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“But, Ok
san …” The eight-year-old whined in earnest, an understandable reaction. What child would want to waste time eating breakfast? Cotton candy and carousel rides were at stake.
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 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 paths on only a few occasions, during which his mother sustained disinterest. “I do not know of this girl. Who is her family?”
First names meant little in their community; at least a third of the “Nisei,” those born in America to Japanese immigrants, were called George or Mary. All significance lay in the surname, an indication of nobility, of lineage. Of race.
“If you mean Maddie’s last name,” Lane hazarded to admit, “it’s Kern.”
His mother blanched. The lines spanning his father’s brow deepened.
“She’s TJ’s sister,” Lane added, hoping their fondness of his friend would somehow permit a bending of their rules. Yet their scowls made clear there was no exception.
“You have made fools of us,” she hissed.
“Why? Because she’s not Japanese?”
There was no reply. Which said everything.
“Father, you’re the one who’s so proud of your kids being American. That’s half the reason you came to this country. So why should it matter where Maddie’s parents are from?”
Lane’s mother patted her chest, grumbling under her breath, until her husband raised his hand, stilling her. His rigid words hovered above the quiet. “The final decision has been made.”
A humorless laugh shot from Lane’s throat. “A decision I haven’t been a part of.” He rose to his feet. “Shouldn’t I have a say in my own future?”
“This is not about you alone,” his father said, meeting his stance. “This is about the honor you bring to your family.”
“What if I say no? What if I want to make my own choices?”
When his father hesitated, his mother supplied the answer from her seat. “Then you will disgrace this family. And you will not be welcome in this home. Ever.”
Lane felt the stab of her tenacity, a knife between the ribs. He stared at his father in a desperate plea for support. Surely the man wouldn’t be willing to disown his only son. Emotions aside, a male to carry on the name and bloodline was a fundamental basic.
“Ok
san.” Emma entered from the kitchen. “I finished my breakfast. Can Lane and I go to the Pier now? Can we, can we?” Not receiving a response, Emma resorted to the parent whose soft spot for her was a reliable constant. “Papa,” she begged, “onegai.”
Lane held his father’s gaze for an eternal moment. Every second sent a mixture of frustration and sorrow through his veins. He felt his limbs sag with each devastating pulse.
At the point of futility, Lane replaced his sunglasses. He would never look at his father the same. “Get your shoes on, Em,” he told her. “We’re leaving.”
5
The song had died. TJ scuffed his spikes on the mound, wishing for the life of him he could remember the tune. For all those high school shutouts and championships, an internal humming had carried him through. Its reliable rhythm had added a zip to any pitch from his hand.
Now, score tied at the bottom of the seventh inning, all he could hear was wind through the trees at Griffith Park and cheering from an adjacent winter-league ball game. Morning clouds soaked up any other sound.
The USC catcher flashed the sign. A curveball. TJ’s old bread-and-butter.
A senior from St. Mary’s continued at the plate. He was a lanky walk-on TJ used to cream with fractional effort. Even sophomore year, just weeks after the holiday that had sledgehammered TJ’s life, the guy couldn’t compete. But that was before. Before TJ’s world had turned silent and grim.
The hitter waggled his bat, waiting. Two balls, one strike, bases loaded with two out.
TJ tucked the ball into his glove. Worse than his sore jaw, a bone-deep ache throbbed from his knuckles. What the hell had he been thinking last night, throwing a right instead of a jab? Thankfully, Paul Lamont hadn’t shown today, banged up as he must have been. It wouldn’t have taken a genius to put two and two together, and the last thing TJ needed was the coach to think he’d become a hotheaded scrapper.
Blinking against the dusty breeze, TJ lowered his chin. He reared back with knee raised, adjusted the seams, and let the ball fly with a snap of the wrist. It broke low and away. A decent bend—just outside the strike zone.
“Ball!” the umpire declared.
Damn it.
TJ spat at the ground. He caught the return throw and tugged at the bill of his cap, blew out a breath. Gotta clear the melon. Start fresh without the clutter or a pitch didn’t have a rookie’s chance in hell. He loosened his neck, shook the stiffness from his hand. Strove to look calm.
The St. Mary’s batter smiled. He crowded the plate, his confidence growing.
But confidence could be a tricky thing. It lasted only if the person either had forgotten or didn’t realize what they stood to lose.
TJ wished he had the leeway to send a reminder. Nothing like a knockdown pitch to wipe a smirk off a slugger’s face.
Just then, the catcher tilted his head and shifted his eyes toward the third-base foul line. It was a warning, understood in a game of silent signals. TJ glimpsed a figure he recognized in his periphery. Bill Essick was approaching their dugout. The Yankees’ scout, a periodic spectator of Saturday league games, had once been a follower of TJ’s career.
Time to turn up the heat.
The catcher appeared to understand. He pointed one finger down, a fastball high and inside.
TJ rose to his full height and grasped the ball in his glove. He paused, ears straining. Where was the song? Where was it?
In a pinch, he closed his eyes and forced himself to picture his father’s face. On cue, anger boiled toward an eruption. Memories of the accident poured in a heated stream. The panic of tearing through the hospital halls, the police officer and his endless questions. The stench of the morgue, the lifting of the sheet.
He unshuttered his view and hurled the ball in a torrent—smack into the glove.
“Steee-riiike!”
Wiping his mind, TJ struggled to reduce his emotions to a simmer. He scuffed the mound again, hard.
Coach Barry nodded beside the dugout. A look of approval from the man, a praised coach of three sports for the Trojans, never lost its impact. He continued to be the major reason, in fact, that TJ attended University of Southern Cal.
But right now, Essick’s opinion was all that mattered.
TJ rolled his shoulder muscles for the impromptu review. He could feel the scout’s gaze on him. Just one more. All he needed was one more to smoke by the batter, one more to wrap up the inning. If he kept it up, he might even close out the game, from start to finish like the old days. Wouldn’t that be swell.
The hitter set his stance. He gave home plate a little more space.
Catcher signed another fastball. It was a cocky choice though relatively safe, given the solid zip on the last pitch and drag on the swing.
Problem was, safe choices never led to greatness. Legends were made of risk takers armed with the skills destined for success. A display like that could be just the thing to regain Essick’s interest, to see a winning thoroughbred in a stable of foals.
TJ grabbed hold of that risk, that sample of greatness, and shook off the catcher. “Come on,” he murmured, “something to dazzle ’em.”
The catcher complied: slider.
Now we’re talkin’, TJ thought. With a 3–2 count, the hitter wouldn’t be expecting a pitch that chanced ending up out of the zone. And when done right, a slider gave the illusion of a fastball, up until it fell off a table the last several feet.
