Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (19 page)

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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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E
ntering the room was even harder than TJ had expected, and the sight more alarming.
Hunched in a ladder-back chair, the robed man stared distantly out the window. His profile resembled little of the father TJ remembered. Graying scruff lined his jaw. Wrinkles created a road map of time and tragedy.
TJ dropped his duffel bag on the rest home floor. Garrison cap in hand, he took a step forward, then another. The clicking of his polished shoes on tile didn’t prompt a reaction. His father’s blue eyes held on a summer sky of the same shade.
TJ reached for an adjacent chair, but changed his mind. He wouldn’t be staying long.
“Dad, it’s me.”
Nothing. Just staring.
He tried again, louder. “I said, it’s me. TJ.”
On the train ride home that morning, he had contemplated this moment. The “delay in route” supplied his last chance to confront his father before deployment. If nothing else, he ought to say good-bye. In case.
“I know you probably can’t hear me, but ...” He cleared the rasp from his throat and straightened in his uniform. The shiny gunner’s wings surely would have made his old man proud. Not that TJ cared. Why would he anymore?
“I just came to tell you that I’m shipping out soon, and I thought ... I thought that ...”
He rubbed a hand over his buzz cut, running low on words but heavy on memories. Snippets of his past assembled in a collage: his mother’s seven-bean stew that once won a ribbon at a local fair; little Maddie following him everywhere, close as Peter Pan’s shadow; his parents cheering from the stands after TJ’s first no-hitter; and at the center of the images, his last camping trip with his father before college began. They’d lounged around the campfire, sipping their pungent coffee. Croaking frogs and chirping crickets had provided a backdrop to their comfortable silence.
So many moments. Now all irrelevant.
Here, in this structured enclosure, nature’s sounds gave way to the squeaking of rubber soles and rolling carts, the clinking of metal trays. Each sound depicted movement with purpose. Of passersby in the hallway driven by the needs of others.
Faced by the contrast of his father’s world, one of mere existence, TJ felt sympathy form low in his chest. It expanded like a bubble as he studied the room. The framed dime-store prints, the narrow bed, its solitude folded into Army-tight corners.
Then a thought returned. He’d sworn he would never forgive his father. Sworn it with everything in him. From that recollection, the sphere of sympathy popped, pricked by a needle of blame.
“Mr. Kern,” a nurse said, entering. “Time for—oh, pardon me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“I was just leaving,” TJ told her, to which she gave a reassuring wave.
“There’s no hurry, dear. I was fetching him for his afternoon walk. Are you a friend of the family?”
“No,” TJ said, before adding, “He’s ... my father.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize he had a—” She stopped herself and smiled uncomfortably. “How silly of me. I should’ve seen the resemblance. Well. Feel free to take your time. I’ll swing by later.”
“No need, ma’am. I have to go anyway.” He turned to his father, and without meeting his eyes, he bid a quick good-bye.
TJ recognized the tune but not the voice.
He set his duffel and tunic in the entry of his house, and followed the lyrics of “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” toward the kitchen. August had warmed the hall by a good fifteen degrees since the day he’d left, yet more than the temperature felt different.
The scent of a baking dessert piqued his curiosity, pushing out reflections on his father, and drew TJ closer to the singer. In the kitchen, she stood with her back to him.
Jo Allister ... he should have guessed. She belted out an off-key high note that made him smile rather than cringe.
Arms folded, he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. Her bound hair bobbed like a buoy as she diddel’d and yada’d about a Chicago trumpet man playing reveille. She sponged the tiled counter in a circular motion that matched the beat of her swaying hips. Nice sway actually.
And
nice hips. Her typical outfits were hand-me-downs from her brothers, hiding what now appeared to be an attractive figure. Her tan pedal pushers hinted to as much, even if her baggy button-down shirt, knotted at the waist, didn’t. Which was a real shame, since—
TJ bridled the rest. This was Jo, the equivalent of another sister. Not to mention Maddie’s best friend. Striking up more than friendship would verge on hypocrisy, considering his view of Lane. Besides, at this point, nothing good could come of a romance with anyone.
“You’re home,” Jo exclaimed in mid-turn. Her bronze eyes lit with delight, before the spark blew out. He could see her recalling their last encounter, the full bucket of anger he’d dumped on her. “Maddie said you weren’t comin’ till tomorrow.” Her altered tone implied she had planned to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.
“I was released from the base earlier than I thought.”
“Mm.”
She gave his uniform a quick glance that showed no sign of being impressed, then retreated to the sink. Heat from the oven radiated through the room.
Setting his hat aside, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. “So how’ve you been?”
She scrubbed her hands with soap, hard, not addressing the question. “Maddie should be back soon. She’s delivering clothes to a neighbor on Fairmount, for the stamps she got.”
“Stamps?”
Jo sighed, annoyed. “They made a trade. Maddie mended some trousers for ration coupons, ’cause she didn’t have enough sugar. And she wanted to bake you a cake.” Under her breath, she added, “Though only God knows why.”
Boy oh boy, Jo was a tough nut. Oddly, though, he found her even more likable after seeing her in a huff. “So, what kind of cake you got there?”
“
Devil’s
Food,” she said after a pause.
“Ah, yeah? My favorite.”
“Yeah, I know—” The sentence caught. She grabbed a plaid dish towel and dried her hands. “Since you’re here now,
you
can keep an eye on the baking. Just pull it out when the bell goes off. It’s flour-less, so it’ll be denser than usual.” She set the towel on the counter and walked past him.
“Come on,” he said. “Don’t rush off.”
“Got stuff to do.”
“Jo ...”He trailed her toward the entry, led by a growing need to keep her there. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed their talks, or just being with her, till now. “Jo,” he said again.
But she flat-out ignored him. Her hand made it to the door handle when he blurted, “I saw my dad today.”
It was enough to halt her.
Slowly, cautiously, Jo faced him. She waited for him to continue.
“Figured I should ... with me shipping out on Sunday.”
She nodded, disdain dropping away. “How’d it go?”
“Fine, I guess. Doubtful he heard anything, but I said what I needed to.”
A shadow of a smile lifted the corners of her lips. “That’s good.”
In the quiet stretch between them, it dawned on him that she’d never had the chance to say good-bye to her own dad.
“Well, I’d better get,” she said. “Your sister’s gonna want some time with you.”
“Jo, listen. Before you go ...”
She waited again.
If he couldn’t right things with his father, he should at least make the effort elsewhere. “I wanted to say that ... that I’m sorry, for blaming you about Lane and Maddie. I was angry, and, well, it wouldn’t have been right for you to stick your nose in. So ... I’m sorry for putting you in the middle.”
Jo arched a brow. “Wow. Two sorrys in a single day,” she mused. “How’d those feel coming out of your mouth, airman?”
“Rough enough to chip a tooth.”
“In that case, apology accepted.” When she grinned, he couldn’t help but laugh.
“Seriously,” he told her, “why don’t you stay. If you helped bake the thing, you ought to enjoy a piece.”
“What makes you so sure I helped bake anything for you?”
The smudge of cake batter on her cheek gave her up. He walked over and gently swiped the evidence with his thumb. He meant to withdraw his fingers, but to his surprise, found he couldn’t. The softness of her skin held them in place. He looked into her eyes, and a feverish charge shot through him, sending a bead of sweat down his spine. His mind said to step back, but his body acted on its own. He watched his hand venture to her neck and her mouth slightly open. Her breath smelled of cocoa, her hair of lemon. He leaned several inches closer, wanting to taste the sweetness dusting her lips, when he heard a click.
The front door.
He shifted away with the speed of a rifle drill. “Maddie,” he said.
His sister’s eyes widened—from his return, he hoped, not the scene. “TJ, you got in early! You should have wired me. I would’ve met you at the station.”
“I—wanted to surprise you.”
Maddie returned his smile. But then her lips relaxed as she glanced at Jo, whose skin had gained a shade of pink. Maddie’s attention bounced back to him with an air of suspicion. “Am I interrupting. . . ?”
“What, us?” He scrunched his face, motioning to himself and Jo.
She’s one of the guys,
he said without saying it. “I was only walking her out.” An uneasy pause.
“Yeah,” Jo said coolly. “I was just leaving.”
Unable to meet Jo’s eyes, he tossed her a “see ya,” and headed for the kitchen.
What the heck was he doing? Months of training with an assigned bomber group would do this to any fella, right? Too much time spent in the barracks. Too many postcards of pinup gals or chats about one broad or another. With the amount of testosterone packed into their B-17, it was a miracle they’d made it off the tarmac.
At the sink, TJ downed a glass of water that wasn’t nearly cold enough. He refilled it as Maddie entered the room. Dodging an inquiry, he gestured to his uniform. “Whaddya think of the getup? Not too shabby, huh?”
She shook her head at him. A skeptical look, he assumed, until she spoke. “I can’t believe you made corporal already.” Her face warmed with pride.
Too bad the pride was unwarranted. In his view, he hadn’t earned the rank more than any other private. “Don’t let the stripes fool you. Just luck of the draw.”
“Oh, I highly doubt that.”
He didn’t respond, simply drank his water. Why dim her glowing opinion?
“So ... ,” she said, a prompt that dangled. With nowhere to go from there, the conversation hovered over unwritten words in their letters.
TJ preferred to concentrate on what had actually appeared on those pages. Six months of postal exchanges had helped fill the cracks in their relationship.
“So,” he parroted as his sister checked on the oven. “Give me the dope. What’s the latest round here?”
Maddie tucked her pageboy hair behind her ears and leaned back against the counter. “Well,” she said, thinking. “I did receive a nice note from Professor Mischakoff. He invited me to play for him again, once I get to New York. Sort of a final polish before going in front of the panel.”
“Does that mean you got confirmation from the school, that they’ve given you an audition slot?”
“They did.”
“And what about the application for the scholarship?”
“It’s taken care of.”
“Filling it out, or mailing it?”
“TJ.” She reached over and touched his sleeve. “I’ve got it handled. Really, I’m not a little girl anymore.”
Despite the maturity she’d gained while he’d been away—more definition in her cheeks, more curves to her sundress—she was still his baby sister. Always would be.
Skirting a debate over the point, he charged on. “And what about the shop? Business picked up any?”
“A little. Lately most of the alterations are just to make old clothes last. But it’s all for the war effort, so we can hardly complain.”

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