The Garden of Dead Dreams (18 page)

Vincent’s father got a job in the warehouse of the Pacific Coast Biscuit Company. Vincent’s mother Edith was a homemaker, but she began exhibiting increasingly troubling symptoms after they moved to Portland. She stayed in the darkened refuge of her bedroom most days, and started mailing letters to her mother, who’d been dead for over a decade. She grew increasingly detached from eleven-year-old Vincent and thirteen-year-old Dottie, as everyone called Vincent’s sister. In October of 1921, Edith Ann Buchanan moved out of Vincent’s house and never returned. She died on January ninth, 1922, at forty-six years of age, in the Oregon State Mental Hospital in Salem. What she succumbed to, Matthew Lowther did not say. He was more interested in young Vincent Buchanan and his increasing obsession with Japan.

Sometimes an accidental moment, a fleeting event, a mistake, can change the course of an entire life. For Vincent Buchanan that instant was October 4, 1922. His brother William, a delivery driver for Schlesser Brothers’ Meats, drove by as Vincent was walking home from school. Vincent begged William to take him on a ride in the Schlesser brothers’ 1920 Model H International delivery truck. William finally acquiesced and let his brother climb in. The last stop on William’s delivery route that day was Tanaka Grocery in Japantown.

William, 56, a retired machinist living in Portland, Oregon, recounts the day vividly 33 years later. “I couldn’t pull the damn kid out of that store. He walked around and touched everything—the silk slippers, the wooden shoes, the kimonos. He even touched one of the dead ducks hanging upside down in the window. It was embarrassing the way he gaped at the Orientals, just trying to do their shopping. I told him to mind his business.

The kid would give me the silent treatment all night if I ran that stop without him, so I started meeting him outside his school at 3:45. It was out of my way, but it made the kid happy, and there wasn’t a lot to be happy about those days . . .”

“Can I have a word with you?”

Etta snapped her head up. Director Hardin’s head was inches from hers. She heard the slap of something hitting the floor then realized it was her own notebook and Matthew Lowther’s dissertation. Her pen slid from her fingers, bounced, and rolled across the wooden planks. Etta leaped to her feet, squatted, and grabbed for the dissertation. A loose page stuck out from the middle of the book. Was it coming apart?

No. It was an envelope.

Etta pushed it back into the pages and shoved the dissertation into her bag. She retrieved her notebook and pen and followed Hardin out of the classroom and down the spiral stairs to the second floor. Teddy didn’t stop typing when Hardin led Etta into the administration office, but she could feel his eyes on her as she followed Hardin across the room, past the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the upholstery chairs, the table stacked with
Poets & Scribes
, and into his office. The rain drumming against the windows vibrated the panes.

Etta stepped toward the chairs across from Hardin’s desk, and jumped backward. A long blonde braid swung across the back of one of the chairs. Etta met Opal Waters’ gray gaze.

Hardin closed the door behind Etta, circled his desk, and sat down. “Please sit, Ms. Lawrence.”

Etta’s gaze went to the window—the swirl of streaky gray, the condensation bubbling the inside of the glass. She sat next to Opal, but stayed on the edge of the seat, her bag still slung across her shoulder.

Hardin rested his hands on the arms of his chair and gazed at a point behind Etta. It was almost as though he was waiting for Etta to talk, and as the silence spread out, Etta considered blurting out an excuse for reading during the mandatory writing session. But something—perhaps Opal Waters’ gray eyes on her—told her she was here for something more serious than reading during class.

“Are you feeling better?” Opal spoke first. Etta managed a nod. Director Hardin cleared his throat. He gestured toward a paperback volume on his desk that Etta recognized as the
Buchanan Academy Rules and Regulations
, a tome she’d received in the mail days after she’d received her acceptance letter. “You are familiar with the Regulations, Ms. Lawrence.”

Etta nodded.

“So you are aware that students are required to attend all classes, workshops, mandatory writing sessions, meals, and impromptu events, readings, and speeches, except on Sundays, which have been set aside as free days.” Hardin rapped his fingers against his desk. “We have been fortunate, in that we’ve never had a serious illness strike one of our students. We attribute our residents’ health to their engagement in the creative process, the environment of learning, the salubrious nature of literature, and to the fresh air and beauty of the grounds.”

Etta dropped her gaze to the floor.

“I will remind you of our policy on illness.” She heard the thin pages of the book slap against each other. “Page sixty-one: To protect all residents, any illness must be reported to the director or his assistant within twenty-four hours, either in person or by proxy.”

The room grew silent, and Etta lifted her gaze to meet Hardin’s. He stared at her over his spectacles. “You can understand how this is particularly urgent if the illness is of a contagious manner. We have an agreement with Dr. Herbert Mansheim, a general practitioner in Jackson. He can be here in less than forty minutes. Shall I phone him?”

Etta tried to shake her head. “I’m fine . . .”

Hardin brushed his hand through his wispy hair. “I will not belabor the point, except to say that we take the codes seriously here. With Vincent no longer with us, they are all we have to ensure his legacy remains unspoiled. I am willing to overlook one transgression, especially under the circumstances.” He closed the book and rested his hand on it; his gaze drifted toward the window. “We also have arrangements with a psychiatrist—Dr. Evelyn Ryder of Portland, who has counseled many of our students over the years. Perhaps you would like to talk to her?”

Etta glanced down and saw Opal’s slender fingers reaching for hers. She instinctively drew her hand away. Then she tried to smile, but Opal looked away, her hand fluttering to her lap.

After a moment, Opal spoke: “I’ve consulted with Dr. Ryder myself. She’s a good listener, and she can prescribe medication for depression, whether it’s seasonal or . . .” Her words trailed off.

Etta stared at the blue veins laced beneath the poet’s pale flesh. She thought about extending her hand toward Opal’s, but hesitated. “You were depressed?”

“When I heard of my father’s passing, the isolation of the lodge . . . I’ve lived here on and off for thirty years, you understand, and it’s always been a sanctuary, a muse—but it became, well . . . It was nothing really. Listen, you may have heard that sadness is part of the artist’s soul, that it breeds imagination or makes you see the world more clearly, but it’s simply not so. Dr. Ryder can help you, maybe as soon as tomorrow.”

The vein that threaded up Opal’s brow to her hairline was just barely visible. Etta thought of Petra’s words.
Vincent 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.
A tendril of hair had come loose from Opal’s braid and fallen across her cheek. Etta glanced at the director, and followed his gaze toward the window. She became aware again of the sound of the rain, softly drumming against the panes.

“Did Olivia talk to her?” Etta asked.

Hardin took off his spectacles and set them on the desk. He closed his eyes and massaged his temple. Without his glasses, he looked tired, the flesh below his eyes sagging into his cheek bones. “I’m sorry, but I cannot discuss Ms. Saxon’s medical condition.”

Hardin looked as though he might say something more, but Opal spoke next: “Did Olivia seem depressed to you?”

“She cried sometimes,” Etta said, thinking of Olivia’s muffled sobs in the night. Why hadn’t she asked Olivia about it? Of course, they were strangers at first, but later, she could have asked. She should have.

“Did Olivia confide in you?” Opal asked.

Etta opened her mouth to say no, and then thought better of it.

After a moment, Opal continued, “Being the confidant of someone who is unstable is not easy. Perhaps that is what brought on your own troubles.”

Etta stared at the books on the shelves behind Hardin. Did Etta have troubles? She hadn’t eaten in days, she’d hardly slept, she couldn’t write, and she’d gotten Reed and Poppy involved in something she could hardly put into words, something that didn’t make sense even to her.

“It may help to get it off your chest, I mean, whatever it is Olivia confided in you,” Opal said.

Etta met Opal’s gaze. “Olivia thought Jordan was in love with someone else.” Etta only said it to watch Opal’s reaction, but Opal’s eyes revealed nothing. The poet brushed the strand of hair off her face and tucked it behind her ear.

“Did Ms. Saxon and Mr. Waterhouse have a . . .” Hardin cleared his throat. “Were they violating the regulations?”

“Where is Olivia?” Etta sensed the meeting wouldn’t last much longer, and she’d regretted not asking Hardin last time she’d been sitting across from him.

“I understand it is difficult, but you must try to move past this. I will have Theodore telephone Dr. Ryder. You can meet with her in my office. I’m confident she can help you work through any lingering” —he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling— “emotions.”

Etta nodded, because she wasn’t sure what else she could do. But her heart hammered against her chest. Did she need help? Or medication? She clutched the strap of her bag against her shoulder.

“One more thing.” Opal smiled at her—a tight, close-mouthed smile. “We’re looking forward to your critique. What’s the title of your story?”

Etta bit the inside of her lip. “Cherry Blossom,” she whispered, because it was the only thing she could think of.

Etta’s pulse raced as she stepped into the hallway outside the administrative office. At the bottom of the stairs, the commotion of lunchtime drifted from the dining room. Etta slipped to the back side of the staircase and stepped into the shadows. The stairs matched the architecture so well with its unfinished log banisters, wide plank steps, and general rustic splendor that Etta assumed it had been built with the rest of the lodge during the Depression, but according to Carl, Vincent Buchanan had added the staircase when he acquired the lodge in the late fifties. He’d been enamored with the lighthouses on the Oregon Coast when he was a child and had wanted to emulate the feeling of spiraling toward light.

Etta crouched. The air was stale and dusty. Some words were etched into the baseboard. Etta leaned closer and ran her finger over them: WPA 1936. Then she pulled Matthew Lowther’s dissertation from her bag and fingered the envelope that protruded from its pages.

* * *

As Etta stepped into the dining room, everyone seemed to be discussing Isabella Peña. The visiting author had never shown up to take over Robert North’s class that morning. Winston Goss had appeared at ten to oversee the mandatory writing session and apologized for the “lack of communication” concerning the morning class.

“If she thinks Buchanan was so awful, why is she here?” someone asked.

“She’s practically a fugitive.”

“I wish she’d go home.”

Chase Quinn’s voice rose above the rest for a moment. He was talking to Jordan, who sat across from him. “America’s Propaganda Minister. What kind of crack is she smoking? We’d be speaking Japanese right now if it wasn’t for Buchanan.”

Etta dropped into her chair, so intent on overhearing Jordan’s response to Chase’s analysis that she hardly noticed Reed and Poppy.

“Is everything okay?” Reed asked. Etta jumped and then plunked her bag onto the floor and slid it under her chair.

“We saw you leave with Director Hardin.” Reed whispered. His blue eyes darted back and forth behind his thick lenses.

Etta could only think of the rice paper envelope, thin and fragile. She’d decided it would be best not to open it crouched behind the stairwell and had returned it to the pages of the dissertation. But she’d stared at it long enough to memorize everything on it—the three cent stamp with Thomas Jefferson’s profile on it. The postmark: Seattle, Wash, August first, 1940. And the address, written in careful cursive letters: Vincent Buchanan, Box 7502, Portland, Oregon.

“See, I told you.” Poppy pursed her lips and blew on her jambalaya.

“Told you what? Told him what?” Etta jerked her gaze to Poppy. Poppy brought her spoon up and took a bite of her jambalaya. The sight of it made Etta’s stomach growl.

Poppy set her fork down. Etta grabbed it and stole a bite of sausage.

Poppy cleared her throat. “We think . . .”

“It’s unimportant,” Reed jumped to his feet. “I will get you some lunch. Would you like a beverage? Milk, iced tea, juice, coffee, herbal tea, water?”

“Water. Thanks.”

Reed disappeared. Instead of jambalaya, his plate had pear slices and what looked like a plain cheese sandwich.

Etta scanned the room. At the director’s table, Teddy and the major sat with their backs to Etta; Opal and Hardin hadn’t arrived yet. Were they still upstairs discussing Etta? Poppy tapped her fork against the edge of her bowl, a quick, steady beat that grew louder and more rapid.

“Can you please stop that,” Etta said, a little louder than she’d intended.

Poppy raised one of her wire-thin eyebrows and continued tapping.

“Why are you doing that?”

Poppy shrugged and rolled her eyes to the ceiling, letting her fork sink into her bowl. She drummed her nails across the table.

“Poppy. Please. Stop. It.”

Poppy rolled her eyes. “That’s exactly what I was saying. You think you’re in charge of us.”

Etta glanced over her shoulder, hoping to see Reed with her meal. Instead she glimpsed Carl’s cowboy hat floating above the crowd. She snapped her gaze back to Poppy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tried to keep her voice measured, even though her hunger, combined with the sight of Carl, made breathing feel impossible.