Bridge of Scarlet Leaves Read Online Free PDF Page B

fundamental basic.
    “Oksan.” 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
    T he 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.