be with their family. The vacancies would allow more spaciousness, given a little scooting of the furniture. That’s what Maddie could do—a rearrangement to improve their days together. Maybe they’d all be happier if they weren’t literally living on top of one another.

  Reenergized, she stood up.

  Time to redecorate.

  Forty-five minutes later, the job was done. Their beds sat in a new direction, clearing an area that could pass for a parlor. The square table and pair of chairs Lane had made from spare lumber created an invitation for visitors, should they have any, and the hanging blanket now gave Kumiko privacy.

  Best of all, the gap between Lane’s and Maddie’s cots no longer existed.

  After dusting the room—a perpetual need with the cracked planks—a single task remained. Find a good spot for Kumiko’s paintings. The woman had accumulated a hefty stack, her specialty being sparrows. Never in flight, always alone, they perched on branches and rocks and rooftops. Maddie was curious about the bird’s significance, but her relationship with Kumiko hadn’t ripened enough to ask.

  Careful not to crease the pictures, Maddie placed them in the Oxydol box and tucked the casing under Kumiko’s bed. A temporary solution. The minute Lane returned from his job, she would ask him to build a storage shelf. They could now accommodate more furnishings.

  As she stepped back to admire her work, she heard the door open behind her. Emma bounded in, a twinkle in her gaze.

  “Hiya, pretty girl,” Maddie exclaimed, eager to unveil her work.

  “Close your eyes,” Emma urged. Not yet noticing the room, she held her hands behind her back. “Go on, close them.”

  “All right. But then I have a surprise for you too.”

  Emma nodded, and Maddie followed the order. “Now, put your hands out.”