Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  Maddie raised her cupped palms, praying it wouldn’t be a reptile or insect. Thankfully, the object felt inanimate.

  “Okay, open them.”

  It was an arrowhead the length of her thumb. The black stone—obsidian, Maddie guessed—glistened as she flipped it over. She rubbed the grooves, saddened by the similarities between the Japanese Americans and Paiute Indians. Their people were once exiled from this very desert. “Emma, this is amazing. Where did you find it?”

  “By the old apple orchard.” She accepted the artifact back and studied it in awe. “Some of the old guys here are collecting them. Hana said I could get fifty cents for it. Fifty cents!”

  Maddie smiled. “You could get a lot of Tootsie Rolls for fifty cents.”

  “Or,” Emma said, looking up, “I could buy some new fabric for a dress.”

  “That’s true, you could. But ... are you sure your mother won’t mind?”

  “She only told me I couldn’t use my brother’s pay to get new clothes. She didn’t say anything about my own money.”

  Maddie mulled this over. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Would you make it for me? We could pick out a pattern in a catalog,” she suggested. “Golly, Maddie, it would be sooo nice to wear something new. Even Hana’s mom let her buy a new hat for church. Please, please, please?”

  How could anyone say no to that?

  “Well, all right. But we can only pick out a style your mother would approve of.”

  “Thank you, thank you! You’re the best.” Emma beamed with a smile that had been gradually fading. After an exuberant hug, she asked, “Didn’t you say you have a surprise for me too?”

  The apartment.

  Maddie had nearly forgotten. She angled her body out of the way, flinging a hand out to display her creation. “Ta-da! A whole new house. What do you think?”

  Emma glanced around and shook her head. “We really should move it back.” Her voice was heavy with concern—perhaps at the prospect of another change in her life.

  “Oh, Em, I know it’ll take some getting used to. But look how nice it is.” Maddie stepped into the parlor and stretched her arms. “There’s so much space, we could put on a circus act. Sell tickets at the door. And hey, just think of all the fabric we could buy from that money.”

  “We need to put the beds back,” Emma said with growing urgency. “We have to, before Mother comes home. It’s kita makura.”

  “I—don’t understand.”

  “Kita makura. Our heads can’t be to the north. It’s bad luck. They only do that for funerals. She’ll be furious. We have to hurry.” Emma was already grabbing the foot of Kumiko’s cot.

  Though stunned, Maddie assisted her. She gained momentum while comprehending the potential backfire of her gesture. She strove to recall each item’s original placement. One chair below the window, the other in the corner with the table. The laundry crate got in the way more than once, and the dust they kicked up now blanketed the formerly clean clothes.

  They were over halfway done when Emma froze, her hands on the far end of Lane’s bed.

  “Nani o shiteruno?” Kumiko said in a horrified rasp. She stood in the doorway, clutching a small box of painting supplies.

  Before Maddie could say a word, Emma launched into Japanese. She inserted Maddie’s name twice during what seemed a diplomatic explanation.

  Kumiko didn’t respond. She just stared at the room, lips sealed, her chest heaving as though preparing to breathe fire.

  “Maddie, come on,” Emma whispered, seeking help to place Lane’s bed in its cramped corner. Maddie wanted to smooth the situation over herself, but not knowing the extent of Kumiko’s English, she continued with their task.

  Only when every furnishing had been returned did Kumiko set aside her supplies. From the entry, she walked straight to the folded Oxydol carton leaned up against a wall. She laid it on the table and studied the partition.

  At least Maddie had done one thing right.

  Kumiko’s fingers closed in on her paintings, their corners peeking from the box. She guided them out and a deep red stained her face.

  Oh, no. She thought Maddie planned to discard them, along with the empty carton.

  “I can explain,” she said to Kumiko, then addressed Emma. “Please tell her, I was just trying to protect them.”

  Emma started to translate, but Kumiko cut her off. Her words flew like darts, fast and pointed, and her fingers flicked toward Maddie.

  “But, Oksan ... ,” Emma said repeatedly, not being heard.

  Maddie moved forward. “Mrs. Moritomo, this is my fault, not Emma’s. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was only trying to help.”

  Kumiko’s palm shot up, a universal sign for stop. Her eyes skewered Maddie for a stretch of several seconds before she hissed a final phrase at Emma. The air became colder than a December night as she inspected her paintings for damage.

  Emma stood there, lip quivering and tears welling. Maddie started to reach for her, to console her and apologize, when Emma pitched the arrowhead across the room.

  “Oksan nanka daikirai!” she shouted at her mother, then ran out the door.

  Though Maddie didn’t understand the language, she recognized the tone.

  It was that of a spirit being broken.

  37

  “Put a sock in it, ‘Ravioli,’” TJ grumbled from his seat in the rec hall. If the barracks were cooler, he’d have stayed in there. In which case, he could have written ten letters by now. “You sound like a blasted cat in heat.”

  Unfazed, Ranieri kept right on singing and hula dancing for an audience of airmen. A ground crewman, with just as little talent, strummed a ukulele. As part of some dare for a couple packs of smokes, Ranieri swayed his grass skirt over rolled-up khakis. He swatted at hands groping his coconut-shell brassiere, padded by his curly-haired chest. Throw in a long black wig and he could almost pass as Hula Hattie, the Hawaiian beauty painted on the nose of their B-17.

  A disturbing thought, actually.

  Even so, when the numskull broke into a Tahitian shimmy, TJ couldn’t hold down a smile. Although grateful they’d been assigned to the same crew, based in tropical paradise—whether by sheer luck or the Italian’s doings—TJ did wonder how much more peaceful Kahuku Air Base would be without the guy. Boring maybe, but more peaceful.

  TJ tore his attention from the tune, so off-key it would have disintegrated Maddie’s eardrums, and returned to the letter on the table. He breathed in plumeria on the salty breeze, cleared his head. Pen in hand, he reviewed the last words he’d written to Jo.

  Not a whole lot of goings-on here, just the usual practice bombing runs, dull lectures, air raid drills, and whatnot. Vince (that’s Ravioli’s real name, by the way) and I are going to hitch a ride down to Honolulu this afternoon to catch a double feature. Supposed to be a new one starring Gene Tierney. Even though you’ve got the girl beat in every way, at least seeing her will remind me of that morning at the station. Boy oh boy, what it does to me just thinking about that whopper of a kiss. All I can hope is that one day we can pick up from where we left off.

  Better close now or I’ll need a cold shower from more than the island humidity! Take good care, Jo.

  Keeping you always in my thoughts.

  TJ

  He sealed the pages in an envelope marked solely with her name. He never bothered with an address, although he knew the hardware store’s by heart. Her posts, after all, wouldn’t be leaving his footlocker.

  Some might consider it strange, penning notes he had no intention of mailing. But a sense of freedom came with spilling anything he wanted to on paper, a freedom no way he’d feel if his messages were going to be shared. It was like scribbling in a diary, minus the surety of jabs or questions or curious peeks from the fellas. Nobody thought twice about TJ writing letters home, and addressing them to Jo only upped his comfort.

  “Aloha, haole,” Ranieri sang out. An unlit cigarette peeked from behind one of his ears, a red hibiscu
s flower from the other. He dropped an orchid lei around TJ’s neck. “About time we got you laid.”

  “You need some serious help, pal.”

  Ranieri exaggerated a gasp, covering his mouth like a dame. “And to think, I saved a letter for you at mail call. But now? You can forget it.”

  A letter.

  Jo Allister.

  Had she taken initiative once more? Finally written the first note?

  “So hand it over,” TJ said, a little too strong. He yearned to hear from her as much as he feared it.

  Ranieri reached into his grass skirt. When he pulled out an envelope, TJ leaned back in his chair. “Please tell me that was only in your pocket.”

  The guy grinned and tossed over the mail—from Maddie, it was only from Maddie.

  A good thing, TJ reminded himself. He was doing Jo a favor, leaving her be.

  “Better read it lickety-split,” Ranieri told him. “Kaleo promised us free drinks at his bar if we get to Waikiki early enough.” Maybe due to his dark, Hawaiian-like features, but Ranieri had befriended just about every native on the island.

  “Yeah, well, I wasn’t the one putting on a vaudeville act,” TJ pointed out. “And don’t think I’m going anywhere with you till you take off those ridiculous coconuts.”

  Ranieri studied the shells. “What, too small for you?” He massaged them in circles and used the pidgin dialect from the locals. “Handful mo’ bettah, brah. Only lolo buggah want humungous bobbi.”

  TJ laughed. What other response could he possibly give?

  “Be back in ten.” Ranieri sauntered away, presumably to change clothes.

  With time to spare, TJ opened his sister’s letter. He anticipated her usual updates woven with nudges about Lane, some more subtle than others. He made it through three sentences before his eyes jumped back to the opening.

  Dear TJ,

  I know that what I am about to tell you will surely disappoint you, but please understand I must follow my heart. I have given my decision a great deal of thought. Even if you were here, rest assured I would have done this regardless.

  Suspense from the disclaimers spurred him to skim. Two-thirds down the page he discovered what she’d done.

  “The hell you’re not!”

  Faces turned in his direction.

  He didn’t finish. He’d read enough. Grabbing the pages, he stormed off, dead set on getting Maddie home.

  Lieutenant Colonel Stone sat at his desk, flipping through paperwork that had nothing to do with TJ’s request. He spoke without looking up. “Afraid I can’t help you, Corporal, unless you fill me in.”

  “The emergency involves my sister’s safety, sir.”

  “And what precisely would that emergency be?”

  In the center of the office, TJ gripped his wrist behind his back, wanting direly to strangle something. Or someone. “Sir, it’s a—personal matter.”

  The squadron commander chuckled as if entertained by an inside joke. Gray smoke wended upward from a cigarette on the man’s overflowing ashtray. Finally he raised his eyes. “See, now, that’s the beauty of belonging to the Army. We’re one big happy family, which means there are no personal matters. At least not until you add a few more stripes to your sleeve.” His lips flattened below his thick mustache.

  The joke was over.

  “Way I see it,” he went on, “you either tell me what’s got your drawers in a bunch, or you can pack up your furlough request and get your butt out of my office. I got work to do.”

  With TJ’s usual chains of command out on training flights for the day, he needed the man’s approval to get clearance off the island. Minus that and he’d be facing a court-martial. He’d be no good to his sister from a jail cell.

  TJ tried not to cringe as he shoved out the explanation. “Our parents are deceased.” In essence, the truth. “And my sister has followed her husband, a Japanese American, to live in a relocation center on the mainland. That’s why I just need long enough to travel there and move her back home. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that her life’s in danger.” That was it. All the essentials—except for one: “Sir.”

  Gradually, Stone reclined in his chair. “Well, that’s not one I hear every day.” He peaked a thick brow. “I don’t suppose this is some cockamamie excuse for wanting to buzz back and see your sweetheart?”

  “I wish it were.”

  The officer exhaled through his nose, contemplating. “I’ve got a sister myself. She’s working as a riveter in some aircraft factory. Didn’t listen to a dang thing I said about those dangerous jobs being for others. So, Corporal, I do understand where you’re comin’ from.”

  “Thank you, sir.” TJ managed a level tone, concealing his relief. He could already see himself on a train, riding back to L.A. with Maddie. Maybe now, after actually living in the camp, she wouldn’t be hard to persuade.

  Then Stone said, “That’s why I’m real sorry I can’t help you.” A sucker punch to the gut.

  “We’ve got special missions coming up, and I won’t be able to spare a single one of ya. Definitely not for that long. And no chaplain I know is going to override this one, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  “But, sir—”

  “You want her home? You help us win this war and that’s exactly where she’ll end up. In the meantime, you just write her the best letter you can, and above all, keep her in your prayers.” The commander paused before slapping on a “Dismissed,” then huddled over his documents.

  TJ remained in place, anchored by defeat. Finally he gathered the strength to move toward the exit.

  “And just so you know,” Stone added, “I think it’s a shame.”

  TJ’s grip stopped on the door handle. He didn’t need his embarrassment stoked over the matter. Solely for protocol, he glanced back.

  “My parents’ best friends are living in one of them camps,” Stone said. “The Ishinoyas. Decent, hardworking people. Don’t deserve what they’re gettin’.” He shook his head. “Like I said, a real ugly shame.”

  38

  In the doorway of his apartment, Lane scowled at the awaiting welcome. A Nisei man stood in a brown and tan uniform, nightstick in his belt, white POLICE band around his arm. As the guy attempted to communicate with Lane’s mother—his Japanese sounded broken—Emma sat on her cot. She sent her Mary Janes a look of boredom, scuffing the leather toes on an inch-wide crack in the floor.

  Nothing pointed to an emergency. No FBI raid or arrest. Just another wrist-slapping for his sister.

  Still, Lane didn’t need this today. A colicky infant in their barrack had been robbing him of what little sleep he could finagle. And more than tired, he was hungry after a long day of monotonous work.

  “What’s she done this time?” he muttered.

  The civilian officer looked over. His face, shaped like an eggplant, showed relief at Lane’s arrival.

  “Has she been skipping more classes?”

  “Afraid that’s only part of our problem.”

  Lane shot a glance at his sister, whose shoulders suddenly drooped. Truth be told, he couldn’t blame her for avoiding school here. Lessons were held in a rec building, as short on teachers as they were supplies. But her education had been a major lure to the camp, which meant she sure as heck better show up.

  “As I was trying to tell your mother here,” the officer said, gesturing toward the table where she now sat, “it’s about your sister and some kids from San Pedro—a pretty rowdy group, I might add. Seems they’ve all been mess-hall hopping again. Three or four times a meal, according to my reports.”

  Lane asked Emma, “Is this true?”

  She hesitated, shrugged.

  “Emma, for crying out loud. We’ve talked about this. You’re not supposed to eat anywhere but in our block.”

  “And I would,” she said, “if ours didn’t taste like doggie doo.” A roll of her eyes made clear just how much her demeanor had soured, and not just tonight. “You know our cook used to be a barber, don’t
you? He can’t even make rice the right way.”

  Not a bit of her statement rang false, but pressure from his mother’s gaze, along with the policeman’s, called for Lane’s sternness. “You eat the food you’re given or you won’t eat at all. I don’t care if the meals taste like dirt. You’re lucky to have them. Understand?”

  “Fine. Then I’ll starve.”

  The challenge at first shook him, then pricked him with anger. The loss of control in all parts of his life was enough to drive his fist through their tarpaper wall.

  “Is everything all right?” Maddie’s voice entered.

  He didn’t turn toward her. This was a private affair, a moment of familial embarrassment. He’d never invited her to see any of this.

  “There’s one more thing,” the officer said. “We don’t have a name, but we believe a kid in your sister’s gang is responsible for an incident yesterday. It involved the ladies’ showers in block ten. A couple lizards were tossed into the stall. Caused quite a ruckus.”

  The visual of screaming women jumping around in the showers, all to avoid a pair of harmless reptiles, would have struck Lane as comical a few months back. But humor had since escaped him.

  “It won’t happen again.” The graveness of his pledge appeased the officer, who traded small bows with Lane’s mother.

  “Have a good evening, ma’am,” the guy said to Maddie, and closed the door behind him.

  The perfect ending to a perfect day.

  Lane stepped toward Emma. “You’re grounded. From now on, Maddie will walk you to and from school. You’ll eat with no one but your family. Other than the showers and bathroom, you don’t leave this barrack.”

  Emma stood up, devastated. “But I didn’t have anything to do with the lizards. Cross my heart, I really didn’t.”

  From the look on her face and plea in her tone, he believed her. Yet that didn’t matter. With their father under suspicion, it wouldn’t take much to further tarnish the family’s standing. A man’s name, as their mother always said, was no less precious than skin to a tiger. To reestablish their worth, the Moritomos needed to act better than everyone else.