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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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20
I
mpossible hand positions on stubborn strings nearly drove Maddie to fling her bow out her bedroom window. Through sixty-four phrases of a repetitive bass line, the notes marched in twos, then threes and fours. They waded through each maddening section of Bach’s Chaconne, a fifteen-minute marathon of advanced arpeggios and chord progressions.
It had been two long months since America declared war. Yet her armor of melodies, until today, had managed to keep her emotions in check. Behind their shields, she could temporarily forget the empty visits with her father, even the resentment between her and TJ, masked by what had progressed to civil exchanges.
Perhaps Bach’s partita itself was the problem. This movement had, after all, been their wedding processional. Now each measure of its three-beat bars reminded her of the perfect future she’d glimpsed with Lane, only to have it swiped clean from her fingers. Stolen by strangers.
But what else should she spend her time playing? Without the Duchovnys as benefactors, Juilliard was no longer an option. Thus, maintaining mastery of Mazas’s Thirty-Sixth Opus or Viotti’s Twenty-Second Concerto was pointless when auditioning would merely taunt her with what she couldn’t have.
And so, she persisted in tackling the Chaconne, until her back ached and fingers whined. She obsessed over stumbled trills and missed double-stops. As if conquering the piece could close the gap forming between her and Lane. She could feel the void gaining mass every time they met. It stalked them at Hollenbeck Park, straining their conversations. It hovered in Lane’s car as their bodies joined in the backseat, failed attempts to re-create the intimacy they’d once found.
She wanted to scream, to yell until the world came to its senses.
Instead, she trained her vision on the sheet music propped on the metal stand. Or at least she tried. An image in the lid of her violin case competed for her focus: a small copy of her wedding photo, taken by the minister’s wife. There it was, nestled in a spot previously reserved for Mozart.
Common sense told her to shut the lid, but she couldn’t. She needed to keep those memories alive. She reached out and traced Lane’s smile, her mother’s bouquet. Relationships, like spiderwebs, required such care in the beauty of their weaving—only to be severed by a single rain. There had to be something Maddie could do to prevent her marriage from meeting the same fate.
She glanced around the room, at belongings now bearing little value—the perfume bottles and figurines, the posters of classical performances. From the thought, a solution materialized. While no umbrella existed large enough to protect them, somewhere out there the skies shone clear.
 
On the Moritomos’ front porch, Maddie crossed her arms, unwilling to yield. “Give me one reason why.”
“I can give you a dozen,” Lane argued.
“I’m not talking about leaving forever. Just a month or two. Until things calm down, like you said.”
“Forget about what I said. Haven’t you read the papers?”
She hadn’t because she didn’t have to. She’d overheard enough from customers in the shop—of suspected spies and espionage labeled “Fifth Column” activity. From the Hearst and McClatchy newsies to coastal farmers and fishermen, anyone harboring anti-Oriental sentiments had been handed a long-awaited excuse to vent in the open.
If nothing else, her family’s misfortune had taught her to recognize inflated dramatics for what they were. Gossip that would gradually lose its luster. Which was why her plan made sense.
“All of this is going to pass,” she persisted. “Things will get better.”
“Or,” he said, “they’ll get even worse.” He spoke with a resignation that scared her.
“Lane, that can’t be the case
everywhere.
”
“So you just want to pack up and run off?”
“We did it before, didn’t we?”
“That was different.”
“How?” she challenged.
“Because I have my family to think about now.”
Maddie hadn’t fully considered what it would be like to travel with his mother, a woman whose brittle silence spelled out displeasure over their marriage like the bold letters of a marquee.
“And what about your brother?” Lane added. “Don’t you think he’s going to have something to say?”
“It isn’t his decision. This is about you and me.”
“But it’s not, Maddie. Not anymore.” He rubbed his temple as if fending off a headache.
Something else was troubling him. His father, maybe. They still hadn’t heard from the man. Since his transfer to New Mexico—a detention center in Santa Fe—Lane had penned inquiries to more than a dozen officials, including the President.
“Have you received a reply,” she ventured carefully, “from any of the letters you sent about your dad?”
“Nobody’s answered,” he said. “Well—except for one.”
“Oh? Who was it from?”
“Congressman Egan’s office.”
The gentleman knew Lane personally. Of course he would be helpful.
“What did he say?”
“His secretary sent a letter. Said I should take up my concerns with the Department of Justice directly. And oh, by the way, with restructuring due to the war, they won’t be in need of my services, after all.”
Maddie remembered the elation in Lane’s voice the day they had offered him the job. She longed to hear that voice again.
He crossed the porch, gripped the rail with both hands, and stared into the muddled afternoon sky. She could see the light inside him dimming. Striving to keep it aglow, she followed him over and laid her hand on his back. He was wearing the maroon sweater-vest she had made him for Christmas. The annual holiday had grown grimmer—as would all the days if they stayed.
“I can imagine how horrible you must feel. But if you think about it, this is one more thing not keeping you here.”
“And what about your dad?” he said without looking at her.
“My dad?”
“Your visits. Don’t you need to be there, to play for him every week?”
She almost replied that her father wouldn’t notice. But then she saw a vision of him waiting by his window, even vaguely aware that his daughter had abandoned him, and her stomach turned cold.
“Besides,” Lane said, “what would we live on? My parents’ cash savings won’t last forever, and who knows if we’ll ever see our money from the bank. Then there’s school to think about.” He shook his head and faced her. “Just because I’m not going back doesn’t mean you shouldn’t follow your plans for New York.”
Although the timing wasn’t ideal, she had to tell him. She’d been keeping it from him too long. “I’m not going,” she interjected.
He looked at her as though she’d lost her marbles.
“With the war, it doesn’t seem right,” she said. “One more year isn’t going to make a difference.”
“That’s ridiculous. You have someone willing to pay your way. You can’t turn that down.”
She wanted to avoid explaining. She’d lie if she could, yet his eyes forced out the truth. “The Duchovnys have changed their minds. But it’s all right. With all that’s happening—”
“Why would they do that?”
The question conveyed more disbelief than bewilderment. Despite the challenge, she replied quietly, hoping to soften the impact. “Their son. He died at Pearl Harbor.”
Layers of comprehension unfolded over Lane’s face, followed by something more. His unjust, indirect responsibility in the matter. The revelation deepened the lines in his forehead he had only recently gained. “How much is tuition?”
Maddie suspected where this was leading. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Just tell me.”
“It’s too much, for either of us right now.”
“What’s the amount?” he insisted.
“Fine. It’s three hundred, but that’s just for classes. Room and board is at least four hundred more, another two hundred for lunches and incidentals. So you see? It’s an outrageous amount for anyone, especially now. We’re all supposed to be saving.”
He opened his mouth as if to protest, then closed it and again turned away. Maddie went to reassure him, but felt an added presence. She swiveled toward the window. Centered between the swooped drapes, Mrs. Moritomo stood behind a white veil of gossamer curtain. The woman threw a glare before stepping out of view.
Perhaps fleeing with his family wasn’t the wisest choice. Though what else could Maddie do to keep him close? There had to be another option.
Unable to think of one, she confessed to the greatest reason behind her proposal. “Lane, I’m just so afraid of losing you.”
After a moment, he connected with her eyes. Only a tinge of sadness appeared in his soft smile. Gently, he pulled her into his arms. “I’m sorry, Maddie,” he told her. It was all he needed to say.
She rested her head on his shoulder and inhaled the scent of his skin, like leaves after an autumn rain. She had missed this smell, this feeling, even more than she realized.
“Em!” Lane called suddenly, and broke their hold. “Emma, what is it?”
Stifling sobs, she sprinted onto the porch. She clung to her schoolbooks as she disappeared into the house.
Lane sighed. “Probably just another kid teasing her. You stay here, I’ll be back in a minute.” He brushed Maddie’s lips with a kiss, then headed inside.
Left alone, she perched on a rail. All her life she’d lived only minutes from here, yet this was the nearest she had ever been to Lane’s front door. She wondered about his room. What color was his bedspread? Which treasures had he kept since childhood? What decorations adorned his walls? Assuming his mother permitted any.
At last, Lane reemerged.
“Is Emma all right?”
He held up a crinkled flyer. Sketched in the middle was a buck-toothed boy with squinty eyes mounted on a plaque, like the head of a deer, topped with a banner of neatly penned cursive.
Jap Hunting License. Open Season. No Limit.
“
Where did she get that?” Maddie said, aghast.
“A kid from school gave it to her, thought it was funny.” His tone made clear what he wanted to do with that kid, given the chance.
Maddie was searching for something to say when a cannon of slurs pelted them from the street.
“
Get out, you traitors!”
“Go home, Jap rats!”
Maddie turned and spotted a red object being slung toward the house. A brick! Lane pushed her down, covered her body with his. The window shattered into a downpour. Tiny shards sprinted down her arms as she breathed against the porch floor.
Victorious whoops and whistles overlapped, then quickly waned.
Lane raised his head toward the attackers. “They’re gone,” he assured her. He helped her up, brushing off her arms. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head tightly. Her heart was beating at a hummingbird’s pace.
Around a distant corner, the gang of boys jetted away on their bikes. No older than twelve, they had already learned to hate.
Lane continued to stare after them, long after they vanished. When Maddie clutched his hand, he dropped his gaze to her fingers. “You’d better go,” he said.
She wanted to object, but his mother had made clear Maddie was far from welcome in their home.
Neck still trembling, she kissed him on the cheek and whispered good-bye. Although the impulse to run for safety itched at her, she maintained a steady pace through the neighborhood.
Seeing her house brought a wave of relief, which ended at another sight. Her left hand. Bare of a wedding ring!
She had forgotten to move it from her necklace to her finger, as she’d always done before their visits. She told herself Lane hadn’t noticed, distracted by their discussion and the vandals and Emma—but deep inside, she knew he had seen.
21
W
hat a load of bull!
TJ marched out of the locker room. He continued across Bovard Field to reach Coach Barry, intent on putting the rumor to bed.
Around him the USC players were stretching and warming up beneath the buttery tarp of sun, readying for the scrimmage. This used to be TJ’s favorite time of year. Spring training. He’d loved the promise found in the scent of fresh-cut grass, the feel of tight seams on a new ball, like a clean slate in his grip. Sanded bats would whoosh in effortless arcs, his spikes would find balance in the leveled dirt, and he knew he was home.
Of course, that home was now withering. In absence of his passion for the game, the banisters dangled and stairs creaked. The pipes were leaking, warping the floors. But so long as the support beam remained, the house would stand.
That’s why word about his coach’s plans couldn’t be true. Besides, look at the guy. He was a middle-aged family man, juggling three sports for the school. No way he was leaving all that behind.
“Coach,” TJ said, “got a minute?”
Coach Barry held a pencil in one hand, team roster in the other. “What’s on your mind, son?” He scribbled notes in the margins as TJ debated on his approach, decided to keep it light.
“Just thought you’d get a kick out of hearing the latest, is all. Some of the guys, they’re saying you up and enlisted.” He forced out a small laugh to punctuate the lunacy of the idea. Only way TJ himself would be serving was through the draft. No point in volunteering for a war due to end in a year. “Bunch of hot air, right?”
Coach Barry stopped writing. He eased his head upward. The motion carried a reluctance that leveled TJ’s smile. “News sure spreads fast around here, doesn’t it?”
TJ twisted his glove, trying to squeeze sense out of what he was hearing. “You’re not saying you actually joined the Navy?”
“Never been one for the sidelines,” he said. “And with so many students joining up, figured I could at least do my bit by helping with training. I was planning to tell everyone after practice today.”
Within earshot, Paul Lamont was playing second base. He smirked at TJ, as though reveling in the news.
“Not to worry, though,” Coach Barry added. “Coach Dedeaux’s gonna take real good care of you boys while I’m gone. You just keep your eye on that diploma and give this season your all.” He patted TJ on the back. “Go on, son. You’re up now. Show Essick your best stuff.”
Sent on his way, mind reeling, TJ trudged toward the mound. Sure enough, seated in the stands amid scouts for the Red Sox and Dodgers was Bill Essick. The famed scout for the Yankees had discovered the likes of Joltin’ Joe and Lefty Gomez. Good ol’ “Vinegar Bill.” TJ hadn’t done much to impress the guy during winter league. Starting today, though, he could show all of them what he had. He could prove himself the gem they first caught a glimmer of two years ago.
Unfortunately, his arm had turned to rubber, weakened from the blow of Coach Barry’s news. The more he pondered his coach deserting them—the last constant in his life—the more his feeling of betrayal swelled.
Pitching would be his vent.
Once ready, he scuffed at the mound, sidled his foot up to the rubber. Greenery draped the surrounding fence leading to a scoreboard. No numbers on it today, this being practice, but today every pitch would count.
The catcher signed a screwball. TJ cleared his head as best he could. He aimed for a look of cool and collected, then let the first one fly.
A strike. With it came no satisfaction, just the compulsion to do it again. So that’s what he did. Gaining focus, he hurled one after the other. Knucklers, four-seamers, splitters, sinkers. What he lacked in control today, he made up for in power. Hard and determined he threw. His shoulder burned from exertion. His eyes stung from dust and disappointment. He didn’t listen for the song inside, the one he’d lost. It wouldn’t be coming back.
And who needed it? Who needed anyone, really?
Another of his teammates stepped up to bat, a new hotshot scholarship pitcher. He wiggled his spikes in place, gave a practice swing, and muttered something resembling a challenge. On another day, TJ would take the needling in stride, all part of the game. But right now, his mood demanded he stuff that cockiness back where it came from.
Fittingly, the catcher called for a slurve. When executed right, the experimental slide-curve combo created a nice weapon. An unexpected pitch to throw the guy off.
TJ channeled all of his emotions into the ball trapped in his glove. He didn’t bother to visualize the path, just the rookie’s humbled expression. Breath held, TJ drew back and unleashed the slurve full force. The ball swung wide, too wide, before it broke—
wham
into the hitter. His lower spine.
Shit.
Coach Barry rushed to the plate. Several players from the dugout did the same. Slowly, the batter rose from the huddle. They walked him off the field, not a single eye in TJ’s direction.
“Nice one, Kern.” Paul closed in with an ugly grin.
“Get back to your base.”
“That your new strategy? Wipe out the competition?”
TJ’s fingers clawed the interior of his glove as he tried like hell to ignore the weasel.
“Guess I don’t blame ya. With Coach Barry gone soon, you’ll be pulling slivers out of your ass from riding that bench.” Paul smacked his chewing gum around, a sound that grated on TJ’s nerves like sandpaper. “Or, you could just drop out now. Maybe join your Jap friend when they clear ’em out of the area. Hell, out of the whole country if we’re lucky.” More smacking as he turned for his base.
What happened next passed in a blur. TJ didn’t register his own actions until Paul was lying on the ground. The jerk scrambled to his feet and flung off his baseball cap, charged forward shouting. “You gonna shove me from behind, asshole?”
Other infielders interceded, keeping them apart.
“Come on, you coward! I dare you to try it again!” Paul reached through the nest of limbs and grabbed TJ’s sleeve. By the time TJ wrestled the grip loose, Coach Barry stepped up to mediate.
“Break it up, the both of you,” he barked. “Lamont, go cool off in the dugout.”
Paul’s wriggling stopped, but his glare remained on TJ.
“Now, Lamont!”
Conceding, Paul jerked away from his teammates’ restraining hands.
Coach Barry addressed TJ. “What was that all about?”
It wasn’t Paul’s potshots that had pushed TJ over the edge. It was the fact that the guy had seen the romance between Maddie and Lane first. And worse yet, that he’d embedded digs about Japs into TJ’s mind—about being liars and yellow and filthy—making the words far too easy to spit out.
“It was nothing,” TJ muttered, and straightened his cap with a tug.
Coach Barry glanced over at home plate. He shook his head helplessly. “Better call it a day,” he said.
TJ didn’t argue. And this time, he didn’t bother to gauge Essick’s reaction. He just tossed away his glove and walked off the field—with no intention of returning.

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