After leaving the Yamada orchards, Louis Thorn walked into town and promptly got drunker. At Murphy’s Saloon, Joe Abbott took pity on him, glimpsing the fresh bruises on Louis’s face and guessing the boy was likely full of piss and vinegar on account of his brother being killed in the Pacific. Word traveled fast, and by that time the whole town knew Edith Thorn had received a telegram earlier that day. The Thorn children were simply too numerous for anything in their family to remain secret for longer than an hour. Full of sympathy and patriotism, Joe had gotten Louis good and tanked up, then let him snooze in a corner of the bar until four o’clock in the morning, when Joe roused him with a cup of coffee and told the poor fellow he was obligated to lock up.
Now a very hungover Louis retraced his earlier walk, trudging in the direction of the Yamada ranch. He hardly knew what he wanted to say to them, but he needed to go back and see Harry, see Ava . . . and, if nothing else, knew he needed to go back and clear out his things.
He arrived just as dawn was breaking. It was a hazy day, a day made overcast by all the agricultural activity in the area, the farmers all burning their fields in the valley. There was a terrible charred scent on the breeze. The sunrise was intensely bloody, then all the color drained out of the sky, replaced by a dull gray. It was just as well: What little sunshine there was only gave Louis a splitting headache.
“Hello?” he called out as he entered the Yamada house. He didn’t necessarily expect to see Harry or Mr. Yamada—he knew Ava would want to keep them hidden out in the caravan, per her plan—but Louis assumed Cleo and Ava had slept inside, even after Louis’s awful scuffle with Harry. He was surprised to find absolutely nobody at home.
Feeling lonely, he switched on the radio. It had become his ritual to listen to the war bulletins every day. Remembering Guy, he reached out to switch it off, but hesitated and decided to leave it on. It was nice to pretend, if only for a minute or two. The radio quivered with excitement and gave off a curiously reassuring noisy squawk, as though it were promising the end of the war in one ultimate blaze of glory.
Louis felt nature calling and went into the bathroom. Once there, he caught sight of himself in the mirror and let out a shocked grunt, followed by an exhausted laugh. Dirt was caked over the cuts and bruises on his face, his left eye sported a shiner, and he displayed all the obvious signs of a terrible hangover. On top of all that, he needed a shave.
It was something to do. He turned on the hot-water tap, took out some shaving soap, splashed water on his face, and lathered up. He had gotten through half of his shave when he heard a truck sputtering up the drive and, soon after, heavy boots on the wooden stairs leading up to the Yamada porch.
Still only half-shaven, his undershirt dirty and his suspenders hanging at his hips, Louis went out to see who was at the door. He recognized the shapes of Sheriff Whitcomb and Deputy Henderson through the window, coming up the stairs. There was a third man, too—a man Louis didn’t know. He squinted and was startled almost to the point of nausea to notice the man bore a striking similarity to his brother Guy.
Louis’s stomach twisted, suddenly remembering it all: the fact that Guy was dead, the fact that he had nearly shot Harry in the head, the fact that he was, technically, still harboring two escaped Japanese internees on property that was his in legal name . . .
The men neared the top of the stairs, arriving at the front porch. Louis took a deep breath and pushed through the screen door. It closed with a slap behind him.
“May I help you fellas?”
Only minutes later Louis Thorn watched in disbelief as the Stearman puttered out of gas, stalled, and plunged from the sky.