Of course, that home was now withering. In absence of his passion for the game, the banisters dangled and stairs creaked. The pipes were leaking, warping the floors. But so long as the support beam remained, the house would stand.
That’s why word about his coach’s plans couldn’t be true. Besides, look at the guy. He was a middle-aged family man, juggling three sports for the school. No way he was leaving all that behind.
“Coach,” TJ said, “got a minute?”
Coach Barry held a pencil in one hand, team roster in the other. “What’s on your mind, son?” He scribbled notes in the margins as TJ debated on his approach, decided to keep it light.
“Just thought you’d get a kick out of hearing the latest, is all. Some of the guys, they’re saying you up and enlisted.” He forced out a small laugh to punctuate the lunacy of the idea. Only way TJ himself would be serving was through the draft. No point in volunteering for a war due to end in a year. “Bunch of hot air, right?”
Coach Barry stopped writing. He eased his head upward. The motion carried a reluctance that leveled TJ’s smile. “News sure spreads fast around here, doesn’t it?”
TJ twisted his glove, trying to squeeze sense out of what he was hearing. “You’re not saying you actually joined the Navy?”
“Never been one for the sidelines,” he said. “And with so many students joining up, figured I could at least do my bit by helping with training. I was planning to tell everyone after practice today.”
Within earshot, Paul Lamont was playing second base. He smirked at TJ, as though reveling in the news.
“Not to worry, though,” Coach Barry added. “Coach Dedeaux’s gonna take real good care of you boys while I’m gone. You just keep your eye on that diploma and give this season your all.” He patted TJ on the back. “Go on, son. You’re up now. Show Essick your best stuff.”
Sent on his way, mind reeling, TJ trudged toward the mound. Sure enough, seated in the stands amid scouts for the Red Sox and Dodgers was Bill Essick. The famed scout for the Yankees had discovered the likes of Joltin’ Joe and Lefty Gomez. Good ol’ “Vinegar Bill.” TJ hadn’t done much to impress the guy during winter league. Starting today, though, he could show all of them what he had. He could prove himself the gem they first caught a glimmer of two years ago.
Unfortunately, his arm had turned to rubber, weakened from the blow of Coach Barry’s news. The more he pondered his coach deserting them—the last constant in his life—the more his feeling of betrayal swelled.
Pitching would be his vent.
Once ready, he scuffed at the mound, sidled his foot up to the rubber. Greenery draped the surrounding fence leading to a scoreboard. No numbers on it today, this being practice, but today every pitch would count.
The catcher signed a screwball. TJ cleared his head as best he could. He aimed for a look of cool and collected, then let the first one fly.
A strike. With it came no satisfaction, just the compulsion to do it again. So that’s what he did. Gaining focus, he hurled one after the other. Knucklers, four-seamers, splitters, sinkers. What he lacked in control today, he made up for in power. Hard and determined he threw. His shoulder burned from exertion. His eyes stung from dust and disappointment. He didn’t listen for the song inside, the one he’d lost. It wouldn’t be coming back.
And who needed it? Who needed anyone, really?
Another of his teammates stepped up to bat, a new hotshot scholarship pitcher. He wiggled his spikes in place, gave a practice swing, and muttered something resembling a challenge. On another day, TJ would take the needling in stride, all part of the game. But right now, his mood demanded he stuff that cockiness back where it came from.
Fittingly, the catcher called for a slurve. When executed right, the experimental slide-curve combo created a nice weapon. An unexpected pitch to throw the guy off.
TJ channeled all of his emotions into the ball trapped in his glove. He didn’t bother to visualize the path, just the rookie’s humbled expression. Breath held, TJ drew back and unleashed the slurve full force. The ball swung wide, too wide, before it broke—wham into the hitter. His lower spine.
Shit.
Coach Barry rushed to the plate. Several players from the dugout did the same. Slowly, the batter rose from the huddle. They walked him off the field, not a single eye in TJ’s direction.
“Nice one, Kern.” Paul closed in with an ugly grin.
“Get back to your base.”
“That your new strategy? Wipe out the competition?”
TJ’s fingers clawed the interior of his glove as he tried like hell to ignore the weasel.
“Guess I don’t blame ya. With Coach Barry gone soon, you’ll be pulling slivers out of your ass from riding that bench.” Paul smacked his chewing gum around, a sound that grated on TJ’s nerves like sandpaper. “Or, you could just drop out now. Maybe join your Jap friend when they clear ’em out of the area. Hell, out of the whole country if we’re lucky.” More smacking as he turned for his base.
What happened next passed in a blur. TJ didn’t register his own actions until Paul was lying on the ground. The jerk scrambled to his feet and flung off his baseball cap, charged forward shouting. “You gonna shove me from behind, asshole?”
Other infielders interceded, keeping them apart.
“Come on, you coward! I dare you to try it again!” Paul reached through the nest of limbs and grabbed TJ’s sleeve. By the time TJ wrestled the grip loose, Coach Barry stepped up to mediate.
“Break it up, the both of you,” he barked. “Lamont, go cool off in the dugout.”
Paul’s wriggling stopped, but his glare remained on TJ.
“Now, Lamont!”
Conceding, Paul jerked away from his teammates’ restraining hands.
Coach Barry addressed TJ. “What was that all about?”
It wasn’t Paul’s potshots that had pushed TJ over the edge. It was the fact that the guy had seen the romance between Maddie and Lane first. And worse yet, that he’d embedded digs about Japs into TJ’s mind—about being liars and yellow and filthy—making the words far too easy to spit out.
“It was nothing,” TJ muttered, and straightened his cap with a tug.
Coach Barry glanced over at home plate. He shook his head helplessly. “Better call it a day,” he said.
TJ didn’t argue. And this time, he didn’t bother to gauge Essick’s reaction. He just tossed away his glove and walked off the field—with no intention of returning.
22
The unfathomable had become reality. President Roosevelt had signed an executive order, allowing the removal of any persons from any area the military saw fit. That area was turning out to be the entire West Coast; and the people, those with Japanese ancestry.
They started with Terminal Island. Gave them forty-eight hours to evacuate. How does an entire community pack up and move in forty-eight hours? Their families and houses, their livelihoods.
For months, Lane had hidden daily newspapers from his mother. There had been no need to rattle her further. History courses had taught him that journalists with extreme viewpoints tended to represent a vocal minority. Fanaticism and fear, over evidence and reason, sold papers. When the Los Angeles Times had printed declarations of vipers being vipers no matter where they were hatched, he’d dismissed his budding of anger. Paranoia would run its short course, and the typewriters would shift to accurately reflect the overall sentiment of the country.
But through FDR’s order, the country had spoken.
And Lane had been ruled a viper.
Seated in a far corner booth at Tilly’s Diner, Lane reviewed these thoughts to gather his courage. The manila envelope lay front-side down on the table. He told himself he was making the right decision; that he was giving Maddie the needed out she would never ask for.
Still, he regretted arriving so early, allowing too much time to think. He should have chosen another place to meet. At a diner, she would be expecting a casual, lingering date.
She approached the table smiling, radiant in her peach dress. He’d known her too many years not to recognize when she had put special effort into her appearance. Her hair hung long, pinned neatly at her temples. Rouge and lipstick brightened her face, spurring his urge to kiss her.
“Have you been here long?”
He shook his head. To his relief, she slid into the seat across from him; the division of the table hindered him from acting on impulse.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” she said, setting aside her pocketbook.
Hamburger sizzled and scented the air. From a corner of the room, a jukebox projected “Embraceable You” to a sparse early-lunch crowd. Autographed portraits of movie stars hung in frames on the wall. He noted all of this, not wanting to forget the place in which he and his friends—namely TJ—had spent countless hours over the years.
“Let me guess.” Maddie smiled. “Strawberry malt with extra whipped cream.”
He was about to agree, when he recalled the purpose of their meeting, and his gut churned. “Not today.”
Her eyes widened in exaggerated astoundment. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?”
“Maddie,” he began, “I need to tell you something.”
Gradually she sat back, as if becoming aware of the tension.
He cleared the resistance from his throat. But before he could continue, a navy-blue form swam into his periphery. Ruth stood at their table in her diner dress, a pencil behind her ear. She held her order pad to her chest.
Expecting her predictable greeting—The usual, Lane?—he interjected, “We need a few minutes, please.”
The waitress didn’t move. Her motherly features looked distraught. “I’m real sorry, sweetie. But we have a new manager, and, well, he thinks you’d be more comfortable eating somewhere else. I told him you probably just missed the sign, and you weren’t trying to make trouble.”
Lane lifted his eyes and discovered the back of a small poster taped to the window. He could imagine what it read without seeing the front. No Japs Allowed. There were plenty of the same around town, at markets and barbershops, but it hadn’t occurred to him that a place he’d grown up in would subscribe to the insanity.
“I’m real sorry,” Ruth repeated with genuine care, then left their booth, exposing a view of customers’ glares and whispers. Apparently he’d been too preoccupied to notice them.
“Come on, Lane.” Maddie clutched her pocketbook. “We’ll just go.” She slid from the seat and waited for him to respond.
Against the weight of humiliation he managed to rise.
Outside, they walked without speaking. They were halfway down the block, in search of an alternate spot, when Lane stopped her. There was no reason to delay the inevitable, and the gentle approach he’d planned had been whittled away.
“This is for you.”
Accepting the envelope, she said, “What is it?”
“Us being together,” he stated simply, “it isn’t going to work.”
Her face darkened, as he’d expected. But then she discarded his claim with a shake of her head. “We’ll be fine. I told you, we can move wherever we want to go.”
“We made a mistake.” The phrase felt like metal shavings in his mouth, each syllable a tiny razor. “It’s time we faced the truth.”
“Wh-what do you mean?”
“We made a mistake,” he forced out again.
“Stop saying that!” Her eyes lit with moisture, her skin flushed.
He restrained his arms from enfolding her. “The papers are already filled out. There’s a pen inside. Please just sign them.” He angled his head away. He could hear her slide the packet out, the gasp from her mouth.
“Divorce papers?”
After an infinite pause, no pages rustling, he glanced up to confirm she was reading. Rather, she was staring at him. From the devastation in her eyes, he felt a ripping in his chest, the severing of his heart.
“Lane, please don’t do this.” Her voice strained through her tears. She touched his cheek, and a slow burn moved over his skin. “You’re the only person I have left.”
He clasped her fingers, harnessing truth that would only destroy her in the end. And from behind his facade, he peered at her. “I’m sorry, Maddie. But I don’t love you anymore.”
Before his resolve could buckle, he turned and let her go.
23
“C’mon. Just try a little.” Maddie heard the words through the pillow covering the back of her head. “It’s a cinnamon roll, your favorite.” Jo’s gentle coaxing dwindled with her patience. “For Pete’s sake, you gotta eat somethin’. It’s dang near three o’clock.”
“I’m not hungry,” Maddie mumbled into the mattress. In fact, she doubted her appetite would ever return.
A soft clink indicated Jo had placed the silverware and plate on the nightstand, where the divorce packet remained. Since receiving it yesterday, Maddie couldn’t bear to open the envelope again.
The bed dipped as Jo took a seat. “You know, Maddie, could be this is for the best. Maybe it’s like that opera you told me about. Where the girl and guy are keen for each other, but they meet at the wrong time, and their worlds are just too different.”
Suddenly Maddie regretted that she’d relayed the premise of Aida. She needed someone to convince her that life could end happily. Like a snappy Broadway musical, not a tragic opera. Lane used to be that person for her.
Jo knew that. How could she suggest they’d be better off apart?
Lifting her head, Maddie squinted against the sunlight. “We’re not too different. Lane and I are supposed to be together, regardless of what others might think.”
Sure, their backgrounds varied, from finances to heritage. But they, as individuals, were the same. Their tastes in food and films were identical. During Amos ’n’ Andy radio shows, they were always the first two to laugh. And when it came to beliefs and values, they were a perfect match.
“Okay, you’re two peas in a pod.” Jo agreed so naturally, it was clear Maddie had fallen right into her trap. “So, why don’t you just go over and talk to him? Straighten all this out?”
“Because—it’s not that simple.”
“Oh. Oh, yeah, I see your point. You would, after all, have to stop feeling sorry for yourself long enough to change your clothes. How long you been in this outfit anyway?”
“I am not feeling sorry for myself.”
“Could’ve fooled me.”
Maddie groaned, retreating into the pillow. She should have known better than to call on Jo for sympathy. Raised in a household of boys, the girl hadn’t exactly mastered the art of coddling.
“Ah, Maddie. Forget the baloney he told ya. I mean, jeez Louise, if I ever had a fella look at me like that ... well. He loves you for sure. You know he’s only doing this to protect you. Boys are cavemen. They guard their clan. Granted, often in ways that make no sense whatsoever. And they almost always say the opposite of how they feel.”
In general, the explanation rang true, TJ being a prime example. The way he’d hold in his emotions, express them in an infuriating fashion. But Lane was an exception. He’d always been a straightforward guy. It was one of his greatest traits.
Although, given the current circumstances, anyone could act out of character, she supposed.
Maddie turned back toward Jo. Her eyes felt swollen from tears. “Do you really think he still loves me?” She searched her friend’s face for the truth.
“Yes,” Jo said with absolute certainty. “What’s just as important, though, is do you love him?”
Faced with the probability of losing Lane, her feelings were never clearer. “Oh, Jo. I love him so much, I can’t imagine living without him.”
“So fight for him.”
The suggestion sounded like the most obvious solution in the world. Perhaps it was. Again and again, Lane had fought for her, fought for them. If she didn’t return
the favor, and soon, she stood to lose him forever. But how?
She ran a finger along the side of the manila envelope. The document to end their marriage awaited her consent. What if she refused? He couldn’t divorce her unless she signed the papers, could he?
This was her decision to make too.
Mouth set with determination, Maddie kicked off the covers. She’d had her fill of being guided by others, based on what they felt best suited her. It was high time she took hold of her own future. She began by sifting through her closet and grabbed the mint-green sundress. The color of spring, to reflect a fresh start.
“What do you think?” she asked, holding the garment up to her body.
Jo’s lips curved into an approving smile. “I think he’s going to love it.”
Answer, answer, answer ...
Maddie stood at the Moritomos’ front door. With each of her steps to reach their house, her strength had gained volume and momentum. Her energy filled the porch. She felt ten feet tall.
About to knock again, she opted for the bell. She rang it twice and with purpose. Today, she had the confidence to persist even if Mrs. Moritomo opened the door. Maddie was prepared to wait for hours until Lane arrived should he be out—the cinnamon roll was enough to tide her over.
“Somebody answer,” she urged quietly.
Still no one.
She rose up on her toes to peek through the arched glass in the door. The foggy pane distorted her view. Lane had mentioned that his mother scarcely left since his father’s arrest. Maybe the woman had spotted Maddie through the peephole and was pretending not to be home. Or ...
Could the FBI have returned? Taken the whole family in for questioning?
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Page 13
