Bridge of Scarlet Leaves

by Kristina McMorris

  At the entry to Room 33, where TJ had been only once before, he slowly opened the door. No light shone from inside. The man had to be asleep. Coming back tomorrow would be better. Why talk to a person who wasn’t awake? Whatever he had to say could wait.

  He turned to leave, but his eyes, adjusting to the dark, caught a clarified view. The bed was empty. In fact, the whole room was empty. What had happened to his father?

  If his health had gone south, Maddie would have told TJ—unless she didn’t want to say in a letter, saving him from more worries while in the hospital.

  Oh, God ... no ...

  No, no, no!

  TJ took off for the lobby. “Nurse,” he called down the hall. “Nurse!”

  A staff woman came out from a room on the right. “Sir, residents are sleeping.”

  “Jacob Kern,” he blurted. “Where is he?”

  “Sir, please quiet down.”

  “He’s my father. His room is vacant.” Standing before her, he said, “Please, tell me he’s not ...”

  Apparent understanding ironed the crevice splitting her brow. She shook her head and squeezed his uniform sleeve. A gesture of compassion? A condolence?

  “Water was leaking from his ceiling,” she explained, “so we moved him to Room Ten to allow for repairs. I’m afraid we just haven’t gotten around to moving him back yet.”

  “So—he’s alive?”

  She smiled tenderly. “I’m sorry we caused you a fright.”

  A wave of gratitude washed over him, so strong his knees almost buckled.

  “You’re welcome to peek in,” she said, “but I believe he’s sleeping. Would you prefer to talk to him in the morning?”

  TJ didn’t think twice. “It has to be now. I’ve waited too long already.”

  Seated beside the bed, TJ struggled with where to begin.

  He studied the profile of his father’s features, the wrinkles smoothed by a mask of moonlight. This was the man TJ remembered from his childhood. This was the guide he’d relied upon to determine right from wrong, to direct him toward the road worth traveling.

  Please tell me where I’m supposed to go.

  There was no answer. His father’s husky breaths continued to flow in and out, and his eyes, like his mind, remained shut to the world.

  TJ rubbed his palms on his trousers. So as not to disturb his father, he spoke in a hush. “It’s been a while, huh, Dad? Not sure if you remember, or if you heard me at all actually, but ... I’ve been away because of the war.”

  As TJ hunted for the right words, it struck him how similar their journeys had become. Somehow they’d both survived tragedies in which others hadn’t, left behind to agonize over the casualties. In addition to Lane, an Army Ranger and two POWs had also been killed during the raid. Four American lives lost.

  “You know, I’ve been banging my head here, trying to figure out why some make it and some don’t. Military officers, they’ll tell you it’s just the nature of war. Other people will say it’s all part of God’s plan.”

  The theories seemed to work for most folks. To TJ, they were loads of bull. Simple things people say when they don’t have hard answers. There wasn’t anything natural about war. And after two years of living in that blasted POW camp, he knew for a fact: God was nowhere near the place.

  That didn’t stop TJ from wanting to make sense of it all. Laws of physics could explain how any pitch would fly, or calculate its trajectory off a bat. But no formula could enlighten him on the logic of death.

  Looney was a perfect example.

  “Word has it that during the raid, Looney—that’s what we called the camp commander—apparently he knew he was done for. So he hugged a grenade and yanked the pin. Turned out to be a dud. How you like that?”

  Now the asshole was facing a trial for war crimes. Some called that justice. Maybe so. Maybe it was pure dumb luck. Then again, luck was supposed to be a good thing. Same went for survival.

  So why did survival feel so unlucky?

  With a heavy sigh, TJ leaned forward, elbows pressed into his knees. “All I know is that I’m tired.... I’m just so tired.” The guilt fastened to his back made every movement a drain to his body, his spirit.

  Gently he touched his father’s hand. The skin was rough and aged but warm. From the simple contact, images that had haunted TJ for years rose in a mental mural, still locked behind a cage. His mother’s wracked form, the endless rain, the twisted mess of metal. In his mind he saw the key turn and the door swing open, and in a plume of darkness they drifted free.

  “It’s time to forgive yourself, Dad. It’s been long enough.”

  Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but the sound of his father’s breaths seemed to stretch into a deeper, more peaceful rhythm. As TJ sat there listening, he couldn’t help but wonder if he too would ever forgive himself for what he’d done.

  68

  “Watch out!” Maddie cried.

  With a jerk to the handle, Emma swerved the wagon just in time to avoid colliding with the Ovaltine display. She brought the wheels to an abrupt halt in front of Maddie. Seated in the Radio Flyer, Suzie released giggles that filled the supermarket. Her eyes sparkled like firecrackers.

  “I’m just keeping her entertained, like you asked,” Emma reasoned.

  Maddie tried to keep a straight face, yet how could she possibly? Between Emma’s sly smirk and Suzie’s lopsided piggytails, Maddie found herself giggling with them. The feeling was wondrous. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d actually laughed so freely.

  Within seconds, however, a prick of guilt deflated the moment. It didn’t seem right, enjoying what Lane would never see.

  Maddie grasped the handle of her shopping basket, maintained her smile as best she could. “Em, could you grab a box of gelatin? I think I’ll make a spinach mold for supper.”

  “Yuck!” Suzie puckered her face.

  Emma bent over to meet Suzie’s eyes. “Ah, c’mon, shortcake. Don’t you wanna be strong like Popeye?”

  When Suzie adamantly shook her head, Emma warned her, “You know, if you don’t eat your spinach, you won’t be strong enough to do things like ... this!” With that, Emma darted down the aisle with the wagon, causing Suzie to squeal.

  A pair of elderly women pointed at the girls and whispered to one another. Maddie didn’t have to hear them to know what they were saying. An interracial child spurred plenty of attention, even after the war. Maddie prayed nightly that societal acceptance would evolve long before her daughter could comprehend her differences.

  Refocusing, Maddie turned to the crates of fruit. She sifted through the muskmelons and tested a few with a squeeze. Her mother had taught her not to judge on appearance alone. So Maddie followed her instincts and chose one for tomorrow’s breakfast.

  She was moving on to the apples when she spotted the rhubarb. TJ’s favorite kind of pie. She added a bundle of stalks to her basket. She hardly expected a dessert to free him from the quiet anguish that kept him cocooned in their house, blatant since his return a week ago, but she was willing to try.

  On occasions when she’d felt the strength for it, she had risked broaching the subject. Yet he would quickly divert. And she’d let him, as it wasn’t an easy topic for her either. In its place, they would discuss the weather and Bea’s latest gossip from the shop. Then TJ would grab their father’s old toolbox and busy himself with repairs in the basement, where he could be alone.

  If only she knew how to reach him.

  “Madeline.”

  The sound of her proper name was jarring. Though even more startling was the sight of who’d said it, a person she hadn’t seen in eons. “Mrs. Duchovny,” she replied, and a genuine smile curved Maddie’s lips.

  Pecan curls brushed the collar of the woman’s dress suit, clearly tailored for her robust shape and bordering on too fancy for a supermarket. With rouge highlighting her cheeks, her polished appearance differed vastly from their last run-in.

  And then Maddie remembered. She’d bee
n delivering Donnie’s favorite shirt, in time for his funeral, when the woman tore Maddie’s pride in two. Even on that day, she understood it was grief that had propelled the mother’s outburst. Still, Mrs. Duchovny’s cruel judgment—her blind hatred of Lane, her piercing references to Maddie’s parents—rose now like a welt.

  Maddie angled toward the produce, unwilling to meet her gaze. This person was no longer her benefactress; just a former customer of her father’s. Someone she used to know.

  “Madeline,” she tried again, “what a delight to see you.” Unease seeped into her voice, which then dropped into silence. Once known for her endless supply of chatter, Mrs. Duchovny seemed at a loss for words. “So,” she said, “I hear you have a daughter.”

  Maddie stiffened, although she shouldn’t have been surprised. The scandalous news, about “that half-breed” in the neighborhood, had no doubt garnered sneers among the local uppity circles. “I have shopping to do,” she bit out. As she started to leave, Mrs. Duchovny tenderly grabbed her arm.

  “Please.”

  Without looking at her, Maddie asked, “What is it you want?”

  “I just wanted to say that ... well, Bob and I ... we were very sorry to hear about your husband.”

  Maddie snapped around. “Were you really?”

  “Yes,” she affirmed. “We were.”

  That was all. She added nothing more. But in that brief sentence, Maddie heard it. Like a quarter rest in a musical piece, the message was soundless though present. We’re no different now, you and I. Our loved ones fought, and sacrificed, for the same cause.

  Perhaps Maddie only imagined these words, these alms of understanding. All the same, their evident truths shed a layer of her resentment. How could she truly blame the woman for lashing out at the time? Effects of tragedy can vary. Maddie saw that now. From losing her mother, as well as her father, the sorrow had been tremendous. Yet with Lane it was worse. She had spent the better part of a year actually blaming the person who’d died. The whole world can become the enemy when you lose what you love.

  Softening, Maddie nodded in response, acknowledging the sincere condolence.

  Mrs. Duchovny smiled with her ruby-red lips.

  When Maddie stepped away again, the gal ventured, “Is there any chance you could join us? For supper on Sunday? Your daughter too, of course. About six-thirty?”

  Something in the invitation jostled a memory. A vision of Kumiko burning a letter, moving on from her past.

  Maddie felt herself nearing her own flame as she considered her reply.

  While tentative, she swiveled back and said, “That would be lovely.”

  As hard as Maddie tried, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but the task waiting at home. Her exchange today with Mrs. Duchovny had made clear what she needed to do. All else became buzzing to her senses—at no benefit to Emma.

  Throughout the stroll from the market, Emma voiced concerns about living in Japan, a country she had never even visited. Would her Japanese be good enough? Would the kids treat her poorly? She didn’t complain, just sought assurance.

  Maddie would typically oblige, despite her desire that they stay. This time, though, her offerings ran thin. Her mind had fixated on an unsealed envelope, and the pages inside, which, for better or worse, could change her life.

  Finally, alone in her bedroom, Maddie dared to open the nightstand. With a cautious hand, she pulled out Lane’s portrait. His eyes gleamed with such pride for the uniform he wore.

  She had been jealous of that uniform, for the shiny, starched enticement that had taken him away. First, to another country, then from this earth. Somehow, she’d thought that shutting Lane out, along with that dratted uniform, would keep her pain at bay. She hadn’t realized that by doing so, she had trapped herself in that drawer as well.

  Perched on her bed, she set his envelope on her lap. She paused to prop his frame on her night table. She would need Lane beside her, now more than ever.

  After a careful breath, Maddie broke the seal. At last, she began to read.

  69

  TJ pounded out his frustrations over the news. He snagged another nail from between his lips and hammered it into the wooden bracket on the wall. Adding shelves to the basement was the latest chore he’d thought up, to kill time, to give him purpose. But thanks to a phone call from Ranieri, the shelves would likely end up cockeyed.

  Stupid Italian know-it-all, shoving his nose in everyone’s business. What right did he have giving updates on people TJ would rather forget? Just about the last person he wanted to hear about was Eddie—or “Dopey,” as Ranieri knew him. Apparently, as a result of Eddie fetching help during the raid, G-2 had discovered he was American and the circumstances of his draft. Cleared of any potential war crimes, he was given the chance to come home.

  A swell thing, right?

  Oh, but here’s the kicker. He’d said no. With his mother and sister living in Nagoya, he had chosen to live there instead. In the country he should have hated. Surely he could have brought his family to California too, if he’d wanted.

  Just didn’t make a lick of sense. None of it.

  And what bothered TJ most? That it bothered him at all. Why’d he care what the guy did anyway?

  “TJ!”

  He swung toward the yell, his heart in an instant gallop. Maddie stood at the base of the stairs. His sister. Not a prison guard with a bamboo stick. “What’s the matter?”

  She smiled. “Nothing. I just couldn’t get your attention.”

  “Oh. Right.” He sighed, relieved, embarrassed. How many times had she called his name before he’d heard her?

  “Here,” she said, handing him a glass of lemonade. “Emma made a fresh pitcher. I’d almost forgotten how good it tastes with the full portion of sugar.”

  TJ finished his drink in three swallows, barely tasting it, and returned the glass. “Thanks.” He wiped his beaded forehead with a dirty rag. Dust from his handiwork floated in the afternoon light, a dim stream through the smudged window, causing him to cough.

  “Dinner will be ready soon,” she said. “You should come up and join us. Get some fresh air.”

  By “us” she meant Suzie and Emma, two people worth avoiding, the same as Lane’s parents. Not just for the painful reminders stirred up by their presence, but for the family’s warmth he didn’t deserve.

  “Actually,” TJ said, “could you, uh, leave it out for me? I want to get this done before nightfall.” He angled back to the boards that needed to be cut, and sketched pencil marks on the top piece.

  “All right,” she said halfheartedly. “If that’s what you want.”

  After a pause, her footsteps climbed the stairs, only to stop midway and descend again. He could feel a confrontation looming, the topic obvious. He placed the saw on a board’s edge and heaved the metal teeth into motion. Back and forth he pushed and pulled, generating noise too loud to talk over.

  In the corner of his eye, he could see her knee-length skirt. Her legs went still as beams. She continued to wait ... and watch. TJ’s nerves jittered beneath the skin, scratched at the surface, until agitation won out. “Is there a problem?”

  Maddie answered in an even tone. “I got a letter.”

  More news he didn’t need. He lined up another board.

  “It was from Captain McDonough. He was one of the Rangers who helped lead the prison raid and—”

  “I know who he is.”

  Maddie pressed on, unfazed. “He said that if you and Lane hadn’t run into the guards that night, they would’ve caught up to the other prisoners who were with you. And that a lot of those guys probably wouldn’t have reached the rescue point.”

  “I know all this, Maddie.” He tossed a finished board onto the cement, grabbed a new one. “Told us everything at the hospital.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t realize ... I thought ...” Her attempt crumbled away. TJ hoped she’d take her cue and leave him be.

  That hope lasted mere seconds. A rustling of
paper indicated she had other plans. She was pulling pages from her pocket. Did she really think showing him the captain’s letter would make everything better?

  Feeling bullied into a corner, he verged on shouting. “I told you I don’t want to read his goddamn note. So stop pushing.”

  She looked at him, a calm determination in her eyes. No suggestion of a flinch. He’d never seen her this strong.

  “These are from Lane,” she said. “It was his farewell letter.”

  TJ’s shell of mettle cracked and shattered as Maddie crossed the room.

  “It wasn’t until yesterday that I had the courage to open it. Now that I have, I think you ought to read it too.” She held out the pages, displaying the familiar handwriting.

  Desperate for escape, he twisted away from her. He placed a shelf on the brackets and stood there gripping the board.

  “Please,” she said, suddenly right behind him. “Read it.”

  “I can’t,” he whispered.

  “TJ ... I’m asking you to do this one thing for me.”

  He glanced at the stationery. Every word would strike like a whip. Yet after all he had stolen from her, how could he refuse?

  A stretch of silence passed before TJ accepted the pages. Then he lowered himself onto a stool, mustering what was left of his strength, and honored his sister’s wish.

  My dearest Maddie,

  I write this letter to you now in the event I don’t make it back. Tomorrow I leave on a mission that offers a great deal of danger. For this reason, I’ve given plenty of thought to changing my mind. Believe me, sweetheart, the easiest thing would be to bow out and head for the States, where you and Suzie and I could finally start life together as a family. If I did that, however, I fear a burden of regret would grind away the husband and father I’d otherwise be, and both of you deserve better.