It was a ridiculous thought—Emma being eight.
Then Maddie noticed a paper taped to the window, covering the hole from a thrown brick, reminding her that anything was possible.
Anxiety rising, she strained to see through a narrow opening between the closed drapes. She could make out a mere sliver of the floor. No movement. Below the patched hole, she discovered a wider view. Her hand cleared a circle on the dusty glass. The couch was gone. And the coffee table. The whole formal room appeared empty.
At the shop, she’d heard mortifying tales of people walking straight into Japanese American homes and taking what they pleased, knowing the families were too afraid to call the police. Had the Moritomos, too, been robbed?
“Hello! It’s Maddie. Hello!” She tried the knob. Unlike most houses, it was locked. Sifting through possibilities of what had happened, she rushed to the next-door neighbor’s. She pounded on the door with her fist.
A plump Mexican woman poked her head out. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I think burglars may have broken into the Moritomo home. All of their things—we need to call the police.”
To Maddie’s dismay, the woman didn’t dash to the phone. Her features simply drooped, their sullenness explained through words that cracked the sky.
“The family moved away.”
24
How was it possible? Plenty of food in the pantry and yet TJ couldn’t find a single thing to eat. This always seemed the case anymore. Reaching for things he couldn’t have. An appetite for what he couldn’t see, couldn’t identify.
Flicking the last cupboard closed, he heard footsteps in a rapid climb of the stairs. He hollered up, “Maddie? Have you seen the tomato soup I bought?” Quick and easy, it was better than nothing. He hadn’t eaten anything since his breakfast of stale Butter Horns on campus.
“Maddie?” he yelled again. A door upstairs slammed.
Oh, boy. Now what?
Given their cordial exchanges over the week, he couldn’t imagine being the cause of today’s annoyance. In fact, he hadn’t talked to her since yesterday morning on his way out.
He went upstairs, rapped on her door. The sound of dresser drawers opening and closing projected from inside. Concern drew him into the room.
He watched his sister skitter about. Her hair hung haphazardly from her twisted-up do. Dried tears streaked her powdered face. She snagged blouses from her bureau and tossed them into a suitcase on her bed.
“Where are you going?”
At the closet, she tore through the hangers. She was moving on a different plane, where no one else existed. Garments slipped off and landed in puddles of fabric. She grabbed two skirts and a dress, added them to the chaos of her luggage.
“Maddie, stop.” He raised his voice to break through, then closed his hand around her wrist. After a reflexive tug, she stilled. Her eyes raised, brimmed with pain. Before he dared to ask what had happened, she fell into his arms.
“He’s gone,” she said. “Lane’s family. They sold everything and ... just left.”
The news hit like a spitball to the chest. It’s what TJ had wanted—what he’d asked for, even—but somehow he didn’t see it coming.
He rubbed his sister’s back. “It’ll be all right,” he repeated over and over. Each time he tried to sound more convincing. Her fresh tears soaked through his T-shirt, though it was guilt that stung his skin.
“Where could they have gone?” she said as if to herself, which explained her packing frenzy.
“Maddie, you can’t go off chasing them around the country. They could be anywhere. If it’s meant to work out with you and Lane, it will. After the war maybe.” He couldn’t believe what he was suggesting.
“They couldn’t have gone far,” she concluded as she straightened. She was solving, not listening. “His father. How could Lane leave with his father still away?”
“His dad’ll be fine,” TJ insisted. “Lane said it was only a formality. I’m sure he’ll be back with his family soon.”
“But how will he know where ...” As her question trailed off, she took a step back. “When did Lane tell you that?”
“When did—what?” he stammered, catching himself too late.
“You talked to him,” she realized.
TJ avoided her eyes. Nonetheless, he could sense her viewing his memories; his confrontation with Lane was replaying like a scene in a picture show.
“It was you,” she said.
“Maddie . ..”
“You did this.”
“Now, just hold on. Listen to me.” He reached out, but she jerked away.
He anticipated a furious outburst. Instead, her reply came slow and molten. “Get ... out.” The two words screamed with finality.
Then she turned toward the window, arms hugging her middle, and stared with the bearing of a stranger.
“Another one!” a drunkard yelled from the other end of the bar from TJ.
The bartender took the liberty of pouring the man a coffee, told him it was spiked with booze and on the house. He then stopped in front of TJ. “Problem with the drink, pal?”
Ordering a shot of whiskey had seemed a fresh solution, to drown his troubles, if only for a night. Everything else had failed. Since the accident, he’d steered clear of anything except an occasional beer. But why? Drink or not, he’d be damned if he became his father.
“The whiskey’s fine.” To prove it, TJ threw back the shot. Liquid heat hurtled down his throat and flamed his chest. “The same,” he rasped.
Towel slung over his shoulder, the bartender refilled the glass. TJ didn’t waffle over this one. He had no reason to. For the first time since he was a youngster, he had no coach demanding he keep his nose clean, no parents setting the rules. Just a sister who believed he was ruining her life. Which maybe he was.
The alcohol swished around in his stomach. Without food in there for padding, he already felt a light sway of his barstool. He envisioned himself on a raft, air seeping from a hole. He was scrambling to plug the leak, but another puncture appeared, and another. The holes expanded until he realized he’d been patching them with a knife, and nothing would keep him from sinking.
“Can I settle the check?” a guy nearby asked the bartender. In response, the man nodded and started tabulating on his order pad.
“Kern, right?”
TJ turned to the customer. Tall and skinny. Looked familiar.
“Eugene Russell,” he said, indicating himself. “We have Management class together. Or had, I should say.”
“Why, you drop the course?” TJ’s question stemmed not from interest in his classmate, but from a desire to do just that. Way things were going, he’d have to work like a hound to skim by with a passing grade.
“My buddies and I are enlisting today. Just stopped here for a bite to eat on the way.” Across the room, a group of three preppy college boys rose from their table, putting on their jackets.
“Good for you.” TJ returned to his empty glass, ready for a refill.
“Six-fifty,” the bartender announced.
The tall kid produced seven crisp bills from his wallet. “Keep the change,” he offered with pride, then said to TJ, “Take it easy. Oh, and good luck with the season.”
Yeah. The season.
“Thanks.”
The guy rejoined his friends by the table. Smiles plastered their faces, a sign of purpose gleaming their eyes. How nice to have a purpose, to get out of this city and start over. Someplace where your history, your mistakes, weren’t hunkered around every corner prepared to pounce.
TJ motioned to the bartender for another shot, though it was the last thing his stomach wanted. What did he want? He wished he knew. Those guys heading for the door, they knew what they were after. Had a future ahead guaranteeing respect. Parades. Medals. Gold stars and glory in death. He could almost hear the regal notes of “Taps” playing on a horn, could see the pomp of a folded flag.
The scene suddenly had a
ppeal.
“Russell, wait.” His voice flew out, swinging the kid around. Before TJ could think twice, he let the next words fall. “I’m coming too.”
PART THREE
A sparrow flew in amongst a group of happily
playing quiet waterfowl and disturbed the peace.
For the sake of the pond’s peace
the young sparrow will leave and fly away.
—Okumura Hirofumi
excerpt from a farewell letter to his lover
25
Rolling onto the graveled lot, the Buick digested its last sip of fuel and choked to a stop. Lane gripped the steering wheel, palms sweating from dreaded awareness: The dusty filling station in front of him, eight miles from their latest motel, was his family’s final option. His hunt for gasoline had stretched past noon, winding him through the small Texan town planted south of the New Mexico border.
With his unpolished shoes, he brushed aside Hershey’s wrappers on the floorboard—remnants from Emma’s snacks during their cross-country drive—and stepped out of the car. The tang of diesel struck harder than the untrusting eyes of a middle-aged couple seated in their pickup truck. A shotgun hung on the back window of their cab.
Lane made his way toward the station attendant. The freckled teen, skin blotched from the May sunlight, was swiping his forehead with a rag when he froze.
“My tank’s empty.” Lane gestured to his car, which appeared as worn as he felt. “I’d like to fill it up if I could.”
The kid didn’t respond at first, stuck in deep fascination, as if a Martian had just landed and asked to refuel his ship. “I—uh, sure—awright.”
It wasn’t until Lane absorbed the words, and balked at the guy’s agreement, that he realized how little hope he had sustained. “Thank you,” he said. He stopped himself from volunteering the number of times he’d been refused gas during their trek from L.A. to Santa Fe. Now en route to the detention center in Crystal City, supposedly his father’s most recent transfer, their luck hadn’t been much better. Maybe things were turning around.
“Would you mind giving me a hand to bring it closer?” Though wary of asking for too much, Lane would need help rolling the vehicle over to the pump.
“Yessir.” The kid followed him, then spread his hands on the rear of the Buick.
Lane opened the driver’s side and prepared to push while steering. “Ready?”
A man’s holler interrupted. “What’re you doing there, Junior?”
“Just movin’ this car over, Pa.” The kid righted himself, his shoulders still hunched. “Fella’s outta gas.”
“You leave it alone now,” his father ordered. Streaks of oil stained his mechanic’s jumper. Beside him, the customer from the truck stood with hands hitched on his trousers, watching. “You heard me, Junior. Go on, now.”
As the kid stepped away, Lane felt a bubbling of emotion. “Please,” he said to the mechanic, “just give me some gas and I’ll happily leave.” While intended as a plea, the words came out with a gruffness he didn’t intend.
“Sorry, can’t help ya here.” The man sounded anything but apologetic. “Have to take your business elsewhere.”
Lane spoke as calmly as he could through gritted teeth. “How am I supposed to take my car anywhere? Tank’s completely empty.”
“Reckon that’s your problem to solve, now, ain’t it?”
The customer at the man’s side slid a glance to his gun rack. Inside the pickup, the woman gripped the dashboard. Fret filled her eyes. In that look, Lane saw it all. Through a distorted lens of fear, implanted from Pearl Harbor, his crime was unforgivable. Even worse than murder, he had stolen their security. And eliminating the thief was a sure way to recoup that loss.
Lane showed them his palms, a sign of surrendering. He walked backward several paces, the tension waning with distance. At the border of the lot, he turned and started the long walk toward the motel.
“Hey, fella,” the kid called after him. “Don’t you want your keys?”
He gave the single response they all wanted from him.
His silence.
“Onsan!” Emma threw her arms around Lane the minute he returned. “Where have you been? You were gone so long.”
He hugged her back, and for a moment, any troubles that existed outside their dingy rented room scattered beyond care. “Sorry, Em. It just took a bit longer than I thought.”
“Onaka ga—” His mother spoke from a corner chair, then began again. “We hungry.” Her tone verged on a scolding, but Lane felt no offense. The worry that creased the edges of her eyes betrayed her veneer.
He pulled on a smile. As head of the family, the solution was his to find. “Let me clean up and we’ll go get some food.” He crossed the room, the bedding as threadbare as the mud-colored carpet. An odor resembling an old attic stretched into the bathroom, where unseen mold heaved its mildewy breaths.
Door closed, he splashed water on his face. Rust ringed the sink. He let the drops trail off as he stared into the mirror. His face had aged five years. A whorl of hair fanned upward, confused by the absence of Brylcreem. His white buttoned-down shirt was tinted with dust from passing cars; that, and more than two months of rotating through the same suitcase of clothing.
He went to the toilet, its sound of running water a nuisance, and retrieved his Mason jar from the tank. Coins tumbled against a thinning cushion of dollar bills. Their cash savings wouldn’t last forever. That’s what he’d told Maddie when she had proposed they run away.
At the thought of her, a string of memories rose into view. He could see the two of them at an aquarium, laughing as they fed the barking seals. He saw a folded note stamped with a lipstick mark that she’d slipped into his coat: Missing you. He had found it while on his train ride to Stanford at the start of fall. That’s what the season had been—a steady fall from the life he’d known. One Maddie didn’t need to suffer.
“You made the right decision,” he said firmly to his reflection.
He almost believed it.
Glancing around at the chipped tiles, the window too small to escape through, he reassessed their mission. Hunting for their father served no purpose other than to keep them moving. Even if the man was indeed in Crystal City when they arrived, then what? Seeing him would be out of the question. A receptionist at the Santa Fe detention center had explained that repeatedly, encouraged them not to waste the effort.
And how would they get there—by bus? How many more motels would refuse them rooms? How long before they were denied passage? Residents at several state borders were said to be blocking eastbound Japanese attempting to resettle voluntarily.
No state wanted to be California’s dumping ground, a columnist had reported.
Lane rotated the jar in his hands. Clink, clink, clink. Bargain hunters had bought their appliances and furnishings for five cents on the dollar. Clink, clink, clink. A green portrait of Thomas Jefferson peered from a two-dollar bill. Lincoln’s profile shone bright in bronze. These were the faces that represented the America he knew, the men who fought for freedom and equality. The very values that defied racial internment.
Still, under their leadership, their worthy causes had required sacrifice. Maybe Lane ought to accept his own duty, no matter how wrong it all seemed. Besides, what else could he do? Evacuation of the West Coast’s Japanese was in full swing, and jobs would undoubtedly run scarce for a man with slanted eyes. Highlights of the relocation centers, on the other hand, included occupations and newly built housing, recreational activities and schools.
Emma needed to be in school. She needed to be with other kids. According to a spokesman, ten camps had been established to protect, not punish, more than a hundred thousand of Japanese heritage. Lane had discounted the claim as a guise, but perhaps truth lay within the propaganda.
God, he missed his father. Nobu Moritomo would know what to do.
A knock on the door turned him. “Onsan, I’m staaarving.”
He clutched the jar
and opened the door. Emma looked up at him with eager eyes. He tenderly squeezed her chin, praying he was about to do the right thing. “We’ll get something to eat,” he promised her, “right after we pack.”
“I thought we weren’t going to Crystal City till tomorrow.”
“We’re not going to Crystal City anymore.”
“Then, where are we going?”
Lane met his mother’s puzzled gaze before he answered. “Back home.”
26
From the urgency of Bea’s entrance, Maddie tensed for disastrous news.
“Lordy, Maddie. You won’t believe it. You simply won’t.” Bea panted as she closed the shop’s door. “Oh, sugar, watch the iron.”
Maddie lifted the appliance from a customer’s pleated skirt in the nick of time.
“Just let me catch my breath.” Bea fanned herself with an envelope from the counter. An intentional delay, it seemed. What could have gone so wrong to give her second thoughts about relaying her discovery?
Oh, no—TJ. He must have been wounded. Could word travel faster through conversation than a telegram? He was still only in training with the Army Air Corps, but accidents occurred all the time. He could have been shot in a misfire at gunnery school.
Maddie had told him she agreed with his enlistment, after her initial jolt. Told him that giving each other space would be good for them both. But she hadn’t expected how hollow the house would feel, amplifying worries over his safety. Nor how challenging it would be to maintain a cool distance in their letters, which she suddenly regretted.
“Tell me what happened,” Maddie said to Bea. Get it over with.
“It’s Mrs. Valentine. She was at the nursing home today visiting her aunt. I just happened to bump into her outside my husband’s office while I was droppin’ off his lunch. You remember Mrs. Valentine, don’t you? She used to make those Christmas wreaths your daddy always bought to raise money for the Girl Scouts.”
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Page 14
