Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  “Fine, I guess. Doubtful he heard anything, but I said what I needed to.”

  A shadow of a smile lifted the corners of her lips. “That’s good.”

  In the quiet stretch between them, it dawned on him that she’d never had the chance to say good-bye to her own dad.

  “Well, I’d better get,” she said. “Your sister’s gonna want some time with you.”

  “Jo, listen. Before you go ...”

  She waited again.

  If he couldn’t right things with his father, he should at least make the effort elsewhere. “I wanted to say that ... that I’m sorry, for blaming you about Lane and Maddie. I was angry, and, well, it wouldn’t have been right for you to stick your nose in. So ... I’m sorry for putting you in the middle.”

  Jo arched a brow. “Wow. Two sorrys in a single day,” she mused. “How’d those feel coming out of your mouth, airman?”

  “Rough enough to chip a tooth.”

  “In that case, apology accepted.” When she grinned, he couldn’t help but laugh.

  “Seriously,” he told her, “why don’t you stay. If you helped bake the thing, you ought to enjoy a piece.”

  “What makes you so sure I helped bake anything for you?”

  The smudge of cake batter on her cheek gave her up. He walked over and gently swiped the evidence with his thumb. He meant to withdraw his fingers, but to his surprise, found he couldn’t. The softness of her skin held them in place. He looked into her eyes, and a feverish charge shot through him, sending a bead of sweat down his spine. His mind said to step back, but his body acted on its own. He watched his hand venture to her neck and her mouth slightly open. Her breath smelled of cocoa, her hair of lemon. He leaned several inches closer, wanting to taste the sweetness dusting her lips, when he heard a click.

  The front door.

  He shifted away with the speed of a rifle drill. “Maddie,” he said.

  His sister’s eyes widened—from his return, he hoped, not the scene. “TJ, you got in early! You should have wired me. I would’ve met you at the station.”

  “I—wanted to surprise you.”

  Maddie returned his smile. But then her lips relaxed as she glanced at Jo, whose skin had gained a shade of pink. Maddie’s attention bounced back to him with an air of suspicion. “Am I interrupting. . . ?”

  “What, us?” He scrunched his face, motioning to himself and Jo. She’s one of the guys, he said without saying it. “I was only walking her out.” An uneasy pause.

  “Yeah,” Jo said coolly. “I was just leaving.”

  Unable to meet Jo’s eyes, he tossed her a “see ya,” and headed for the kitchen.

  What the heck was he doing? Months of training with an assigned bomber group would do this to any fella, right? Too much time spent in the barracks. Too many postcards of pinup gals or chats about one broad or another. With the amount of testosterone packed into their B-17, it was a miracle they’d made it off the tarmac.

  At the sink, TJ downed a glass of water that wasn’t nearly cold enough. He refilled it as Maddie entered the room. Dodging an inquiry, he gestured to his uniform. “Whaddya think of the getup? Not too shabby, huh?”

  She shook her head at him. A skeptical look, he assumed, until she spoke. “I can’t believe you made corporal already.” Her face warmed with pride.

  Too bad the pride was unwarranted. In his view, he hadn’t earned the rank more than any other private. “Don’t let the stripes fool you. Just luck of the draw.”

  “Oh, I highly doubt that.”

  He didn’t respond, simply drank his water. Why dim her glowing opinion?

  “So ... ,” she said, a prompt that dangled. With nowhere to go from there, the conversation hovered over unwritten words in their letters.

  TJ preferred to concentrate on what had actually appeared on those pages. Six months of postal exchanges had helped fill the cracks in their relationship.

  “So,” he parroted as his sister checked on the oven. “Give me the dope. What’s the latest round here?”

  Maddie tucked her pageboy hair behind her ears and leaned back against the counter. “Well,” she said, thinking. “I did receive a nice note from Professor Mischakoff. He invited me to play for him again, once I get to New York. Sort of a final polish before going in front of the panel.”

  “Does that mean you got confirmation from the school, that they’ve given you an audition slot?”

  “They did.”

  “And what about the application for the scholarship?”

  “It’s taken care of.”

  “Filling it out, or mailing it?”

  “TJ.” She reached over and touched his sleeve. “I’ve got it handled. Really, I’m not a little girl anymore.”

  Despite the maturity she’d gained while he’d been away—more definition in her cheeks, more curves to her sundress—she was still his baby sister. Always would be.

  Skirting a debate over the point, he charged on. “And what about the shop? Business picked up any?”

  “A little. Lately most of the alterations are just to make old clothes last. But it’s all for the war effort, so we can hardly complain.”

  He was going to ask about managing the store, since they’d both be away soon, but then Maddie added, “Bea has assured me over and over she’ll have everything under control. Combined with your Army pay, the bills are covered. And Jo will be checking on the house.”

  Had his nagging become that predictable?

  TJ grinned in spite of himself. Tension inside him loosened, a settling into the familiar.

  In a casual tone, Maddie continued, “Lane’s family is doing all right, by the way, in case you’re wondering.”

  The run-in with Jo had thrown him off. Otherwise, he’d have been better prepared for this subject. He would have noticed, before now, the wedding band on his sister’s finger that solidified her stance.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, a reflexive reply he immediately regretted. He didn’t mean to cause the flicker of hope in her eyes.

  “I’m planning to go see them soon,” she said. “By train, it’s only about five hours away. I keep asking in my letters, but Lane told me they don’t allow visitors yet.” She paused and lifted a shoulder. “I was thinking, if you’re back here on furlough sometime, maybe ...”

  These, he recognized, were the unwritten words. He knew what she wanted in response, but as much as he loved his sister, he couldn’t give it to her.

  In the wake of his silence, she dropped her gaze to the counter. As she scraped her thumbnail at a dried spot of batter, he realized she might have the wrong idea.

  “I want you to know,” he told her, “I don’t necessarily agree with what’s been done. Driving the Japanese from their homes, putting them into camps. Just because I can’t forgive Lane doesn’t mean I think it’s right.”

  She raised her head. “But, why can’t you forgive him? You’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “You’re my sister.”

  “And he was a brother to you.”

  “Maddie, stop.” He rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. But soon, calming himself, he forced out a sigh. What harm would there be in giving her an inch? “Listen. When the war’s over and he comes back, and if you do end up staying together”—which hopefully wouldn’t be the case—“we’ll sort through everything then.” He finished gently, “Till that happens, let’s enjoy the time we’ve got before I ship out. Deal?”

  With a thoughtful nod, she offered a smile. “Deal.”

  The cooking timer rang, a welcomed interruption. Maddie clicked off the dial, and TJ handed her a potholder. He breathed in the heavenly wafts of chocolate as she retrieved the metal pan from the oven. His mouth salivated, starved for better food than Army chow.

  “Damn—I mean, dang, that looks good.” Again, too many hours with airmen and no ladies present. “Let’s dig in.”

  “Hold your hors
es. We have to let it cool first.”

  “No way. I ain’t waiting.”

  “But you’ll burn your tongue.”

  “A small price,” he said, pulling a fork from the drawer.

  “TJ Kern, don’t you dare eat out of the pan.” After a roll of her eyes, she conceded by reaching into the cupboard for plates. “Some things never change,” she muttered with a small laugh.

  Though TJ kept it to himself, he disagreed.

  Everything was changing.

  31

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about!” The guy shot up from his wooden bench at the mess hall meeting. Lane recognized him as a kitchen worker. A Nisei in his late twenties, he wore a thin mustache, a rarity among their community at the Manzanar camp.

  “Then why don’t you tell us what’s happening to our block’s sugar?” another fellow demanded. The roomful of seated Japanese men murmured their agreement. “You saying our supply’s been walking away on its own two feet?”

  “I’m saying you better think again before you accuse our crew of stealing.”

  Listeners fanned themselves with magazines, sheets of paper. The evening temperature sweltered. Lane had to consciously contain his urge to speak, his collegiate council days over. No good would come of intervening here, he’d learned. After ratcheting up, the meeting would land on its circular tracks. A repeat of arguments would roll out from every corner.

  The War Relocation Authority thought it a favor to allow self-government, but achieving cohesion was no simpler than finding a needle in a sack of rice. From immigrants’ dialects to cultural diversity, residents of the fourteen-barrack block differed in every way save one: the ancestry that had sentenced them to this desert wasteland.

  Tonight, as usual, it didn’t take long for the guys from Terminal Island—with their shogun-like attitudes and rough fisherman’s language—to make their opinions known. They wanted better meals and higher pay for jobs, improved medical treatment in the understaffed, undersupplied camp hospital. And they wanted someone to blame.

  “I say we get the whole camp to boycott meals,” one guy announced.

  “That’s genius,” a man behind him sneered. “Let’s starve ourselves. I’m sure the hakujin officials will come running.”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “Yeah. How about you JACL’ers learn to shut your mouths for a change? You’re the reason we all got sent here in the first place.”

  More here-we-go-again grumbles. More guys brought to their feet. After two months of these gatherings, Lane wasn’t quite sure why he attended at all. Except, he hated to admit, for the slim possibility of making a difference.

  A lean kid with glasses stood up, a seasoned debater. “The JACL,” he said, “has done nothing but defend us as loyal Americans. What would it have said if we’d protested? Everyone in the country is doing their part. And when the war’s over we’ll have erased any doubt of us being the enemy.”

  That was as far as he got into his spiel, delivered as a devout member of the Japanese American Citizens League, before his opposition chimed in. Once more, they revived the tired dispute of the organization being in cahoots with the FBI, even prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor.

  The block manager started tapping his gavel. He didn’t cease until the group quieted. At the semblance of order, he called upon an elder at the end of Lane’s row, who rose to impart reasoning.

  “Shokun, sukoshi kikinasai,” he began, but a Nisei interrupted.

  “Speak English, old man. You know that Japanese isn’t allowed at meetings.”

  The suited gentleman was taken aback. Although he carried a humble, dignified countenance—not unlike Lane’s father—he clearly wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from one so much younger. And frankly, Lane wasn’t accustomed to watching it. Filial piety, values embedded since birth, dictated respectfulness that propelled Lane now from his seat.

  “Shikata ga nai.” He hadn’t planned to spout his father’s phrase, but it flew out all the same. Shikata ga nai. It can’t be helped. One couldn’t walk past four barracks without hearing an Issei recite the saying. Same for their reminder of the reason to quietly persevere. Kodomo no tame ni.

  For the sake of the children.

  “Regardless of what brought us here,” Lane told the room, “we’re in this together. We need to stop wasting time by fighting. We need to find solutions.”

  The sea of men’s heads nodded in agreement, reigniting a familiar flame, though small, in Lane’s chest. He faced the rows behind him, gaining momentum. “If the kitchen crew says they’re not taking the sugar, then I for one believe them. We have to trust each other. If we want to solve the problem, we should take the matter up with Director Nash. Maybe start with beefing up patrols at the warehouse.”

  “Kuso!” The word bullshit boomed from the doorway, where three members of the Black Dragon gang glared with arms crossed. These particular Kibei, Japanese Americans who’d spent much of their lives in Japan, had channeled their anger over internment into a mission: to promote loyalty to the Emperor, through violence if need be.

  Lane turned away from them and continued. “What I’m saying is, we’ll make more progress if we organize our approach. Remember, this was how we succeeded at the net factory. Last month, when we asked for—”

  “No!” shouted one of the Dragons. A small scar cut through his left eyebrow. “Only way to make hakujin listen—this!” He smacked a fist into his other hand. “You want know who steal sugar? Hakujin who work camp. White people. They take warehouse food and sell on black market. And inu helping them!”

  Whispers through the mess hall grew like static. Paper fans fluttered faster.

  “Inu like you maybe?” The same gang member pointed at the JACL defender. “Or you.” His finger angled at Lane, who gritted his teeth at the accusation.

  Being called an informant, a traitor to his own kind, topped the list of insults. His father remained in a detention center for the simple fact that he wasn’t a rat—for either side. He was a loyal American, as was Lane. And the real bullshit lay in every syllable vomited from these lunkheads’ mouths.

  Lane couldn’t hold back, his honor at stake. He moved toward the Dragons, all three now descending upon the room. They incited feuds with challengers, mainly the fishermen with no qualms about going to blows.

  Then a hand touched Lane’s chest. It was the elderly man in his row, warning him with a shake of his head. Without speaking, he communicated the reason for restraint.

  Kodomo no tame ni.

  For the sake of Emma, for the sake of his family. To keep them safe.

  Lane took this in, unclenched his fingers. His duty came first. Once more he tucked away his pride, and forced himself to turn around. Voices rose as the gavel rapped, and Lane ducked out of the room.

  On the bumpy dirt road, gravel crunched beneath his scuffed shoes. The ever-present wind whipped off the Sierra Nevada, howling along with unseen coyotes. He raised the collar of his shirt against the flying sand and blinding searchlight. The beam followed him as he made his way toward the paltry unit that had become his family’s home. Each “block” contained matching tarpaper barracks and a full set of community buildings. Latrines, laundry, recreation and mess halls. Clever residents gave their barracks names like “Little Tokyo Hilton” and “The Dust Devil Inn.”

  Come to think of it, Lane was wrong. Manzanar evacuees had more in common than bloodline; they had the alkaline dust. It invaded their food, their hair, their clothes. Warping of unseasoned lumber caused knotholes and cracks that invited inches of the blessed stuff into their “apartments.” Like every conversation, every cough or baby’s cry, it traveled through their dividing walls and raised flooring. It moved like a ghost, left trails thick as lies.

  The one saving grace? Complaining about the dust meant not talking about the guards. It meant avoiding acknowledgment of the barbed wire that framed their one square mile of existence, or the machine guns perched on sentry post
s, their barrels facing into the camp, not out.

  Of these things, naturally he would make no mention to Maddie. For while he didn’t regret calling out to her on evacuation day, he would continue to shield her from his ugly new world. In letters, he would tell her about camp baseball games and gardeners planting flowers and Emma learning to twirl a baton. He would write about getting his mother to try a painting class, a great feat after weeks of her stubborn solitude. And only on occasion, to explain grime on his stationery, would he mention the dust.

  At the entry stoop, Lane glanced through the window of his family’s unit, a twelve-by-twenty with the barest of essentials. No carpet on the planks. No Sheetrock on the walls. A single lightbulb hung from a splintery beam. When they’d first moved in, he told his family, “Think of it as camping, but in a wooden tent.”

  Emma had agreed. His mother said nothing.

  Those attitudes hadn’t changed, illustrated now by the usual scene. Emma knelt on her cot, playing jacks with their assigned roommates, a mother and a daughter who was roughly Emma’s age. Lane’s mom sat on her mattress, striped ticking stuffed with straw. Though she stared into her open Bible, the look in her eyes placed her somewhere far away. A place of lavish comfort. No doubt, in an ancient city across the ocean.

  For the first time in his life, Lane understood the appeal.

  32

  Life was becoming an endless requiem of good-byes.

  Maddie had chosen to trade parting words with TJ at the house, rather than at Union Station. Watching his train pull away that morning would have been too much to bear.

  It was the thought of losing yet another loved one that now brought her to the rest home. She treaded her standard path, down the tiled hall. She held her violin case to her chest. Her emotions were jumbled and in need of order, and who better to tame them than Johann Sebastian Bach.

  “Sugar, aren’t you gonna say hello?” A voice from behind.

  In a staff uniform, pushing a cart around the corner, was Beatrice Lovell.

  “Sorry, I didn’t see you,” Maddie said. “Are you working here on Sundays now?”