The puppy contributed two whimpers of agreement, aiding Maddie’s cause. She loved this dog more every minute.
Lane placed a free arm around her back to support her walk. Truthfully, she didn’t need the help, but she wouldn’t dream of letting him know. Her heart, like her skin, warmed from his tender touch.
Near the entry of the barrack, the gentleman who’d saved her was in his garden, weeding. When he glanced up, Maddie worried he might give Lane a report. Instead, he merely bowed. This time, she made sure he saw her bow in return.
The dog snipped off a tiny bark as they reached the door. Maddie turned around to quietly shush him; she wanted the full effect of Emma’s surprise. But then a figure caught her eye. A man in black was watching from a distance. Before she could make out his face, he disappeared into the firebreak.
40
Follow orders, do his time, get the hell home. That was the plan. Only then could TJ retrieve his sister, who refused to move back to Boyle Heights.
Until then, at least the world at a few thousand feet wasn’t looking too shabby. Through the Plexiglas of the B-17’s tail section, his eyes feasted on the beauty of the Hawaiian Islands. It was a tropical buffet of banana groves and sugarcane fields, trees lush with mangoes, guavas, papayas. His mouth watered at the memory of the pineapple he’d split with Ranieri that morning. The slices were so sweet you’d think they’d been marinated in honey.
To the droning tune of the bomber’s engines, palm trees swayed lazily over white sandy beaches, and clear blue water sparkled like crystals. It was on the distant shores of this very ocean, on the California beaches, that he and Lane had spent every free moment during summers in high school. With tidal strength, the waves had drawn in swimsuit-clad girls and clusters of food stands. Those were the days, all right. Nothing like a ride on the Giant Dipper on the Venice Pier to get cozy with a foxy stranger. A pocketful of pennies at any arcade was worth an hour of laughs.
Then, on occasions when TJ’s dad let them borrow the car, they’d cruise the coastline out to Malibu, join a volleyball game or a bonfire at Zuma Beach. That spot had been Lane’s favorite, even after he’d almost drowned there, yanked under by a vicious riptide. Once TJ had realized the guy wasn’t fooling, he’d jumped in after him, searched frantically through a screen of swirling sand. Not until a lifeguard later commented on the dangerous rescue—about TJ being either really brave or really stupid—had his own safety occurred to him. The act had been a mere reflex. After all, as he’d explained in reply, Lane was family.
“All right, gentlemen, keep your eyes peeled.” The voice of First Lieutenant Hank Cabot filtered through TJ’s headset as they reduced altitude. Known as “Cabbie,” a fitting nickname given his duty of taxiing his crew up and down the Pacific, he was a decent pick as pilots went. Fairly quiet, but a straight shooter. Got the job done, didn’t take unnecessary risks. Being the father of young twins would do that to a guy. That style, unlike the old days, suited TJ just fine.
“Think I got something,” the navigator reported over the intercom. “On those big rocks, eleven o’clo—” He stopped. “Ah, strike that. Just a couple of seals.”
Ranieri whistled from the waist section. “Hoo boy. Looks like the one on top’s getting frisky,” he said. “Hey, Tack!”
The ball turret gunner—a mustard-haired kid, no bigger than a thumbtack—answered, “Yeah, what?”
“Might wanna take some notes. Even the sea animals here are gettin’ more action than you are.”
TJ chuckled along with the others.
“Real funny, wise-ass,” the guy retorted. “Too bad the last dame you banged had more whiskers than a seal.”
The pilot broke in firmly. “Enough clowning. We got some of our guys down there, so pay attention.”
Yeah, TJ thought, in the unlikely event any were alive. The two other search missions they’d handled—stepping in when the Navy was shorthanded—had been nothing more than a “milk run.” A trip smooth as cream from takeoff to landing. Since TJ rarely mingled with any airmen outside his crew, a couple more empty seats at chowtime was no skin off his nose.
But he obeyed the order anyhow. What else was he going to do up here?
He shifted himself on what resembled a bicycle seat, and scanned the vast water. With his height of five-ten, the cramped tail section wasn’t the ideal station. He should have left the poker table the second Ranieri added the crummy position to the betting pot.
One of these days he’d learn.
TJ held on as the plane bumped from side to side. Trade winds were picking up. He blinked away imaginary dots from the sun, then returned his attention to the ocean. The night before last, a B-24 had hit the drink on an anti-sub patrol between Hickam and Midway. Water landings had a tendency to smash those bulky bombers and all onboard to smithereens, one of several reasons they were known as “Flying Coffins”—which was why right now TJ didn’t trust his eyes. He strained his vision to confirm what appeared to be movement coming from a raft.
“Six o’clock low,” he announced, tentative. Cresting waves could be deceiving from this far above. “Might be nothing, but—I think I see hands waving.”
“Roger that,” Cabbie told him. “Coming back around.” He angled Hula Hattie’s wings for a second pass, dropping altitude for a closer look.
“Well, I’ll be ... ,” Ranieri murmured.
Excitement tightened the bombardier’s voice. “Sure thing, got two standing in a raft, flailing their oars around.”
“Yep, got ’em,” Cabbie said. “Attaboy, Kern. I’ll call it in, let the Navy get these boys home.”
TJ couldn’t help smiling. The recognition was nice, he couldn’t deny that. Imagining the elation of the guys below, though ... that was the real McCoy. A son or husband or father might actually make it home. The feeling was a good one. Although it had taken time, he’d accepted the fact that he couldn’t have saved his mother—but he’d done this. This offering. This first step in reconciling his past. Too often he had let others down, been let down by those he loved.
That run of losses, he decided, was over.
Again the pair came into view. As described, the men were on their feet. Their oars were jumping all about, but not in celebration. Something was wrong. Beneath the water, the coral was moving. The guys were banging away at the side of the raft. A fin. It was a shark’s fin! That wasn’t coral down there. It was a swarm.
“Lieutenant,” TJ cried out, “they got sharks attacking! We can’t wait. We gotta find a way to get ’em out!”
Cabbie’s response faded into the roar in TJ’s head, louder than all four Cyclone engines. TJ splayed his hands on the window as one survivor disappeared from the raft. The other fell backward and into the sea. Outstretched limbs and yellow rubber—their Mae West life preservers—flapped through the torrent of splashes. TJ could hear their screams of terror in his mind. Could see a tinge of red at the surface.
And then ...
Nothing.
41
Lane moved slowly through his day, aware that every face he saw, every barrack he passed, would soon be a memory. The cold November breeze had waned by sunset, but his skin remained chilled over his decision.
He hesitated to imagine the reactions of his mother and sister upon hearing his plans. But Maddie’s he dreaded most of all. Little in life would be harder than saying good-bye to her yet again.
At last, gearing up, he entered their apartment, where he discovered only his mother. She sat on her bed with the Bible open on her lap. Loose pages in her hands absorbed her full attention. He recognized the letter, less from its yellowed paper and Japanese scrawling than from the glistening it caused in his mother’s eyes. Indeed she had brought the memento from home, saved it from the flames she’d fed with their family’s history.
He should have guessed this mystery of her past had escorted them all the way here.
“What are you reading, Mother?”
She fumbled with the letter, tucked it
into her Holy Book. “Betsuni.”
Obviously the token amounted to more than “nothing.”
Lane strode over the freshly installed linoleum, ready to press the point. Then he recalled his plans, and the interrogation fell away. They had so little time left together; why waste it on attempts to pry loose a confession that might be better left withheld?
He shifted to a more pertinent topic. “Where’s Emma and Maddie?”
“At garment factory,” she intoned.
He’d forgotten. Maddie had mentioned working late. Emma must have volunteered to help, given the high demand for clothing at the Children’s Village. The camp’s orphanage needed all the supplies they could get, and Maddie had gladly offered her services. He just wished those services weren’t being used tonight. He had hoped to tell all three of them at once.
On the other hand, maybe this was the way it should be—telling his mother first. The woman had brought him into this world, and it was the stony strength she had passed along that he’d be counting on to survive.
“Mother,” he began, and took a breath. The oil stove clanked.
She glanced into his eyes, registered a confrontation awaited, and briskly threw on her winter coat. The letter. She didn’t want to talk about the letter. But that wasn’t the issue at hand.
“I have to speak with you,” he told her.
“Chambara playing tonight. I must go.”
A decent excuse. She had always been a fan of the old ninja and samurai flicks. In Little Tokyo, Lane used to join her on occasion when he was a kid. Then, over the years, for some reason he’d stopped.
“Mother, wait.”
She paused at the doorway, a sadness clinging to her lowered gaze.
Lane tried to continue, but he couldn’t. Not like this.
“I’ll go with you,” he found himself saying. He half expected her to refuse. Rather she nodded, showing no trace of the surprise she surely felt.
They walked in quiet. A searchlight paved their path.
Inside the rec building, Manzanites bustled around them, talking and laughing with new and old friends. Many wore surplus uniforms from the Great War, the administration’s answer to a shortage of winter wear. Their fabrics smelled of mothballs. Actually, the whole scene resembled a children’s skit. On Japanese bodies, nearly everything hung oversized. Khaki wool trousers and canvas leggings, jodhpurs and olive-drab knit caps. The one stylish attraction was a scattering of peacoats Maddie had converted into capes, a popular trend among the girls.
“Lane, over here!” A man from the net factory waved Lane and his mother to two open spots beside the aisle. When the lights went black, the room’s chatter dropped off as though connected to a switch. A worn projector clickety-clacked from behind, splashing black-and-white images across a white sheet.
Seated in the front row, a benshi commenced his performance. A candle illuminated the script on his lap. He used a range of voices to match the actors’ lips that moved silently on the screen. As samurai warriors sparred with swords, the gray-haired benshi obliged with cymbals and clappers. It was a marvel, really, a unique art form with roots so purely Japanese. Which, no doubt, was the reason Lane had lost interest as a kid.
The battle ended and the victors rode horseback out of the village. Their sleek hair in a chonmage, the samurai’s traditional topknot, bounced with each gallop. Soon an elderly woman in a kimono shimmied onto the screen. Behind her, the sun descended upon a towering pagoda. When the benshi vocalized her voice, warbling like a sheep, the audience broke into giggles.
It was then that Lane glimpsed his mother’s expression. Without turning, he watched a smile play over her lips. Light from the projector erased years from her face, all hardness from her eyes. Her warmth glowed like a thousand moons.
This, he decided, was how he would remember her. A lunar radiance in a room full of darkness.
42
Searchlights swept the grounds. Barbed wire winked from the nearest fencepost as Maddie awaited the signal. She crouched behind a pair of trees in the Block 12 Garden. Her body trembled as much from the cold as from fear. The beam made another regular nightly pass before Lane tapped her arm.
“Let’s go, let’s go,” he whispered, and took off for the fence. In the dark, with his tweed cap and duffel bag, he looked like a hobo racing for a train car. Maddie followed his hunched form, shielding her eyes from the winter wind. A flurry of dirt pelted her face.
For most of her life, she had been anything but a rule breaker. In fact, she’d prided herself on living between lines set by parents and teachers and society as a whole. Yet here she was, not just pushing those boundaries this time, but literally busting through them.
“Go on,” he told her, and lifted a string of wire. His foot pressed down on the one below.
A mass of nerves rose to her throat. She glanced over her shoulder. The closest guard had taken shelter inside his tower. His silhouette moved behind the pitted windows.
“Maddie, hurry.”
Carefully, she hurdled the enclosure. Lane joined right behind, but then his hat flew off and landed in the perimeter. A clue of their escape. He reached through the fence, his fingertips barely brushing the cap. The searchlight was closing in.
“Come on,” she rasped. “We have to go.”
“I almost—have it... .”
“Lane, please. Just leave it.”
He stretched a bit more. Finally, he snagged the cap’s bill with two fingers. “Got it.”
Grabbing her hand, he dashed toward the snowcapped mountains. He clicked on a flashlight once they were far enough away.
Adrenaline warmed Maddie’s body for a good stretch of their hike. Only from the sound of the creek beside them did she catch an occasional shiver. High above, air whistled through treetops that filtered a path of moonlight.
“Are you sure they won’t find us here?” she asked.
“In the summer, guys snuck out before dawn all the time. Spent the whole day fishing. No one’s had a problem yet.” Lane guided her over an icy puddle. “If I can find the spot Kiyoshi described, we should be safe all night.”
Safe. In all its complex simplicity, safe had become one of Maddie’s favorite words. During innings when her brother used to pitch, she’d dreaded the umpire’s call of that single syllable. Now, meandering through woods thick with nighttime noises, she clung to the cushion of its four letters.
Lane paused to assess the area. “Stay here for a second,” he said, and headed toward a massive wall of rock.
Chills crept over her from standing still. She hugged her arms and rubbed her woolen coat sleeves. If they were to lose their way, would anyone ever find them? Would they freeze first, or starve? It was the first of December. They had to be kichigai to go camping now. Flat-out nuts.
“Here it is,” he declared, unveiling a cave half hidden by a bush.
Maddie followed and stooped to enter. A ways in, the ceiling swept upward, high enough for them to fully stand. While Lane foraged for branches to build a fire, Maddie laid out the blanket he had packed. Soon they settled before the mounting orange flames.
“Are you hungry?” he asked. When she nodded, he produced a box of crackers, a small block of cheese, and two bottles of Coca-Cola from the camp’s canteen. He topped it off with jarred applesauce, its fruit from the nearby evacuee-run farm. The meal was perfect for the outing she had agreed to, admittedly, with reservation.
Although delighted by his proposal of a private overnight date, she’d worried—as she always worried—about the risks: the consequences from authorities, the potential rumors from those she had only recently befriended. Yes, she and Lane were married, but his culture was particularly conservative.
She now regretted any reluctance. The wonderment of being alone with him, really alone, had never been greater. An air of enchantment exuded from the glowing fire that sent soft ripples over his skin. “Lane, I’ve missed you so much.”
“Sweetheart,” he said, “I ... I just
...”
She leaned forward, nudging his words aside. Their lips met with a tenderness that swiftly gave in to hunger. Passion flared from her knees to her thighs and crawled upward to her chest. Desire became a razor’s edge, sharp and dangerous. His hands roamed over her curves, under her coat and shirt, arching her back. His tongue trailed from the valley of her neck. Shadows danced on the ceiling, swaying in time to her escalating pulse.
From the heat of Lane’s breath, she released a moan, and an image replayed in her mind: Emma’s balloon from the beach, a red dot drifting toward the clouds, an indescribable pressure leading to an implosion. This was the sensation ruling her body. It swelled with the scent of burning wood, the textures of the cave. A primitive force overtook her. An African drumbeat filled her ears.
She pulled off Lane’s shirt and trousers with hasty hands. His expression displayed pleasant bewilderment. Their garments dissolved one by one. As she explored the contours of his body, a raw gasp slipped from his mouth. She rose to him, pressed her bare chest against his, savored the salty taste of his shoulder. Surrendering to her instincts, she guided Lane onto his back. The air turned electric around them, and at the brink of their fulfillment, she swore, for that tenuous moment, they had sampled the true essence of freedom.
Maddie awoke to find she was alone.
The remnants of the fire simmered with a memory of warmth. She called Lane’s name. His clothes were gone. Surely he would have woken her before heading back to camp. Maybe he was fetching firewood for their breakfast.
She cocooned her body with both blankets. With shoes on, she headed out of the cave in search of her husband. Dawn was approaching in a foggy frost.
To her relief, she soon spotted Lane seated at the edge of the creek. He stared into the current, elbows on his knees, chin atop laced fingers. She touched his shoulder, startling him.
Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Page 22
