The American Wife
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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,” one of them answered, right as Emma charged down the stairs, begging him to stay.
“Papa, ikanaide.” She shook his bound arms. “Papa, Papa! Ittara dame!”
He offered her phrases of comfort that did little good. Then he turned to Lane and in Japanese stated in an even tone, “From now on, you are responsible for the family.”
These were his final words before being ushered into the backseat of the agents’ car, the last instructions before Emma chased them two full blocks. She wailed out useless pleas as her mother retreated into the dishevelment of their house. Neighbors peeked from windows.
Yet for Lane, none of this—not the groundless arrest, not his sister’s cries nor their mother’s isolation—caused the physical blow that came from the look in his father’s eyes. A look of utter shame.
She couldn’t stand the wait anymore.
Maddie threw her coat back on, not bothering to fasten the buttons. She had tried phoning Lane, to confirm he’d made it home. Then to warn him not to come over. But the calls wouldn’t go through. The only person she’d reached was Jo, who had more questions than Maddie felt up for. A third attempt to ring Lane’s house had failed. The chaos of the switchboard was likely the problem, the operator had said. Told her to try again after a spell.
Maddie, though, didn’t have time to spare. TJ could return at any minute—having gone to a meeting, Jo claimed. Right or wrong, TJ needed a chance to cool off before connecting her wedding band to Lane. And that’s precisely what would happen if the three of them shared an exchange. After the intimacy of her wedding night, how could she possibly hide her feelings in Lane’s presence?
In the morning, once TJ’s shock had settled, she could explain everything. Rarely did she deviate from tracks laid in reason. He knew this. He knew her.
At least the brother she used to know did.
Headed for Lane’s, she hurried from the house and down the front stairs. The tip of her shoe caught on the splintery bottom step, sending her tumbling. Exhaustion from the day wilted her body. No chance to rest. She heaved herself up and brushed off her gritty palms. A hole tore through her silk stockings, among the few she owned. Yet the misfortune had become a meaningless hiccup in the grand scheme.
She continued toward the street with a hindered stride. At this pace, the walk would stretch to a good twenty minutes, widening the opportunity for the guys to cross paths.
Should she go or stay? Which option would be worth the risk?
Frustrated by her own indecision, she wagered her hopes on a car approaching from the end of the long suburban street. The vehicle rumbled in and out of moonlight slanting between houses. Its chrome grille had the opened fish-mouth shape of a Buick’s.
“Lane, please be you.” She focused on the windshield, breath held.
“Are you all right, dearie?” a woman called. It was her elderly neighbor, leaning out from behind her screen door. “I was just watering my pansies in the window when I saw you take a fall.”
“Oh, yes, I’ll be fine.” Maddie flung the reply behind her.
“I have some peroxide if you scraped yourself up. You remember what I told you about my nephew’s ankle, after he didn’t care for it properly. Ended up almost dying in the hospital.”
No matter how dire the situation, Maddie knew better than to entrap herself in the house of a person who took pride in enumerating worst-case scenarios.
“I appreciate the offer. But I’ll be okay.” Maddie stretched her neck toward the street.
“What are you doing out here, exactly? If you pardon my asking.”
“Just waiting for … a friend,” she said, at last determining that Lane—thank goodness—was the driver behind the wheel.
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