The Wild Impossibility

by Ossola, Cheryl A. ;

  Akira waited a full minute before he moved again. Not far from the road he found a small outbuilding, a storage shed with corrugated metal walls and a slanted roof. The door sagged on its hinges, but it closed well enough. If he couldn’t make it back to the camp before dawn, he could hide out here. He noted the shed’s location—a quarter mile southeast of the barn, west of a clump of trees about a hundred feet from Foothill Road. If he had to, he could find it again.

  An hour or so later he came to another barn, its paddock sharp-scented with manure. Between the barn and the house lay hard-packed dirt, a few skeletal pieces of farm equipment. Convinced that this was Maddalena’s ranch, Akira sat with his back against the barn, fighting to keep his eyes open. A glimpse of Maddalena, proof that she was safe, was all he needed.

  A soft clocking of hooves, a muted chorus of lows and grunts from the cow barn startled him awake. He glanced at the upstairs window. There! A flicker of white through the open curtains, the backlit shape of a nightgowned girl. Maddalena. He’d know her anywhere.

  Akira stood and stretched, the weight of worry gone and, in its place, the ache of longing. He wanted to climb up to that window, slip through it into Maddalena’s arms. But the lightening sky told him dawn approached.

  By the time he reached Manzanar, the eastern sky had paled to warm lavender. Hidden in the trees along Bairs Creek, Akira debated whether to chance it or go back to the shed. Then, voices in the guard tower closest to him, two silhouettes instead of one, the searchlights idle. Shift change.

  He went low and slow this time, a shadow in the semidarkness. Under the fence silent as a snake, move and wait, move and wait. Well clear of the fence, Akira walked briskly, swinging his arms, a guy out for an early morning stroll. A magenta glow crested the Inyos. He pictured Maddalena in that upstairs room, in her bed, himself curled behind her, his face in her hair and his hand on her breast. If only.

  

  The cousins left on Sunday after church, and Maddalena had never been so glad to wave goodbye to anyone in her entire life. Two endless days with Francesca-the-pest and not a single chance to get to Manzanar. She had wanted to take Francesca riding in hopes that Akira would see them and understand why she hadn’t shown up, but her aunt would only let Francesca ride around the paddock, and only if Maddalena kept an eye on her. What a joke. Francesca rode Scout in circles, waving and shouting “Giddyup!” like an idiot while Maddalena wished with all her heart that she could smack her. Manzanar seemed as far away as Canada.

  After the relatives left, Maddalena cleaned up the kitchen and put the good china and silver away. When she thought there couldn’t possibly be anything else her mother would want her to do, she asked if she could go to Regina’s house. To her shock, her mother said yes, and thanked her for being nice to Francesca. Maddalena hugged her and dashed out the back door. Please, please, please let Akira say he’d be at the orchard tonight.

  In the yard, her father and Marco were working on the pickup, dust and grease on their coveralls. Marco glanced at her with a look she didn’t like, smug and superior like the boys at school who lied about skipping class and got away with it.

  “Riding again, huh?” Marco said. He had their father’s thick body and ropy arms, black hair coarse as a Brillo pad. Both of them always stank of cows and sweat and dirt.

  “What does it look like?” Maddalena said. As if Marco cared what she did. She felt like smashing a cowpie in his face.

  Minutes later, her father appeared in the barn. “Doing a lot of riding lately, I hear,” he said, watching her saddle Scout. “You staying on Foothill Road like your Mama wants you to?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Maddalena tightened the saddle cinch. “Foothill Road to Regina’s house, like always. I wish she lived closer.”

  Since when did her father care how often she went riding, and where? It wasn’t like him to be suspicious; he was too busy with the ranch to notice her. Girl business was Mama’s business, he always said. So why was he paying attention to her now? Had someone seen her near Manzanar?

  Maddalena rode off, certain that her father and Marco were watching, their eyes boring holes in her back. What if Marco had seen the rope? Don’t be silly, she thought. Marco had no reason to go into the yard late at night, and he wouldn’t notice the rope in the darkness if he did. Still, the thought spooked her, and the feeling dug in, tick-deep. What if her father followed her and dragged her home and locked her in her room forever? Or what if he and Marco went snooping at the Hendersons’? She’d have to warn Regina to cover for her and say of course Maddalena had been there whatever day they were asking about, she was there all the time. Mrs. Henderson never paid much attention, so she’d take Regina’s word for it and back her up.

  Half an hour later, Manzanar rose in the east. As nervous as she was, going there now was out of the question. Maddalena kept her eyes on the road ahead, her knees tight into the saddle, certain that her father and Marco could see her from miles away. Akira might be there on the steps, wondering why she didn’t stop. Don’t look. Not even a glance. Keeping her gaze on the narrow patch of desert between Scout’s ears, she whispered, “I’m sorry I can’t stop now, but I’ll be back. Meet me tomorrow night. I love you.”

  She meant it. Life without him seemed impossible, and she couldn’t imagine feeling this way about anyone else. Right or wrong, she loved Akira. Tomorrow night she would prove it.

  

  At Regina’s house, the girls sat cross-legged on the bed, knees touching, heads together, the door locked and the dotted-swiss curtains drawn.

  “You have to help me, I’m desperate,” Maddalena said. “I need to stay here tomorrow night so I can meet Akira at the orchard. Papa and Marco think I’m up to something, I know it, and I don’t dare sneak out of my house now. But if I’m here, no one will suspect a thing. Oh, and this is important! If anyone comes here and asks your mother or you if I was here on a certain day, any day, say yes, even if I wasn’t. Make your mother say yes. Promise.”

  “I promise. This is so exciting!” Regina bounced, her ponytail swinging. “Have you kissed him yet?”

  Did she dare say what she was thinking, that she’d decided to prove her love to Akira? Give herself to him, that was how Mama would say it, and she’d make it sound wrong in every way, like Akira would be cheating Maddalena out of something she didn’t want to give. And that wasn’t true, because she did want it, and he would be giving her part of himself too. Wasn’t that what love was—two people wanting to be together in every way, understanding each other the way starlings did, swooping around like a single bird?

  “Of course I’ve kissed him. This is serious, Regina. I’m in love, honestly and truly in love.”

  “Oh, my!” Regina breathed. “Did he say he loves you too?”

  “Not yet.” Maddalena flushed, then added quickly, “But he risks his life to come out here and meet me; that means something. Every time I see him I wonder if it could be the last time.” She paused. Regina chewed on the end of her ponytail, her eyes shining. “So I’m going to let him—I mean, we’re going to…you know.”

  “You mean…? Oh my heavens!” Regina said. “Aren’t you scared?”

  “I’m always scared. We could get caught. Akira could get shot.”

  “No, I mean aren’t you scared of…doing it? I’ve heard girls at school say it hurts. Tons.”

  Maddalena shook her head. She hadn’t thought about that, but it didn’t matter. “So you’ll help me?”

  “Of course, silly! I’ll ask my mom if you can stay over tomorrow. And after you and Akira…you know…” Regina blushed. “You have to promise to tell me what it’s like. If it hurts, and everything!” She bounced off the bed and out of the room.

  “I promise.”

  Maddalena opened the curtains. Manzanar was too far away to see, on the other side of the apple orchard she thought of as theirs now, hers and Akira’s. No
matter how far away she was, she liked to believe that if she looked toward Manzanar and thought about Akira hard enough, he’d feel it.

  “I love you,” she said, pressing her hands against the windowpane. Akira was out there, invisible, behind that fence, behind those dreary walls, living a life he didn’t deserve. She hoped he was thinking about her. She was always thinking of him.

  Tomorrow.

  Twenty-Seven

  April 7–8, 2011

  Kira’s phone rang. Dan, finally. “You won’t believe what just happened,” she said. “I know you’re pissed at me, and I’m sorry, I really am, but I’ve got to tell you this.”

  It came out in a rush—the newspaper article, Akira, the murder, everything jumbled together. “Her father killed him, can you believe that? And that’s not all. Akira is my grandfather. Maddalena loved him and she told my mom to name me for him, even before I was born, even though she didn’t know Mom would have a baby, or that I’d be a girl. Isn’t that crazy? I’m part Japanese. Here, let me read the article to you.”

  “Hang on,” Dan said. “I came over there to help you, because you asked me to, and all you did was scream at me. And now I’m supposed to listen to some garbage about you being Japanese? This is ridiculous. You’ve got to come home and see another doctor. This guy is wasting your time—he’s wasting our lives, Kira. All you do is talk about these dreams and you don’t give a shit about us.”

  “Just listen, please, this is important! I can’t ignore what’s happening, and I’m finding things out about my family, important things, and I thought you’d be happy about that. Yes, Dr. Richardson encouraged me, and all you do is tell me to take the fucking meds and pretend everything is all right. Well, what if it’s not all right and the meds would only cover up what’s really going on? Not everything fits into your neat little world. All you want is a sane wife who can carry a baby to term. Did it ever occur to you that maybe I can’t do that?”

  “That’s not fair. Besides, plenty of women lose a baby and have a normal pregnancy later.”

  “It was two.” The words were out before Kira could stop herself.

  “What?”

  “I had a miscarriage a long time ago. Don’t worry, it wasn’t yours. It’s not important now.”

  “Jesus, Kira, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I just said it was a long time ago, and I didn’t think you needed to know. I don’t want to talk about that—what’s important is that I found out about Akira, and if you loved me you’d understand that I need to make more of these fragments happen and figure out what’s going on. Instead you want to make the whole thing go away.”

  “I’m trying to understand, but you’re making it really hard.”

  “Prove it. Come over here and look at me, knowing what you know now, and then tell me I don’t have a Japanese grandfather. I can see it, Dan.”

  “Give me an hour,” he said, surprising her.

  She waited on the porch, sitting one minute, pacing the next, swinging between excitement about Akira and worry that Dan would say no way she was Japanese and they’d end up arguing again. She thought about calling Dr. Richardson, but then the Audi’s headlights swept around the corner. As she started down the stairs, the car cut to the curb, its headlights blinding her. She fell, a moment of suspension followed by a burst of heat, the bloom of salmon into green.

  Soft light, no shadows. Kira can see everything. She is in the house, in the upstairs bedroom. Maddalena sits at a desk where today, this moment, there is no desk. She wears slacks and a white blouse, white tennis shoes. Her hair, dark brown shot with premature gray, is in that familiar low twist. She is young but long past girlhood, years of wind and sun and grief on her face. She has been writing.

  Something is different this time, Kira realizes. She’s observing Maddalena instead of being her, and Maddalena seems to know it. She’s talking to herself but also to Kira.

  After seventeen years, it is done. I have been thinking of this moment since Rosa was born. I can wait no longer. I owe my daughter the truth, owe Akira the honor of remembrance.

  Outside, blue sky darkens at the edges, warning of rain. Poplars sway. Birds fall silent.

  Rosa is seventeen, old enough to know that the man she believes is her father is not her father, old enough to know that her grandfather, a stranger to her, was a murderer. Old enough to make her own decisions about who to love. It has taken more strength than I’d imagined to withhold the truth all these years, an effort that left me trembling inside, my stomach and liver and lungs shrinking to nothing within the shell of my body. The years of lies, of silence, of enduring this marriage for Rosa’s sake. The years of tucking her in bed, bathing and brushing my hair with shaking hands while he lay there, waiting. My skin would tighten, anticipating the touch of this man I never wanted, never loved.

  Kira closes her eyes, opens them to tears. Maddalena slips the letter into an envelope and seals it.

  What a relief to put on paper the letter I’ve written in my head a dozen, two dozen times, words I’ve wanted to say to Rosa since she was old enough to understand them. It’s a relief to finally put things right, to give Akira his place in his daughter’s world. Now Rosa will know everything—the love that began at Manzanar and survived the war but not hatred and prejudice, what Akira and I risked to be together, how we pledged ourselves to each other. How, when Akira died, I wanted to die too but couldn’t let myself, because I was carrying his child. Now Rosa will know I had no choice but to marry the man my parents chose for me. To hide your shame, they said. But it wasn’t my shame.

  Knowing I carried Akira’s child brought joy at first, then grief sharper than the barbed wire that had imprisoned him. Akira would never see his child, would never know he had one. It tore me open. Later, I was grateful that the baby looked like me, because life would be easier for her this way. An Italian girl with Italian parents, an Italian last name—no one would question the warm tones of her skin, her nearly black hair. Her eyes, green like mine, hid the truth. The planes of her face, that hint of the East—my husband had Slavic roots, I told the few who noticed. They had no reason not to believe me.

  I will tell Rosa all of it, face to face. Then I will give her the letter as proof that she did not imagine our conversation.

  Maddalena tucks the envelope into her pocket. Then, suddenly, the scene changes to the dining room. Kira recognizes the man she’d always thought was her grandfather. And her mother, a teenager, wearing a peasant blouse and long, beaded earrings, thick eyeshadow in ’60s blue. Maddalena is clearing the table. Dishes rattle in her hands.

  “You nervous, Lena? What for?”

  My breath disappears. He sits back in his chair, one hand heavy on the tablecloth, his eyes on me. He has never trusted my silence. He is right not to.

  “It’s nothing. I worked in the garden for hours today, pulling weeds. My arms are tired.”

  “That so? I didn’t notice nothin’ different out there.”

  I meet his gaze without flinching, force a smile. “If you can’t tell the difference, that proves how much weeding needs to be done. The oxalis and crabgrass went wild with all that rain.”

  “Can I be excused?” Rosa stands, ready to bolt. “I told Sarah I’d call her tonight. She’s going to help me with my party invitations.”

  “Take a walk with me, Rosie. I’ve hardly seen you all week.”

  “It’s going to rain, Mom. Please? I promised I’d call her.”

  “A short walk, that’s all, before the light goes. It’s so pretty before a storm. Then you can call Sarah.”

  “Let the kid go.” My husband’s eyes are searchlights. The toothpick he’s chewing on jumps and waves. “Go on, Rosa.” He jerks his head at the door, his eyes on me, and she bounds out of the room. “What’s so important, Lena?”

  “Nothing.” I smooth my hair, smile again. “Can’t a mother spend time
with her only child?”

  “You think I’m stupid? Something’s not right with you.”

  I ignore him, pass behind him to the sink. Then he is on his feet, in my path quick as a lizard, his breath in my face, his fingers steel bands on my arm.

  “I can see right through you, Lena. Right through you. Look me in the eye and tell me you’re not gonna do nothin’ I wouldn’t like.”

  I twist away, make it to the front porch before his hand grasps my wrist.

  “Let go.”

  “Get inside.”

  “Let go of me!”

  He clamps a hand over my mouth and he must think I’d never do it, but he’s wide open and I knee him with seventeen years of rage. I run down the steps and I see Akira falling, falling, and the blood, all the blood, and my mind floods crimson and I run, I keep running, and I see the headlights and I mean to stop but I cannot.

  

  “What happened?” Kira said. She was on the couch, under her mother’s handmade afghan.

  “You tell me,” Dan said. “I pulled up and saw you fall. By the time I got to you, you’d passed out. Scared me to death.”

  She half heard him, her mind still clouded with fear. That’s what had driven her grandmother out of the house that night, fear and years of outrage and grief. The headlights, the helplessness, the desperation—Maddalena hadn’t planned to kill herself; the letter was proof of that. If only Rosa had known. Kira brushed away tears. Why hadn’t Maddalena stopped running? She meant to. Did the headlights draw her with the kind of self-destructive urge you get when you stand at the edge of an abyss, half wanting to fall? Could she have stopped? If Maddalena had lived, how different her daughter’s life would have been. And Kira’s.