He realized now, more than a year later, that he’d never explained that to Cindy. Never told her it was nothing she’d done.
A grizzled man in overalls wandered past with a shovel, the cash register rang out a sale, and TJ decided another place would be more appropriate for this conversation. “You know, maybe, sometime,” he said, “if you’re not busy—”
Jo’s brother Wes was marching in TJ’s direction. The oldest of the five Allister boys, he’d been a quiet but popular linebacker. Latest word had it he was on a winning streak of boxing matches around the city. A guy you didn’t want to piss off by insulting his sister.
TJ was about to speak up but didn’t make it that far. Wes took the first shot—by scooping Cindy up by her waist. “There you are,” he said, and nuzzled her neck, inducing a giggle.
“Were you worried I’d gotten lost?” she teased.
Wes gazed at her with pure adoration, oblivious to any others’ existence. “I’m all finished here with inventory. How about a movie at the Palace?”
She groaned. “Is there any picture we haven’t seen this month?” He held her close and whispered in her ear, prompting more giggles, her face to blush. TJ did his best to pry away his focus. He felt intrusive, irritated, regretful. And yeah, jealous. Not of being with Cindy necessarily. Just of any guy who could truly be that happy.
The couple headed for the door. As her boyfriend held it open for her, Cindy angled back. An afterthought. “It was good seeing you, TJ. You take care.”
He nodded, staring after her. She’d moved on, as she should have. She was better off with someone who had his head on straight.
“Anything I can help you with, sonny?” From behind the counter, old man Allister regarded him over the rims of his bifocals.
Jo touched the man’s shoulder. “It’s all right, Gramps. He’s not one who takes kindly to help.” After flicking TJ a cool look, she pushed through the swinging half-doors of the storage room. It was then that TJ recalled why he’d trailed her through the store. Yet the urge to follow her was gone.
10
Lane wasn’t aware his mind had been wandering until something hit him in the forehead. He jolted back in his cushioned leather chair. A wad of notebook paper had landed on his leg. He could guess the culprit before looking up.
“At least we know he’s alive.” Dewey Owens smirked at the other two guys in their study group before turning to Lane. “I was getting worried that punch had bruised more than your eye.”
Lane pitched the crumpled ball right back. But with Dewey’s eagle eyes, a match to his beak-like nose, he ducked in plenty of time.
“Have to be faster than that!”
A student in the corner of the common room sent a curt, “Shhh,” to which Dewey retorted, “Relax, bookworm. Finals ain’t till next week.” No doubt, he’d thrown out the grammatical error just to grate on the stuffy kid’s nerves; Dewey had been born to a wealthy L.A. family, same as Lane. Both saddled with the tedium of properness.
“So where were we?” Lane flipped forward in his economics book. Envisioning his rendezvous with Maddie wasn’t going to speed up the week. “Did we already cover the graph on page one-o-one?”
Dewey reclined with feet on the coffee table and addressed the classmate beside him. “Gotta love my roommate. Almost four years now, he’s been pretending to cram just for my sake. Bastard aces his classes without even trying.”
“That’s not true,” Lane said.
“Oh?”
“I try. A little.”
Dewey laughed. “Imagine what you could do if you were actually interested in your major.”
Lane had imagined it all too often, and to no point. Political Science wasn’t an option according to his family’s conditional funding. In contrast, Dewey’s Economics degree—using numbers merely to support the conceptual and theoretical—would serve as a small rebellion against his father, the owner of an accounting firm.
“Lane Moritomo in here?” some guy called out.
“Yeah, that’s me!”
“Girl’s on the phone for you.”
Fighting a grin, Lane set aside his book. He had been hoping all afternoon that Maddie would ring him back once her brother left the house. “That’s gotta be my sister,” he told his study pals.
“Pass along my thanks,” Dewey said, “for making those paper birds.” The origami cranes were what he meant, folded by Emma’s tiny hands to bring them luck on their exams.
“Sure thing.” It drove Lane crazy not being straight with his roommate.
Soon that would change.
At the phone in the hall, Lane brought the handset to his ear. A pair of athletes in Cardinal sweatshirts strolled into the dorm. For privacy, he spoke just above a whisper. “Maddie?”
“Am I speaking with Lane Moritomo?” It was indeed a woman, but he didn’t recognize the voice.
“Uh, yes. This is Lane.”
“Mr. Moritomo, this is Congressman Egan’s office.”
“Yes?” he said again, thrown off guard.
“Sir, I’m phoning to inform you that you’ve been chosen for an internship.”
Her sentence lit a fuse. It traveled through him, gaining potency and speed, until he exploded with excitement. “I can’t believe it! My God—I mean, my gosh.” A small circle of students glanced over. Lane cranked his volume down. “I ... don’t know what to say.”
“How about, you accept the offer?” A smile broke through her businesslike tone.
“Of course. I definitely accept.”
“Congressman Egan will be delighted to hear that. Your enthusiasm and fresh ideas made quite an impression.” Lane strove to listen, despite his yearning to scream while sprinting through every corner of the Quad, around Lake Lagunita and back. “You’ll receive more details by post, but feel free to contact us with any concerns. Otherwise, we look forward to seeing you in June.”
“Details. In June.” Thoughts tumbling, he barely remembered to add, “Thank you, ma’am. For letting me know.”
“My pleasure.”
The line went dead, but Lane was afraid to release the handset, as though the phone were his sole link to the internship.
Among all the politicians in the region, Egan most closely shared his visions of equality and civil rights, community outreach. Of immigration and landowning laws needing to be reformed. Ongoing peace talks between Japan and the U.S. were dandy, but why stop there? Increasing American commerce in the East would benefit everyone.
To each of Lane’s points, the congressman had listened, and concurred. Egan maintained that the government existed to serve the public, not the other way around. He was a doer, not a talker. And somehow, Lane’s foot had managed to wedge into that esteemed man’s door.
Granted, it was only an internship and the pay wouldn’t be much, but it was a stepping-stone toward a brighter future. A future he couldn’t wait to share with Maddie.
Maddie. She was the first person he wanted to tell.
The operator connected the call. He started tapping his thumb on the phone after the first ring. By the fourth, it felt like forty.
“Kern’s Tailoring.”
He was so thankful Maddie had answered he plunged straight in. “The internship. At the congressman’s office. Sweetheart, I got it. I got it!”
“Wow, that’s wonderful,” she said. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I thought I had a good shot, after the interview, but ... there were so many applicants—” He heard Maddie talking to someone, her voice muffled from covering the mouthpiece. “Maddie?” He waited. “Honey?”
“Sorry, I’m here. And I do want to hear more, but there’s a whole wedding party being fitted.”
He squelched a budding of disappointment. “No problem.”
“I’m happy for you, though. Truly I am.”
“It’s fine, I understand,” he assured her, then remembered the upcoming weekend. “Besides, I can tell you more in person, when we meet on Saturday.”
Egan’s office was in California; Juilliard was in New York.
“Don’t worry about this affecting your schooling, okay? We’ll figure it out, no matter what.”
Muffled again, she spoke to a customer, then, “Sorry, Lane, I have to run. Talk to you soon.”
“Okay then, take care. I—” Click. “Love you.”
The hallway went eerily quiet.
By the time he hung up the phone, he chose to brush away his senseless worries. There was too much to celebrate. The internship of his dreams, a key to his future, had been dropped into his hands. Maybe there was magic in those lucky cranes after all.
He sped to the commons and shared the news with Dewey, who demanded they toast at Danny Mac’s Pub to commemorate the triumph.
Later, once the elation and beer began to wear off, they crashed in a happy stupor on their beds. And that’s how Lane remained until late that night, when he awoke from a nightmare, sweat beading his face. The scene imprinted in his mind left him unable to sleep: At Seattle’s Union Station, he stood on a platform, awaiting his future bride—who never showed.
11
Dreariness hung in the air, rivaling the pungency of medications and disinfectant. The odors, however, didn’t bother Maddie. With each visit to the convalescent home, her nose had grown more tolerant of the strange, sterile surroundings, as had the rest of her senses. The sight of elderly residents struggling to feed themselves over-boiled food, or getting agitated at relatives they no longer recognized, had gradually lost its impact. Even glimpsing shriveled bodies holed up in their beds, disguised chariots headed for the afterlife, caused Maddie only occasional pause.
She pondered this while rosining her bow, preparing for her performance. As she stood alone in her father’s assigned room, it dawned on her how accustomed she had become to the bland, beige walls and scuffed tiled floors, the clusters of wheelchairs and muted floral paintings. A sadness rose within her.
He wasn’t supposed to be here this long.
The doctor had recommended a change in scenery to help cure his depression, some place free from the memories of his wife. Beatrice Lovell had been quick to highlight the amenities of the rest home owned by her husband, as if selling a vacation house on the Malibu shore. Of course, more than the vastly discounted rate communicated her unspoken favor. Given that Maddie and her brother had both been in school, and lacked any close relatives, Bea had secured the care their father needed. Perhaps even rescued him from an asylum.
What else did authorities do with people whose grief stripped their desire to function?
“Mr. Kern, look who’s here,” a nurse encouraged. She guided him into the room in a slow shuffle.
“Hi, Daddy.” Maddie dredged up a smile, held it as his glassy blue eyes panned past her face. The routine persisted in delivering a sting.
Before the window, the nurse eased him into a chair. He angled his face toward the glass pane. “Your daughter’s going to play for you today. Won’t that be nice?”
Holiday garland swagged above him. The fading afternoon light bent around his slumped shoulders. For an instant, time reversed. It was early Christmas morning. He wore his bathrobe over his pin-striped pajamas, his brown hair disheveled. Bags lined his eyes not from aging sorrow, but from a late night of assembling Maddie’s new dollhouse, or TJ’s bicycle for the paper route. Maddie could still see her dad settling on the davenport, winking at his wife as she handed him a cup of strong black coffee. Nutmeg and pine fragranced a day that should have lasted forever.
“If you need anything, I’ll be at the desk,” the nurse said to Maddie, doling out a smile. The pity in the woman’s eyes lingered in the small, stark room even after her departure.
Maddie shook off the condolence and retrieved the violin from her case. She methodically tuned the strings. Photographed composers stared from the lid, always in judgment.
Today, theirs wasn’t the approval she sought.
She took her position before the music sheets. Each lay in sequence side by side on her father’s bed. Height-wise, the pages weren’t ideally located, but she knew the composition forward and backward. The wrinkled papers, strewn with penciled finger markings, merely served as a security blanket.
“I’ve been working on a Paganini caprice for you. His ninth, one of your favorites.”
He didn’t respond, not so much as a blink.
She reminded herself that the title alone would carry little impact.
As she nestled the violin between her chin and collarbone, she played the opening in her mind. There was no room for error. The perfection in her phrases, her aptness of intonation, would wake him from his solitary slumber. Lured out of his cave and back into their world, he would raise his eyes and see her again.
She lifted the bow, ticking away two-four time in her head. Her shoulder ached from relentless practices. Scales and arpeggios and fingered octaves had provided escape from gnawing doubts over her looming nuptials.
If only life could be as well ordered as music.
Maddie closed her eyes, paced her breathing, and sent the bow into motion. The beginning measures passed with the airiness of a folk dance in a gilded palace, where women with powdered unsmiling faces and tall white wigs tiptoed around their buckle-shoed partners. Soon, the imitative notes of a flute alternated with dominant horn-like chords, and after a brief rest, the strength of the strings pushed through an aggressive middle section. Maddie’s fingers leapt up and down the fingerboard. The bound horsehairs hastened through ricochets and over trills. Any ending seemed miles away until a soft high-B floated on melodic wings. Only then did the prim courtiers return. They lent their limelight to a ruler’s abrupt pronouncement, before trading bows and gentle curtsies. When the final note drifted away, Maddie opened her eyes.
Her father’s seated form appeared in blurred lines. As they solidified, her anxiety climbed the hill molded of hope and dread. Her technicality had been pristine, a rendering her instructor would deem “admirably spotless.”
But had she chosen the right piece? The right composer?
Violin held snug to her chest, she watched and waited for the answers. In the silence, her father inched his face toward hers. A trembling of anticipation spread through her. Their gazes were about to connect when an unexpected sound robbed her focus. At the door a matronly nurse stood behind a woman in a wheelchair, pit-patting their applause.
Maddie jerked back to her father—whose attention had returned to the window. His expression remained as dispassionate as those of the composers in her case. Once again she stood before him, alone and unseen. She’d become the beige walls, the tiled floor. An insignificant fixture he passed in the hall.
She sank down onto the bottom corner of his bed. Instrument resting beside her, she leaned toward him. “Daddy, it’s me ... Maddie. I know you can hear me.”
At least she hoped so. Even more today than usual.
Suddenly she recalled her impromptu audience. She glanced at the empty doorway before continuing. “Since my visit last week, some things have happened. You see, the thing is that Lane—the Lane you’ve known for years—well, he proposed to me. In a couple days, we’re supposed to get married.”
For a second, she envisioned her father shooting to his feet, outraged she had accepted without his consent, a sure sign he’d heard her.
He didn’t react.
“I love Lane, I honestly do. It’s just happening so fast. We’ve only been dating since the spring, and he’s been away half the time at school. Then there’s Juilliard, and now he’s got a job offer in California. . . I’m not sure of anything anymore. And even if I were, how can I do any of this without you?” She went to touch his hand, but reconsidered. Grasping fingers that made no effort in return would crumble the strength she’d rebuilt, day after day, note by not
e.
Maddie tightened her grip on her violin, growing more insistent. “You’re supposed to walk me down the aisle. You’re supposed to tell me what a good choice I’ve made, and that we’re going to live happily ever after.” The impossibility of it all brought tears to her eyes. “Please, Daddy,” she urged in a whisper, “talk to me.”
He continued to stare out the glass. He didn’t utter a sound.
Her answer, however, came regardless. From a cavern of truths, it echoed from deep inside. All she had to do was listen.
12
Hunched over the kitchen table, TJ attacked the page with a vengeance. He scrubbed at his lead markings with a pencil eraser, but the layered numbers still peeked through. Five layers to be exact. That’s how many times he’d been stumped by the blasted stats equation.
Such a waste. Waste of an evening, wasted effort. Baseball had already taught him all the math he ever wanted to use. Measurements from the mound to every point of the plate, the trajectory of hits, angles of pitches, addition of runs, the subtraction of players.
He’d chosen Business as his major. It seemed the least specific option. In actuality, a degree was never part of the plan. His vision of the future had been nothing but stripes. Not of the flag, a symbol of patriotic roles meant for guys like Lane. No, his own allegiance lay with the good ol’ Yankees, with those dapper stripes, their topnotch talent. And TJ’s name could have been—should have been—added to their roster long before now.
Freshman year, only one teammate besides himself had been recruited on scholarship. The second baseman, a fellow All City player, signed last year with the Red Sox. Yet here was TJ, still stuck in Boyle Heights, trying to rid his life of another mistake that couldn’t be wiped clean.
Although that didn’t keep him from trying.
Rubber shavings scattered as he wore down the eraser at an angle. When the nub snapped off, the pencil’s top skidded across the paper. The metal rim tore a rut through the single problem he’d actually gotten right.
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Page 6
