Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

given that the high hats of Little Tokyo had been in attendance.

      But really, who could blame them?

      Pretending to grieve for their father’s predecessor, the widely despised manager of Sumitomo Bank, would have been hard enough without the suffocating incense and silly Buddhist rites. The frilly green dress their mother had forced Emma to wear—complete with an onslaught of matching gloves and bows—befit a Japanese Shirley Temple. The sole element lacking absurdity had been the priest’s droning chant. Surely the audience would have fallen asleep if not for the blinding altar of golden statues. Another prime lesson from the ancestors: gaudiness to celebrate humility.

      He scoffed at the notion, just as his father entered. Although Nobu was several years short of fifty, more salt than pepper topped his lean form. His Kyoto dialect reflected the gentleness of his eyes. He wore his usual haori, a twenty-year-old kimono jacket, simple and humble, the same as him.

      “Good morning,” he said in Japanese.

      Lane proceeded in his parents’ language. “Good morning, Father.” A slight bow sent his sunglasses down the irksomely low bridge of his nose. He nudged them upward to conceal his wound.

      In the corner, his mother tended to the gramophone. Her song had ended, giving way to a loop of static. As she stored the record, his father settled on the couch across from Lane and absently rubbed dried glue off his thumb. Assembling his latest model airplane had tinted his fingernails red and blue.

      Lane was tempted to kick-start the discussion, an acquired habit from his collegiate council position, but refrained. His family didn’t operate as a democracy.

      Finally, his mother moved to the couch and claimed her space. She folded her hands on her lap. Prim. Poised. A usual gap divided the couple, as if flanking an invisible guest.

      “Your father would like to speak to you,” she prompted, a verbal tap of the gavel.

      “Mmm,” his father agreed. He folded his arms and let out a deep exhale that stirred Lane’s curiosity. “It is the matchmaker in Japan. He has been working very hard for you, searching for a well-suited prospect.”

      Shit, Lane thought, not this again.

      He didn’t realize the words had slipped out of his mouth until his father narrowed his eyes. “Takeshi!” It was Lane’s birth name, spoken with more surprise than anger.

      Right away, Lane regretted not mirroring the respect his father had always shown him. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to say that.” Only to think it.

      His mother tsked. “You are in your father’s house, not a dorm at your American university. If this is how you—” She stopped short. “Remove your glasses when we are addressing you.”

      For a moment, Lane had forgotten he was wearing them, and, more important, why. His mother’s gaze bore through the lenses. Bracing himself, he unmasked his suddenly not-so-prideful mark, and his parents gasped in unison.

      “What is this?” His father leaned toward him.

      “It’s nothing. Really. It looks worse than it is.”

      “Nothing?” his mother said, incredulous, but his father continued on with concern.

      “What happened? Were you robbed?”

      “No, no,” Lane assured him. “I was just at a club last night, when a brawl broke out.” Not the most tactful opening. Better to expound with highlights considered heroic in their culture; violence as a means of unconditional loyalty was, after all, a samurai staple. “Some chump I went to Roosevelt High with was there. He was being disrespectful, not only toward me but against all Japanese. So”—better to keep things anonymous—“a buddy of mine came to my defense. And when I tried to hold the bigger guy back—”

      “Enough,” his father said. His eyes exhibited such disappointment, the remainder of the story stalled on Lane’s tongue. “I did not raise you to be a lowly street fighter. You have been afforded a better upbringing than that.”

      Lane’s mother turned to her husband. Shards of ice filled her voice. “Did I not warn you? He is twenty-one years old, and because of you, he remains a child. All the idealistic views you have put into his head, to speak up when it suits him. As always, the nail that sticks out gets hammered down.” To punctuate the ancient adage, she flicked her hand to the side. The gesture effectively illustrated the quiet criticism she sent the man in every look, every day. An unyielding punishment, it seemed, for trading the dreams she’d once held for his. But his dreams were also for his children. Lane had always known this without being told.

      Japan was a tiny island, crammed with farmers and fishermen and conformists, all bowing blindly to an emperor roosted on an outdated throne. Here, possibilities floated like confetti. Los Angeles was the city of angels, the heart of Hollywood, where imagination bloomed and promise hung from palm trees. Hope streamed in the sunlight.

      America was their home, and Lane’s need to defend that fact took over.

      “There’s nothing wrong with wanting to make a difference in this country. My country. Emma’s country.” His delivery was gruffer than intended, but he wouldn’t say “sorry” this time. His sister, if no one else, deserved a safe place to plant the seeds of dreams and watch them grow.

      Lane’s father straightened. He rested his hands firmly on his spread knees in a contemplative, Buddha-like pose. Outside of his job, his greatest displays of strength were reserved for these kinds of moments. Moderating. Keeping the ground beneath their family level.

      “Your mother is right,” he said evenly, and continued before Lane could argue. “You are a man now. You must settle down. Carrying another’s needs on your shoulders will focus you on your future.” In banking, he meant. A baby rattle made of an abacus had established the reference since Lane’s birth. “Therefore,” he added, “we are pleased the matchmaker has found you a suitable bride, and he will make the necessary arrangements.”

      Bride.

      Arrangements.

      The sentence replayed in Lane’s mind, pulling him back to the original subject.

      “She comes from noble lineage,” his father explained. “The matchmaker has ruled out all the usual imperfections—tuberculosis, barrenness, and such. Her family’s financial troubles make your pairing a sensible one. Her younger sister has found a match as well, so you must marry first. The family will sail over from Tokyo in time for the new year.”

      “Hopefully,” his mother muttered, “our son will look presentable by then.”

      Lane scarcely registered the gouge. His mind was too consumed with the timetable his father had laid out. The rush of it all, the solidity. “But—what about school? I still have a whole semester left.”

      “She will live with us after the wedding,” his father said with a small nod to his wife, as if crediting the source of the solution. “Once you graduate, you may make other plans if you wish.”

      Lane’s thoughts moved in a rapid tumble, blending into a mass of confusion. From that blur emerged a simple voice of reason. Tell them the truth. Confess, as you’ve wanted to all along.

      Before he could reconsider, he tossed out his protest. “I can’t. I’m in love with somebody else.”

      Tension of a new level swept through the room, conquering every inch of space. No one moved. No one spoke.

      Lane wondered if anyone was breathing.

      “You’ve met her before,” he said, easing them in. “She grew up here, in Boyle Heights. She’s a talented violinist. And she’s charming and beautiful, responsible . . .”

      “Her name?” Lane’s mother spoke through lips that barely moved.

      “Maddie.”

      “Maddie,” she repeated as if judging the name by its taste, expecting a release of bitterness. The women had crossed