Propelled by the promise to his sister, he continued down the empty street. He stepped on scraps from wooden crates. He followed the trail of crinkled flyers. The same proclamations were posted on utility poles.
INSTRUCTIONS TO ALL PERSONS OF JAPANESE ANCESTRY
Forcing the exodus of an entire race from an area had become disturbingly efficient. The pages detailed where and when to report, what they were and weren’t permitted to pack.
At least Lane’s family didn’t have to worry about the limitation of bringing only what they could carry; that’s all they had left. Little more than essentials remained after shedding items for their long bus ride back to California. Sunny Southern Cal, with its sandy beaches and lush palm trees. Where imagination bloomed and hope streamed in the sunlight.
Of course, none of these could be found in the confines of the temple’s basement. In a time not so far back, Lane’s mother would have griped plenty over their creaky squeezed-in cots, the mix of body odors from strangers varied in caste. But not now. And her silence, outside of one- or two-word answers, bothered him more than her complaining ever could.
Lane paused to review his surroundings. His feet had steered him to the last place he would have chosen. Kitty-corner from Kern’s Tailoring. Miles of aimless walking hadn’t been aimless after all. He wasn’t wearing his watch—he’d hawked that too—but was certain the lights inside were shining for Bea. Maddie would be home, making supper for herself and TJ. Meat loaf and creamed corn, or a chicken casserole with Green Goddess Salad. Those were the dishes she had made when Lane used to join them.
At her absence now, disappointment flowed through him, but also relief. Seeing her would only make matters worse. Only tempt him to retract the lie he had told her.
“Holy Toledo. I don’t believe my eyes!”
The familiar voice swung Lane around. In a khaki Army uniform, Dewey Owens was exiting Canter Brother’s Deli. The last contact from the guy had been a brief but supportive note. He’d mailed it with Lane’s belongings from the dorm.
“Good to see you.” Lane smiled and accepted an outstretched hand. A friendly face was never so welcome.
“I can’t believe you’re in town. Thought you and your family were zooming around the country.” Dewey made it sound as though they had been off on a whirlwind vacation, a road trip on a whim.
Lane was trying for a simplified answer when two GIs emerged from the restaurant. They looked on with unreadable expressions.
“Fellas! Let me introduce you.” Dewey sped through their names, and all exchanged handshakes and nice-to-meet-yous. Then the two soldiers backed up a few paces, lighting their Lucky Strikes. Lane would like to think they were merely giving the old roommates space to catch up, but who knew anymore?
“What’re you doing out here tonight?” Dewey asked.
“I was just looking in on a friend.” Lane’s chin inadvertently motioned toward the tailor shop, causing Dewey’s eyes to follow. No chance taking the gesture back. He tried distracting with small talk, but the guy wasn’t listening.
“So that’s the dream girl... .”Dewey grinned, sly as an alley cat. Leave it to him to make a crack about ogling Beatrice. Lane went to sling a retort—the guy’s colorful love life had produced an ample amount of dirt—until he glimpsed the store window. There, Maddie appeared inside. She was hanging garments on a wall hook, balancing the fabric, picking off lint. His breath hitched at the sway of her auburn hair, the memory of feeling the silky strands on his skin.
But then he recalled what had happened since, that those times were over, and ... that he’d never told Dewey about their courtship.
“How did you know?”
“About Maddie?”
Lane nodded.
“I was your roommate for almost four years, buddy. You think I’m that oblivious?” He gave Lane’s upper arm a pat. “Do I get to meet her or what?”
Lane peered at the woman behind the glass. “She doesn’t know I’m in town,” he said. “It’s better that way.” Slowly, he tore his focus from her. “So you’re an Army man, huh?”
Dewey shrugged. “Put me in Intelligence, if you can believe it.”
“And they still expect us to win?”
“Guess they were smart enough not to give me live ammo.”
Lane smiled, and for an instant, he envisioned himself in the same uniform—but only an instant. Even if the U.S. military weren’t turning away Nisei, his patriotism had depleted too much to volunteer.
“Owens, we’re gonna split,” said one of the soldiers, flicking his cigarette butt onto the sidewalk.
“I’m coming.” Dewey turned to Lane. “We’re hitting some bars on Wilshire. Come out with us.”
Lane considered the invitation. He appreciated any enticement to draw him from the temptation across the street. Then he spied a policeman in the distance meandering in their direction, and the invisible bars of curfew and travel restrictions returned.
“Actually, I’d better get back. We have to report to St. Timothy’s by nine in the morning for evacuation. So ...”
Dewey’s face tightened, a mixture of sympathy and wanting to beat a fistful of sense into someone. But he simply said, “Take care of yourself.”
“You too,” Lane offered with equal sincerity.
They shook hands good-bye, then Dewey followed his friends around the bend.
Lane slid his hands into his jacket pockets. He glanced at the storefront once more, just as Maddie clicked off the first set of lights. Closing time. Before she turned off the second, he raised his collar around his ears and headed toward the temple. Empty-handed, nothing for Emma. Another promise broken.
29
Engines awoke in the distance, a stagger of roars that cinched Maddie’s throat with panic. Her pace doubled in speed. Her leather heels clicked a staccato rhythm on the city sidewalk. She forced air in and out, in and out, against the burn crawling up the walls of her lungs.
Nine o’clock, that’s what Lane’s roommate had said when the operator connected his call that morning. Told her that his conscience wouldn’t let him ship off without at least telling her Lane was in town, but if she wanted to see him, she had until nine o’clock.
She’d raced out the door. No time to think.
At last, she was almost there....
A young soldier stood up ahead. He hugged his bayonet-fixed rifle across his chest, his stance undoubtedly fresh from Army basic. He stared hard into the sky, as if reading his mission etched in the ribbon of clouds. The enemy, have to protect our country from the enemy.
The thought curled Maddie’s fingers.
In a glance briefer than a blink, the GI sized her up, her ivory skin an armor of presumed innocence. She swerved around him, not missing a beat. To her left, personal effects awaited transit in a snaking queue. Cribs and ironing boards, labeled trunks and boxes. Their tags dangled in the spring sun.
Around the corner, evacuees were amassed before the steepled church. Red Cross volunteers handed out coffee.
“Lane! Where are you?” Her words died in the bedlam, smothered by a baby’s cry, a rumbling jeep, a little girl’s hysterics.
“But I don’t want to go,” the girl shrieked, face stained red. “Mommy, I want to stay with you!” Tears streamed from the slanted eyes that cursed the child, dripping trails down the puffy sleeves of her lilac dress. Two nuns pried her fingers from the Caucasian woman’s arms and guided the youngster toward the bus.
“Everything will be fine, pumpkin,” the mother choked out against a sob. “Mommy and Daddy will come see you soon.” A suited man beside her added, “You be a good girl, now.” His Anglo features contorted in despair as he limply waved.
A reporter snapped a photo.
Who knew a piece of paper could carry so much power? One presidential order and an orphan could lose another family; one signed petition and marriage vows could be unsaid. Thank God she hadn’t mailed the papers yet. Stamped and sealed, but not mailed.
Ma
ddie scanned the faces around her, their features similar to Lane’s, but none as flawless. None bearing the deep beauty of his eyes, his smile.
“Lane!” she shouted louder. The trio of chartered buses was filling. Within minutes, he would be gone.
“Excuse me, miss. May I help you?” A priest touched her arm. His wrinkled face exuded warmth that penetrated the morning chill.
“Moritomos—I have to find them.” Exhaust fumes invaded the air, causing her to cough.
He patted her back. “Now, now, dear. Let’s see what we can do.” They wove through the crowd, her gaze zipping from one figure to the next. Beige identity tags hung from lapels, around buttons. Branded in their Sunday best like a herd of cattle.
“Sergeant,” the priest called out. He stepped up to a bulky Army man in the midst of lecturing two privates. “Sergeant,” he tried again, “I hate to interrupt, but ...”
“Hold your water,” the guy barked, before turning and noting the source. His shoulders lowered. “Sorry, Father. What is it you need?”
“This young lady, here, she’s trying to locate a particular family.”
“The Moritomos,” Maddie cut in.
The sergeant sighed heavily as he lifted his clipboard. He flipped forward several pages and began his search through the list. With the top of his pen, he scratched his head beneath his helmet. He blew out another sigh.
This was taking too long.
Maddie leaned in, trying to see the smudged names herself. Maeda ... Matsuda ... Minami ... Miyamoto ...
The sergeant turned to the next page and looked up. “What’s that name again?”
She fought to keep her composure. “Moritomo. Lane Moritomo.”
A loud hiss shot from behind. The first bus was pulling away, followed by the next. Another hiss and the doors slammed closed on the last Greyhound in line. The crowd launched into waves of farewells and see-you-soons, whenever, wherever that might be.
“Maddie.” A muffled voice barely met her ears. It came again, stronger. “Maddie, over here!” Someone yanked open a dusty windowpane on the remaining bus. It was Lane, reaching across seated passengers to see her.
She wasn’t too late!
Calling his name, she bumped through elbows to get to the blue-and-white striped transport. She scrambled for his hand until their grips linked, his skin soft as a glove. When a smile slid across his face, all else paled to a haze. Time reversed, back to happier days, before the ground had crumbled on a fault line, dividing their world in two.
“I didn’t mean what I said,” he implored, “at the diner... .”
“I know,” she assured him, for it was a truth she had carried inside. Still, her heart warmed from the confirmation in his eyes.
Then the bus began to move.
“No matter what happens, Maddie, know that I’ll always love you.”
She tightened her grasp, refusing to let go. “I’ll be waiting. However long it takes.”
On the balls of her feet she hastened her stride. She struggled to keep up, but the wheels were spinning too fast. Against her silent pleas, their connection wouldn’t hold and his fingers slipped beyond reach.
30
Entering the room was even harder than TJ had expected, and the sight more alarming.
Hunched in a ladder-back chair, the robed man stared distantly out the window. His profile resembled little of the father TJ remembered. Graying scruff lined his jaw. Wrinkles created a road map of time and tragedy.
TJ dropped his duffel bag on the rest home floor. Garrison cap in hand, he took a step forward, then another. The clicking of his polished shoes on tile didn’t prompt a reaction. His father’s blue eyes held on a summer sky of the same shade.
TJ reached for an adjacent chair, but changed his mind. He wouldn’t be staying long.
“Dad, it’s me.”
Nothing. Just staring.
He tried again, louder. “I said, it’s me. TJ.”
On the train ride home that morning, he had contemplated this moment. The “delay in route” supplied his last chance to confront his father before deployment. If nothing else, he ought to say good-bye. In case.
“I know you probably can’t hear me, but ...” He cleared the rasp from his throat and straightened in his uniform. The shiny gunner’s wings surely would have made his old man proud. Not that TJ cared. Why would he anymore?
“I just came to tell you that I’m shipping out soon, and I thought ... I thought that ...”
He rubbed a hand over his buzz cut, running low on words but heavy on memories. Snippets of his past assembled in a collage: his mother’s seven-bean stew that once won a ribbon at a local fair; little Maddie following him everywhere, close as Peter Pan’s shadow; his parents cheering from the stands after TJ’s first no-hitter; and at the center of the images, his last camping trip with his father before college began. They’d lounged around the campfire, sipping their pungent coffee. Croaking frogs and chirping crickets had provided a backdrop to their comfortable silence.
So many moments. Now all irrelevant.
Here, in this structured enclosure, nature’s sounds gave way to the squeaking of rubber soles and rolling carts, the clinking of metal trays. Each sound depicted movement with purpose. Of passersby in the hallway driven by the needs of others.
Faced by the contrast of his father’s world, one of mere existence, TJ felt sympathy form low in his chest. It expanded like a bubble as he studied the room. The framed dime-store prints, the narrow bed, its solitude folded into Army-tight corners.
Then a thought returned. He’d sworn he would never forgive his father. Sworn it with everything in him. From that recollection, the sphere of sympathy popped, pricked by a needle of blame.
“Mr. Kern,” a nurse said, entering. “Time for—oh, pardon me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I was just leaving,” TJ told her, to which she gave a reassuring wave.
“There’s no hurry, dear. I was fetching him for his afternoon walk. Are you a friend of the family?”
“No,” TJ said, before adding, “He’s ... my father.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize he had a—” She stopped herself and smiled uncomfortably. “How silly of me. I should’ve seen the resemblance. Well. Feel free to take your time. I’ll swing by later.”
“No need, ma’am. I have to go anyway.” He turned to his father, and without meeting his eyes, he bid a quick good-bye.
TJ recognized the tune but not the voice.
He set his duffel and tunic in the entry of his house, and followed the lyrics of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” toward the kitchen. August had warmed the hall by a good fifteen degrees since the day he’d left, yet more than the temperature felt different.
The scent of a baking dessert piqued his curiosity, pushing out reflections on his father, and drew TJ closer to the singer. In the kitchen, she stood with her back to him.
Jo Allister ... he should have guessed. She belted out an off-key high note that made him smile rather than cringe.
Arms folded, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. Her bound hair bobbed like a buoy as she diddel’d and yada’d about a Chicago trumpet man playing reveille. She sponged the tiled counter in a circular motion that matched the beat of her swaying hips. Nice sway actually. And nice hips. Her typical outfits were hand-me-downs from her brothers, hiding what now appeared to be an attractive figure. Her tan pedal pushers hinted to as much, even if her baggy button-down shirt, knotted at the waist, didn’t. Which was a real shame, since—
TJ bridled the rest. This was Jo, the equivalent of another sister. Not to mention Maddie’s best friend. Striking up more than friendship would verge on hypocrisy, considering his view of Lane. Besides, at this point, nothing good could come of a romance with anyone.
“You’re home,” Jo exclaimed in mid-turn. Her bronze eyes lit with delight, before the spark blew out. He could see her recalling their last encounter, the full bucket of anger he’d dumped on her. “Maddie said you w
eren’t comin’ till tomorrow.” Her altered tone implied she had planned to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“I was released from the base earlier than I thought.”
“Mm.”
She gave his uniform a quick glance that showed no sign of being impressed, then retreated to the sink. Heat from the oven radiated through the room.
Setting his hat aside, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “So how’ve you been?”
She scrubbed her hands with soap, hard, not addressing the question. “Maddie should be back soon. She’s delivering clothes to a neighbor on Fairmount, for the stamps she got.”
“Stamps?”
Jo sighed, annoyed. “They made a trade. Maddie mended some trousers for ration coupons, ’cause she didn’t have enough sugar. And she wanted to bake you a cake.” Under her breath, she added, “Though only God knows why.”
Boy oh boy, Jo was a tough nut. Oddly, though, he found her even more likable after seeing her in a huff. “So, what kind of cake you got there?”
“Devil’s Food,” she said after a pause.
“Ah, yeah? My favorite.”
“Yeah, I know—” The sentence caught. She grabbed a plaid dish towel and dried her hands. “Since you’re here now, you can keep an eye on the baking. Just pull it out when the bell goes off. It’s flour-less, so it’ll be denser than usual.” She set the towel on the counter and walked past him.
“Come on,” he said. “Don’t rush off.”
“Got stuff to do.”
“Jo ...”He trailed her toward the entry, led by a growing need to keep her there. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed their talks, or just being with her, till now. “Jo,” he said again.
But she flat-out ignored him. Her hand made it to the door handle when he blurted, “I saw my dad today.”
It was enough to halt her.
Slowly, cautiously, Jo faced him. She waited for him to continue.
“Figured I should ... with me shipping out on Sunday.”
She nodded, disdain dropping away. “How’d it go?”
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Page 16
