His determination doubled as he charged toward the mound. Jo was now sitting upright. She gazed off into nothing, hugging her trouser-covered knees. TJ was a few yards from her when he said what he should have from the beginning.
“The three stars in a row, those are Orion’s belt. And next to that is the sword he’s using to fight Taurus. The hunter’s guard dogs are at his side. And the top one? That’s your father, the brightest one in the entire sky.”
She stared at him with lines on her brow.
“Jo, nobody in that prison knew if we’d ever make it out. Worse yet, there was nothing to show that anyone remembered us. But then I’d look up at night, I’d see those stars, and I knew you were out there. It was you, Jo—you were what brought me home.”
Crouching down, he reached for her hand.
She pulled away. “Please don’t do this.” Sadness filled her eyes, her voice. He’d hurt her with that last letter more than he had ever imagined. Ironically, it was the only message that hadn’t been true.
“I was scared,” he admitted, “plain and simple. If you want to know how I really feel—”
“You died,” she burst out.
He stalled on her words, trying to comprehend.
“There was a mix-up. The cable for Maddie, it should have been forwarded to the farm, but it came to your house when I was there. They said you were KIA.”
TJ hadn’t thought of anyone except his sister being affected by the false announcement. Those blasted miserable telegrams.
“Maddie said it was a formality, because of how long you’d been missing, and that we shouldn’t believe it. But to me, TJ—you died.” She jerked her gaze away and her volume lowered. “I lost my father, I almost lost Gramps, and then ... I just can’t go through that again.”
In the silence, he studied her. They were so much alike. Both concealing scars, having every reason to prevent another wound.
TJ sat beside her on the mound and explained, “I understand wanting to protect yourself. I’ve been doing that for years. But look where it’s gotten me.”
Her face remained to the side.
“Lord knows, there’s fellas out there who’d be a lot easier to handle,” he said. “This might come as a shock, but I do realize I’m not completely flawless.”
Her chin crinkled from a smile creeping onto her lips. Boy, how he loved that smile.
With care, he took off her baseball cap, and was relieved she didn’t resist. “Take a chance on me, Jo. I won’t let you down again.”
He stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. More than from any ball game, more than his ship docking in the States even, he felt a sense of coming home.
At last, she turned to him, a growing gleam in her eyes. “Okay,” she whispered.
TJ smiled, and nodded. Then he drew her face closer and tenderly kissed her lips; they were soft as cotton, her breath warm and sweet. A rush of desire tingled through him. Yet he harnessed his willpower, eased himself back. They had a long journey ahead and hurrying would mean missing the enjoyment of every step.
“Come ’ere,” he said, guiding her head to rest on his shoulder. He savored the lemon scent of her hair as he curled his arms around her.
And they started to talk.
They traded stories about family and Hawaii and the hardware store. He made her giggle with tales about Ranieri and Tack, who both had a hankering for Hollywood starlets and were counting down the days to visit. She recounted highlights from the All-American Girls Baseball League, and of losing to the Racine Belles in the World Championship.
Finally, when he remembered to ask, he discovered that Jo wasn’t short for a longer name, rather a tribute to her dad’s favorite pitcher, the great “Smoky Joe” Wood.
TJ laughed at the revelation. He should have known all along.
“Something wrong with that?” Jo playfully challenged.
“Nope,” he replied with sincerity, “it’s a perfect fit.” As was she.
When the time came, he held her hand and walked her home. Every block produced memories, good times shared with Lane. In the midst of remembering, he caught a flicker in the air, a white wink from the North Star. It glowed high and bright, a compass in the sky.
That one’s your father, he would tell Suzie someday. Whenever you feel lost, he’ll always be there to guide you.
72
The impending ceremony made today the most appropriate for removing her ring.
Seated at her vanity, Maddie fastened the clasp and wistfully admired the golden loop. Her wedding band, like a cherished locket, hung from her necklace once more. Unlike before, though, she wouldn’t hide it beneath her blouse; she’d wear the keepsake proudly and always close to her heart.
“Maddie!” TJ hollered from downstairs. His footfalls pounded up the steps. “You up here?”
He must have received an answer.
She crossed her room anxiously and met him at the door. “What did they say?” His expression gave no hint.
“Counselor tried his best to pull some strings. To get me into the classes I still needed.” He suddenly beamed with a smile that took years off his face. “Still have some paperwork to do for the GI Bill, but otherwise, I’m set for fall term.”
Aside from Kumiko’s announcement that morning, this was the best news Maddie could have hoped for.
“That’s not all,” he added.
At the suspenseful pause, she showed her palms, pressing him to finish.
“Coach Barry’s back from the Navy.”
His old coach, his favorite of all time. “Gosh, TJ! That’s marvelous. Will he be at USC again?”
“They’ve actually invited him to help with all three sports.”
“Well?” she said. “Have you seen him yet?”
“No, but—”
“You should make an appointment. As soon as possible.”
“Maddie, I don’t need to see him.”
She folded her arms, pinned him with a glare. “Thomas James Kern. If you think I’m going to sit back and watch you hem and haw about playing again, just so you can mope around this house come March—”
“I don’t need to see him,” he interjected, “because I already talked to him on the phone.” His mouth settled into a smirk. The old TJ was definitely shining through, barring their apparent reversal of roles.
“So,” she drew out. “Do I have to drag the story out of you? Or are you going to fill me in?”
“Coach Barry said he had to chew it over with Coach Dedeaux, but—if I worked at getting back in shape—I’d be welcome at spring training.”
“Oh, TJ. Congratulations!” Maddie went to hug him until he stopped her with a warning.
“This doesn’t guarantee I’m making the team. Just that he’s giving me a second chance to try.”
Second chances, she’d learned, were a luxury many would never have. Her brother understood that better than anyone.
“You’ll be on that team,” she told him with absolute certainty. “And we’ll all be in the stands cheering for you.”
TJ didn’t argue, or downplay with sarcasm. He merely looked at her with gratitude.
“Mama!” Suzie’s munchkin voice pulled Maddie’s attention. “Iko.” She stood in the hallway with a paper lantern in her arms, underscoring her plea to leave. She resembled Lane more and more each day.
“Is everyone ready?” Maddie asked.
The girl nodded her head in excitement. To Suzie, the event was purely a celebration. For others, it wasn’t that simple.
“In that case ...” Maddie borrowed support from her brother’s eyes. “I suppose it’s time.”
They walked in twos down the slope toward the riverbank. All of them but Suzie carried an octagonal lantern atop a wooden square. Nobu held her little hand, leading the way. He stomped at occasional strands of overgrown grass invading the dirt path, their blades brown from the late summer heat. Behind the pair, Yuki padded alongside Emma, and TJ escorted Jo with a hand on her lower back.
Shades of a sunset smoothed the sky.
September had arrived, weeks past the annual Obon festival. Yet Emma’s suggestion of a belated rite, in honor of the deceased, seemed fitting in spite of tradition. Kumiko had agreed, to the surprise of everyone except Maddie, who felt it made sense. Not only had Lane’s mother shown acceptance of past tragedies, but her penchant for strict rules, as well as superstitions, had clearly waned.
Perhaps it was the thousand stitches that had failed to save her son. Maybe she had just grown weary of allowing fear to dictate her actions. A good lesson, actually, for them all.
Halfway down the hill, Kumiko stumbled slightly. Maddie grabbed the woman’s closest kimono sleeve. Wooden geta weren’t ideal shoes for the rocky trail.
“Daijbu?” Maddie asked.
Kumiko gave a small bow of her head, affirming she was fine. She looked more than fine. In the ornate floral garment with a wide orange belt, black hair bound into a soft bun, she was the picture of elegance and beauty. Was this how she used to dress before leaving her homeland? Would she regret not returning as she’d always desired?
Maddie had rejoiced as much as Emma when Kumiko declared their change of plans: They were staying in California for good.
But now, seeing the woman in such a complementary garb, the essence of another existence, Maddie questioned if they were making the right choice, and for the right reason.
“Mrs. Moritomo, I was wondering ...”
“Oksan,” Kumiko corrected, a directive to call her Mother. She stared straight ahead as she walked. No sentimental outpouring. Just a statement of fact.
At the unexpected gesture, Maddie nearly forgot her question. “Didn’t you say that ... you’ve always dreamed of moving back to Kyoto?”
“Mmm.”
The familiar address of Oksan further tempted Maddie to let things alone, yet she had to be sure. She refused to be another barbed-wire fence entrapping the woman’s life.
“The reason I ask is—well, I want you to know that Suzie and I would be all right. Don’t misunderstand, we’d miss you all terribly. You’re our family. I just don’t want to keep you from going back home, if that’s truly what you want.”
“Mmm,” Kumiko said again, and added, “You want to know why we change mind?” Her even tone indicated Maddie’s presumptions might have been wrong.
Maddie shifted her grip on the lantern and answered, “Yes.”
Pausing her steps, Kumiko angled to face her. “Is true, always I miss Japan. Demo, Takeshi fight for America, die for country. Finally I see, this is home. Family is here. And always, Kyoto inside, ne?” She patted the chest of her kimono. “Wakatta?” she asked.
Maddie smiled in reply. Indeed she fully understood.
The group gathered beside the river, and with lantern candles lit, they began Tojo Nagashi, a ceremony of setting spirits free.
Emma went first. In honor of Mrs. Garrett, she placed her lantern on the water. She asked for the woman’s blessings on Mr. Garrett’s behalf; he and his bride, Ida, were now expecting a baby. As the glowing structure floated down the stream, Maddie somehow had a sense his late wife would be pleased.
TJ went next, offering a lantern for his and Maddie’s mother. Without question, she was smiling down on them, overjoyed her husband would soon be moving home. This time, at the mention of her, Maddie smiled too. The wringing in her chest, a usual cost of recalling her mom, was gone for good. She simply felt serenity, and a deeper connection from their bond of motherhood.
Jo followed with a tribute to her parents, and Nobu with an acknowledgment to the lives of all those lost in war—a war that, God willing, would never be repeated.
Approaching the water’s edge, Kumiko touched the painting she’d added to a lantern wall. On the sheet of rice paper, a sparrow appeared alone, but its wings were spread wide, as if soaring through the heavens. Suzume, at last, was free.
Then came Maddie’s turn.
With Suzie at her side, she retrieved from her pocket a medal belonging to Lane. The Distinguished Service Cross, awarded after his death. She ran her thumb over the golden eagle, across the ribbon of red, white, and blue. She’d first considered keeping it, but decided she didn’t need an object to display her husband’s valor. His devotion and bravery lived on in every memory, and in the freedom he’d helped secure for their child.
She set the decoration on the wooden square. With a joint nudge, she and Suzie released Lane’s lantern toward the sea. As it drifted away, his soul aglow on the reflective current, Maddie’s ears caught a sound. A melody in the breeze, forever there for those who listened.
THE BRIDGE BUILDER
by Will Allen Dromgoole
An old man, going a lone highway,
Came at the evening, cold and gray,
To a chasm, vast and deep and wide,
Through which was flowing a sullen tide.
The old man crossed in the twilight dim—
That sullen stream had no fear for him;
But he turned, when he reached the other side,
And built a bridge to span the tide.
“Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim near,
“You are wasting strength with building here.
Your journey will end with the ending day;
You never again must pass this way.
You have crossed the chasm, deep and wide,
Why build you the bridge at the eventide?”
The builder lifted his old gray head:
“Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said,
“There followeth after me today,
A youth whose feet must pass this way.
This chasm that has been naught to me,
To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be.
He, too, must cross in the twilight dim;
Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The premise of this novel began with a vision of two brothers, one fighting for Japan and the other for America. Years ago I had learned of siblings who, during World War II, found themselves in this extraordinary predicament.
I was fascinated by the discovery—in no small part, I admit, on account of my shameless infatuation with the North and South miniseries. (Patrick Swayze in a uniform was awfully tough to resist.) Yet, in the midst of research, I stumbled across another find that ultimately set the course of my story: a brief textbook mention of roughly two hundred non-Japanese people who had lived voluntarily in the internment camps, refusing to be separated from their spouses.
Being half Japanese myself, and with a father whose birthday falls on the anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, how was it I had never heard of this before?
Intrigue propelled me to investigate these unique spouses further. Showing the internment experience through their eyes, I thought, could provide readers with a fresh yet accessible perspective. Unfortunately, I located very little information documenting the couples. Nevertheless, I forged ahead, and under every proverbial stone I unearthed more shocking elements of history.
Among these were cases of Japanese Americans who became stuck in Japan after America declared war; at age twenty they were conscripted into the Imperial Army or Navy, forced to fight against their own country, left distrusted by both sides. I went on to fiercely scribble notes regarding battles in the Aleutian Islands, including the infamous banzai charge on Attu. How ignorant I’d been of the war coming so close to the U.S. mainland.
My studies soon led me to accounts of Japanese American linguists who had served in the Military Intelligence Service (MIS), a secret U.S. Army branch perhaps best known for their employment of Native American “code talkers.” Thanks to the Go For Broke National Education Center, I had the privilege of interviewing several of these Nisei WWII veterans. I listened in awe as one particular gentleman described watching his unit shoot down Japanese fighter planes, unaware until later that his brother was among the enemy airmen killed.
Reinforced by books
like James McNaughton’s Nisei Linguists, my admiration swelled over their courageous feats in the face of diversity and danger. Never will I forget their treacherous accounts of “cave flushing,” nor the unspoken rule for those who fell into enemy hands: Save a bullet for yourself. No less memorable are such heroes as Master Sergeant Roy Matsumoto, a Nisei linguist with Merrill’s Marauders, whose imitation of a Japanese officer’s order to charge prevented his unit from being overrun. As the saying goes, reality is often stranger than fiction.
In my attempt to do justice to that reality, I ventured to Los Angeles and strolled down First Street in Little Tokyo. Engraved into the sidewalk before many stores’ entries are historical captions of livelihoods lost: details of an FBI raid that resulted in the arrest of Japanese businessmen and community leaders, names of shops that had been closed due to the evacuation.
As if following in the former store-owners’ footsteps, I made the lengthy trek through the barren deserts of eastern California to join an annual pilgrimage at Manzanar—a place to which I, too, might have been banished with my children only decades ago. On the perimeter stood a lone, empty guard tower, reminding visitors of a history too often glossed over. Relentless winds whipped dust into my eyes while I walked alongside former camp residents. Above all, I had hoped to gather insights of their time spent in the tarpaper barracks that once lined the rocky dirt roads.
I soon found, though, that much of the older generation, even all these years later, preferred to remain silent about what they had endured. Despite their internment ultimately being ruled unconstitutional—and the fact that not a single person of Japanese ancestry was ever convicted of espionage or sabotage against the United States—they showed no signs of resentment. Perhaps, instead, an undeserved shame lingered beneath the surface.
Fortunately, a voice that wouldn’t be quieted spoke on their behalf. Through a biography titled The Red Angel (by Vivian McGuckin Raineri), I at last learned about the late Elaine Black Yoneda. A political revolutionary, she had refused to stand by and watch her husband, Karl Yoneda, and their “half-breed” son torn from her life. Rather, she became one of the few Caucasian wives to insist upon living at Manzanar, where she worked at the camouflage-net factory, entrenching herself in the community. When her husband enlisted in the MIS and the camp riot erupted, the Yoneda family allegedly appeared on the Black Dragons’ death list. Many of the details I relied upon in this regard, including the subsequent evacuation to Death Valley, appeared in Mrs. Yoneda’s testimonies. For her strength and inspiration, a cameo in my story was the least I could offer.
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