The Wild Impossibility

by Ossola, Cheryl A. ;

  “My father cried,” Akira said. “My mother couldn’t talk. She covered her mouth like she was going to get sick and stared at my dad and me like she’d never seen us in her life.”

  “What about you?”

  “I felt numb, to tell you the truth; it’s still hard to believe. I stayed with my parents until they got over the shock, then I went to the canteen. There was a party there, but I didn’t want that, so I left with my friend Paul and we walked the camp, street after street. We talked about visiting each other—he lives in Huntington Beach—and all the things we’re going to do when we get out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like eat swordfish and daikon and seaweed, and drink beer, and sleep in a decent bed. And go wherever we damn well please.” He laughed.

  “Is that all you want?” Maddalena said, sliding her arms around his neck.

  “No, beautiful girl. Come to Berkeley with me,” Akira said. “Will you?”

  “You know I will.” No more stolen hours, no more hiding. They would make a home together, in a place that would let them love, grow old together.

  The war was over.

  Thirty-Four

  April 10–11, 2011

  The bar was called The Wild West, and inside the front door was a set of swinging half doors, the kind seen in every saloon in every Western movie. The rest was standard-issue dive bar: deer heads decked out in Christmas lights, wadded-up dollar bills peppering the ceiling, beer signs, and a muted widescreen TV set to ESPN. A row of broad-backed men flanked the bar, their bulging waistlines pushing beer-logo tees or plaid flannel shirts to their limits. Skirting the empty dance floor, scuffed from years of stomping and sliding, a few young couples wrapped themselves around small tables. An upright piano, veneer curling like old wallpaper, stood in one corner next to a jukebox. Waylon Jennings was belting “I’ve Always Been Crazy.”

  Kira nudged Dustin. “Listen. They’re playing my song.”

  “Funny.” Dustin surveyed the room. “Somehow I don’t think you’re kidding.”

  They found seats at one end of the bar, a massive oak slab slathered with wax that failed to smooth decades of dings and scratches. Kira ordered two Anchor Steams from a muscular guy with a gray buzz cut and a beard that rivaled ZZ Top’s.

  Jennings hit his last chord and the jukebox went silent. “Let’s do it,” Dustin said.

  They crossed to the piano, where he made a show of warming up his hands. Kira nudged him. “Just play it already.” He picked out the melody, then added a few chords.

  “Think I got it,” he said, and started from the top.

  The tune was sweet and yearning without being sentimental, with a happy little allegro run, like wind-tossed leaves, that intersected the ardent melody. It didn’t sound at all like something a teenage boy would write.

  “The man who—” Kira tried to talk around the lump in her throat. Even without words, the song seemed like Akira’s voice. “The man I think is my grandfather wrote this.”

  Dustin glanced up, still playing. “Nice tune. Tweaks the ol’ heartstrings.” He finished the song and the couple nearest the piano clapped. Dustin took a dramatic bow, and the jukebox started up again. Johnny Cash, “I Walk the Line.”

  Back at the bar, a heavyset man leered at Kira, legs splayed around a belly sized for quintuplets. Feeling benevolent, she smiled at him, then chugged her beer. What a sweetheart Akira was to write that song for Maddalena. A romantic kid in love with the wrong girl. Dan flickered into Kira’s thoughts. She could be having dinner with him right now, going home to make love, doing it on the living room floor because they couldn’t wait the thirty seconds it would take to get to the bedroom. But Dan was on another planet and the thought of being with him had all the clarity and vividness of a faded Polaroid.

  “Another round,” she told the bartender. “And two shots of Jack.” Getting drunk seemed like a fine idea.

  “Your grandpa wrote that song, huh?” Dustin said, still working on his first beer. “Where’d you get it?”

  “It was in the cigar box,” she said. “The one with the mementos.” The bartender slid the beers across the bar, then poured the shots. She gave him a flirty thank-you and crossed her legs, an elbow on the bar. Hearing the song had freed her, left her flush with success. There was still no proof of her bloodline, but she was making progress. That joyful floating in her motel room had pushed the malignancy of Manzanar into the background, given her hope.

  “Very cool,” Dustin said. “So, boss, when are you going to tell me why you’re really here? Nope”—he held up a hand, shaking his head—“forget I said that. None of my business.”

  Sleepy-looking Dustin was full of surprises, and damn sharp. Maybe she’d tell him the whole story, but not tonight. Tonight she would do her best to forget everything.

  “Cheers.” Kira downed the shot and ordered another, swinging her leg to the jukebox beat. “So, Owens Valley native son, entertain me. Tell me a story. Tell me about the famous water wars. I loved Chinatown.”

  “You really want to know about that?” Dustin shrugged. “Okay.”

  He explained how L.A. had bought out the ranchers and built an aqueduct, let the valley go nearly dry so the city’s farmers could water their own orchards. That was why there were so few ranches in the valley now; the only ones left were diehards. Kira kept up with him at first, but with no dinner, two beers plus the leftover one in her room and the bourbon, her edges were blurring. She watched Dustin talk, nodding to show she was listening, distracted by the whiteness of his teeth, the length of his fingers, the russet hair on his forearms. When he laughed, his eyes darkened from pale blue to violet.

  “Wanna dance?” the quintuplets guy asked, his belly pressing against Kira’s thigh.

  “No, thanks,” she said. “Maybe later.” She turned back to Dustin’s eyes, the adorable fan of freckles across his cheekbones.

  “Say the word, sweetheart. Name’s Mitch.” Mitch wandered off.

  Another shot of Jack appeared, the glass thin and cool on her lips, the liquor a tepid dose of comfort. Damn Dustin for smiling at her. He was young, too young. At least ten years younger, in fact, even if she was interested, which she absolutely was not. On the periphery, Mitch leaned into view and smiled. She smiled back. It felt good to be wanted. Of course, Dan wanted her, but he wanted too much from her, in ways she couldn’t deliver. Was that even legitimate, or did she think that because she was drunk and paranoid and hundreds of miles of mountains and valleys separated them? What seemed all too clear right now, though, was that losing Aimi and finding Maddalena had put parentheses around their marriage.

  The jukebox took a breath, then Emmylou Harris began to croon “Beneath Still Waters.” Kira grabbed Dustin’s hand. “Come on, I love this song,” she said, and dragged him to the dance floor.

  “This isn’t a good idea,” he said, holding her at arm’s length.

  “Dancing is always a good idea.” She moved in, forced him to put his arms around her, sang along with Emmylou. “Beneath still waters, there’s a strong undertow, the surface won’t tell you what the deep water knows.”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “So what? Can’t a girl have some fun?” Kira stumbled, fire darts shooting through her bum ankle, and the next thing she knew she was kissing him.

  Dustin ducked out of her arms. “If you’re trying to tempt me, it’s working. But I’m not super eager to piss off your husband.”

  “What makes you think I’m married?”

  “The wedding ring is a pretty big tipoff.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “I think it’s time to get you out of here.” Dustin headed to the bar.

  “I’m having fun,” Kira called after him. She stood on the dance floor, swinging her hips and singing. Mitch hovered nearby and she held out her hands, giggling at how fast he moved. She slung her arms
around his neck, undeterred by his aroma of garlic and beer. He wanted her. He wanted her even if Dustin didn’t, even if she was married, and she needed that. Needed someone’s arms around her.

  “Party’s over,” Dustin said, holding out Kira’s backpack and jacket. “Let’s go.”

  “Leave the lady alone.” Mitch swung Kira across the floor, and she leaned back in his embrace, one arm flung out.

  “Come on, Dustin, dance with us.”

  “Like hell,” Mitch said. Kira tripped again and he caught her, grinning.

  Dustin trailed them across the floor. “Kira, let’s go.”

  “Fuck off,” Mitch said.

  “Cool it over there,” the bartender called.

  “You fuck off. I’m taking her home.” Dustin planted a hand on Mitch’s shoulder. “Get your hands off her.”

  “Get your fucking pansy-ass hands off me.”

  Mitch spun out from under Dustin’s hand and Dustin shoved him; then Mitch threw a punch. Kira screamed as Dustin hit the floor, blood spurting. Mitch grabbed her, pinning her back to his chest, and she struggled to free herself until she realized he was enjoying it. Twisting in his arms to face him, she said, “You’re a good dancer, you know that?” and when he smiled she kneed him. He bellowed and crumpled and the bartender came running.

  “Fuck man, you all right?”

  Dustin was on his feet, his face dripping blood. Kira grabbed their things and pushed him toward the door. “Hurry! Can you drive?”

  “You’re sure as hell not going to.”

  Dustin drove with one hand over his nose while Kira stuffed Kleenexes into his cupped hand and mopped up the blood that ran down his arm. She apologized the entire five minutes it took to get to the motel, was still apologizing when he drove away.

  In bed, she watched the shadowed ceiling spin above her. She’d never once thought about cheating on Dan. She’d forgotten what it felt like to be in love, but Dan hadn’t. He was home, in their home, waiting for her with no idea how many lies she’d told him, the things she’d hidden. He trusted her. She had to remember that, here in this strange place where he seemed like a memory. Cheating was a transgression Dan would never forgive, if he ever found out. And it wasn’t a secret she could live with.

  

  The next morning Kira woke to a text message from Dan and a head that felt like a stuffed mushroom. The remorse she’d felt the night before was gone, sucked into the desert sand and silenced. She texted a quick All ok here and got in the shower. At nine, Dustin’s truck was waiting outside her door. She collected her things and went to the office, where Dustin lounged with his feet on the counter.

  “About time,” he said.

  “I can’t believe you showed up,” she said. “I’m so sorry. And embarrassed.”

  “Don’t hold your liquor too well, do you?” Dustin pointed at his bruised nose and gave her a wounded-puppy look. “I hope you know you’ve ruined my social standing. No way I can hang at The Wild West anymore.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”

  “Kidding. Not exactly my crowd.”

  Kira groaned. “No fair teasing anyone who has a hangover this bad.”

  “Apology accepted. And it’s only fair that you should suffer with me.”

  Mike came in as they were leaving. “Sounds like a hell of a night,” he said, smiling.

  “I’m never drinking again,” Kira said.

  “Right,” Mike said.

  In the truck, Dustin handed Kira a cup of coffee and revved the engine.

  “Thanks.” Sipping the coffee, she wished she could ignore the kiss and the thought of whatever else she would have done if Dustin hadn’t said no. He seemed chill enough, but her shame ballooned by the second. “Hey, I’m sorry about, you know, kissing you and everything. I’ve never cheated on my husband, honest. I was really drunk.”

  “Understatement. Actually, I was flattered, or I was until you threw me over for the potbelly guy.” He glanced at her, his eyes a softer blue. “No worries. I know you don’t go around doing that kind of thing all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d ditched me today,” Kira said.

  “Nah, we’re a team. And you’re kinda fun when you’re drunk. Are you in the habit of starting bar brawls?”

  “Stop it. Anyway, I owe you. I’ll buy lunch.” Her stomach contracted at the thought.

  “It’s a start.” Dustin accelerated onto the highway. “What’s his name, anyway? Your husband.”

  “Dan. Dan Kaneko.”

  “Japanese. Huh. Okay, boss, where to?”

  “Independence. The Eastern California Museum.”

  As he drove, Dustin drummed on the steering wheel, whistling Akira’s song.

  “It’s a good song, isn’t it?” Kira said.

  “All love songs are good songs.”

  “I can’t believe I have it. Something of his, I mean.” Akira seemed real now, more real than Dan.

  Twenty minutes later Dustin dropped her off at the museum, on the western fringe of town. It was empty except for two librarians, and so quiet that they could probably hear Kira’s head pounding. She told one of them she was looking for information about her grandmother’s family, and the librarian directed her to a bank of filing cabinets.

  Kira riffled through the folders filed under M, hardly breathing. Then, there it was: Moretti, the folder distressingly thin, the sole document in it the article about Akira’s murder. Apparently no one in this valley remembered anything about her family but a scandal. There had to be more—someone who’d been close to Maddalena, a friend who would remember something besides the love affair that ended in tragedy. Kira went to find a librarian.

  When Dustin picked her up two hours later, she handed him a list. “The librarians here are kickass. You know any of these names?”

  He nodded. “A couple. What is this?”

  “Families who had ranches near Manzanar during the war. Maybe someone who knew my grandmother is still alive.”

  “The public records office is up north, in Bishop,” Dustin said. “We can look up these folks there. Most of the ranches are gone, but I’ll bet some of these people still live in the valley.”

  Forty minutes later they were in Bishop, standing in front of a records clerk who looked blank when asked if she knew the Moretti family. “The name doesn’t ring a bell,” she said. “Maybe Kathleen knows. Her family’s been here since the dawn of time.” She turned to a birdlike woman perched at a nearby desk. “Kathleen, did you know some Italians down at Lone Pine named Moretti? Lived there during the war?”

  Kathleen thought for so long that Kira wondered if she’d dozed off. Finally she said, “Wasn’t that the family involved in that terrible murder?”

  “Yes, we know about that,” Kira said. “I’m trying to find someone in the valley who might have known my grandmother. Could you look up the people on this list?”

  An hour later Kira and Dustin left the office with four names and addresses written in Kathleen’s spidery hand—two in Bishop, one in Independence, one in Lone Pine. Four chances that someone would remember Maddalena.

  At a sandwich shop where they stopped for lunch, Kira asked a wraithlike old man sitting outside if he’d known the Morettis. “Sure did,” he said. “Knew ’em before all the trouble.” He eyed Kira. “Why?”

  “They’re my relatives. I’m trying to get some information about them.”

  “Huh. Well, let’s see. Al Moretti sold me some cattle once. That was years ago, during the war. I was just a kid, but he cut me no slack. Drove a hard bargain, but his stock was good quality. Tough customer, Al Moretti. His boy too; can’t remember his name. He was my age. Not a whit of good in him.”

  “Did you know the daughter? Maddalena?”

  “Afraid not.” The man shook open his newspaper. “Good luck to you.
”

  They struck out in Bishop; neither person who answered the door knew the Morettis. “Next up, Regina Cooper,” Kira said. “On North Clay Street in Independence.”

  Thirty minutes later, Dustin pulled in front of a plain yellow house with a “Home Sweet Home” sign hanging on the front porch. Two plastic deer stood next to a mailbox in a circle of white bricks and pink geraniums.

  The woman who answered the door, Florence Cooper, hadn’t ever heard her mother, Regina, mention anyone named Maddalena, and these days she didn’t always make a whole lot of sense—she was eighty-four, after all. But they were welcome to talk to her. Florence led the way to a shuttered bedroom where an old woman was dozing.

  “Ma? Someone’s here to see you,” Florence said.

  Regina nodded, her eyes shut. Her white hair, in a wispy pixie cut, framed a spider’s web of wrinkles. Soft jowls blurred what was once a heart-shaped face, crowned by delicate, pale brows.

  “Ma, they’re asking if you knew someone named Madeleine.”

  Regina pursed her lips, then shook her head.

  “Actually, it’s Maddalena,” Kira said. “Maddalena Moretti. Her family lived on a ranch near Lone Pine during World War II.”

  Regina’s eyes opened. “Lena? My Lena?”

  “You knew her?” Kira and Dustin exchanged triumphant looks.

  “Lena was my best friend.” Regina sat up and peered at Kira, then reached for her glasses on the bedside table. Her eyes were a faint blue, cloudy with cataracts. “Who are you?”

  “I’m her granddaughter, Kira. This is my friend Dustin. I’m very glad to meet you.”

  “A granddaughter! How wonderful! Sit down, dear.” Regina pointed to a straight chair next to the bed. “Flo, dear, get us some iced tea, will you? Is this young man your husband?”