The American Wife. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ around to find a waitress and muttered, “Isn’t anyone working here?”

      Through the dozen or so people gathered across the room, Lane spied flashes of pastel-blue diner dresses behind the counter. He waved his hand to no avail. The gals were too far away for a polite holler. Rising, he groaned before his gut could beat him to it.

      “I’ll go get someone,” he told Maddie. As he moved closer to the group, mumbles gained clarity.

      “Dear God.”

      “How many were there?”

      “What does this mean?”

      He sidled up to a bearded stranger in back of the bunch. A faded denim shirt labeled the man approachable. “What’s going on?” Lane asked.

      The guy answered without turning. “We been bombed,” he said in a daze of disbelief. “They’ve finally gone and done it.”

      “Bombed? What are you talking about? Where?”

      “Hawaii. They blasted our Navy clear outta the water.” The man shook his head. “We’re going to war, all right. No way around it.”

      “But who?” Lane demanded. “Who did it?”

      The guy angled toward Lane, mouth opening to reply, but he suddenly stopped. His eyes sharpened with anger that seemed to restore his awareness. “You oughta know,” he seethed. “Your people are the ones who attacked.”

      The train’s whistle stretched out in the tone of an accusation. Once the locomotive had cleared the claustrophobia of Seattle’s looming buildings, Maddie forced her gaze up. The Saturday Evening Post lay limply on her lap. She’d absorbed nothing of the articles. Their print, like the universe, had blurred into smears of confusion.

      She scanned the coach without moving her head. Her neck had become an over-tightened bow. Her wide-brimmed, tan-colored hat served as an accessory of concealment. Suspicious glares, however, targeted the suited man beside her: Lane, who hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the hotel. Lane, who could always be counted on for a smile. A guy who could conjure solutions like Aces from a magician’s sleeve.

      Lane, her husband. The word hadn’t yet anchored in Maddie’s mind, and already dreams for their marriage were being stripped away.

      In the window seat, he swayed with the rattling train car. A dull glaze coated his eyes as he stared through the pane. She yearned to console him, to tell him he wasn’t to blame. The Japanese pilots who’d decimated Pearl Harbor, a place she had heard of only that morning, had nothing to do with him.

      You’re an American, she wanted to say, as American as I am, and we’ll get through this together.

      But the sentence wound like a ball of wire in her throat, tense as the air around them. Any utterance would carry the projection of a scream in the muted coach. Helpless for an alternative, she inched her hand over to reunite with his. She made a conscious effort to evade scrutinizers’ eyes. Closure around Lane’s fingers jarred him from his reverie and he turned to face her. A warm half-smile rewarded her gesture. Then he glanced up as though recalling their audience, and the corners of his mouth fell. He squeezed her palm once, a message in the release, before leaning away.

      For the rest of the trip, this was how they remained. Divided by a wall they’d had no say in constructing. Through the night hours, she heard him toss and turn on the berth beneath her; through the daylight hours, his gaze latched onto the mountains and valleys hurtling past.

      Upon their debarking in Los Angeles, the contrast between Friday and Monday struck her like a slap. It seemed mere moments ago when she had stood on this platform, the same suitcase at her feet. Yet everything had since changed.

      “Extra, extra!” the paperboy in the station hollered. “U.S. going to war! Read all about it!” His pitch carried easily over the graveness of the crowd. In small huddles, customers followed his order with newspapers propped in their hands. Headlines blared in thick black letters.

      “Do you want me to come home with you?” Maddie asked Lane as they exited the station. The rustiness of her voice underscored the length of their silence.

      “Nah, you’d best get home.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Your brother’s got to be worried about you. It’s better if I check on my family alone.”

      Of course. Nobody back here knew about their secret excursion. Now was hardly the time to announce their blissful news.

      Lane added, “I’ll have a cab drop you on the way to my house, all right?”

      She agreed, relieved they’d be together a little longer before facing the unknown.

      A peaceful sunset glowed orange and pink as they approached the taxi stop. Lane swung open the back door of a Checker cab, inviting Maddie to slide in. He ducked in after her to take his seat.

      “Whoa there, buddy!” the driver called out. “Uh-uh, no way. I ain’t driving no Jap.”

      Lane became a statue, one leg in, one out.

      “You heard me, pal!” The cabbie white-knuckled his steering wheel. Bystanders paused to observe the scene, pointing, not bothering to whisper.

      “It’s okay,” Maddie assured the driver, “we’re getting out.” She scooted back toward Lane, who blocked her from rising.

      “No,” he told her. “You go ahead.”

      “But, Lane …”

      “I’ll take the next one.”

      “Well—what if they won’t—”

      “Then I’ll ride the bus.”

      The driver’s steely look bounced off the rearview mirror. “You goin’ or not, lady? Make up your mind.”

      Lane tenderly touched her chin. “Honey, don’t worry. I’ll swing by as soon as I can.” The surety in his tone caused her to relent. She made room for him to place her suitcase beside her. He had barely closed the door when the cabbie screeched away with the speed and power of fear.

      Maddie strained to keep Lane in her view until the taxi veered around a corner. Grip on her luggage, she sat back in her seat.

      Seven days, she told herself as they rumbled down streets that now felt foreign. In seven days God had created the Earth. In a single day mankind had turned it upside down.

      

14

      Free hand curled into a fist, TJ waited for the call to connect. Any more pacing and his shoes would leave a permanent groove in the floor. His ear felt feverish against the metal receiver. Behind him in the living room, a floor model radio delivered seeds of hysteria. The quiet of dusk amplified the man’s reports: mandated blackouts, potential sub sightings, a climbing toll of Navy casualties, a list of precautions to keep families safe.

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