Bridge of Scarlet Leaves (33 page)

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Authors: Kristina McMorris

BOOK: Bridge of Scarlet Leaves
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Reeling from relief, Lane bit out a laugh.
Kishi kaisei
. The old adage came to mind: Wake from death and return to life. From even a desperate situation, a person can wholly return.
As the prisoners were searched for weapons, a slew of Marines encircled Lane, congratulating him on the achievement. There would be no reward from the captain, no gesture of approval; the guy had already left the scene.
What Lane got instead was a feeling of camaraderie. And for today, that was enough.
53
B
y day four, TJ chose talking as the activity that would prevent him from going nuts. Not talking to himself. That actually
would
be crazy. He spoke instead to Dopey, who’d been awarded nightly guard duty for whatever he’d said to the commander that landed TJ in the cage.
Dopey, of course, never contributed to the chats—which was why he’d become the perfect companion on nights like this, while the rest of the island slept.
It remained a mystery to TJ why he’d been spared. So far, punishment entailed no worse than being locked in an isolated bamboo cell in an open corner of camp. But then, there was no telling how long they planned to leave him there. Maybe keeping him alive in solitary forever, anxiety-ridden over tomorrow’s fate, was a form of torture in itself.
“Now, what was I saying?” he continued as Dopey paced nearby. A rifle hung from the guard’s shoulder strap. “Oh, yeah. DiMaggio’s hitting streak. A total of fifty-six consecutive games. Enough to make you speechless, isn’t it?” TJ considered his company and laughed to himself. He straightened his legs out in front of him on the dirt, his knees popping from the needed stretch. His bare feet could almost touch the cell’s other side.
“Rumor has it, if Joltin’ Joe had hit just one more, the Heinz company would’ve given him ten thousand buckaroos. All for smacking a tiny white ball.” Realizing Dopey wouldn’t understand the logic, he explained, “It’s on account of the sauce they make. Called Heinz 57. Supposed to have fifty-seven ingredients in it, though I wouldn’t take that for gospel. I mean, can you actually think of fifty-seven different ingredients that would fit into a little glass bottle?”
In the moon’s dim glow, Dopey rubbed his eyes below the lid of his military cap.
“Probably hard to imagine,” TJ said, “since you seem like a simple kinda guy. Just splash some soy sauce on everything, right? I’ve tasted the stuff before, by the way. Lane—the guy I told you about, the one who looks sort of like you—well, his real name’s Takeshi. Moritomo’s his last name. Maybe you’ve heard of him?”
Dopey sat down, his back against a large rock.
“Yeah, well, you never know. Small world.” TJ scratched his developing beard. “Point is, he bet me I wouldn’t try some octopus with that black sauce on it. Tasted like salt water on a piece of rubber. Nasty stuff if you ask me.” He shuddered as his taste buds relived the event. “Was worth it though. Got myself a Babe Ruth baseball card out of the deal.”
The timing of the win had been perfect. TJ had ruined his own copy when he’d accidentally dropped it into a puddle during recess weeks before then. He still couldn’t believe Lane had been dumb enough to gamble that card. After all, the Bambino had been Lane’s favorite....
At that moment it dawned on him. Lane had given it away intentionally.
Flicking away the notion, TJ studied a bamboo bar with vertical lettering, carved by either a rock or a fingernail.
KILROY WAS HERE.
Nobody seemed to know who Kilroy was, or if he actually existed. It had become a game U.S. servicemen played, being the first to write the phrase in every foreign town they reached. Even in war, guys would find amusing ways to pass the time.
“So you must have been the youngest in your family, huh? Had to fight to get a word in?”
Dopey produced a bundled handkerchief from the pocket of his uniform trousers. He unwrapped the same kind of snack he’d eaten every night since TJ had been put in here. A black strip of dried seaweed looped the packed triangle of rice. Thankfully, since Dopey didn’t seem the sharing type, nothing about it struck TJ as appetizing.
Didn’t these people ever get a craving for something better? Like a nice juicy steak? A bacon lettuce sandwich, a side of crispy fries? A platter of Spaghetti Bolognese from Ranieri’s mom?
TJ tried not to think about whether or not Vince had survived. There had been no sight of him, and other POWs weren’t allowed to make contact with TJ, much less provide an update. Regardless, oddly enough, cutting Ranieri free that night didn’t feel like a waste.
“You got radio shows in Japan?” he asked Dopey, whose mouth stretched in a long yawn between bites. “I don’t mean those dumb Tokyo Rose propaganda reports. Something more like
Easy Aces.
Or
The Burns and Allen Show.
Those two were a stitch together, especially Gracie.” TJ continued listing his favorites, as far back as childhood. The detective dramas, the
Superman
episodes. He was recapping the Man of Steel’s special skills when the guard began to snore.
It was startling to see a Japanese soldier do anything remotely human. So much about them seemed robotic. Even their features hardly varied, with their slanted eyes and black hair, yellow skin. Resembling demented men of steel, they marched and killed without question or emotion. Well, besides hatred. And they followed orders to the letter, or faced the consequences.
TJ wondered what punishment they might earn for falling asleep on post. A beating or beheading? Eagerness poured through him as he imagined causing any one of them misery.
He scanned the area through the bars. The trick would be to snag a supervisor’s attention without waking Dopey first.
Then he realized ... they’d just replace the guy. With the way TJ’s luck had been going, he’d get someone like Grumpy, who wouldn’t hesitate in beating TJ to a pulp to shut him up. Probably better to leave things alone.
TJ tipped his head to the side and gazed at the stars. Once again, he penned Jo an imaginary letter.
Dear Jo,
I’m still in this dang cage, but at least it’s not raining tonight. Sleeping in the mud is no picnic, trust me. I wish I were tired. With the heat and humidity, I took too many naps today and now I can’t fall asleep. So I’ll just look up at your stars instead until counting them wears out my eyes.
It’s a clear night, so it’s not too hard to imagine lying on the baseball mound with you again. Remember how you liked the idea of someone on the other side of the world admiring the very same stars? Bet you didn’t think that person would be me. I haven’t seen Orion and his buddies lately. In my mind, though, I can see his belt and sword just fine. Above those is Taurus. And then there’s the brightest one—I think you called it “Seerus.” Makes you think of your father watching over you, right? I wonder if your dad was the person who nicknamed you Jo. Funny that after all these years, I don’t know your real name. Josephine doesn’t seem to fit. Neither does Joanne. I should have asked you that before I left. I should have asked you a lot of things.
What I regret most, of course, is sending you that last letter. Odds are high I won’t be making it home—guys die here daily by the dozen. I was just so afraid of hurting you, maybe even more of getting hurt myself. But now what pains me more than anything is that you’ll never know how much I care. And all because—
A voice interrupted him. It was a mumbled whisper, but in English. The lazy English of an American. Some POW had made it out here!
TJ pressed his face between the bars, straining to search in the shadows. Could it be Ranieri coming to return the favor?
“Ranieri,” he shouted quietly. “That you?” He waited, hearing only the clicks and coos of the jungle. “Ranieri.”
Vince had been trying to concoct an escape plan since they’d arrived here six months ago. Had he figured out a way to sneak out? If not, he was taking the same risk as TJ had, and they could both wind up wishing the sharks had gotten to them first.
“Where are you?” TJ pressed.
Several seconds passed before the voice returned, at a higher volume. “I can’t go. I told them... .”
“Shhh,” TJ ordered. What was he thinking? Did he want to wake up Dopey?
“I wanted to ... I wanted to ...”
“Wanted to what?” he demanded in a hush.
“You can go ... he’s here and—so I can’t ...”
The phrases didn’t make sense. Was some delirious prisoner skulking around?
TJ’s gaze darted back and forth, hunting for the guy. He needed to confirm his own sanity, that the voices weren’t imaginary. He was about to call out once more when he spotted the source of the gibberish.
It couldn’t be possible. Had to be a dream.
He pinched himself, twice. Then the person spoke again. And there was no question it was real.
“Ho. Lee. Crap,” TJ breathed.
The visitor wasn’t Ranieri, or another POW. He was Dopey, the mute prison guard, rambling in his sleep.
54
T
he best way to handle her predicament, Maddie had decided, was not to dwell on “what ifs.” She could drive herself mad with an endless list of potential disasters.
What if Lane didn’t come home? What if she had to raise their child alone? In four months, when their “half-breed” baby was due, what if the hospital turned her away?
And among the worst she could imagine:
What if the combined races prevented their child from ever fitting in?
“
Worry no good for baby,” Kumiko had insisted while first tying a
hara-obi,
the white maternity sash, around Maddie’s waist. The advice had come without Maddie uttering a single concern. Maybe Kumiko had read her expressions. Maybe she’d simply been pondering her own regrets. It had, after all, been the time of Obon. No different from the August before, Kumiko had grown sullen until the festival dates ended. Against cultural tradition, according to Emma, Kumiko had again neglected to pay tribute to the departed. Only this time, Maddie understood the reason.
“Now, why didn’t you
say
you played the fiddle?”
Mr. Garrett’s voice snapped Maddie’s attention to the doorway of her bedroom. He entered holding a medium-sized cardboard box he’d picked up from Ida. The hodgepodge of garments, collected from the local church, was meant for various stages of Maddie’s widening figure.
“Bet you play a whole lot nicer,” he said, “than the mess of notes I blow on my harmonica.”
“That’s nonsense.” Maddie smiled, seated on the corner of her bed. The quilt beneath her was soft and handmade, warm in dusty pinks and yellows like the rest of the room. “I think you play beautifully.”
“In that case, you might need your hearing checked.” He winked. “Just be warned, now that your secret’s out, you’re in charge of kicking off our next sing-along.” As he set the container down in the corner, Maddie’s eyes dropped to her violin resting on her lap.
“Afraid I won’t be of much use.” She trailed her fingers over the strings that had lost the magic she used to rely on. In the wake of Obon, with thoughts of her parents surfacing anew, the draw of her touchstone had been too strong to deny. Her hands, today more than usual, had yearned to feel the grain of the wood, its pattern like veins of a heart that no longer beat. She knew better, though, than to restart its pulse. Even if awakened, its soul had changed, its voice had been altered. An old friend she didn’t recognize.
“It got damaged from being in the desert,” she told him.
“Ahh, I see. That’s too bad.”
Maddie set the instrument back into its satiny tomb.
“Looks like you got quite the album there.” Mr. Garrett gestured to the lid.
Indeed, the lineup of what TJ would call “classical-composer trading cards” had gradually become a scrapbook. Even Tchaikovsky had recently given up his reign for a picture: Maddie watching a judo match with two Japanese friends from the garment factory. With cameras prohibited at Manzanar, she was grateful for the sketch sent by an evacuee.
“Some are friends, the rest are family,” she explained. “And then there’s Bach, of course.” Her sole remaining judge on the musical panel.
“Bach ... ,” Mr. Garrett said. “He an uncle of yours?”
Maddie’s throat cut off an impolite giggle. “Um—no. He’s a composer. A pretty famous one.”
“Any tune I might’ve heard?”
Good golly, where would she possibly start? She strove to enlighten him without inundating him with too much detail. “You know, I’m sure several of his pieces would sound familiar if you heard them.”
Mr. Garrett threw his head back, chuckling. “I’m just pulling your leg. I’m real familiar with old Johann.”
Maddie shook her head, as stunned as she was relieved, and laughed with him.
“So are you a fan of classical music?” she asked when they quieted.
“Didn’t start out that way. Though it grew on me ’cause of Celia.” He rarely volunteered information about his late wife.
“Did she play an instrument?”
“Played the piano as a girl. Gave it up for one reason or another. But she sure loved listening to those songs. She’d put ’em on every evening after supper, didn’t miss a day.”
Maddie smiled, touched by the reminiscent look in his eyes, the flickering of his mind projecting those moments together.
“Follow me,” he said all of a sudden.
“What is it?”
He nodded toward the hall. “Got something to show ya.”
 
Maddie’s mind flooded with possibilities as Mr. Garrett rummaged in the attic. At the base of the pull-down ladder, she watched him descend with a wooden crate. He set the box on the floor and slid away the large brown handkerchief to reveal a collection of records.
“Seeing as we weren’t blessed with children,” he said, “I suppose these sorta became like kids to Celia. Bringing them out to keep us company. Letting ’em play, then tucking them into bed.”
Maddie knelt beside the box. She took care in going through the sleeved disks. Schubert’s “Unfinished Symphony” and Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons.
Dvo
ák’s Symphony in E minor, op. 95.
“Gramophone broke down a while back,” he told her. “Otherwise, I’d let you give them a listen.”
She continued flipping. As if clicking through radio channels, she heard snippets of Beethoven and Schumann and Wieniawski. “These are all lovely. Your wife had exceptional taste.”
“Well, she married
me,
didn’t she?”
Maddie boosted a grin, which collapsed at the discovery of the next record. A performance by Yehudi Menuhin. It was a famed rendition of Bach’s Chaconne for solo violin. She touched a tattered edge of the label, and thought of her father. Was there any chance at all he had noticed her missing?
“Ah, yeah,” Mr. Garrett remarked, leaning over her. “Celia liked that one an awful lot. Made her a little sad, but it didn’t stop her from playing it as much as the others.”
Maddie had never considered the Chaconne anything but challenging and brilliant and powerful. “What about the piece made her sad?”
“Oh, it wasn’t so much the notes as the story behind it. You know, about Bach and his wife and all.”
She shook her head, exposing her ignorance, inviting him to elaborate.
“Gosh, let’s see... .” One elbow leaning on the ladder, he scratched his stubbled jaw. “As I recall, Celia got this bit from her old piano teacher. Said that Bach had been busy traveling—working for some prince, I think. When he finally made it home, come to find out his wife had passed on while he was away. Already buried too. A real misfortune, especially with seven children to raise. So they say—though don’t quote me here—that he wrote that song about all the grief he was feelin’.”
“I had never heard that before,” Maddie said in wonder.
The man exhaled a breath, a personal mourning in its heaviness. She knew that breath. She understood the desire to awaken memories of a loved one, only to be reminded that memories were all you had left.
“Anyhow,” he said, straightening. “Tractor needs some tuning up. You take your time with those. Just leave the box when you’re done. I’ll put it away before bed.” With that, he started heading out.
“Mr. Garrett.”
He stopped.
“Thank you,” she said, “for sharing these.”
He smiled ruefully, then continued on.
Left alone, she reviewed the Chaconne from a new perspective. It was as if she had passed by a landscape painting all her life, framed and hung in a hall, and suddenly learned that hidden beneath the strokes was the original Mona Lisa.
As she entertained the idea of emotion underlying the composition, a series of buried notes rose from the depths of her mind. A saxophonist’s version of “Summertime.” She’d listened to the man play at the Dunbar, his feelings rather than technique ruling every haunting phrase. For what she’d viewed as self-indulgence, her ear had found fault in his loosey-goosey style.
Now, though, the memory of that tune stirred her emotions. For it signaled the last time she, TJ, Lane, and Jo had all been together, like a necessary complement of four strings to make a whole. Replaying that night, she saw them running from the cops, hiding in an alley, teasing, laughing. Long since divided, they had entered the “bridge” of their lives. In music, that’s what they called the transitional period. A time to reflect on what had passed and to prepare for a new phase.
A fluttering in her stomach trailed the thought. Her baby was moving around, as if reminding her that blessings, too, had been gained along their journey.
“You’re right, sweetheart. You’re right,” Maddie murmured, and reclined against the wallpapered hallway. She rubbed her belly and, rocking side to side, she hummed “Summertime” for them all. A wish for tomorrow. A lullaby of hope.

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