Garden of Stones

by Sophie Littlefield

  The girl plucked at his sleeve and said something breathy and high-pitched, and he batted her hand away. “Go on home,” he snapped, not bothering to look at her.

  “But I don’t—” She got out only a few syllables before Rickenbocker seized her wrist and twisted it. She shrieked when he yanked it up behind her back, and he gave her a little shove toward the door when he let her go.

  “I said go on home.” His voice was deadly cold. “Get your coat, now, and go.”

  One of the girls on the couch leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, which were parted in a way that Lucy knew would horrify her mother. She whispered something to her friend, who closed her eyes and laughed. The slight girl stared at them beseechingly, but they refused to look at her. One of the MPs wordlessly fetched a green cloth coat from a pile on the coatrack and tossed it to her. She fumbled and it fell on the floor, and she had to bend down to pick it up. When she stood, there were tears in her eyes, but no one—the man, the girls, the MP—looked at her. Only Lucy watched her struggle to get her arms in the sleeves, and when their eyes met, the girl’s face contorted into an expression of fury. Then she was gone, the din of the party resuming before the door had closed all the way.

  “Do you know who I am, little girl?” Rickenbocker demanded. Lucy looked more closely, at his thick, dark hair tinged with silver, the hard line of his jaw. “Your mother and I are good friends. George Rickenbocker, at your service.”

  Lucy could manage only a small nod. The frayed edges of her composure ripped the rest of the way, and pure fear rushed in. This was the man who owned her mother’s evenings, who bruised her thin arms and could crush both her hands in one of his, who ran his hard, bristly jaw along her vulnerable, pale neck.

  Rickenbocker went back to pouring his drink. He set down the glass and picked up a second, poured an inch into that one. He lifted the glass to his nose and sniffed, swirling the golden liquid inside. Van Dorn was watching, along with the others. Two, three, four of them, young men who all looked alike in their uniforms. Their faces were flushed and sweaty, and their shirts pulled loose from their pants. They watched and smiled, and she felt her face burn.

  “I have to go,” she stammered. “I have to...”

  But she couldn’t finish her sentence. The man who stood between her and the door folded his arms over his chest. She took a step toward him, but he didn’t budge. She stepped to the right, and he did too.

  He was not going to allow her to pass. She was trapped.

  “Sit down here,” Rickenbocker said, pulling an empty chair away from the wall, his voice unctuous, slippery. “Have a little drink.”

  He handed her the glass, and when no alternative revealed itself to her, no ally to help her escape, Lucy sat with her legs pressed tightly together.

  “I don’t think I—” she whispered, willing Rickenbocker to realize that she was just a child, of no significance or value to him.

  “Drink.”

  She put the glass to her lips, hands shaking, and took a tentative sip.

  She expected the drink to taste bad, but she wasn’t prepared for the burn, the way it gouged at her throat. She almost gagged, but forced herself to close her throat around the fire and lick the residue from her lips before she set the glass down on the table. The taste seemed to coat her mouth on the inside and burn her tongue. She wished for ice, for a slice of the soft bread they served in the dining hall, something bland, something to wash the burn away.

  “You’re just the spitting image of your mother, aren’t you,” Rickenbocker mused. He regarded her like a man at a museum contemplating an exhibit. “I can’t get over it. You see this, Van Dorn?”

  Van Dorn nodded without looking. His attention had swung back to the girls. A game of cards was laid out on the table; one of the girls rolled four dice and shrieked at the result, and Van Dorn clamped a meaty hand on her thigh, pushing her skirt higher. Her giggle turned to a high-pitched trill, half excitement, half panic.

  Rickenbocker paid no mind. He stared at Lucy, his eyes bright and glowing, a cigarette stuck to his lower lip as though it had been glued there. “Hard to believe. She must have had you when she was fifteen years old.”

  Lucy forced herself to return his gaze. She cataloged each of his features, from the faint scar that bisected one sandy eyebrow to the slight bump on one side of his nose to his squarish, large teeth.

  “Your mama ever tell you what a nice time she has here?” one of the MPs said. He had been lurking nearby, as if hoping for an invitation to join in the conversation. “She’s a true mystery of the Orient, that one. Don’t give an inch to anyone.”

  “Hey,” Rickenbocker growled, and the MP flinched. “Did I say you could talk to the girl?”

  Van Dorn pulled himself up out of the sofa and muttered something in the MP’s ear, steering him away with a hand on his shoulder, leading him to the card game. It was something less than an invitation, if not quite a threat. Rickenbocker seemed oblivious to everyone else in the room; he regarded Lucy as though trying to decide where to move a book on a shelf.

  Moments ticked by. Everyone drank, the girls’ long white throats exposed when they lifted their cups to their lips, the men taking great gulps and wiping their mouths on their shirtsleeves. Lucy’s face was hot under Rickenbocker’s scrutiny, and she looked away, unable to sustain eye contact. “I have to go,” she tried again, and stood shakily, clutching the folds of her skirt in one damp hand.

  “I bet you’re almost done growing,” Rickenbocker said, shifting slightly on his feet so he was directly in front of her. She had a view of the buttons of his shirt—plain mother-of-pearl, sewn with tan thread. He knelt down before her on the floor, and she could feel his hot breath on her face, and smelled liquor and sweat.

  The MPs and Van Dorn studiously avoided looking their way, the conversation faltering for a second before surging back with forced gaiety. Lucy looked down on Rickenbocker’s close-cut, thick hair, focusing on the strands of silver, her mouth dry.

  “This is really quite unexpected,” he said softly. Then he reached for her.

  For a fraction of a second, Lucy thought he meant to shake her hand, but before she had time to react, he had seized her skirt, fanning out the cotton. His other hand slid down, past the hem, skimming her knee and settling at the widest part of her calf, encased in thick tights. She could feel the warmth of his hand through the knit material, the pressure of each individual finger. Then he squeezed, and she made a small sound of surprise. He squeezed harder.

  It didn’t hurt at first, exactly, though it was surprising how much power he had in his hand. But then he kept increasing the pressure slowly, watching her face with his lips parted, breathing shallowly, until Lucy gasped with pain. Only then did he abruptly let go.

  “You get home now,” Rickenbocker said, rising gracefully and stepping aside so she could pass. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

  Lucy backed away from him with the shape of his hand burning on her skin. She thought of the bruises that she had seen on her mother’s arms and knew she’d bear his mark by morning.

  She stumbled into the darkness outside and the door slammed shut behind her. The wind howled and she blinked as fine grains blew against her face, her eyes adjusting to the darkness. She set off for Block Fourteen, moving as quickly as she dared, trembling too badly to run.

  But the street wasn’t entirely empty. She had gone only a block when a figure came flying toward her
with unfastened coat trailing behind like wings. Lucy knew even before she was swept into her sobbing embrace that it was her mother.

  “How did you know?” Lucy whispered against Miyako’s neck. And then she remembered the look on the slight girl’s face, her expression of pain mixed with hatred. The girl had gone to Miyako. The girl had told because she wanted revenge.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Miyako whispered. “What did he do? What did he do to you?”

  “N-nothing,” Lucy stammered. She could still feel where his fingers dug cruelly into her soft flesh. She would find a way to hide the marks from her mother, until the bruises faded.

  But Miyako moaned, pressing Lucy even tighter against her. “You must tell me,” she begged. “You must.”

  “He...” A tremor racked Lucy’s body and she felt that she might vomit. She couldn’t stop thinking of his hands. The way they slid up her leg, as though he meant to keep going until he’d burrowed a path through her, until he’d torn her flesh from bone. “He said he was sure we would be seeing each other again soon.”

  “No, no,” Miyako wailed, over and over, her cold lips against Lucy’s ear, and Lucy wrapped her arms tightly around her mother’s neck, breathing in her sweat, the smell of her fatigue.

  A searchlight swept past them and then returned, bathing them in a harsh, yellow pool of light. Lucy froze, the terror of the guards’ invisible nighttime reign seizing her breath. She hated the lights, and over the months she had learned to evade them on her nighttime walks. She knew to stick to the less-traveled paths, use the shelter of buildings whenever possible. But now she and her mother were exposed, crouched in the middle of the street, huddled in each other’s arms, and the light lingered, looking its fill, mocking them.

  Finally it swept away, apparently satisfied, flashing its sickly arc elsewhere, looking for the innocent, the hapless, the defenseless. Night surrounded them once again, Miyako’s keening cries carried away on the wind.

  17

  In the morning, Lucy woke on the floor beside her mother’s bed. Miyako had not wanted to let go of her, and Lucy lay in her arms until she finally heard her mother’s breathing grow steady with sleep. But even exhaustion was not enough to help her fall asleep in the narrow cot, and in the end she pulled the covers off her own bed and made a pallet on the floor.

  A storm had come through during the night, and a thin ray of winter sunlight now slanted through the window. Lucy hurried to fold the bedclothes, afraid she would miss breakfast and the chance to bring her mother something to eat. She had fallen asleep in her clothes, and didn’t bother changing now, knowing that underneath her tights were the marks George Rickenbocker left on her flesh.

  She was pulling on her coat, struggling with the buttons, when she discovered the envelope in her pocket. Reg’s letter. Her breath caught as she remembered the vow Mrs. Kadonada had extracted from her: “You must make sure he gets this today,” she’d said, giving the letter to Lucy only after she promised. If Mrs. Kadonada found out the letter never made it to him, Lucy might lose her job.

  “All right,” Lucy whispered to herself. “I can do this. I can.”

  The breakfast line was almost closing, and she begged for a bowl of Malt-O-Meal and a glass of milk. Back in the room, Miyako still slept, and Lucy pulled the covers more snugly around her mother’s shoulders before she left again, setting the food on the small side table.

  Lucy hurried through camp, keeping her eyes on the road ahead of her, not wanting to see or speak to anyone until the task was done. On the way, she had a conversation with herself, trying to build her courage. Perhaps Reg didn’t associate with Rickenbocker and the others much after all; perhaps that night with Van Dorn, when he’d pinched her skin and made her promise to deliver the message, had been a one-time-only affair. It was possible that he didn’t even know the meaning of the message he’d been given to deliver. That seemed far-fetched, but then again, stranger things happened all the time. Alliances in the camp shifted and faded. The day after the riot, when he’d spoken to her in the mess hall—maybe she’d misinterpreted that as well; maybe the threat she heard in his voice was only the product of her imagination.

  Arriving at Reg’s door, Lucy felt the muscles of her face tighten. Her pulse quickened and her thoughts scattered. Still, it was daylight. There were plenty of people about—if she cried out, someone would hear. She would not go inside his room. She would hand him the letter, or—if he was out—she would slip it under the door. Maybe that would even be better—except that Mrs. Kadonada would ask for the signed receipt, and Lucy wasn’t sure she could lie convincingly.

  As she deliberated with her hand on the letter in her pocket, the door opened in front of her, and there was Reg, filling up the frame, saying something over his shoulder.

  Then he saw her.

  “Oh,” he said, clearly startled. His expression shifted and went opaque, and Lucy remembered the way he’d looked at her that night in the winter garden, the morning in the mess hall. She knew she had not been wrong to fear him after all. “Lucy. What are you doing here?”

  Lucy backed up as Reg stepped out onto his small porch, pulling the door shut behind him. But not before Lucy caught a glimpse inside the apartment.

  Jessie was sitting on the bed. He was wearing no shirt, and no pants either, just white cotton drawers and a pair of dark socks. What was he doing there? He looked right at Lucy, this boy who had been hers for all these months, who had held her hand and told her jokes and kissed her, but he didn’t appear to see her. His eyes were wide and vacant, and he clutched the mussed blankets on either side of him. His lips moved but he made no sound.

  Reg took Lucy’s arm rather a little harder than necessary and pulled her away from the door.

  “Jessie came by this morning for a little help with his swing,” Reg said easily. “What with the winter league starting up and all. Bet you didn’t know I played in the minors, did you? I was a utility player for the San Bernardino Padres for a couple seasons. Gave it up for Hollywood, but I still remember a thing or two.”

  Lucy wanted to protest, to demand to go back, to talk to Jessie. Something was terribly wrong. All along, Reg had been more dangerous than all of them, worse even than Rickenbocker.

  “He’s a bit shy about it, actually,” Reg went on, his tone almost jovial. “Doesn’t want Coach Hayashi to know he’s getting any extra help. You see how it is, don’t you?”

  She couldn’t form words, couldn’t force her horror and revulsion into syllables. With each step she took away from his apartment, she was betraying Jessie, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “So what can I do for you? You didn’t come to see me for baseball help, did you? Unless they’re putting dames on the teams these days!” Reg laughed as if this was one crazy, unpredictable world they shared and he was happy to have someone to commiserate with about it. “Of course, the same deal applies to you. I show you my famous knuckleball, the secret stays with us.” He released her arm finally, now that they were clear of the block of apartments, and winked at her.

  “I don’t. I don’t play.” Lucy reached in her pocket and pulled out the letter, creased and folded now. “I, uh, have a delivery for you. I need your signature.”

  “A letter, eh? Well, what do you know.” Reg took the envelope from her and examined it, front and back, taking his time. Then he took a pen from his breast pocket and scrawled his name on the receipt with a flourish before tearing it off and handing it back
to Lucy.

  “It’ll be okay, you know,” he said, smiling indulgently, almost conspiratorially. “War’s hard on everyone. But it’ll end, you’ll see. And then you can forget all about this place.”

  Lucy shoved the receipt in her pocket and turned. After a few steps, she broke into a run, but she could not go fast enough to escape the sound of Reg’s laughter behind her.

  18

  San Francisco

  Thursday, June 8, 1978

  Patty and Lucy were jammed into a tiny booth along the side of the restaurant, which was packed with workers from the surrounding buildings. They should have gone somewhere quieter, but this place—breakfast twenty-four hours a day—was her mother’s favorite. After they ordered, Patty took a deep breath. Now that she finally had her mother’s attention, she wasn’t sure where to start.

  She reached into her shoulder bag for the photo album and awkwardly opened it to the first page: Miyako on Rickenbocker’s lap. She held it up for her mother to see, glancing around the restaurant nervously. But really, what did it matter who saw? The people in the photo had been dead for thirty-five years.

  “I went to Forrest’s apartment,” Patty said. “I found this. I know Grandma killed George Rickenbocker.”

  Her heart was pounding and her eyes hurt. She had noticed this morning that her face was looking sallow, the skin under her eyes sunken and purplish.

  Lucy said nothing at first. Then she reached across the table and took the album from Patty’s hands. She turned the pages slowly, her expression unreadable. A couple of times she touched the photographs of her mother tenderly. Finally she closed the album and hugged it to her chest.

  “There are some things I didn’t tell you,” she said. Her eyes glistened and her voice was hoarse, and Patty wondered if her mother was about to cry. If she did, it would be a first.