The Garden of Dead Dreams (16 page)

“I don’t know.” Reed said.

Etta glanced from Reed to Poppy. “Well, I think we need to.”

Hunger made Etta pull on her raincoat and shuffle down the path through the rain, hurry around the north side of the Lodge, slip into the theater, and feel her way down the back hallway toward the dining room. She was shaky from low blood sugar, and she couldn’t face another stale cracked-wheat cracker, couldn’t even look at the last bit of gooey red jam in the bottom of the jar; couldn’t choke down another mug of the gray instant hot chocolate with the tiny marshmallows floating on the top.

Poppy had agreed to bring Etta some food tomorrow, but tomorrow was an eternity away. Etta had waited until after nine o’clock, when the kitchen, dining room, and great room were usually deserted. No one would hear Etta sneak into the kitchen. But Etta froze at the corner where the corridor turned toward the dining room. The accented voice was loud and instantly recognizable. Isabella Peña. Etta flattened against the wall, and poked her head around the corner. The lights of the great room were ablaze: a yellow rectangle at the end of the long hallway.

Etta glanced behind her into the shadows. She couldn’t turn back now. She was dreaming of cheese—Swiss, Muenster, Brie, asiago, Gouda, it didn’t matter. Thick slices on bread, or just a handful of shredded mozzarella, or tortilla chips oozing with melted cheddar. Etta inched down the hallway, running her hand along the wall, feeling for the opening to the dining room. She focused her eyes on the patch of light at the end of the hall and padded along until she felt the door trim. She could hear Isabella Peña’s words now, and she stopped. It wasn’t what the author was saying. It was the tone of her heavily accented voice. It sounded like she was hurling her sentences at the back of the room.

“So our hero uses his undeniable gift, not to illuminate or enchant, not to make people question or wonder about things. He uses words in the most dangerous way they can be used—as weapons. He uses words to kill and maim, to pillage and plunder, to destroy and conquer. And you wonder who our hero is, you say? You all know him well. You are his protégés.”

Isabella Peña paused, and Etta took a step closer to the great room. All she could see was the rectangle of yellow light, and although she wanted to move toward it, to see how her classmates were reacting to Peña’s words, she didn’t move.

“A more timid woman might have kept her feelings about Vincent Buchanan to herself here, being that he is the founder of your elitist, and forgive me for saying so, but rather paternalistic, institution. However, I’ve heard you are well-educated and literate young people. The next generation of the American literary intelligentsia. And thus I might expect you to defend your hero, but I would also implore you to leave your minds open. Writers can’t afford to close them after all. You are thinking: he is the greatest writer of the twentieth century, three of his books won the Pulitzer prize, and he won a National Book Award. All but three of his novels became celebrated Hollywood films many times over, their budgets exceeding the GNP of most of sub-Saharan Africa combined. How dare a Chicana from the slums of Oaxaca de Juarez ride her burro up north to criticize our hero?” She paused. “But I would challenge you to consider, for a moment, that Vincent Buchanan may not have been a hero at all, but a patriarch, an imperialist, a racist . . .”

Etta gripping the door trim to steady herself.

“Let’s examine his short story, ‘The Garden of my Summer,’ as an example, written in 1967, when your hero was fifty-eight years old. We all know the story, of course. It was a short, rather dull tale about an old man tending his garden, not exactly the most inventive fiction since Buchanan himself had just passed middle age, and the garden was full of the mosses, ferns, and rhododendrons that grow wild just outside these doors, but it was a lyrical, harmless little parable, right? You probably read it in middle school. You undoubtedly learned that the garden was a symbol for America, land of the free and brave—the untamed plants, a vast diversity of them, growing every which way, working symbiotically off each other. America was untamed, but a thing of beauty for all the world to admire. What could be wrong with this little allegory? Well, do you remember how the garden spreads in the story, how the ivy begins to grow everywhere, takes over most of the man’s property, encroaches into the forest nearby, even wraps itself around the man’s shovel and hoe. The ivy is imperialism. Manifest Destiny. And the rhododendrons, do you remember them? They form a wall, a chamber; they create a secret haven where Payne Morris, the protagonist, goes to feel safe. Yes this is an allegory about America—a place where people are trying to insulate themselves from outsiders, build walls, shut out people from other cultures, of different religions, colors, and creeds, while strangling them with vines. This is your hero’s vision for America.”

Etta wasn’t sure if it was her hunger, or the way it felt like Isabella Peña’s voice was slicing the air, but she didn’t want to be in the hallway anymore. She slid inside the dining room. Moonlight washed through the windows, bathing the wooden floor and tables. Etta crossed the room and pushed the kitchen door open.

She stepped inside and squeezed her eyes shut against the bright light then brought her hand up and coughed. The smell was unmistakable. It brought back a night at Good Time Charley’s in Ann Arbor sitting in the bar upstairs, the outlines of people dancing, the blind date her friend had talked her into meeting, his pack of Lucky Strikes thwacking against his palm, the stream of smoke rising from his lips into the neon lights.

“Just like the blessed baby Jesus, our little Loretta’s risen from the dead.”

Etta snapped her eyes open, and Good Time Charley’s dissolved. Petra Atwell sat on the counter. She brought a squat glass up to her lips and her hand wavered, swaying in front of her. She slammed it onto the counter beside her, and Etta winced. Petra jerked the cigarette up to her mouth. Smoke curled up her face. Her red high heels were splayed on the floor beneath her, garish against the concrete.

“You’re drunk,” Etta whispered.

Petra laughed. “You’re a coward.” She tapped the cigarette’s filter, and a pile of ashes clumped onto the counter. Petra slithered off the counter. “You want a drink? I found out where the Texan’s been hiding the good stuff.”

Etta shook her head. Petra laughed and walked to the end of the counter. She poured from a square bottle of amber liquor, swaying slightly. “Suit yourself. Vincent was a snob, a drinker, and too rich for his own good. His liquor collection’s been buried in the cellar getting better every year, while he’s been decomposing in the ground. The irony.”

Petra’s cigarette rested on a small plate. A ribbon of smoke tangled its way into the porcelain cups hanging in diagonal rows beneath the shelves. Petra took a sip of her drink and grimaced. “Stop looking at me like I’m a tosspot. Unlike you, I was out there listening to that impudent vamp speak for the last hour.” She leaned against the counter. “That woman could have driven the Virgin Mary to the bottle.”

Etta walked to the stainless steel table and looked down. When she looked up, Petra was staring at her.

“Why is it that you always look like you’re wearing someone else’s skin and it’s the wrong size?”

Etta glanced behind her at the door. “Excuse me?”

Petra threw her head back and took a drink. “You have a fucking pseudonym. Get over it.”

Etta tightened her grip on the table. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Petra drank the rest of the liquor in her glass and turned her back to Etta. When Petra turned around, the glass was full again. “Jonathan Swift had fifteen. The man probably forgot the name his mother gave him, he had so many make-believe ones. Thackeray had eleven. You’ve got one rather uninspired pen name and you walk around looking like you’ve joined the witness protection program.”

A strange calmness eased through Etta.

Petra walked to the other side of the counter and picked up her cigarette, leaned back, and closed her eyes. After a second, her eyelashes, thick with black mascara, fluttered up. “I didn’t even particularly like Vincent when I met him. He was long-winded, and he followed that pallid poet around with drool collecting at the sides of his mouth, and I swear that waif didn’t look any older than fourteen at the time. Vincent never asked how anyone was doing. Didn’t give a shit. Just prattled on and on about this damn academy and himself as though he was the center of the universe. The asshole created all of this, because winning every literary award known to mankind wasn’t enough for his sense of self importance.” Petra took a drink from her glass then pointed her cigarette at Etta. “So, why would I care what that Latina primadonna says about . . .”

“Opal Waters? Did they have an affair?” Etta flinched at the squeakiness of her own voice.

Petra laughed then narrowed her eyes at Etta. “Worse. He was in love with her. The idiotic man was enamored with an icicle.” Petra took a sip from her drink. Her hand swayed as she brought the glass down.

“When did you meet Vincent Buchanan?” Etta asked.

“Before you were born I’m sure. This is an unholy place, teeming with vernal innocence to remind you that you’re decaying a little more each day.” Petra drained the rest of her glass and slid it onto the counter. She pointed a finger in Etta’s direction. “You know what’s sick? He probably would have wanted to sleep with that priggish diva out there too. She all but called him Goebbels. Referred to him twice as America’s ‘Propaganda Minister.’ You have to admire the woman’s bravery, I’ll give her that. She should win the medal of courage for impudence. She actually believes The Western Defense is responsible for the Iraq War, the plight of migrant farmers, for every impoverished baby born in Tijuana. Yet if that geriatric narcissist were alive, he probably would have wanted to get her out of her cat suit and up to his room. Men are disgusting.” Petra lit another cigarette and pointed at Etta. “Almost as disgusting as cowards.”

Petra took her time trying to get her high heels on then picked up her glass and sauntered toward the bottle of liquor again, her shoes clicking against the floor.

“I’m not a coward.” Etta’s voice was a whisper.

Petra spun around and walked toward Etta, the liquor sloshing in her glass with each step. She stopped an inch in front of Etta and took a drag off her cigarette. “We were in the same room for about fifteen minutes several years ago—at one of Marla Epstein’s god awful parties. Marla’s married to my agent, Peter. It’s an incestuous business, Loretta. I feel right at home in it.” Petra laughed. “Perhaps you don’t remember me? Marla’s stuffy soirees can be forgettable affairs. You stood out—can’t say why exactly, maybe it was because you were standing in the corner alone playing with that hairless skeleton Marla thinks is a cat, maybe it was because you looked all of thirteen at the time, or maybe you just have a particularly annoying face. Who knows.”

Etta took a step away from Petra, her ears swelling with air. She had not forgotten the party. It was her first trip to New York City, the first and only time she’d ever met Marla in person, and sadly the first time she’d ever been to a party where drunk twenty-somethings weren’t doing keg stands in the bathroom. She couldn’t look away from Petra’s face, the swaths of red blush on her cheeks, the way the foundation settled into the furrow between her penciled-in eyebrows.

Petra slid her drink onto the table, the amber liquor sloshing, but somehow staying in the squat glass. “Don’t confuse me with your therapist or that priggish bore Dear Abby. I don’t even want to begin to guess what could make you such a frightened individual, but I do have some suggestions for you. Drink this. It’s more expensive than the piece-of-shit diamond ring my first husband gave me. Stop skipping classes. And, I know, talking to Hardin is about as interesting as reading Proust, but when the man requests that you join him in his office, drag yourself up those stairs even if you’re within a minute of your death. Whether you follow any of those recommendations is your own damn business, but I promise you if you ignore this one, you’ll spend the rest of your days penning more supermarket bodice-rippers for that half-wit Marla. Do not blow this critique, Loretta.”

The door flapped closed behind Petra. The sound of her high heels against the dining room floor gave way to silence.

Etta wrapped her fingers around the squat glass and winced at the burn at the back of her throat as the liquor slid into her empty stomach.

* * *

The next morning Etta hurried down the hallway to the classroom. Robert North’s voice got louder with each step. She’d woken only minutes ago, pulled her hair into a pony tail, and yanked some clothes on. She’d spent an hour staring at her notebook waiting for something to come to her, writing then crossing it out then writing and crossing it out again. She’d finally reread Matthew Lowther’s story again hoping it would put her in the mood to write, but had fallen asleep after the first two pages.

Etta turned the doorknob to the classroom and slipped inside. Robert North stood with his back to the class, his curls outlined against the window. Rain, which had started sometime in the night, streaked across the glass. As Etta eased the door shut, Robert North met Etta’s gaze, and stopped talking. A few students turned their heads.

Robert North ran a hand through his hair and strode to the center of the room. “As I was saying, poetry is the most challenging form.” Most of the students turned to face the front of the room as Etta let her breath ease out. “Not the form itself, but the length. Novelists, essayists, memoirists, journalists—they’re in love with their own voices. They can’t edit their nervous chatter. The poet can’t get distracted with a character’s ex-boyfriend’s dislike for rose wine or ramble about an impressionist painting his character saw once in a museum in Rome or concern himself with whatever parental injustices made his character whoever the hell he is today.

“The character is. The moment is. A slice. A sliver. A voice. A flash. A breath. A poem. The poet obliterates all but the essence. The poet writes the truth.”