Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (42 page)

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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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69
T
J 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.
In spite of these ominous and necessary words, my hopes are high that you’ll never have to read this. I had actually written a final letter to you before, prior to my first deployment. I’ve asked Dewey to throw it away and keep this one in its place. What I thought was important back then has come to mean little. Proving myself a loyal American is nothing compared to proving myself a worthy man.
I had enlisted in the Army to do my bit, but also to show others that I wasn’t the “enemy.” In the end, I discovered that’s indeed what I was—an enemy to myself, I mean—and long before the war began. For so long I’ve been rejecting my heritage out of shame and fear of being different. What I didn’t realize was that I was only denying the person I really am, equally Japanese
and
American. I had such dreams of changing society’s views through votes and speeches, yet the one who needed to change first was me. Beyond any lesson I’ve gained during this crazy war, our “baby bird” has taught me that.
You see, Suzie is not just a gift to us, darling, but to the world. She is living proof of the beauty that two sides, even in the midst of warring, can create through love and peace, understanding and compassion, and, most of all, forgiveness. Please instill in her the deep pride that took me far too long to find. And whether I’m there or not, I ask that you tell her the truth about me. I want her to know that her daddy was a real person, both flawed and blessed, and not some fantasy of perfection. That’s the only way our dear Suzie will know that it’s okay to stumble as she finds her own path through life.
Heaven knows, I’ve stumbled plenty over the years. I would venture to guess no one knows that better than TJ. I hope he’ll be home safe and sound very soon, and eager to share some of those tales with her. Through good and bad, he never stopped being part of me, and despite my occasional doubts, I know in my heart it’s been the same for him. TJ is my brother, in every way that matters, and I’m so sorry that for a time I had forgotten that.
Please send my love to my parents and assure them that any strength I now rely upon, and good character I might possess, is because of them. I am truly honored to call myself their son. Also, please tell Emma it’s been a privilege watching her grow up into the beautiful young lady she has become. I have no doubt she will change the world for the better.
And finally, I ask that you forgive me for any hurt I have ever caused you. You are and will always be my greatest reason for living. Even if I am not at your side, know that I’m at peace and keeping watch over our family. Until we meet again, I wish you nothing but the happiness you have all given me.
My love for eternity,
Lane
The pages trembled in TJ’s hands. From one look at his sister’s moistened eyes, the tears he’d worked so hard to keep inside poured freely down his face. He tried to speak, but Lane had managed to say it all.
“We’re going to be okay,” Maddie told him, and assured him with an embrace. At that instant, TJ knew she was right, for he could feel with everything in him that Lane—forever his friend, his brother—was looking on with a smile.
70
“B
ubba-skosh!” Suzie’s butchered version of the word helped relieve Maddie’s apprehension.
“It’s
butterscotch,
” Maddie corrected gently, yet the girl paid no mind. She just continued her hopping about on the nursing home’s checkered lobby floor.
“As a matter of fact,” Bea said, appearing before them, “we just so happen to have butterscotch
and
bubba-skosh pudding.” She extended her hand toward the toddler. “Shall we?”
Suzie latched onto Bea, and the two of them turned for the kitchen.
Maddie found herself wishing for an excuse to delay this visit. Really, after not seeing her father for so long, what difference would one more day make?
“Are you sure you’re not too busy to watch her?” she called out. “We could always come back tomorrow... .”
“Take all the time you need, sugar,” Bea replied pointedly. “Suzie Q and I are gonna have ourselves a feast.” She winked at the little girl. “Isn’t that right?”
Suzie nodded, and off they trotted around the corner, leaving Maddie alone.
Well, not completely alone. She peered down at the violin case in her hand. “Guess it’s just you and me again, huh?”
An elderly gal in a wheelchair cast Maddie a queer glance. No question, she wondered if Maddie was as senile as half of the residents here. Why else would a person be conversing with an instrument?
Maddie smiled tightly at the woman before gathering herself and forging down the hall. The place looked the same as she remembered, except smaller. There was a huge world outside these walls, this city, that she had now sampled. She wondered how much of it her father had ever experienced....
A thought occurred to her: Maybe his enthusiasm for Juilliard had been less about her music and more about life; for not even Mischakoff could have taught her the lessons she had gained.
It was certainly a pleasant theory.
At the door to her father’s new room, she announced her arrival with a knock. He sat by the window, staring out, just like before. He had a different colored chair now, upholstered in blue stripes rather than gray.
Maddie cleared her throat. “Hi, Dad.”
She considered giving an update, like she used to, but too much had happened. No summary seemed adequate. Instead she would gift him with a performance, asking nothing in return. Her only hope was that somewhere deep inside he would hear her.
“I thought I’d play one of your old favorites.” She offered a smile and walked to his bed. Setting down her case, she noted its grooves and scratches. Her fingers traced the marks, each one bearing a story.
From Lane’s letter to TJ’s talk, to supper with Mrs. Duchovny, the message had been clear.
Life goes on, despite our misfortunes
. The first challenge was to survive. The second, to keep from losing yourself. Conservatory-bound or not, Maddie would always be a violinist. Even Kumiko had tried to tell her so, through the painting of Benzaiten, the goddess of music—
Stop this,
she told herself.
Focus.
She hadn’t practiced enough to play decently without keeping her mind sharp. Case hinged open, she rosined her bow then pulled out her violin. She tested the strings, adjusted the tuning pegs. Though she missed her instrument’s original tones—the desert weather had affected them permanently—she was learning that “changed” wasn’t the same as “ruined.”
Maddie fanned out her music sheets. Bach’s Third Partita in E major. She settled the violin beneath her jaw. Her internal metronome ticked with the briskness of three-four time. The opening measures danced through her head, accompanied by a faint ringing. The bell of doubt. She muted the sound, her eyes on the notes, and began.
The prelude had returned to her remarkably well while rehearsing at home. Her muscles had weakened from time away, but they did their job, so long as she didn’t think. Such a task wasn’t the easiest with the ache in her shoulder, fingers sore at the tips. Runs of sixteenth notes were turning her hands cumbersome and stiff.
Keep up with me,
she urged, and pushed them through the challenging phrases. Errors were accumulating as she trudged from one page to the next. Acutely aware of her father’s presence, she cringed at the lazy slur, the poor intonation.
She attempted to block these out and drift into the piece’s mathematical precision. For years, notes of the like were keys to a passageway, to a dimension of reprieve from all that overwhelmed her. But she had been gone too long, and the door had rusted. The lock wouldn’t turn.
Frustration mounted from her mistakes—a sharp not C-natural, forte not piano—until a failed roll produced a screech, and her bow, without planning, stopped. It hovered in mid-air, as though Bach, reaching from heaven, had grabbed the horsehairs to end the mutilation.
Out of habit, her gaze dropped to her case’s interior, to the home of Bach’s portrait, where she expected a look of disgust. But the composer wasn’t there. Nor was the rest of her critique panel. She had gradually replaced scrutinizing eyes and high collars for images of greater inspiration: her wedding photo in the minister’s house; a day at Manzanar spent with unexpected friends; her brother in his dress uniform; a family gathering at the farm before Thanksgiving dinner.
Although Ida and Mr. Garrett lived half a country away, and Emma and her parents would soon cross the Pacific, that family would remain in Maddie’s heart. The same place her parents and husband would always dwell. Music, she now realized, would keep them close. Songs evoked memories with each person in those photos. The practice pieces for TJ, the Irish jigs at the farm. Japanese folk tunes with her newfound family, and with Lane, it was the final movement of Bach’s Second Partita. The Chaconne.
Maddie lowered her violin, recalling Mr. Garrett’s tale—about the Chaconne being Bach’s expression of grief, a story of his wife’s death and the seven children left in his care. It was a testament to loss and survival and hope. Maddie’s ears had been deaf to the true beauty that had been there all along. She had toiled for hours upon hours, ignorantly plucking away at the technical masterpiece, attempting to mimic what she couldn’t possibly.
She suddenly looked at her violin as more than an instrument. With a body and neck, a rib and a waist, the wooden form represented the person who guided it to sing. To keep her loved ones alive, Maddie would tell their stories—and her own—with the voice inside and the strings in her hand.
And so, once again, she found a home in the chin rest. She studied her pictures a final time before closing her eyes. She didn’t need score sheets to guide her. No metronome dictated her pace. Faces rather than notes floated through her mind, and that’s when she plunged into the Chaconne. Not Bach’s version. Not that of Yehudi Menuhin, a virtuosic recording from Mr. Garrett.
This one belonged only to Maddie.
Fear and tragedy spilled from her fingers. Four years of injustice and disappointment, death and destruction, rode the bow’s jabbing movements. The stanzas descended into a headlong dive without a net.
But then, at last, darkness lifted. Light broke through a clearing in the storm. An opportunity for reflection, on herself and her journey. It was a season of change and redemption and, in the end, triumph.
Maddie barely felt her fingers graze the strings. There were no aches in her shoulder or tenderness of her skin, just a release of heaviness while she held the final note.
Exhausted yet satisfied, she opened her eyes. Moisture streaked her cheeks. She had finally discovered her voice. Never again, she vowed, would she silence the song within.
 
After gathering her belongings, Maddie stood beside her father. “See you Saturday, Dad.” Then she smiled and kissed him on the temple. She was heading for the door when Suzie burst into the room.
“Mama!” She hugged Maddie around the thighs, the best kind of hug.
“So how was your butterscotch?”
“Oishi,”
she declared, a mumbled “yummy” in Japanese. Pudding tinted her cheeks. “Hoo dat?” She pointed to Maddie’s father, asking who he was.
Maddie squatted down and said, “That’s Grandpa Kern. Remember? He’s the one I talk about at bedtime. We should let him rest now, but we’ll come visit again in a few days. Okay?”
Bea arrived at the door, a bit out of breath. She held a crushed napkin in her hand. “Lord ’a’ mercy, that girl gets faster by the day. She shot out of there before I had a chance to clean her up.”
Maddie suppressed her laughter. As a mother, she had to be firm when needed, no matter how entertaining the circumstance. She faced her daughter. “Suzie, you have to listen to Aunt Bea, now.”
The toddler dashed off again. This time, over to Maddie’s father. “Bye-bye,” she exclaimed, and she wrapped her arms around his waist.
Maddie’s heart warmed and expanded, leaving no room for a lecture, although she soon remembered the girl’s cheeks. A nurse would have to launder his robe if Suzie nuzzled her face in the fabric.
“Hey there, peanut,” Maddie said, stepping closer—yet that’s as far as she got. Her father’s hand had moved onto Suzie’s shoulder. A random physical reaction, Maddie presumed, until he tenderly patted the girl’s back, not once but twice.
An instant quiver shook Maddie’s chin. “Daddy ...”
In slow motion, he turned his head. Tears glistened in his eyes as if he’d heard Maddie’s voice, and even her story. As if awakened by his granddaughter’s touch.
Regaining her bearings, Maddie walked over and knelt at his side. She held his hand for the first time in years. “Dad, can you hear me?”
He didn’t nod. He didn’t speak.
But when his lips curved up, just the slightest amount, the fog seemed to fade. The cobwebs began to clear.

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