Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  “Daijbu yo,” she said to the girl, an assurance that all was fine. The lines on her forehead softened with her tendering of a smile. Then she reclaimed her stool and patted her daughter on the back. It was a single touch that lasted a mere instant. Emma’s heart, however, melted from the gesture.

  Lane knew this for a fact because his did too.

  Suddenly, as though sensing his presence, Emma spun around. “Onsan, you’re awake!” Her cherubic cheeks had thinned, stretched by time that refused to slow. “And it just so happens that today’s your lucky day,” she said.

  “Oh? How you figure that?”

  “ ’Cause I’m giving milking lessons for free. Tomorrow I start charging.”

  “Well, as your brother, I hope I’ll at least get a special rate.”

  “You will.” She grinned. “For family, it’ll cost you double.”

  Their mother covered a second smile. She seemed to suppress a giggle as she looked at them both. From that look, a feeling of affection swept through the barn, rising past the rafters. When it settled, Lane found a surety of one thing.

  For his father to see her now—to view their family like this—he would have paid any amount in the world.

  Gravel crunched out a reminder as Lane exited the barn, of the many thousands who remained imprisoned. Overlooking roads just like these, armed guards continued to survey the communities. Self-contained and trapped. A human ant farm. All Lane could do was hope his military service would help set them free.

  “A delivery just came for your wife.” Mr. Garrett approached without a smile. He held a sealed envelope marked Western Union. “Wasn’t sure if you wanted to wake her.”

  Lane accepted the cable and the farmer walked away, a clear gift of privacy. The luxury had become such a rarity; Lane felt the space around him like a cold spot in a summer pond. So much so, a chill covered his arms.

  Or was it from anticipation of the message?

  Images of TJ snapped into his mind, followed by Maddie’s father.

  To protect her, Lane would need to read it first—whether to buffer a tragedy or save her from fretting. Telegrams also brought good news on occasion.

  Warily, he opened the envelope. He read the note to the end. Then he read it through again, slower, begging the words to change.

  “You should’ve woken me up,” Maddie said sweetly, embracing him from behind. “Unless you’re planning to sweep out the horse stalls, in which case I’ll gladly keep sleeping.”

  Lane hesitated in facing her. He wanted to shield her from the pain that would follow. But the news wasn’t his to keep.

  He gingerly broke from her arms and wheeled around. In denim coveralls, hair gathered for a day of work, she’d never looked happier.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  Before he could answer, she caught sight of the cable. She reached forward a few inches then pulled back, as though touching the page would burn her skin.

  “It’s ... about TJ.” Lane’s explanation ground to a halt, impeded by his own dread and worry. Yet not until he pushed out the rest did he discover how deeply it would cut. “He’s missing in action.”

  47

  The rice was moving.

  Protein, TJ told himself. He carried his mess kit from the slop line and sat on the dirt. The huge April sun beat down and baked his gruel. Get hungry enough and a guy can force down just about anything. At least today they threw in a piece of steamed sweet potato. Like a cherry on a sundae at Tilly’s Diner.

  Using two fingers, he scooped the watery meal into his mouth, mixed with tiny pebbles, maggots, and God knew what else. And he did it without complaint. From POWs crazy enough to protest about their measly rations he’d learned to keep his head down and mouth shut. In the middle of an island jungle, it was a wonder the camp cooks could scrounge up any food at all.

  “Mm-mm, lookee what I got today,” Tack declared. He limped over to his usual spot on the ground. His knee was still healing from the crash three months ago. “Pumpkin pie with a big glob of vanilla ice cream.” Flies circled his rice like buzzards in the humid air.

  Ever competitive, Ranieri sat next to him and said, “You’re getting cheated, pal. I got my mama’s world-famous Spaghetti Bolognese. On the side here is a soft chunk of garlic bread, dripping with butter, hot from the oven. And to wash it down, a whole bottle of Chianti.” He licked his fingers.

  TJ’s stomach grumbled thanks to the numskull’s description. If not for the body aches from their bamboo sleeping bays, pains that wriggled through his joints like the bedbugs and rodents through their barracks each night, TJ would have moved out of earshot. Instead, he buried his nose in his food and tried to ignore the dopes.

  “You know what I miss the most?” Tack slurped from his bowl. “Creamed corn and honey biscuits. What I wouldn’t do for a basket of honey biscuits.”

  “You buggers can keep the lot of it.” A British airman closed his eyes and smiled dreamily. His grimy uniform hung like oversized rags on his thinning, barefooted frame, same as most prisoners. Dirt stained his skin, same as every prisoner. “All I need,” he said, “is a big plate of blood pudding like my mum makes it.”

  “Blood pudding?” Ranieri looked disgusted. “You Limeys all vampires, or what?”

  “It’s a sausage,” the guy clarified.

  “No,” Ranieri told him, “it’s repulsive.”

  “Ah, you Yanks don’t know what you’re missing.”

  Tack turned to TJ. “How about you, Kern?”

  “Don’t bother,” Ranieri muttered to Tack, who continued regardless.

  “Tell us what you got there for dinner.”

  TJ’s mumbled reply didn’t vary from any other day. “Rice.”

  Ranieri shook his head. “What’d I tell ya.” He smacked a mosquito on his arm. “A waste of breath every time.”

  TJ hated anything that proved the guy right, but not enough to participate in group bonding. Caring about another fellow only meant setting up for a fall. After the plane crash, seeing half their crew floating dead among burning debris, TJ should have remembered that. But their crisis had interfered, and he’d found himself working as a team with those who’d made it into the raft. He’d even given a good amount of his water rations to the injured bombardier—for little point. The guy didn’t last two days.

  When the remaining four crawled onto the shore of some Philippine island, they’d deliriously traded congratulations and shoulder pats, only to be captured minutes later by occupying Japs. On his knees, TJ had watched Cabbie, the father of young twins, beheaded for his officer’s rank. For a culture that viewed the Emperor as a god and valued honor above all, those who surrendered as “cowards” and worshipped the Lord Almighty were an abomination.

  Yet they kept the inmates alive. Who knew why? For duty maybe. For kicks. So they could bat them around like catnip whenever the mood struck. TJ’s crew had passed through two other prison camps before settling here, and nothing was different. POWs at each of them, to lessen the frequency of being pounced on, made a habit of studying their captors. TJ didn’t bother with anything past the basics. He despised them all equally.

  “Happy ain’t lookin’ too good.” Tack motioned his chin toward the pudgy guard. Among those dubbed Tojo’s Seven Dwarfs—wielding samurai swords rather than pickaxes—this one was known for his permanent grin.

  “It’s that moonshine he drinks,” the Brit said. “Could topple a bull from the smell of it.”

  “It’s not moonshine,” Tack explained. “It’s sake.” He’d learned this from giving the jovial guard discreet English lessons. Payment was cigarettes and bits of food, which Tack always shared with others.

  Ranieri suddenly grinned. “Two smokes says Happy loses his lunch out here in the open.”

  “You’re on.” A redheaded GI beside him perked. “Guy drinks like my old man. No way it’s coming back up.”

  Curiosity prodded TJ to glance at the guard, who did look more green than yellow. Last night’s t
alent show must have given him cause to indulge. He and the other guards had watched the POWs recite jokes, impersonate stars like Bogey and Jimmy Durante, belt out songs—only one cut short by booing—and put on a Three Stooges number. TJ was amazed the camp commander had permitted the prisoners any relief from their reality.

  But then, that’s why they called him “Looney.” Not for being a crackpot. For being unpredictable.

  At that moment, as though conjured from TJ’s thoughts, the regal-looking commander strode into the roll call area. His angular features appeared etched in stone. An interpreter called for the four-hundred-some prisoners to stand and bow.

  Grumpy was on the ready with his bamboo stick. Above his toothbrush mustache, pleasure filled the guard’s expression as he pummeled POWs who took too long. TJ hustled to his feet, glued his gaze to the ground. Eye contact with Looney would lose you a head. Eye contact with Grumpy would earn a beating so brutal, death would be a treat.

  Shined to a perfect gloss, Grumpy’s black boots approached. The closer they stomped, the more TJ’s left shoulder blade throbbed, as if his muscles were reliving the last daily whupping from the jackass.

  “Hayaku, hayaku!” Grumpy shrilled nearby. He kicked a mess kit away from a skeletal inmate, who reached for the spilled rice. A reflex, no doubt. Just like the sharp twinge of TJ’s instant fist—which instantly drew the guard over. A potential challenge must have offered more appeal than the pitiful crouching prisoner.

  TJ dropped his fingers with head bent, trying to remain one of the numbers, though still expecting a pounding. But Grumpy just stood there, a blatant dare to glance up. And TJ wanted to. God, how he wanted to push back with a hateful glare, right before throwing an uppercut at that sadistic face.

  It was a tempting idea. If nothing else, just to see the guy’s initial surprise....

  Another pair of boots appeared. They belonged to Dopey, the seemingly mute guard. He stopped next to Grumpy. A bad sign. TJ doubted his current ability to take them both on.

  A needless worry, as it turned out. Dopey simply tapped Grumpy on the arm and pointed toward the small wooden stage. Their commander was ascending the steps. The two guards dispersed to their assigned spots at the end of the row. TJ didn’t know whether to feel relieved or shortchanged.

  Over the faint trill of tropical birds, the commander shouted an order in Japanese. Two Marines were marched along the barbed-wire fence and into the arena. Blood trailed down their faces, their torn dungarees. Guards tied their hands up and pulled out thick bamboo clubs. The Marine with an eye swollen shut struggled to break free; the other stared, unseeing, having lost his will to fight.

  Looney’s translated words were forebodingly simple. “Try to escape, and this will be you.”

  For the infinite minutes that spanned their beatings, TJ’s mind looped the first song that came to him. “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” He replaced the sounds of screaming and bones breaking with verses of peanuts and Cracker Jack, the memory of a bat smacking a ball.

  When there was nothing left but limp shells of men, Looney ordered them cut down.

  And then they were shot.

  The POWs bowed to the exiting commander. As the corpses were dragged to a mass grave, the audience returned to their seats on the dirt. Tentative murmurs gradually grew, like a sprinkling toward a drizzle, until the horror seemed never to have happened.

  TJ picked up his mess kit. He held the sweet potato he’d saved for last, unable to eat. His stomach twisted into vicious knots—not just from revulsion that this had become normalcy, but over his shameful gratitude for being alive.

  48

  In the barn, Maddie yelled through the wire mesh, “Throw out a handful!”

  Kumiko hugged the bucket to her chest and shrieked for help. “Chotto tasukete!” Feathers flew as chickens pecked for grain around her shuffling shoes.

  When Emma started for the coop, Maddie stopped her. “It’s okay. Let her do it.” Then she told Kumiko, “They don’t want to hurt you. Just stay calm.” She spoke more sternly. “Toss the feed away from you.”

  The lesson sank in at last. Kumiko began to fling the cracked corn, causing the chickens to scatter. She grabbed another fistful and spread out their meal. Confidence eased into her face, lifted her chin. This was the Kumiko Moritomo that Maddie recognized. Though with a softened edge.

  “That’s enough now,” Maddie called to her. Kumiko appeared to be enjoying the activity a little too much. “Really, that’s enough. You don’t want them to pop!”

  Reluctantly, Kumiko exited the coop.

  Maddie held out her hand to take the pail. She wondered if she would have to pry it from the woman’s grip. “I’ll let you feed them tomorrow, I swear.”

  As Kumiko surrendered the bucket, Emma snorted a giggle. Surprisingly, her mother joined in with a soft laugh. It was a lovely sound, a braid of happiness Maddie used to weave with her own family, with her brother.

  At the recollection of TJ’s disappearance, her smile slipped away.

  The Army had sent additional letters, but their investigations failed to produce any updates good or bad. Thus, Maddie relied upon nightly prayers and faith that intuitively she would sense any devastating loss—about Lane, too, whose deployment came sooner than expected. Something told her she would know, in her heart, if either of them were gone.

  “Mr. Garrett’s back,” Emma exclaimed.

  Maddie listened and barely caught the rumbling of his truck traversing the long driveway past the cornfields. Impressive that the girl had heard it. But then, Emma always did have an ability to hear what others didn’t.

  “Mother, can I ride the tractor with him? Please, can I?”

  Kumiko only hesitated a moment before nodding. “Demo, be careful, ne?” she hollered after Emma, who was already leading Yuki in a dash from the barn.

  “How about we start on supper?” Maddie suggested. Kumiko answered with a smile, which fell at the sound of Emma’s yell.

  “Maddie, come quick!”

  The dog’s frantic barking magnified the pull that brought Maddie outside. “What is it?”

  Emma pointed toward three pickup trucks snaking up the drive, clouds of dust billowing like fear. Things had been calm on the farm since their family’s arrival. No protests, no visitors. Maddie, however, wasn’t naïve enough to believe the Midwest was immune to racism. If the West Coast wanted Japanese residents out—even neighbors they had grown up with—why would people in Illinois be any different? Separated by vast acres of farmland, perhaps hatred just took longer here to gain momentum.

  “Get in the barn,” Maddie said. With Mr. Garrett in town and no field hands in sight, the three of them were on their own. “Stay there till I say,” she commanded.

  Emma ushered Yuki and her mother inside, and Maddie took off running for the house. She retrieved the remaining shotgun from the rack above the fireplace. The barrel felt cold, the weapon heavy. Swallowing her nerves, she shook out casings from a box stored in a nearby drawer. She loaded the shells as Mr. Garrett had shown her—lessons meant for fending off coyotes. Then she emerged from the house to find the trucks still approaching. In the lead pickup rode two men—one older, one younger—with a shotgun racked behind their heads.

  Maddie clenched her weapon diagonally across her chest, hoping to God she wouldn’t have to use it. The trucks rolled to a stop on the graveled road, just as Kumiko reappeared. The woman held a rusty hoe, all too reminiscent of the shovel Maddie had carried during the riot.

  Go hide, Maddie was about to insist, but Kumiko’s expression said an objection would be pointless. Besides, Maddie had to admit, she felt stronger with the woman standing so clearly on her side.

  The driver of the first truck stepped out from his door. More than six feet tall with a mountain man’s build, he gripped the hips of his overalls.

  “Something I can do for you?” Maddie kept the tremble from her voice.

  He didn’t look the least bit intimidated. Why should he be
? Between him and the teenage boy, plus two other couples, they far outnumbered Maddie’s gang. “I gather we heard right,” he said, referencing Kumiko with his chin. “That the Garrett farm is housing a couple Japanese from the camps.”

  Maddie edged her finger toward the trigger, and gave a single nod.

  “Well, then,” he said. “We’ve come to welcome them to the neighborhood.”

  An old newspaper article passed through her mind. Below the photo of a burning cross, the caption had read: A Southern lynch mob welcomed their new neighbors.

  Just then, one of the gals moved closer. Middle-aged, she wore a faded shirt and trousers, her hair sleeked into a ponytail. Her eyes shone soft and warm, like the afternoon sunlight filtering through the fields. “If it’s a bad time, we could certainly come back. Or if you’d rather, we could just leave the goodies Jean here brought for ya.”

  The other woman, more proper in a long skirt and blouse, held up a basket of food.

  Maddie sighed inside. With a hint of embarrassment, she relaxed her grasp on the gun. “Sorry. You can never be too careful.”

  “Oh, we understand.” The first woman dismissed the concerns with a flick of her hand. “These parts are brimming with crazies. I ought to know. Been raised here all my life.”

  Maddie smiled and patted Kumiko’s arm, a sign they were safe. But as it turned out, her mother-in-law didn’t need reassurance.

  “Please,” Kumiko told the group with a slight bow of her head, gesturing to the house. “Please, come.”

  The post-supper chatter had just died down when Mr. Garrett uncorked his homebrewed liquor. Ida, the ponytailed spitfire, poured a glass for Kumiko, who sat with her on the couch. Maddie could sense a struggle between propriety and courtesy before Kumiko ultimately accepted.

  “To our new neighbors,” Ida said, lifting her glass. “May the Lord watch over you and keep you in His care.”