Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

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СКАЧАТЬ her two Christmases ago wouldn’t be in jeopardy. But who knew what they were looking for, or what other absurd belongings they would confiscate.

      “Good thinking,” he told her. “Now, you just sit on the stairs here. Everything’s going to be all right.”

      Reluctantly, she stepped back and sat on the middle step. She gripped the bars of the banister and watched him through a gap.

      Lane paused while passing the parlor. Cushions of their empire couch had been slashed. Its stuffing poured out like foam. Scraps of papers dappled the rug. His father’s prized katana swords had been pillaged from the wall.

      A man’s husky voice, presumably Agent Walsh’s, led Lane into the kitchen. An oil lamp on the table soaked the room in yellow.

      “You’re not lying to me, are you, folks?” The guy, thick with a double chin and a round belly obscuring his belt, loomed over Lane’s parents, who sat stiff and humble in their chairs. He held up a small laughing Buddha statue. “’Cause I don’t want to wonder what else you might be hiding from me.”

      “We telling the truth,” Lane’s father insisted politely, taking obvious care to pronounce his words. “We Christians. Not Buddhists. Christians. This only Hotei-san.”

      “This is what?” Walsh said.

      “Hotei,” Lane replied, turning them. “It’s a lucky charm. My mother brought it from Japan when they first moved here.”

      “Uh-huh. And who might you be?”

      “I’m their son.”

      “Is that right,” Walsh said slowly, and glanced at Lane’s father. “I was told you were away at a university. How ’bout that, now?”

      Lane fought to control his tone. If his dad possessed any trait, it was integrity. “My train just got in. With a war starting, I thought I should be with my family.”

      “Sure, sure. I understand,” the agent said, as though not accusing. He returned to Lane’s mother in a gentle appeal. “Got a family of my own. Nice, pretty wife, two kids. Boy and girl, just like yours. So I know how it is, wanting to do everything I can to protect them. Which is the reason we need to ask all these questions.” He put the decoration on the coffee table and motioned at Lane. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.” The arrogance of his invitation, implying a staked claim on the house, bristled the tiny hairs on Lane’s neck.

      Due to alien land laws, and Asian immigrants being barred from citizenship, his father could only lease the place. Although it was common practice, Lane hadn’t felt right about purchasing it in his own name to bypass the rules. He preferred to change the system and guide society’s evolution.

      That system, however, was turning out more flawed than Lane thought—starting with Agent Walsh, who eyed him, waiting for compliance.

      “I’m fine standing,” Lane bit out.

      “Uh-huh. Well, I’m telling you to take a seat.”

      “And I said I’m fine.”

      Their invisible push and pull raised the temperature of the room.

      “Takeshi, suwarinasai.” His father intervened, a stern command to sit.

      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,” СКАЧАТЬ