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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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He was going to ask about managing the store, since they’d both be away soon, but then Maddie added, “Bea has assured me over and over she’ll have everything under control. Combined with your Army pay, the bills are covered. And Jo will be checking on the house.”
Had his nagging become that predictable?
TJ grinned in spite of himself. Tension inside him loosened, a settling into the familiar.
In a casual tone, Maddie continued, “Lane’s family is doing all right, by the way, in case you’re wondering.”
The run-in with Jo had thrown him off. Otherwise, he’d have been better prepared for this subject. He would have noticed, before now, the wedding band on his sister’s finger that solidified her stance.
“I’m glad to hear that,” he said, a reflexive reply he immediately regretted. He didn’t mean to cause the flicker of hope in her eyes.
“I’m planning to go see them soon,” she said. “By train, it’s only about five hours away. I keep asking in my letters, but Lane told me they don’t allow visitors yet.” She paused and lifted a shoulder. “I was thinking, if you’re back here on furlough sometime, maybe ...”
These, he recognized, were the unwritten words. He knew what she wanted in response, but as much as he loved his sister, he couldn’t give it to her.
In the wake of his silence, she dropped her gaze to the counter. As she scraped her thumbnail at a dried spot of batter, he realized she might have the wrong idea.
“I want you to know,” he told her, “I don’t necessarily agree with what’s been done. Driving the Japanese from their homes, putting them into camps. Just because I can’t forgive Lane doesn’t mean I think it’s right.”
She raised her head. “But, why
can’t
you forgive him? You’ve forgiven me, haven’t you?”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“You’re my sister.”
“And he was a brother to you.”
“Maddie, stop.” He rubbed the back of his neck in agitation. But soon, calming himself, he forced out a sigh. What harm would there be in giving her an inch? “Listen. When the war’s over and he comes back, and if you do end up staying together”—which hopefully wouldn’t be the case—“we’ll sort through everything then.” He finished gently, “Till that happens, let’s enjoy the time we’ve got before I ship out. Deal?”
With a thoughtful nod, she offered a smile. “Deal.”
The cooking timer rang, a welcomed interruption. Maddie clicked off the dial, and TJ handed her a potholder. He breathed in the heavenly wafts of chocolate as she retrieved the metal pan from the oven. His mouth salivated, starved for better food than Army chow.
“Damn—I mean, dang, that looks good.” Again, too many hours with airmen and no ladies present. “Let’s dig in.”
“Hold your horses. We have to let it cool first.”
“No way. I ain’t waiting.”
“But you’ll burn your tongue.”
“A small price,” he said, pulling a fork from the drawer.
“TJ Kern, don’t you dare eat out of the pan.” After a roll of her eyes, she conceded by reaching into the cupboard for plates. “Some things never change,” she muttered with a small laugh.
Though TJ kept it to himself, he disagreed.
Everything was changing.
31
“Y
ou don’t know what you’re talking about!” The guy shot up from his wooden bench at the mess hall meeting. Lane recognized him as a kitchen worker. A Nisei in his late twenties, he wore a thin mustache, a rarity among their community at the Manzanar camp.
“Then why don’t you tell us what’s happening to our block’s sugar?” another fellow demanded. The roomful of seated Japanese men murmured their agreement. “You saying our supply’s been walking away on its own two feet?”
“I’m saying you better think again before you accuse our crew of stealing.”
Listeners fanned themselves with magazines, sheets of paper. The evening temperature sweltered. Lane had to consciously contain his urge to speak, his collegiate council days over. No good would come of intervening here, he’d learned. After ratcheting up, the meeting would land on its circular tracks. A repeat of arguments would roll out from every corner.
The War Relocation Authority thought it a favor to allow self-government, but achieving cohesion was no simpler than finding a needle in a sack of rice. From immigrants’ dialects to cultural diversity, residents of the fourteen-barrack block differed in every way save one: the ancestry that had sentenced them to this desert wasteland.
Tonight, as usual, it didn’t take long for the guys from Terminal Island—with their shogun-like attitudes and rough fisherman’s language—to make their opinions known. They wanted better meals and higher pay for jobs, improved medical treatment in the understaffed, undersupplied camp hospital. And they wanted someone to blame.
“I say we get the whole camp to boycott meals,” one guy announced.
“That’s genius,” a man behind him sneered. “Let’s starve ourselves. I’m sure the
hakujin
officials will come running.”
“You got a better idea?”
“Yeah. How about you JACL’ers learn to shut your mouths for a change? You’re the reason we all got sent here in the first place.”
More
here-we-go-again
grumbles. More guys brought to their feet. After two months of these gatherings, Lane wasn’t quite sure why he attended at all. Except, he hated to admit, for the slim possibility of making a difference.
A lean kid with glasses stood up, a seasoned debater. “The JACL,” he said, “has done nothing but defend us as loyal Americans. What would it have said if we’d protested? Everyone in the country is doing their part. And when the war’s over we’ll have erased any doubt of us being the enemy.”
That was as far as he got into his spiel, delivered as a devout member of the Japanese American Citizens League, before his opposition chimed in. Once more, they revived the tired dispute of the organization being in cahoots with the FBI, even prior to the attack on Pearl Harbor.
The block manager started tapping his gavel. He didn’t cease until the group quieted. At the semblance of order, he called upon an elder at the end of Lane’s row, who rose to impart reasoning.
“
Shokun, sukoshi kikinasai,”
he began, but a Nisei interrupted.
“Speak English, old man. You know that Japanese isn’t allowed at meetings.”
The suited gentleman was taken aback. Although he carried a humble, dignified countenance—not unlike Lane’s father—he clearly wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from one so much younger. And frankly, Lane wasn’t accustomed to watching it. Filial piety, values embedded since birth, dictated respectfulness that propelled Lane now from his seat.
“
Shikata ga nai.”
He hadn’t planned to spout his father’s phrase, but it flew out all the same.
Shikata ga nai. It can’t be helped.
One couldn’t walk past four barracks without hearing an Issei recite the saying. Same for their reminder of the reason to quietly persevere.
Kodomo no tame ni.
For the sake of the children.
“Regardless of what brought us here,” Lane told the room, “we’re in this together. We need to stop wasting time by fighting. We need to find solutions.”
The sea of men’s heads nodded in agreement, reigniting a familiar flame, though small, in Lane’s chest. He faced the rows behind him, gaining momentum. “If the kitchen crew says they’re not taking the sugar, then I for one believe them. We have to trust each other. If we want to solve the problem, we should take the matter up with Director Nash. Maybe start with beefing up patrols at the warehouse.”
“
Kuso!”
The word
bullshit
boomed from the doorway, where three members of the Black Dragon gang glared with arms crossed. These particular Kibei, Japanese Americans who’d spent much of their lives in Japan, had channeled their anger over internment into a mission: to promote loyalty to the Emperor, through violence if need be.
Lane turned away from them and continued. “What I’m saying is, we’ll make more progress if we organize our approach. Remember, this was how we succeeded at the net factory. Last month, when we asked for—”
“No!” shouted one of the Dragons. A small scar cut through his left eyebrow. “Only way to make
hakujin
listen—this!” He smacked a fist into his other hand. “You want know who steal sugar?
Hakujin
who work camp. White people. They take warehouse food and sell on black market. And
inu
helping them!”
Whispers through the mess hall grew like static. Paper fans fluttered faster.
“
Inu
like you maybe?” The same gang member pointed at the JACL defender. “Or
you.
” His finger angled at Lane, who gritted his teeth at the accusation.
Being called an
informant
, a traitor to his own kind, topped the list of insults. His father remained in a detention center for the simple fact that he wasn’t a rat—for either side. He was a loyal American, as was Lane. And the real
bullshit
lay in every syllable vomited from these lunkheads’ mouths.
Lane couldn’t hold back, his honor at stake. He moved toward the Dragons, all three now descending upon the room. They incited feuds with challengers, mainly the fishermen with no qualms about going to blows.
Then a hand touched Lane’s chest. It was the elderly man in his row, warning him with a shake of his head. Without speaking, he communicated the reason for restraint.
Kodomo no tame ni.
For the sake of Emma, for the sake of his family. To keep them safe.
Lane took this in, unclenched his fingers. His duty came first. Once more he tucked away his pride, and forced himself to turn around. Voices rose as the gavel rapped, and Lane ducked out of the room.
On the bumpy dirt road, gravel crunched beneath his scuffed shoes. The ever-present wind whipped off the Sierra Nevada, howling along with unseen coyotes. He raised the collar of his shirt against the flying sand and blinding searchlight. The beam followed him as he made his way toward the paltry unit that had become his family’s home. Each “block” contained matching tarpaper barracks and a full set of community buildings. Latrines, laundry, recreation and mess halls. Clever residents gave their barracks names like “Little Tokyo Hilton” and “The Dust Devil Inn.”
Come to think of it, Lane was wrong. Manzanar evacuees had more in common than bloodline; they had the alkaline dust. It invaded their food, their hair, their clothes. Warping of unseasoned lumber caused knotholes and cracks that invited inches of the blessed stuff into their “apartments.” Like every conversation, every cough or baby’s cry, it traveled through their dividing walls and raised flooring. It moved like a ghost, left trails thick as lies.
The one saving grace? Complaining about the dust meant not talking about the guards. It meant avoiding acknowledgment of the barbed wire that framed their one square mile of existence, or the machine guns perched on sentry posts, their barrels facing into the camp, not out.
Of these things, naturally he would make no mention to Maddie. For while he didn’t regret calling out to her on evacuation day, he would continue to shield her from his ugly new world. In letters, he would tell her about camp baseball games and gardeners planting flowers and Emma learning to twirl a baton. He would write about getting his mother to try a painting class, a great feat after weeks of her stubborn solitude. And only on occasion, to explain grime on his stationery, would he mention the dust.
At the entry stoop, Lane glanced through the window of his family’s unit, a twelve-by-twenty with the barest of essentials. No carpet on the planks. No Sheetrock on the walls. A single lightbulb hung from a splintery beam. When they’d first moved in, he told his family, “Think of it as camping, but in a wooden tent.”
Emma had agreed. His mother said nothing.
Those attitudes hadn’t changed, illustrated now by the usual scene. Emma knelt on her cot, playing jacks with their assigned roommates, a mother and a daughter who was roughly Emma’s age. Lane’s mom sat on her mattress, striped ticking stuffed with straw. Though she stared into her open Bible, the look in her eyes placed her somewhere far away. A place of lavish comfort. No doubt, in an ancient city across the ocean.
For the first time in his life, Lane understood the appeal.
32
L
ife was becoming an endless requiem of good-byes.
Maddie had chosen to trade parting words with TJ at the house, rather than at Union Station. Watching his train pull away that morning would have been too much to bear.
It was the thought of losing yet another loved one that now brought her to the rest home. She treaded her standard path, down the tiled hall. She held her violin case to her chest. Her emotions were jumbled and in need of order, and who better to tame them than Johann Sebastian Bach.
“Sugar, aren’t you gonna say hello?” A voice from behind.
In a staff uniform, pushing a cart around the corner, was Beatrice Lovell.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you,” Maddie said. “Are you working here on Sundays now?”
“Just for the day. Laverne’s replacement couldn’t start till tomorrow, so my husband asked if I’d lend a hand.” Bea laughed, adding, “I suppose he was scared he’d have to launder the sheets himself.”
Maddie smiled as they continued walking together, until news of the staffing change sank in. A stranger tending to her father’s private needs made for an unsettling thought. “Will Laverne be coming back here?” She prayed Bea meant to say “substitute,” not “replacement.”
“So long as we got a spot available, I imagine it’d be hers. All depends on when she’s done at the camp, I’d say.”
Right then, a tall man approached Bea, identifying himself as the nephew of a resident. While they discussed a medication, Maddie’s mind seized hold of the word
camp.
No longer did it refer merely to Girl Scout outings, or family weekend adventures by a creek.
Once the man left, Maddie asked, “By camp, do you mean ... ?”
Bea nodded wistfully. “The one up in Wyoming. Not where your husband’s family is staying, I’m afraid. Otherwise, sure as rain, I’d ask her to report back with an update.”
“But what is she doing there?”
“Don’t know specifics. Just that it’s a hospital job at the relocation center.”
A hospital job ... for a white woman ...
The information began weaving into a curious shape, one with promise. Visitors weren’t allowed at Manzanar, but they might be hiring. “Do you know if the camps are filling other kinds of positions?”
Bea replied as they resumed their walk, “I’ve heard about them needing teachers. For high schoolers, I do believe.” She stopped. Lips pursed, she peered at Maddie. “Sugar, I know how anxious you are to see Lane and his family, how worried you must be. But I gotta think, at least for now, music school is where you belong.”
Not at an internment camp for Japanese.
While unspoken, the implication was there.
“You’ll have to make up your own mind, I suppose, without your folks having their say.” Bea patted Maddie’s shoulder. “Just give good thought to whatever you do, is all I ask.”
With that, she left Maddie alone—at her father’s door.
 
So far, nothing about their encounter surpassed the norm. As Maddie prepared her instrument, her father’s attention remained on the window. Today’s visit, however, was destined to end differently. At long last, she would present the Chaconne. It was the one favorite of his she’d neglected to learn—until Lane revived the piece in her memory. She could still smell the bouquet, could feel his hand holding hers as they exchanged promises of forever.
Maddie hastened to raise the bow. Months of drilling the composition, of perfecting her phrasing, had led to this moment. She wouldn’t let emotions sabotage her efforts.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The reliable metronome obliged in her head. Shutting out all but the goal, she played in simple triple time. Ingrained notes promenaded through their basic harmonic scheme. Slowly she dealt them out, too slow. The image of Lane’s smile slipped in between the measures. She pushed him away and focused on the melodic lines, the shifts between soprano and offbeat bass.
Yet more memories persisted: Lane lying beside her, their limbs tangled in the sheets; his eyes darkening and disappearing as the blue bus drove away. She attacked the strings with ferocious intensity, determined to override the past. But the visuals kept coming, of life and death, happiness and despair. She saw Emma and TJ, her mother and father.
Bach’s chords slurred in her head and the metronome lost its pace. A sound trumped the movement. A sob. The sound had come from
her.
Arms too weak to continue, she lowered her bow and sealed her lips. Deep inside, the cries sang on. Salty moisture reached her mouth as she collapsed onto her knees.
Her father scarcely blinked.
She had come here bearing the Chaconne, a last hope to reach him through the wordless language of music. For hours upon hours she had practiced the movement, played long after her fingers had begged her to stop.
Now, what she had envisioned to be her greatest triumph had been unmasked as a failure. Not for the unfinished performance, but the undeniable futility. No matter which concerto she perfected—she could master each and every one—still he would not hear her. He had traveled too far to reach. Just like Lane....
No,
she thought suddenly.
Not like Lane. For him, it wasn’t too late.
She gazed up at her father, and the dullness in his eyes sealed her decision. She would not stand by again, merely waiting for the return of someone she cherished. Even if, in the end, Lane didn’t come back, at least he wouldn’t go it alone.

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