Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

      Lane’s gaze shot to his mother. The woman would never stand for such humiliation. After all, they had nothing to hide. But she remained rigid, her eyes fixed on the agent’s dress shoes, another insult to their home. That’s when Lane remembered he, too, hadn’t taken his off.

      “Boss,” a voice called out. The Gary Cooper agent entered the kitchen. “I think we got something here.”

      Walsh accepted a stack of large creased pages. Flickers from the lamp concealed the content from Lane’s view. The man flipped through them and drew out a whistle. “So you like airplanes, do you, Mr. Moritomo?”

      “Yes, yes.” Lane’s father perked with a touch of enthusiasm.

      “American bombers . . . fighter planes . . . all kinds, looks like.”

      “Yes, yes. I paint for, ee . . .” He searched for the word, found it. “Hobby. Is hobby.”

      “Any chance you’ve been sharing some of these drawings with, oh I don’t know, friends back in Japan?”

      Blueprints. That’s what they’d found. Blueprints for his model aircrafts. The same ones any kid could buy for a few nickels at Woolworth’s.

      “This is ridiculous,” Lane blurted. “Are you trying to say my father’s a spy?”

      Walsh crinkled the paper edges in his hands. “Better watch that tone, son.”

      “I’m not your son. And my father’s not a criminal.” This wasn’t how America worked. Justice, democracy, liberty—these were the country’s foundational blocks that creeps like this kicked aside like pebbles.

      Lane’s father stood up and yelled, “Takeshi! Damarinasai.”

      “No,” Lane said, “I won’t be quiet. They can’t come in here and do this. We haven’t done anything. We’re not the enemy.” Holding his gaze, he implored his father to fight for the very ideals with which Lane had been raised. Yet the man said nothing. His Japanese roots had taken over, dictating his feudal servitude.

      “Eh, Boss, we’re all set.” A third guy appeared. The brim of his fedora shaded his features from nostrils up. “Boss?”

      Walsh relaxed his glower. “Yeah?”

      “All the major contraband’s packed up.”

      “Right.” He jerked his layered chin in Lane’s direction. “Then, let’s take him in.” The two other agents crossed the room, the faceless one pulling out a pair of handcuffs.

      Lane’s stomach twisted. “What is this? You’re gonna arrest me?”

      “Got a reason we shouldn’t?” Walsh said.

      Gary Cooper raised a calming hand at his supervisor. “Al, you’re tired. You need some food, some sleep. Go on home and rest up. We got this.”

      Walsh exhaled, rubbed his eyes. Eventually, he mumbled his concession and handed off the blueprints. He had just left the kitchen when Lane heard two metallic ripples. The third agent had handcuffed his father, explaining it as a formality.

      “Nani ga atta no?” Lane’s mother demanded, now on her feet.

      “We just need your husband for some more questioning,” the agent said. “He’ll be back by morning.”

      “Shinpai suruna,” her husband assured her weakly as the men began escorting him out. “Shikata ga nai.”

      Lane despised the old adage. It can’t be helped. No culture needed to be so damn passive.

      “You can’t do this!” Lane marched behind them. “Where are you taking him?”

      “The Justice Department will be in touch,” one of them answered, right as Emma charged down the stairs, begging him to stay.

      “Papa, ikanaide.” She shook his bound arms. “Papa, Papa! It-tara dame!”

      He offered her phrases of comfort that did little good. Then he turned to Lane and in Japanese stated in an even tone, “From now on, you are responsible for the family.”

      These were his final words before being ushered into the backseat of the agents’ car, the last instructions before Emma chased them two full blocks. She wailed out useless pleas as her mother retreated into the dishevelment of their house. Neighbors peeked from windows.

      Yet for Lane, none of this—not the groundless arrest, not his sister’s cries nor their mother’s isolation—caused the physical blow that came from the look in his father’s eyes. A look of utter shame.

      16

      She couldn’t stand the wait anymore.

      Maddie threw her coat back on, not bothering to fasten the buttons. She had tried phoning Lane, to confirm he’d made it home. Then to warn him not to come over. But the calls wouldn’t go through. The only person she’d reached was Jo, who had more questions than Maddie felt up for. A third attempt to ring Lane’s house had failed. The chaos of the switchboard was likely the problem, the operator had said. Told her to try again after a spell.

      Maddie, though, didn’t have time to spare. TJ could return at any minute—having gone to a meeting, Jo claimed. Right or wrong, TJ needed a chance to cool off before connecting her wedding band to Lane. And that’s precisely what would happen if the three of them shared an exchange. After the intimacy of her wedding night, how could she possibly hide her feelings in Lane’s presence?

      In the morning, once TJ’s shock had settled, she could explain everything. Rarely did she deviate from tracks laid in reason. He knew this. He knew her.

      At least the brother she used to know did.

      Headed for Lane’s, she hurried from the house and down the front stairs. The tip of her shoe caught on the splintery bottom step, sending her tumbling. Exhaustion from the day wilted her body. No chance to rest. She heaved herself up and brushed off her gritty palms. A hole tore through her silk stockings, among the few she owned. Yet the misfortune had become a meaningless hiccup in the grand scheme.

      She continued toward the street with a hindered stride. At this pace, the walk would stretch to a good twenty minutes, widening the opportunity for the guys to cross paths.

      Should she go or stay? Which option would be worth the risk?

      Frustrated by her own indecision, she wagered her hopes on a car approaching from the end of the long suburban street. The vehicle rumbled in and out of moonlight slanting between houses. Its chrome grille had the opened fish-mouth shape of a Buick’s.

      “Lane, please be you.” She focused on the windshield, breath held.

      “Are you all right, dearie?” a woman called. It was her elderly neighbor, leaning out from behind her screen door. “I was just watering my pansies in the window when I saw you take a fall.”

      “Oh, yes, I’ll be fine.” Maddie flung the reply behind her.

      “I have some peroxide if you scraped yourself up. You remember what I told you about my nephew’s ankle, after he didn’t care for it properly. Ended up almost dying in the hospital.”

      No matter how dire the situation, Maddie knew better than to entrap herself in the house of a person who took pride in enumerating worst-case scenarios.

      “I appreciate the offer. But I’ll be okay.” Maddie stretched her neck toward the street.

      “What are you doing out here, exactly? If you pardon my asking.”

      “Just waiting for . . . a friend,” she said, at last determining that Lane—thank goodness—was the driver behind the wheel.

      “Well,” the woman replied, “if you change your mind.”

      A creak indicated the screen door had shut, but Maddie could sense the peering of curious eyes.