The Garden of Dead Dreams (20 page)

“Is it true that Truman was reading
The Western Defense
when he decided to drop the bombs?” Poppy asked.

Reed pushed his glasses up. “That story was originally reported by Milton Warren, a reporter for the
New York Post
, who was known to fabricate a canard or two.”

“You know a lot about Buchanan,” Etta said.

“I studied literature because of Vincent Buchanan. He’s the reason I wanted to be a writer.”

“Yeah, you and every other male English major,” Poppy mumbled, rolling her eyes. “Buchanan or Hemingway.”

Reed stared at Etta. “Honestly, I’m bewildered by this letter. I’ve examined every secondary resource available about Buchanan, at least everything held in the libraries at Boston University and Harvard, and I don’t recall a single mention of Buchanan ever going to Japan or stepping foot in Japantown as a boy. These revelations would be of incredible interest to Buchanan scholars.”

“It seems like Buchanan didn’t want them to be.” Etta stuffed the dissertation into her bag, and silence eased across the stage.

“Don’t ask me.” Poppy pushed herself to her feet. “I studied botany.” Poppy swung the striped tote bag over her shoulder. “I only switched to Creative Writing because my parents were too thrilled about the botany thing, boasting to all of their Connecticut Rose Society friends that I was following in their footsteps, babbling about how I would surely be the next Almira Phelps.”

“You’re not the only one here going against your parents’ wishes.”

Etta leapt to her feet and spun toward the voice. Winston Goss stood behind her, dressed in gray slacks and a beige button-down shirt. Etta’s hands shook. She hadn’t heard a sound, not the wing door creaking open, not Winston’s footsteps behind her, and she had the same tongue-tied feeling she’d had the few times in the past when she’d been gossiping about someone just as the person happened through the door. Except no one had said anything about Winston, and he was smiling at them, looking from one to the other expectantly.

“My father made it known to me before my fifth birthday that I would become the next director of Goss Family Memorial Services—no matter that I became hysterical when I accidentally killed a spider by washing him down the wash basin and had full-blown panic attacks at the thought of siphoning blood from human corpses.”

Poppy giggled. “Sarah Orne Jewett’s also to blame,” Poppy said.

Etta tried to make the words make sense.

“My junior year I went on a weekend trip to Maine and picked up a copy of
A Country Doctor
. I changed my major to Creative Writing the day I got back.”

“Ah, yes, Ms. Jewett. For me it was Vincent Buchanan.”

Etta would have usually smiled at Winston, nodded, politely laughed, or chimed in that it was Virginia Woolf’s essay “On Being Ill” that had first inspired her to write, a line she’d repeated so many times she almost believed it. But the chill was back, spreading through her at the mention of Vincent Buchanan’s name, and she wanted away from the stage, with its bright lights and cavernous echo.

Winston explained that he’d left his notes in the stage wings, and needed them because he’d be teaching the afternoon class. He walked to the classroom with Etta, Reed, and Poppy. As always, Winston wrote the theme of his lecture in small print on the chalkboard behind him:
Creating believable characters
. Then he stepped behind the podium, cleared his throat twice, adjusted his glasses, and read from the text in front of him in his nasally voice: “Hamlet, Willie Loman, and Abigail Proctor walked off the page and onto the stage . . .”

Etta heard a distant rumble outside. The rain had become even heavier in the last few hours, muddling the landscape into hazy gray mush. Was it thunder? No. Etta leaned forward and blinked, making out the glow of the truck’s tail lights floating down the narrow road on the south side of the lodge past the garden and disappearing into the haze. Was Carl taking Robert North to Jackson?

Puddles of water pooled on the window sill. The realization overwhelmed her. She wanted to leap from her chair and shout it aloud. But Winston was still reading from the papers on his podium, his voice hardly registering any inflection. Reed was scribbling notes. Poppy chewed on her bottom lip and coiled a piece of blonde hair around her finger.

Galen, Etta wanted to shout. We must go find Galen.

* * *

Etta and Reed trekked up the steep hill to the south of the women’s cabins. Etta closed her eyes against the ice-cold drops pelting her forehead. Reed had voted to wait until the weather cleared up to go looking for Galen, and of course, he’d been correct, but Etta wasn’t ready to admit it quite yet.

As she propelled one foot in front of the other, Etta thought of Poppy’s excuse for not coming. “The trim of my rain coat is faux fur,” Poppy had explained, “I’m afraid it’s functional and stylish in drizzle to moderate rain conditions, but wholly inappropriate in downpours.” Poppy had brought more clothes with her than anyone. Yet, she’d arrived at a location boasting an annual rainfall of eighty inches with only one raincoat inappropriate for downpour conditions? Now, Etta wanted to shout at the idea of Poppy snuggled under Etta’s comforter with Matthew Lowther’s dissertation open on her lap and a cup of hot chocolate on the nightstand beside her.

Reed and Etta crested the hill and followed the trail to the west. The rain seemed to let up somewhat, if only because they weren’t walking into the wind anymore. They walked for a long time and then came to a fork in the trail. Etta took off her gloves and rubbed her hands together to try to warm up her fingers. Reed took off his glasses and cleaned them with a small piece of material he’d evidently brought along for that purpose.

Etta surveyed both trails. On her runs, she had only taken the one that went east and circled the lodge. It was a good path, wide and maintained, whereas the trail to the west looked more like a deer path—a narrow strip only wide enough for one. But Carl had said Galen had been seen at an old cemetery that was west of the swimming hole.

Reed was busy situating his glasses on his nose, using both hands to straighten them. Etta gestured toward the deer path. Reed nodded, although Etta was sure she saw his blue eyes flicker with worry, or fear?

The canopy of the forest closed in around them, blocking out much of the rain, wind, and light. Etta’s eyes eventually adjusted, and she got into the rhythm of meandering with the trail through the trees. They climbed over several downed trees and forded two streams. The brush cut into the path at times, scratching against her rain pants,. It felt like they were weaving aimlessly through the forest. And they’d been walking for so long. Too long? Maybe they’d already left the academy grounds and entered federal wilderness land, which bordered the academy on each side? Except wouldn’t there at least be a wire fence indicating the boundary? They would need to turn around at some point, but every time she glanced behind her, Reed forced his lips into a brave smile, and Etta couldn’t bear to tell him.

Etta stopped. She heard something. A car? She snapped her gaze to Reed. Her instinct was to raise her finger to shush him, but he wasn’t speaking. She spun around and stared into the forest, surprised at how hard the rain was falling around them. Everywhere she looked she saw tree trunks, undergrowth, moss hanging from branches, water pooling on leaves.

But it was definitely a car or a truck. The chugging began to fade. It had been close before. She thought she’d even felt the rumble in the ground.

She started to run, and then sprint. The trail twisted again to the west, and she picked up her pace.

Then she was standing in the middle of a road. An iron gate towered in front of her. She turned in a circle. For a moment she was sure she saw exhaust diminishing in the rain. Or was it just fog? She tried to quiet her breathing to listen, but the forest was still except for the patter of the rain.

Etta moved toward the iron gate and blinked as the cemetery seemed to sprout from the ground before her—grave stones, miniature iron fences, chipped and broken sculptures, a knee-high stone wall. Everything was sunken and decayed, grown over with moss. Ivy crawled up part of the iron gate.

Reed stepped up beside her and slid his hood off. “This was in the play.” His glasses were foggy and streaked with rain. “Winston changed the scene, because we didn’t have time to make a set. In the original, Hans buried the truth in a cemetery.”

Did that mean Olivia knew about the cemetery? Had she been here?

The rain picked up as they stared through the iron rungs, and they decided to come back on a drier day. They took the road this time and walked for a long while in silence.

“We should find Buchanan’s grave.”

Reed pulled off his hood. “Vincent Buchanan’s buried in Riverview Cemetery in Portland. Haven’t you been to his grave?”

Etta shook her head.

“It’s a tourist attraction, a stop on the Rose City Walking tour. I’ve visited twice. He’s buried next to Winona, his second wife. Their marriage was quite unhappy by all accounts, but his will stipulated that he was to be buried beside the mother of his children. His second marriage was the only of his legal unions to produce offspring, and although his children were mostly estranged from him by all accounts, they followed his wishes. Several years later a private donor had a bronze statue of him placed behind the graves.”

Etta was sure someone had told her Vincent Buchanan was buried near the academy grounds. It seemed absurd now. Why would an author of Buchanan’s fame be buried in a dilapidated pioneer cemetery?

“You said legal union. Did he have illegitimate children?”

“Honestly, no one knows. There’s a lot of speculation. I’ve read that he and Winona had a daughter and son who supposedly want little do with the estate or academy. But his personal life is not well chronicled. Buchanan was intensely private. He threatened a journalist with a WWII bayonet once when he’d drunk a few too many before an interview. And he made sure another reporter was fired for reporting about his marital problems. I suppose it worked. Even after he died, journalists and biographers, have by and large, stayed away from his private life. That’s why Matthew Lowther’s revelations are so compelling.”

“But delving into private lives is America’s favorite pastime, isn’t it?”

Reed smiled. “Buchanan’s estate is supposedly quite litigious. Besides no one cares about novelists, do they? Even today. How many children does Tom Wolfe have? Joyce Carol Oates? Philip Roth?”

Etta thought about it. “Good point.”

“I’ve heard Winona never resided in Roosevelt Lodge. She kept up a household in Portland, and Buchanan visited her there. For a long time Buchanan seemed to think it was the perfect union; he could write and she could have her independence.”

“Except she had to raise the children by herself.”

“Yes, well, perfect for him.”

“So Winona was Galen’s mom?”

Reed gave her a thoughtful look, although his crooked glasses and wet curls made him look more clownish than serious. “I suppose so.”

The front gate of the academy grounds emerged through the trees. A chill rose through Etta at thought of standing at the gate of the cemetery. Galen could have been lurking in the shadows just beside her.

* * *

Etta stayed up late that night reading the rest of Matthew Lowther’s dissertation. By the time she finished, it was past midnight and rain was still drumming against the rooftop. She crossed the room to her desk, retrieved her notebook, and jotted down notes.

Katashi Tanaka owned Tanaka Grocery, the store in Japantown Vincent Buchanan began visiting each afternoon. Tanaka was a prominent businessman in Portland for a time during and after World War I. He owned three stores—one in Portland, one forty miles down the Columbia River in Hood River, and one in Seattle.

Vincent Buchanan began tutoring all three of Katashi Tanaka’s daughters—the eldest was Sakura—in the spring of 1922, just months after thirteen-year-old Vincent’s mother passed away in the Oregon State Hospital in Salem.

Vincent and Sakura sat at a card table in the back of the grocery store—a dusty store room filled with boxes. Sakura struggled to conjugate a verb, her eyes drifting to the exposed rafters. “I am, you are, she is, we are, they are,” she said. The air was fishy. Sakura’s two younger sisters sat on each side of their sister, both staring at the gangly boy who came each day after they finished Japanese school. The boy hardly noticed the little girls though, because he couldn’t draw his eyes away from Sakura, her long neck and delicate chin, the drape of her black hair across her shoulders. When Sakura leaned forward, a beam of sunlight fell across her face. “It is impermanence that gives the monotony of breathing its radiance,” she whispered.

With a jerk, Etta sat up. She’d fallen asleep, her pen falling from her fingers and hitting the floor. Matthew Lowther had written only a single sentence about Buchanan tutoring Katashi Tanaka’s three daughters, mentioning it with a litany of other chores young Vincent performed for the Japanese businessman: bookkeeping, unpacking boxes, stocking shelves.

Matthew Lowther painstakingly documented the state and federal laws passed during the second decade of the twentieth century, which made the West Coast an increasingly unfriendly environment for the Japanese.

The Supreme Court ruled in 1922 that Japanese-born immigrants, or Issei, were ineligible for citizenship. The Oregon Alien Land Law of 1923 prohibited Issei from owning land, and the Oregon Alien Business Restriction Law of 1923 forced all Japanese merchants to post a sign indicating their nationality in their store windows. And the 1924 Immigration Act prohibited any further entry of Japanese into the United States.

In 1925 a mob of whites violently drove Japanese sawmill laborers out of Toledo, Oregon. The Toledo Incident pushed many Japanese immigrants to return to their homeland, because they feared for the safety of their children. The Tanaka family was among them.

Katashi Tanaka might have been especially concerned about Sakura, since she was one of the four people in the household who’d been born in Japan, as had he, his wife, and his wife’s sister.