Bridge of Scarlet Leaves. Kristina McMorris

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      4

      “Shhh.” With a finger to his lips, Lane reminded his sister to keep as quiet as a ninja. Her analogy, not his. Emma gave him a conspiratorial smile. In her blouse and pleated skirt, black bob framing her round face, she stood next to him behind his bedroom door. Their secret quest lent a twinkle to her chocolate, Betty Boop eyes.

      He donned his sunglasses, a necessary measure. Not as protection from the cloudy morning light, but to prevent a scolding should they fail to sneak past their mother. Although he felt rather proud of his inaugural fistfight, the bruises encircling his puffy left eye would hardly earn parental praise. At least Maddie wouldn’t see him like this. His train would depart hours before she’d be off work.

      Lane pushed aside his suitcase that barricaded the door. His clothes were packed, ready to nab once he and Emma returned, en route to the station. One cautious step at a time they crept down the hallway. The polished wood floor felt slick beneath his socks. Navigating a corner, hindered by his shaded view, he bumped something on the narrow table against the wall. Their mother’s vase. The painted showpiece teetered. Its ghostly sparrow clung to a withered branch as Lane reached out, but Emma, lower to the ground, made the save.

      He sighed and mouthed, Thank you.

      Emma beamed.

      They continued down the stairs. A Japanese folk song crackled on the gramophone in the formal room. The female singer warbled solemnly about cherry blossoms in spring and a longing to return to Osaka, the city of her birth.

      It was no coincidence the tune was a favorite of Lane’s mother.

      From the closet in the genkan, their immaculate foyer, he retrieved his trench coat with minimal sound. His sister did the same with her rose-hued jacket. Their house smelled of broiled fish and bean-curd soup. The maid was preparing breakfast. Guilt eased into Lane over her wasted efforts, yet only a touch; he always did prefer pancakes and scrambled eggs.

      He pulled out a brief note explaining their excursion, set it on the cabinet stocked with slippers for guests. Then he threw on his wingtips and handed Emma her saddle shoes. As she leaned over to put them on, coins rained from her pocket. This time she reached out too late. Pennies clattered on the slate floor.

      “Get them later,” Lane urged in an undertone, and grabbed the door handle.

      “Doko ikun?”

      Lane bristled at his mother’s inquiry. “I’m . . . taking Emma to Santa Monica, to the Pleasure Pier. Remember, I mentioned it yesterday?” He risked a glance in his mother’s direction to avert suspicion. Even in her casual plum housedress, Kumiko Moritomo was the epitome of elegance. Like an actress from a kabuki theatre, never was she seen without powder and lipstick applied, her ebony hair flawlessly coiffed. A small mole dotted her lower left cheek, as dainty as her frame, underscoring the disparity of her chiseled expressions.

      “Asagohan tabenasai,” she said to Emma.

      “But, Ok

      Their mother didn’t bother with a verbal admonishment. Her steely glare was enough to send the girl cowering to the kitchen. “Ohashi o chanto tsukainasai,” their mother called out, Emma’s daily reminder to use her chopsticks properly. Crossing the utensils, though it more easily picked up food, symbolized some nonsense involving death. One of many bad omens to avoid on the woman’s tedious list of superstitions.

      She shifted to Lane and jerked her chin toward the formal room. “We have an issue to discuss,” she said in her native tongue. Despite having immigrated to America with her husband more than two decades ago, she spoke to them only in Japanese, which Lane now honored in return. The show of obedience might help at least delay a stock lecture.

      “Why don’t we talk when Emma and I get back? Before the train. I did promise to take her this morning.”

      “We will speak now.” She turned to fetch her husband from the den. Negotiating wasn’t an option.

      Why couldn’t she have had a Mahjong game scheduled? Or her flower-arranging class? Either activity, required by her societal ranking, might have prevented whatever was to come.

      Lane shucked off his shoes. In the formal room, he dropped into a wingback chair. The surrounding décor emanated a starkness that carried a chill. Decorative katana swords and encased figurines created a museum display of a heritage to which he felt little connection.

      He bounced his heel on the ornate rug, checked his watch. Perhaps if he could guess the impending topic, he could speed things along. The laughing fit he and his sister had barely managed to contain at yesterday’s funeral seemed the most likely possibility, 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 СКАЧАТЬ