“But . . . the rest of today’s lessons . . . I can’t take fellas up with whiskey on my breath. I doubt the military would approve of that.”
“You’re not going up for the rest of the day.”
Louis’s blood ran cold and the sweat prickled the hairs of his neck again. So . . . he was about to be reprimanded. Louis braced himself. A shiver of shame went through him as he imagined the news getting back to his brother Guy. Louis Thorn, fired by the military for harboring enemy fugitives. Would there be jail time, to boot? Poor Guy. At every turn, Louis had proved a perpetual disappointment in Guy’s eyes.
But then Comstock stymied him again when he said, “Just drink up. I insist. Trust me: It will help.”
Louis looked dubiously at the glassful of Comstock’s cheap, faintly murky whiskey and, after a second more of hesitation, tossed it back.
“All right,” Louis said. “Now, may I ask, sir: Help what?”
He put the glass down. Comstock immediately reached to refill it.
“We received this,” he said, and pushed a thin slip of telegram paper across the desk.
Louis read it, blinked stupidly, and read it again.
“Someone will have delivered a telegram to your mother,” Comstock explained. “But since the military knew where to find you, I guess they figured it would be a courtesy to pass along the news here, too. Best not to wait with this kinda news, in my experience.” Comstock looked at Louis, his jowls drooping with sympathy, and said, “I’m sorry, son.”
THE NAVY DEPARTMENT DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT GUY DONAGHUE THORN SEAMAN FIRST CLASS USN WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTY AND IN SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY, TWELVE SEPTEMBER IN THE GILBERT ISLANDS. THE DEPARTMENT EXTENDS TO YOU ITS SINCEREST SYMPATHY IN YOUR GREAT LOSS . . .
The color drained out of the room.
Louis didn’t entirely remember what happened next. He thought he recalled drinking another glass or two of Comstock’s whiskey. At some point he got up and shook Comstock’s hand; Comstock was sending him home for the day. He wanted to know if Louis could drive. Louis assured him he could. Comstock wanted to have the errand boy drive but the boy was too young anyhow. Comstock said something Louis couldn’t quite hear—something like Don’t worry, I’ll see to it myself you get some bereavement. Now . . . you’re sure ya all right to drive, son?
* * *
It was a bumpy, blurry ride, and Comstock’s whiskey had started to kick in. Louis drove automatically to the Yamada property, not thinking. As he pulled up the Yamadas’ drive, it suddenly occurred to him that he ought to go to the Thorn ranch, that he ought to go and see his mother and give her the news as gently as possible, but then he remembered what Comstock had said about a telegram going directly to her. It was just as well; he was not ready to see her face. He knew something had changed in his family—that now there would always be a before Guy died and an after Guy died, and Louis was a little drunk, besides.
He trudged on leaden legs, stumbling slightly, toward the house. But when he reached the top of the porch stairs, his brain seized upon the idea of his friends. He changed course and followed the wraparound porch toward the other side, in the direction of the barn, and, more important, in the direction of the caravan. But before Louis got quite there, he stopped cold.
Harry. Harry was Japanese. Japanese—just like the men who had probably murdered his brother Guy. Could Louis stand the sight of Harry just now? His stomach turned. He was aware of the fact that he hadn’t cried. He had a vague memory of Comstock commending him on his stoicism.
Attaboy, Thorn—a stiff upper lip, that’s the way to go . . .
Louis wasn’t at all sure what might happen when that stiff upper lip crumbled. He changed his mind about seeking out his friends and decided to go back to the farmhouse. He needed to lie down, close his eyes. Maybe he could still wake up and discover it had all been a terrible dream. If only.
Louis let himself in through the back door in the kitchen. He thought briefly that he heard a stirring in the house.
“Ava?” Louis called, wondering if she had come inside to fetch something. No one answered. He realized he was home early, of course, and here it was the middle of the afternoon. Ava was likely outside, somewhere in the orchards, working. And Harry . . . Harry was meant to be hiding in the caravan, keeping out of sight.
But then Louis heard the sound again. The sound of voices . . . strange . . . muffled . . . He followed the sound to Mae’s room. Louis saw Mae’s favorite things scattered around as though someone had been making an inventory: a doll she’d loved to tatters as a child, a ribbon she’d won for raising a prize heifer, poems she’d scribbled, butterfly wings she’d collected and pinned to a board, the little watercolors she’d painted while trying to take lessons from her mother. In a flash, Louis realized how it had happened—how Harry had come into the house to mourn his sister, how he and Ava had gone slowly, patiently, reverently, through Mae’s things. How Ava had comforted Harry. How they found each other again.
Perhaps Louis had always known they were in love, even before he caught a glimpse of them kissing by the stream that ran through the woods, but nothing could have prepared Louis for the feeling of seeing them now. A rush of black, blinding emotion flooded over him.
In the minute or two that Louis stood there, too stunned to react, Harry moved to politely shield Ava. He managed to get his trousers on in one swift, deft movement. Louis had a brief urge to vomit.
“You son of a bitch” was all Louis could get out. It felt like his lungs were being squeezed in a vise.
When Harry looked at Louis, surprised to hear his friend use the expletive, Louis suddenly absorbed the details of Harry’s face and felt a sudden and acute hatred. Remembering Guy, a fresh charge of white-hot anger coursed through Louis’s veins. Suddenly, Harry didn’t look like Harry to Louis anymore; all Louis could see when he looked at Harry was: Japanese.
He had to get out of there; something unfamiliar—something terrible—was percolating in the darkest chambers of Louis’s heart. He turned back around and left the house through the back door in the kitchen. He heard Harry jogging behind him to catch up, Harry’s bare feet stamping the earth somewhere over his shoulder. Louis hadn’t gone out the front door and didn’t trust himself to get in the car, anyway. He dove into a row of plum trees, hoping to lose Harry in the orchard.
It was no use.
“Wait! Louis! Wait!”
Harry caught him up and as he touched Louis’s shoulder, something came over Louis. He spun around and punched Harry as hard as he could, square across the jaw. The blow landed with tremendous force. Louis had never been much of a fighter, but something about the betrayal, the anger, the blind hatred he felt, had bestowed upon him preternatural strength. Harry fell to the ground, bleeding.
“You son of a bitch” was all Louis could say. He felt himself shaking his head. He kept repeating it, over and over. For some reason they were the only words that would come to his lips.
The next thing he knew, he and Harry were tumbling on the ground between the row of trees in the orchard, trampling the tall yellow grass that had sprung up there over the course of spring and summer. He caught a few blows to the face and landed a few more himself. It got so he couldn’t tell whose blood was whose, all of it warm and stinking of iron.
“Harry! Louis!” Ava had managed to exit the house. She was trying to pull them apart. Several times she narrowly missed being punched herself.
Then, all at once, something snapped in Louis. He stopped in mid-swing and retracted his arm. He got off of Harry and got to his feet.
As soon as he felt Louis’s body release, Harry did not try to continue the fight. He and Ava looked on, surprised, as Louis stamped in the direction of the Yamada house, bound for the back door.
Louis disappeared. Harry and Ava exchanged a look. Harry sat up and she knelt down to examine his injuries. But then bot
h of their heads snapped in the direction of the back door as it swung open again—violently, with so much force it slapped the outside wall and the whole house shuddered.
Louis had returned, and he had a gun—a military pistol that one of the Air Corps officers he’d trained had given him as a gift. Ava’s and Harry’s eyes widened with terror to see it. Louis emitted a bizarre, low, guttural cry and charged toward Harry. Ava, who did not ordinarily scream at all, screamed at the top of her lungs.
Only Harry remained silent. He stared into his friend’s red face, watching Louis’s nostrils flare like a bull’s as he breathed. Louis closed the distance between them in record time. The gun was now pressed to Harry’s forehead.
“Louis!” Ava shrieked. “Louis! Stop!”
He flicked his eyes in her direction for the briefest of intervals, and in that second Ava only saw a terrifying blackness there. She understood he did not intend to stop. She screamed and threw herself between the two young men.
“STOP!”
It was not Ava’s voice. Nor was it Harry’s. It came from behind Louis.
When he looked and saw the small figure of Kenichi Yamada standing there, Louis suddenly got ahold of himself. There in Mr. Yamada’s eyes was the dull flint of grave disappointment. The invisible wave of hatred crested into shame and broke over his head, drenching him in the reality of what he’d been about to do.
“Louis,” Ava said more softly, now that his arm had slackened and he’d lowered the gun. “Louis . . .”
“Don’t” was all he could say, flinching away from her hand. He felt Harry’s eyes on him.
When he looked at his friend, Louis saw that Harry knew everything—knew what Louis had been about to do, what Louis was very likely capable of doing. Ashamed, Louis threw the pistol in the tall grass and stalked away into the orchard as fast as his legs could carry him.
64
Louis was gone. He had stormed off, leaving a bloody Harry in the orchard and a discarded pistol tossed onto a nest of dry weeds. Ava picked the gun up carefully. Then she and Kenichi helped Harry back to the caravan, which was parked on the back side of the hill, just below the house. By then, Ava’s mother had heard the commotion and come running.
“What’s going on?” Cleo asked. The bucket of chicken feed still clutched in her hand suggested she had been tending to the hens in the coop.
“Louis . . .” Ava began, unsure how to phrase what had just taken place. “Louis and Harry got into a fight.”
Cleo observed the cuts and bruises on Harry’s face.
“That looks serious,” she said. “Maybe he ought to rest inside the house?”
Much like her daughter, Cleo had felt funny about moving into the Yamadas’ bedrooms while the Yamadas themselves slept outside, in the run-down caravan Earl Shaw had left behind. Ava understood, and now Harry was injured: He should have the comfort of his own home, his own bed. But Ava shook her head.
“We have to keep him hidden,” she said. “No one has come looking for Harry and Mr. Yamada yet, but they will—and very likely soon, now.”
Ava had been doing constant mental calculations. Harry and his father had run away more than forty-eight hours earlier; by now it must be obvious to authorities that Harry had done more than just gone A.W.O.L.: He had helped his father—a Japanese who had answered “No-No” on his loyalty oath, no less—break out and the two had absconded together. Who would come looking for the two escaped internees? The U.S. Army? The F.B.I.? Or would they dispatch someone local, like Sheriff Whitcomb? Ava knew it would be useful to have an idea who to be on the lookout for, but it was impossible to guess. From the caravan, at least you could see the house—you could see if someone came calling and, with any luck, sneak out to hide in the orchards. Everyone had agreed Ava’s plan was a good plan, mostly because it was the only plan.
Inside the caravan, they helped Harry onto one of the straw mattresses perched atop the pair of wooden bunks built into the sides. Cleo hurried about, fetching iodine and some bandages, and together Cleo and Ava began tending to his wounds. Ava knew that Harry had simply let Louis give him a beating, allowing Louis to do his worst out of a sense of guilt. He hadn’t defended himself or fought back as much as he could have. Louis’s anger proved surprisingly powerful, leaving Harry badly hurt now.
“Do you think Louis will come back?” Cleo asked, still surprised the two boys had gotten into such a violent fight.
Ava pressed her lips in a fine line. “He was hurt, too, but not as badly. I think he’ll go somewhere to cool down, lick his wounds.”
“It appears Haruto will heal, given some rest,” Kenichi observed, looking over the two women’s shoulders as they worked.
“Yes,” Ava agreed. “I think he might have some bruised ribs . . . but I can’t be sure. We could fetch a doctor . . .”
“No,” Harry growled from the bunk. “They’ll just haul my father back to that godforsaken place. Or worse.”
The four of them sunk back into a busy silence. Harry closed his eyes as Ava and Cleo continued to bandage him up. Everything felt peaceful for a moment—which was perhaps why none of them was prepared for what happened next.
No one heard the sound of footsteps on the caravan stairs—the door was open—so the intruder entered without notice. When he spoke, they all jumped at the sound of his abrupt, booming voice.
“Well, now . . . what the hell have we got here? After all this time . . . I hadn’t taken you and your daughter for a pair of Jap lovers, my dear . . .”
Cleo’s blood ran cold as she recognized her husband’s voice. She spun around and there he was: Earl Shaw, standing in the doorway, as plain as day.
65
Newcastle, California * September 23, 1943
The floorboards creak, announcing Rosalind MacFarlane’s presence in the hall. The door to Bonner’s room is open. The privacy between them has long since melted away, rendering itself a useless, unnecessary pretense. Bonner does not need to look up to know she is standing in the doorway, watching him sift through the Yamadas’ photographs, documents, certificates, and letters . . .
“You believe Louis Thorn did it,” Bonner says to Rosalind now.
She doesn’t answer.
“You believe Louis Thorn sabotaged that biplane, and on purpose,” he repeats. He looks up at her. Her face remains expressionless. She shrugs.
“I don’t see why it matters.”
Bonner finally understands Rosalind a little—understands a little more about why she feels the way she does about the Yamadas. When he first encountered her, she was an inscrutable mystery, one that perplexed him more and more as she threw her body at him, then angrily pushed him away and held him at arm’s length.
But then he’d glimpsed the framed photograph sitting on the mantel at the Yamadas’ former farmhouse. Now it was clear that Louis had placed that photograph there, next to the radio, where he could listen to war broadcasts and think about his brother Guy Thorn. When Bonner first saw the photo, he noticed the Navy uniform but seconds later was entirely distracted by the likeness: Guy Thorn looked so much like Bonner himself, it had left Bonner completely disoriented for several minutes.
It wasn’t until his conversation with Louis was over, and Bonner was driving away from the Yamada house, that he realized he hadn’t thought to ask Louis the obvious question: Was his brother still alive? As he drove along the dusty country roads, all the pieces began to come together for Bonner: Guy Thorn had died in the Pacific. When Rosalind “Lindy” MacFarlane looked at Bonner, she saw her dead fiancé. The mystery of his landlady’s curiously hot-and-cold heart was revealed.
Bonner hears her now, coming into the room, padding closer to the bed with a soft tread. She is not there for his body this time—he understands that much, too. In fact, she is more than ready for him to pack his bags and go. Now she inches closer to the bed to peer at the array of documents and
photographs there. The softness leaves her face, and her eyes narrow.
“You really hate them, don’t you?” Bonner says. It is more an observation than a question, but Rosalind replies anyway.
“Guy did,” she says, meaning the Yamadas specifically. “I never cared before.” She takes a deep breath and lets out a shuddering sigh. “Now I hate all of them.” She no longer means the Yamadas; she means the Japanese. “How could I not?” she challenges Bonner.
“He died in the Pacific,” Bonner says. Again it is an observation, but this time Bonner wants to know if he’s guessed correctly.
“He was killed in the Pacific,” Rosalind corrects him. “Killed in action,” she says, echoing the language of what was likely the official telegram.
As if to confirm Bonner’s thoughts, Rosalind pulls a flimsy piece of folded telegram paper from her apron. “Edith Thorn let me keep it,” she says flatly. Her gaze drifts off, out the window, as if she might glimpse the horizon of the ocean at a distance, even though they are at least a hundred miles inland.
“We were engaged to be married,” Rosalind murmurs now. “But he couldn’t stand what had happened in Pearl Harbor.” She blinks as though in a trance. “He promised he would be back, and he was the sort of man who was very serious about his promises; he didn’t make them easily.” She stops, and an unflattering spasm of pain crosses her features. “If I’m being honest, I knew he wasn’t coming back . . . We heard the broadcasts, we all knew . . .”
“I’m sorry,” Bonner says, uncomfortable to have dredged up all this pain for her. Not knowing what else to do, he reaches a hand out to pat her shoulder. She recoils from him as though he has burned her.
“Stay away from me,” she hisses.
Bonner looks at her in wonderment, taken aback. Her body and face are tensed, disfigured with anger and hate. He repeats the blunt realization that began their conversation.
“You believe Louis Thorn saw his opportunity to take revenge . . . and took it,” Bonner says.
Eagle & Crane Page 37