Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (41 page)
Read Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Online
Authors: Kristina McMorris
67
T
his was the first place TJ had promised himself he’d go the minute he made it back. Now here he was, across the street from Jo Allister’s house.
his was the first place TJ had promised himself he’d go the minute he made it back. Now here he was, across the street from Jo Allister’s house.
The sun was settling in behind the trees. Orange and pink and purple streaked the sky in watercolors. Summer flowers scented the air. All those nights while in that godforsaken prison, this was the moment he’d dreamed about. In large part, it’s what had kept him alive. The thought of coming home, of marching up to that door all spit-shined and gallant in his uniform, of spinning that sweet gal around in his arms and keeping her there forever.
Of course, TJ’s dreams had changed since then. His mind, in the sporadic hours he managed to sleep, had become a movie screen showing only two reels. A double feature of that last night on Magtulay. Occasionally, the guard’s bullet would hit TJ instead. But more often, Lane was the one who got shot and the guy who pulled the trigger was TJ.
It was this second vision that woke him night after night in the hospital, his pajamas soaked from a cold sweat. The three extra months he’d voluntarily stayed in the ward hadn’t done much to help his insomnia. Not to say that’s why he’d waited to leave until an Army doctor booted him out. The real reason was that he couldn’t stand the thought of facing Maddie. Or Suzie. Or Lane’s family.
In letters, Maddie had done her best to alleviate his guilt, with no success. If there was any man good enough to marry his sister, it should have been Lane. TJ had just been too stubborn to see it. Too afraid that one more change in his life would have eliminated the few sureties left.
Now everything he’d ever known had changed.
The one constant seemed to be the view in front of him. Aside from some weathering of the roof and loosening of the screen-door netting, Jo’s house looked no different than when he’d shipped out. Although he’d never asked, Maddie—who clearly knew about the short-lived romance—had been inserting tidbits about Jo in her letters. How the gal had been on dates here and there, but no fellow had truly caught her fancy. That she’d been running the hardware store on her own, even though the three brothers who’d served had made it back, and outside of her ball career ending early, her life was going oh-so-splendidly.
Maddie’s intentions in those updates were transparent. They were a way of explaining that his own life could resume as smoothly. But suddenly, reflecting on all she had written, he found a glaring reason not to knock on the Allisters’ door: Jo didn’t need a payload of his unresolved issues to disrupt her oh-so-splendid life.
Just then, someone turned on a lamp in the front room. TJ slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. In his spit-shined uniform, he turned away, rounded the sidewalk, and boarded a bus headed for what should have been his first destination.
The hall grew longer and starker with every step. Two visitors at the rest home smiled in passing and continued toward the exit. Guest hours were nearly over, which wasn’t a problem. TJ wouldn’t be staying long. Truth was, he had no idea what he was going to say to his father.
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
“W
atch out!” Maddie cried.
atch 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.
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 been 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.
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.
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