Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  “Just for the day. Laverne’s replacement couldn’t start till tomorrow, so my husband asked if I’d lend a hand.” Bea laughed, adding, “I suppose he was scared he’d have to launder the sheets himself.”

  Maddie smiled as they continued walking together, until news of the staffing change sank in. A stranger tending to her father’s private needs made for an unsettling thought. “Will Laverne be coming back here?” She prayed Bea meant to say “substitute,” not “replacement.”

  “So long as we got a spot available, I imagine it’d be hers. All depends on when she’s done at the camp, I’d say.”

  Right then, a tall man approached Bea, identifying himself as the nephew of a resident. While they discussed a medication, Maddie’s mind seized hold of the word camp. No longer did it refer merely to Girl Scout outings, or family weekend adventures by a creek.

  Once the man left, Maddie asked, “By camp, do you mean ... ?”

  Bea nodded wistfully. “The one up in Wyoming. Not where your husband’s family is staying, I’m afraid. Otherwise, sure as rain, I’d ask her to report back with an update.”

  “But what is she doing there?”

  “Don’t know specifics. Just that it’s a hospital job at the relocation center.”

  A hospital job ... for a white woman ...

  The information began weaving into a curious shape, one with promise. Visitors weren’t allowed at Manzanar, but they might be hiring. “Do you know if the camps are filling other kinds of positions?”

  Bea replied as they resumed their walk, “I’ve heard about them needing teachers. For high schoolers, I do believe.” She stopped. Lips pursed, she peered at Maddie. “Sugar, I know how anxious you are to see Lane and his family, how worried you must be. But I gotta think, at least for now, music school is where you belong.”

  Not at an internment camp for Japanese. While unspoken, the implication was there.

  “You’ll have to make up your own mind, I suppose, without your folks having their say.” Bea patted Maddie’s shoulder. “Just give good thought to whatever you do, is all I ask.”

  With that, she left Maddie alone—at her father’s door.

  So far, nothing about their encounter surpassed the norm. As Maddie prepared her instrument, her father’s attention remained on the window. Today’s visit, however, was destined to end differently. At long last, she would present the Chaconne. It was the one favorite of his she’d neglected to learn—until Lane revived the piece in her memory. She could still smell the bouquet, could feel his hand holding hers as they exchanged promises of forever.

  Maddie hastened to raise the bow. Months of drilling the composition, of perfecting her phrasing, had led to this moment. She wouldn’t let emotions sabotage her efforts.

  Tick. Tick. Tick. The reliable metronome obliged in her head. Shutting out all but the goal, she played in simple triple time. Ingrained notes promenaded through their basic harmonic scheme. Slowly she dealt them out, too slow. The image of Lane’s smile slipped in between the measures. She pushed him away and focused on the melodic lines, the shifts between soprano and offbeat bass.

  Yet more memories persisted: Lane lying beside her, their limbs tangled in the sheets; his eyes darkening and disappearing as the blue bus drove away. She attacked the strings with ferocious intensity, determined to override the past. But the visuals kept coming, of life and death, happiness and despair. She saw Emma and TJ, her mother and father.

  Bach’s chords slurred in her head and the metronome lost its pace. A sound trumped the movement. A sob. The sound had come from her. Arms too weak to continue, she lowered her bow and sealed her lips. Deep inside, the cries sang on. Salty moisture reached her mouth as she collapsed onto her knees.

  Her father scarcely blinked.

  She had come here bearing the Chaconne, a last hope to reach him through the wordless language of music. For hours upon hours she had practiced the movement, played long after her fingers had begged her to stop.

  Now, what she had envisioned to be her greatest triumph had been unmasked as a failure. Not for the unfinished performance, but the undeniable futility. No matter which concerto she perfected—she could master each and every one—still he would not hear her. He had traveled too far to reach. Just like Lane....

  No, she thought suddenly.

  Not like Lane. For him, it wasn’t too late.

  She gazed up at her father, and the dullness in his eyes sealed her decision. She would not stand by again, merely waiting for the return of someone she cherished. Even if, in the end, Lane didn’t come back, at least he wouldn’t go it alone.

  33

  Clock ticking, a twinge of dread set in. TJ knelt on the platform of Union Station, rummaging through his duffel bag.

  “All aboard!” the conductor hollered as gruff and loud as a baseball coach.

  While getting his shoes shined, a final touch to his pressed uniform, TJ had tossed his ticket into the bag. It couldn’t have fallen out, could it? Doggone it all, he had to find the thing. With the long lines in the station, no way could he get a replacement in time. And the next train to San Fran wouldn’t depart for several hours. He scrambled his hand in and out of his packed khakis.

  Passengers continued to board, thinning the crowd. Through open windows on the locomotive, servicemen and sweethearts exchanged farewells. Mothers blew kisses and waved their handkerchiefs. Children twirled little flags like holiday sparklers. It was a scene from a parade on the Fourth of July, featuring a float TJ was about to miss.

  “Blast it,” he said, and dug deeper. Rowdy flirtations streamed from a gaggle of sailors inside the train. They sliced through his concentration. But then his fingers brushed the corner of something. He yanked out a small paper. His ticket!

  He issued a sigh, cut short by the sight in front of him. A pair of legs rivaling the slenderness of any pinup’s. His gaze traced the woman’s stockings, from the red heels to a matching dress. Its snugness showed off her shapely curves and explained the persistent catcalls.

  “Lose something, Corporal?”

  Sunlight created a halo around her short-brimmed hat. Steam from the steel transport floated around her. She’d pass as angelic if not for the devilish temptation of that red-wrapped figure.

  “Sure thought I did, miss,” he answered, rising. The remainder of his thought vanished at her familiar features. Not with the rouged cheeks and cherry-glossed lips. Not with the hair draped long with the scent of styling lotion. But past all that, he would have sworn she was ...

  “Jo?” he said.

  She confirmed his guess with a smile.

  “Wh-what are you doing here?”

  She placed a white-gloved hand on her hip, as if in a practiced pose. “I came to see you off, silly. Why else?” Her voice had gained the sultry tone of Gene Tierney. In fact, everything about her now resembled the starlet.

  “But, you look so ... different.” He tried to keep his eyes on her face, yet the shock of her firecracker figure fought for priority.

  “All aboard!” The conductor’s warning boomed, followed by encouragement from the sailors.

  “Plant a smooch on her!”

  “Don’t be a schmuck!”

  “Give her something to remember you by!”

  Jo blushed, same shade as when he’d nearly kissed her at the house. More than a few times since, he’d caught himself envisioning that moment play out. Now was his chance.

  He could see her waiting. The train was waiting. Their audience was waiting.

  Succumbing to the pressure, he leaned toward her. Her eyelids lowered in acceptance. But something—nerves, uncertainty—veered his lips from hers and onto her cheek. “Bye, Jo.”

  He snagged his duffel and swung toward the train, an attempt to avoid any hurt in her eyes. And he succeeded.

  At the coach’s entry, however, a rush of emotion stalled his foot from boarding.

  “Hey, airman.” Drawn by Jo’s voice, he turned to find her a breath away. “You forgo
t something.”

  Swifter than a blazing fastball, she placed her mouth on his. The act stunned him in place. He couldn’t break away even if he wanted to, which he didn’t. His eyes closed and his arms wrapped around her waist. The Navy men cheered wildly as her fingers laced behind his neck. He pulled her in closer. Warmth from her body, from those curves of hers, coated every inch of his skin. He kissed her deeper. The electrical current he’d felt at the house paled in comparison to the charge now shooting through his body.

  Finally, he came up for air. It was then, peering into Jo’s eyes, that he saw the girl beneath the rouge, the one in overalls with a nice pitching arm. The one who knew how to push his buttons and to make him think.

  The girl he had fallen for.

  Powered by the revelation, he went to kiss her some more when she stopped him with two words. “Your train.”

  He struggled to decipher her meaning. The syllables seemed foreign.

  “TJ, your train,” she stressed.

  The locomotive was slowly chugging away. Servicemen onboard laughed from their open windows, yelling at him to move his ass. Instantly sobered, he gave her a final peck, then took off in a sprint. He extended his arm and grabbed hold of a handlebar. Following a heave of his bag, he leapt onto the step.

  He leaned out, once secure, and raised a hand toward Jo. She didn’t wave back, but he could see her grinning long after the station became a tiny dot.

  TJ rode the high of their parting for five full stops. Then, as it always did, fear crept in, implanting thoughts he couldn’t dismiss. Thoughts like, if fate stayed on its usual path, what chance would they have at happiness? And, most important, could either of them handle losing more than they already had?

  34

  Maddie’s entire future hinged on this performance. She rehearsed the appeal in her head, feeling pressure akin to taking the stage. The buzzing over her skin, the restlessness of her fingers.

  Seated in the reception area of the Civil Control Station, she started to cross her legs, then thought better of it. She had to look her best today and couldn’t risk smearing the makeup-drawn seams down the back of her legs. Granted, she was all for rationing—particularly when nylon was used for airmen’s parachutes—but that didn’t stop her from missing her last pair of good stockings.

  A man two chairs away grumbled as he flipped through the Examiner. Headline after headline, all about the war. Allied ships torpedoed by U-boats, a RAF night raid on Düsseldorf, an Eighth Army victory against Rommel’s forces in Egypt. It was difficult to remember what had filled those articles before America’s day of infamy.

  Again, Maddie regarded the clock on the wall. She layered her hands over the pocketbook on her lap to still her fidgeting. She noticed the shortness of her nails and hard-won calluses. They were the marks of a musician, unfeminine traits she had never been fond of until this instant. Today they just might work to her advantage. Testament to her experience.

  “Mrs. Moritomo, please.” The receptionist surveyed the room. “Mrs. Moritomo?”

  It took Maddie a moment to recall the name was hers. “Oh, yes.” She jumped to her feet. “That’s me.”

  The thickness of the woman’s glasses magnified her surprise.

  Maddie found the look disquieting, then reminded herself the reaction would soon be customary. If, of course, the impending meeting went as planned.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Sanborn has had a family emergency,” the gal reported. “So he won’t be able to meet with you. I’d be happy to reschedule your appointment for the sixteenth, however, if you’re available.”

  Sixteenth? That was two weeks away! The very thought was unbearable.

  “I can’t,” Maddie blurted.

  “I see. Well, I won’t have another opening until—”

  “Please,” Maddie pleaded. “Is there any other supervisor I could speak with? It’s regarding ... a family emergency of our own.”

  The receptionist’s gaze held on Maddie’s face, studying her, clearly intrigued. Finally, she said, “Very well.”

  Maddie sighed. “Thank you.”

  Following the woman through the bustling office, Maddie smoothed her suit jacket and adjusted the belt. Ringing phones and tapping typewriters crowded her ears. Her eyes darted from stenciled doors to a large U.S. map. Colorful triangles hung from several states. Relocation centers.

  The gal paused at an office door and poked her head in. After a brief mumbled exchange, she turned to Maddie. “Go on in.”

  Stretched to her full height, Maddie proceeded into the room.

  A stout gentleman stood before an electric fan set on the metal secretary. Warm air from the open window flailed his loosely hanging tie. He lit the pipe between his teeth. His wreath of hair was blacker than shoe polish.

  “Good afternoon, sir. I’m Madeline Mori—”

  “Have a seat, have a seat.” Genially, he flicked his hand toward the visitors’ chairs. He puffed musty-smelling plumes into the confines of his office.

  Maddie sat down. She clasped her ring finger for inspiration, and waited anxiously to continue. The man moved in slow motion. He wiped his forehead and neck with a rolled rag like a person of eighty rather than forty.

  “Jiminy Cricket,” he groaned, “this heat’s for the birds.” He twisted his head toward her. “I was born and raised in Washington. The state, not the capital. Rains so much up there, when the sun comes out people think it’s an alien ship.”

  She proffered a smile. The second he perched on the edge of his desk, forcing her gaze upward, she restarted. “Sir, as I was saying. . .”

  “Please. Call me Dale.”

  “Madeline,” she replied in turn. His friendliness struck her as rather informal for a first meeting, particularly with an administrator at a government agency. But she needed him on her side. “Sir—or Dale, rather—I’ve come to ask about applying for a position.”

  His eyebrows popped up. “Is that so? And what sort of experience do you have? Shorthand? Typing, I presume.”

  Realizing his assumption, she clarified. “Not for the office here. I’m a violinist. Since I’ve heard the camps are hiring teachers, I wanted to offer my services as a music instructor. Specifically, I’d like to work at Manzanar.” Wary of coming across too bold, she added, “If at all possible, that is.”

  “Manzanar, huh?” He sounded befuddled she had even heard of the place. He took another pull from his pipe.

  Perhaps her credentials would help.

  “I’ve been professionally trained for more than ten years. Naturally, I’d be happy to play for someone to prove my qualifications.” She should have brought her violin along. Why hadn’t she thought of that?

  He shook his head, mopped his neck. “That won’t be necessary.”

  Worried by what that meant, she pressed her case. “I have people I care about there, which is why I’d like to lend a hand. So if a music teacher isn’t needed, I’m more than willing to help in any other area.”

  After a thoughtful pause, he leaned an elbow on his knee and grinned down at her. A sign of progress. “I can see you’ve got the best of intentions, miss, and—”

  “Madeline,” she corrected him, and smiled.

  The redness in his cheeks seemed to spread. “It’s an admirable gesture you’re making, Madeline. And I’m sure your friends there would be awfully touched. But I have to tell you, Manzanar isn’t the type of place for a sweet, pretty lady like yourself.”

  Yet it was a place for a sweet, pretty child like Emma?

  This wasn’t going the way Maddie had hoped. A dead end lay ahead. She would have to switch tactics, no matter how risky.

  “Pardon my saying so, Dale”—she spoke with a cordial naivety—“but if the conditions are acceptable for residents of Japanese descent, surely they’re just fine for me. Unless, of course, you’re implying that the living standards, per your organization, aren’t up to par.”

  His teeth clenched around his pipe and his eyes hardened.


  The point was made.

  “You fill out an application at the reception desk,” he told her, “and we’ll get back to you once an appropriate spot opens up.”

  “When?”

  In the midst of rising, he huffed a sigh. She knew she was pushing it, but what choice did she have?

  “In two weeks. Maybe three. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Grabbing documents from his desk, he returned to the fan. He flipped through the pages, a bald suggestion she leave.

  But she didn’t. She couldn’t. Something told her that if she left this chair, this office today, without her request fulfilled, she’d never see Lane again.

  Images of their last exchange shuffled through her mind. She saw the rows of cribs and ironing boards, the Japanese girl being ripped from her adoptive family. What possible threat could the youngster have posed to national security? One-sixteenth of Japanese blood was all it took for exclusion. One-sixteenth. A drop in a filled bucket.

  And therein lay her solution.

  “Miss,” Dale addressed her, irritated. “Unless there’s something else . ..”

  “Actually,” she said, “there is. You see, I forgot to mention one important detail.”

  “Oh? And what would that be?”

  She steeled herself—there would be no going back—and through a tightened jaw, she pushed out the lie. “I’m pregnant,” she said. “With a Japanese baby.”

  PART FOUR

  I am for the immediate removal of every Japanese on the West Coast to a point deep in the interior... . Herd ’em up, pack ’em off and give ’ em the inside room in the badlands.

  Let ’em be pinched, hurt, hungry and dead up against it....

  Personally I hate the Japanese. And that goes for all of them.

  —Syndicated columnist Henry McLemore

  35

  Aside from missing Maddie, hunger was all Lane could think about. Not even the stench of burlap and camo-net dye, compounded with body odor in the factory, could curb his stomach grumbles. Behind the mask covering his mouth, he licked his lips at the memory of shrimp tempura and pickled vegetables. He tasted fresh abalone salad and seaweed-wrapped rice balls.