The Garden of Dead Dreams (14 page)

“Yeah, I guess you get some attention when you attack someone.” Etta heard a sound and spun around. Poppy was on her porch locking her door. Etta jumped up, murmured goodbye to Maura, and jogged across the clearing, trying to keep her hands in her pockets as she moved.

“Oh good, Poppy. I need your help.” The words came out in a breathless rush.

Poppy took her time turning around. “Where have you been? Please tell me you’re not having a mental breakdown too.”

“Will you do me a favor?”

Poppy pulled her striped pink and green stocking cap over her ears, which matched her pink corduroy jacket. She grinned, revealing her two straight rows of small teeth. “You want me to tell Carl you’re in love with him?”

Etta rolled her eyes. “No,” Etta said, but then thought of Carl’s kiss and her cheeks filled with heat.

Poppy smoothed her skirt, which fell just above her knobby knees. The soles of her leather boots clomped against the stairs as she descended. She stopped on the last step and scanned Etta. “Bad news . . . a mattress exploded on your head.”

Etta frowned and smoothed her hair. She’d heard lots of variations of the mattress spring joke. “Will you give this to Reed Morinsky for me? Please.” She thrust a note toward Poppy.

Poppy scrunched her forehead, making her eyes look even buggier. “I don’t talk to Reed.”

“Then just give him the note.”

“Oh no, Etta,” Poppy glanced around in an exaggerated way. “You and Reed aren’t, you know?”

Etta’s fingers were starting to stiffen from the cold. “No, we’re not ‘you know.’ Please Poppy, can you just do this for me? It’s important. He’s probably in the dining room right now.”

“Jeez. Don’t have an aneurysm.” Poppy took the note from Etta and curled it into her mitten. “Can I read it?”

“No,” Etta snapped. “I mean, please don’t. Just make sure he gets it, okay? And please tell anyone who asks I’m sick.” Before Poppy could answer, Etta spun around and hurried across the clearing to her cabin.

* * *

Etta sat cross-legged on her bed and read M.K. Lowther’s story one more time. Then she crouched on her hands and knees and scoured under Olivia’s bed—for what, she wasn’t sure, since all she found was a layer of dust and an elastic hair band. Finally she yanked on a sweat shirt and some leggings, locked her cabin, and sprinted up the hill behind the cabin, pumping her arms as hard as she could, trying to forget the director’s advice to travel in pairs. She focused on the crunch of the leaves underfoot, crispy after several days without rain.

At the top of the hill, she chose a narrow path that meandered along the north side of the grounds and ran at a fast clip. Some orange and yellow leaves still clung to the undergrowth, but most of the branches were bare and skeletal. After the first mile, Etta started to feel better, and by the time she reached her cabin again, sweating and out of breath, she felt almost like herself again.

She climbed the stairs, stepped onto the porch and jumped backward. A manila envelope was propped against the door. Etta picked it up, and a chill rose through her. Her hands started to tremble. Olivia’s name was written across it in capital letters. It wasn’t the first time Etta had found an envelope like it. She’d come home to one after a run a couple of months ago, propped against the door exactly where this one was. That time she’d deposited it on top of the clutter on Olivia’s desk. But who didn’t know that Olivia was gone? Was it a joke?

Etta went inside and closed the door behind her. She unclasped the metal tongs and slid the papers into her hand. Etta’s hands shook and déjà vu flooded through her. It looked just like the story she’d seen next to Jordan’s typewriter—the same handwriting, all-caps, the words crowded into margins.

Etta felt breathless. She walked to her desk, pulled open the bottom drawer, and rifled through it until she found the note.
Imagine, so many of us back together again. Except one of us. Where is he, Opal? Another thing I’ve wondered over the years—did my father love you, or were you just another geisha?
The handwriting was less frenzied, but all caps, with the same jagged a’s and e’s. The same person had written them.

* * *

Etta’s footsteps echoed through the theater. The light switch she’d flicked on in the wing illuminated only the house lights; the stage was still dark. The velvet curtains hung motionless, framing the stage in swaths of black. Etta moved toward the spot where Olivia had been standing with Robert North as the curtain closed before them. She almost thought she smelled the residue of Olivia’s lavender oil, but she knew she must be imagining it.

A row of spot lights flickered on. Footsteps echoed onto the stage. As usual, Reed’s khakis were pulled up high, revealing white crew socks and leather penny loafers, and his wire-framed glasses sat slightly askew on his face. “Please do not be offended if I stand over here. Impetigo is highly contagious.” Reed’s voice echoed through the theater.

Etta instinctively brought her finger up to shush him. “What are you talking about?” she whispered.

“Poppy informed me of your ailment.”

Etta cocked her head then brought her hand to her mouth. “Oh no, please tell me she didn’t tell everyone I have—what is it . . . impe . . .?”

“I am afraid I am highly susceptible to germs.” Reed pushed his glasses up with his index finger then brought his other hand up to cover his mouth, muffling his speech slightly. “I was born six weeks early and lived in an incubator for my first three months. My immune system never fully recovered.”

“Reed I don’t have . . . what is it?”

“Impetigo. A skin infection characterized by small blisters.”

“Gross.”

“You should not be ashamed. Major Mills is a trained medic. He said impetigo is curable, although I suspect he will need to assess your case. Perhaps they will bring in a doctor from Jackson.”

Etta shuddered. “Please tell me you didn’t ask Major Mills to examine my skin.”

“Your condition can be treated.”

“I don’t have a condition. Stop covering your mouth. Hasn’t Poppy ever heard of a cold or the flu? Impetigo, really?”

Reed lifted his hand from his mouth, but it hovered just in front of his face. “If you are not ill, what reason would you have to be absent from class?”

Etta glanced out at the rows of velvet seats. “It . . . it’s complicated. First you have to promise what we say in here is a hundred percent confidential, that you won’t tell anyone, especially the major or Hardin, especially not Hardin, or Winston or Walker, or Opal or Petra, or Poppy—definitely not Poppy.” Etta took a few steps toward Reed and lowered her voice. “Promise?”

Reed dropped his hand. His blue eyes flitted back and forth behind his glasses, and worry lines crossed his forehead. He nodded.

“Okay. So here’s the thing.” Etta glanced behind her. “I think there’s something . . . I . . . Olivia’s gone . . . weird things . . . Olivia knew something, or got herself in trouble, or I don’t know. I need some records from the archives.”

A sound echoed across the stage, Etta jerked her head in its direction and peered into the dark stage wing. Her heart slammed against her chest. Reed took a step away from the sound, squinted, and covered his face with his hands.

Etta sighed. “Hello?” she called. She detected a movement in the shadows.

“Jeez, do you have night vision or something?” Poppy padded onto the stage wearing her striped socks. She was carrying her boots.

“Impetigo, really? Impetigo? Was that the all you could think of? How about a cold, a migraine, a stomachache . . . a fever?”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “So, you were saying—you need some records from the archives . . .”

Etta crossed her arms and tried to swallow down some of the heat that was flooding into her face. “I asked you not to read the note.”

Poppy shrugged and coiled a strand of her blonde hair around her finger. Her eyeballs drifted up. “Come on, Etta, I’m so bored out here in this stupid forest. What are we supposed to write about out here?—sitting in a classroom staring at the back of Chase Quinn’s head, the flight patterns of moths? If you guys are going to go do something cool, there’s no way you’re leaving me out.”

Reed rubbed his hands together and stared at the floor. He looked like an insect. Maybe it would be good to have someone else to help her too. “What do you think, Reed? Do you want Poppy’s help?”

Reed’s blue eyes were glossy, and Etta realized that he hadn’t exactly agreed to help her. “You have not fully explained the mission,” Reed finally said.

Etta waved both Poppy and Reed closer until they were standing within inches of each other, so close that Etta could smell Poppy’s shampoo. “Okay, it’s going to sound crazy. Everything I tell you needs to stay amongst us.” She glared at Poppy.

Etta reached into her book bag and pulled out M.K. Lowther’s story, the manila envelope that had been left on her porch earlier, and the note from Opal’s pocket. She handed the pile of papers to Reed. “I’m not sure how, but I think all of this is connected to someone named Matthew Lowther.” Etta explained what she knew, and Reed’s watery gaze met hers. To Etta’s relief, the worry lines had eased somewhat from his forehead.

“You said you’re helping transfer library records?”

Reed nodded.

“Do you have access to the archives?”

Reed shook his head and stared at the pile of papers. “Students do not have access to the archives. However, you would not find this in there anyway.”

Etta stepped closer to Reed. He was squinting at the back side of one of the yellowed “Cherry Blossom” pages. He handed it to Etta. Someone had jotted a fading row of letters and numbers in the middle of the page: BL UB271.J3S4 P.98.

Reed pushed up his glasses. “This is an LOC number, which means this book is part of the original collection. A librarian from the University of Oregon cataloged Buchanan’s books when the academy opened in 1958. The academy converted to a local cataloging system in the eighties.”

“LOC?” Etta whispered.

“Library of Congress. I think UB stands for military. I would guess it’s part of Buchanan’s research collection—the materials he used to write his stories and novels. They’re in the basement.”

“Can you find it?”

Reed shrugged. “Maybe. They’re in boxes, but I think they’re mostly in order.”

“What I was really hoping to find is class rosters. I think Matthew Lowther might have been a student here in 1985. Would there be a class roster in the archives?”

Reed shook his head. “Student records are kept in the administrative office. I can ask Theodore if there’s such a list.”

Etta thought about it. “It’s better that nobody knows we want this. If we can get this without Teddy knowing, that would be safer.”

“You are not suggesting theft?” Reed whispered. “Theft is in violation of the academy regulations.”

“I’ll do it,” Poppy interrupted. “I’ve always wondered what Teddy keeps in his desk. What do you want to bet he has piles of love letters to Hardin in there, or maybe vials of bat saliva . . . or rodent hearts?” She giggled.

Etta made a face. “I think Reed should do it.”

“Oh come on. I’ll sneak into the office at lunch. No one will even see me.”

Etta narrowed her eyes at Poppy. “Fine, but please don’t get caught. Can we meet at my cabin during unstructured time today?”

They nodded. Reed handed Etta the pile of papers and she stuffed them in her bag, shoved her hands into the pockets of her down coat, and took a few steps toward the wing of the stage. Then she spun around and mumbled, “Thanks.”

Reed pushed his glasses up and smiled, revealing his too-far-apart teeth. Poppy twirled her blonde hair around her finger and chewed on her bottom lip.

Prickles rose through Etta’s legs.
You’re in trouble. Go home.
Was she putting Reed and Poppy in danger? She pushed the thought away. “Thank you both.”

Etta salivated at the thought of Carl’s cooking—green chili, biscuits, tortillas glistening with butter, coffee with cream. She pushed open the stainless steel kitchen door. In front of her, a column of steam rose from a pot on the stove top.

“Etta.”

Etta registered the familiar voice before she saw Amanda Watson’s turned-up nose and flip of dark hair. “Amanda.”

Amanda took a step away from Carl, who was standing behind the stainless steel table husking a cob of corn. They’d been standing close. Very close. Etta’s eyes watered and her cheeks filled with heat. She coughed. She gripped the edge of the table as the cough turned into a hack.

Carl pulled the stringy remainders of husk from a corncob, snapped the top off, and threw it over his shoulder. It plunked into the pot of water on the stove. He strolled to the sink, poured a glass of water, and slid it across the table to Etta. “You okay?”

Etta nodded and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Mandy was just telling me things might get exciting around here soon, with Ms. Peña on her way.”

Etta could feel Mandy’s eyes on her. “Sorry to hear about your . . . condition.” Mandy cleared her throat. “I hope you’ll be back in class next week. You’re up for critique, right?”

Carl raised an eyebrow at Etta as he pulled the husk off another piece of corn. “You been under the weather?”

Etta shook her head. “Just a little cold.”

A fold appeared on Mandy’s ivory forehead. “Oh, I thought you had a skin . . .”

“You misunderstood,” Etta interrupted. “I mean, you must have.”

Mandy blinked. “Oh. Then you’re coming to the reading tonight?”

Mandy combed her fingers through her smooth, glossy bob, which curled under her pointed chin.

Etta brought her hand up and smoothed her nest of coils. “Tonight?

“Isabella Peña will be reading from The Long Struggle at eight o’clock. Hopefully no one will get injured.” She laughed at her own joke, and then glanced at her watch. “Oh goodness, I’ve got to run. You know how Petra is about tardiness. This morning Mallory was a couple minutes late. She said he was just like her second husband and asked if he had trouble with impotence as well. You should have seen his face.” Mandy giggled again, a dainty titter of a laugh, and her cheeks flushed. “See you at lunch, Carl.” She met Etta’s eyes and then strolled past her. “Hope you feel better,” she murmured. The words disappeared into silence as the door flapped closed.