“Of course not. Listen . . .” Olivia lowered her voice. “I’m about to burst. I have some gossip.” Her dark eyes jetted back and forth. “But you have to swear on your lives that you won’t tell anyone. Promise?”
“On our lives?” Poppy raised a thin eyebrow and grinned. “Wow, this must be good.”
“It is,” Olivia whispered and glanced behind her. She set the bread ball, which had taken on a grayish hue, next to her stew and leaned forward. “Do you promise?”
Etta nodded and inched her chair closer to the table. Olivia glanced over both shoulders again, and Etta reached for the glass of ice water in front of her. She was salivating, partly from hunger, but mostly from the suspense Olivia seemed to be reveling in creating. She took a gulp and plunked the glass down too hard. Water sloshed over the sides. Etta yanked on her napkin to mop up the puddle, and her spoon clattered to the floor. She closed her eyes. “Please just tell us, Liv.”
Poppy shoved Jordan’s spoon toward Etta. “By the time Jor gets here, his soup will be a big slimy salt lick anyway.” She giggled. “A slippery stewsicle.”
“That’s disgusting,” Etta said with a groan.
Poppy stuck her tongue out and bulged her eyes, pretending to lick a Popsicle. Etta laughed.
Olivia leaned forward. “So you guys have to promise you won’t tell anyone . . .”
“Okay,” Etta said.
“Because if you do . . .”
“You’ll slaughter us in our sleep.” Poppy giggled again.
Olivia narrowed her eyes at Poppy. “I’m serious.”
Poppy managed to compose her face, although she looked as though she might dissolve at any second. “Sorry,” she said. “We won’t tell.”
“It’s about . . .” Olivia mouthed something Etta guessed was Opal.
“Opal?” Poppy asked. Olivia spun toward the table where Opal Waters ate. Opal wasn’t there. The seat between Director Hardin and Major Mills was empty.
Olivia glared at Poppy and surveyed their surroundings again.
“Sorry,” Poppy whispered.
Finally Olivia leaned back in and waved Etta and Poppy closer, until their faces were inches from each other’s. “Opal is having an affair with someone at the academy . . .” The words all ran together and Etta couldn’t make out the last few.
“Who with?” Etta whispered.
Olivia’s eyes shifted from Etta to Poppy. “A student.”
Poppy gasped. “Jordan?”
“What? No. Why would you say that?” Olivia frowned.
Poppy frowned too and looked down. “I don’t know. I’m only guessing. I mean, because they’re both gone right now.”
Olivia reclined in her chair, her dark eyes glazing over. “I don’t know who it is. Just that it’s a student.”
“How do you know any of this?” Etta took another gulp of water.
Olivia shrugged and took a bite of her stew, crinkling up her face as she swallowed.
“Everyone makes fun of Opal,” Etta said, thinking of Mallory’s lampoon of the poet. “Who would have an affair with her?”
“It’s true,” Olivia whispered. “Trust me.”
“Then tell us who told you,” Poppy said.
“If you must know . . .” Olivia’s mouth spread into a forced smile, and she waved at someone behind Etta. Etta clenched her napkin in her hand. If someone distracted Olivia before she divulged her source, Etta felt capable of shouting at the person. But then Olivia returned her attention to Etta and Poppy. “Robert told me, and he has reason to know.”
* * *
Later that afternoon, the windowpanes rattled as gusts of wind rolled through the clearing in front of Etta’s cabin. She tugged her hat over her ears and zipped up her raincoat. She wasn’t about to miss her run. She’d lived through her share of tornadoes back in Landon. Mother Nature wasn’t going to deter her with a little wind.
She walked to the door, stepping over Olivia’s navy Penn State sweatshirt, which was twisted with a T-shirt and a pair of wool socks, and reached for her key, which she’d set on Olivia’s desk. She drew her hand back and stared at the desk. Gleaming on top of a stack of papers was the promise ring Jordan had given to Olivia.
Etta picked it up and rolled it in her hand, examining the tourmaline—the red center edged with green. Etta slipped it onto her finger. It felt heavy and loose. She held her hand in front of her and closed her eyes. She’d tried on her mother’s plain gold wedding band once. Just as then, Etta tried to imagine the sensation of a ring settling a place for itself in her flesh, of the weight becoming so familiar it was invisible.
The ring’s hexagonal setting was the only thing that exposed it as an antique. Jordan had boasted that his great grandfather had given it to his great grandmother over a century ago in Saint Petersburg, and that when his grandparents had fled Russia after World War II, his grandmother had worn it across the Atlantic to the west side of Chicago, where it was handed down through another generation of Jordan’s family.
And here it was haphazardly placed next to Olivia’s stacks of papers and strewn discs, beside her frog-shaped tape dispenser and a half-drunk can of flat diet soda—except Olivia must have left it deliberately. But why? Was she meeting with Robert North again?
Etta laughed. It was just like her to plot some sort of dramatic romantic tryst where there was none. Olivia was probably just working in the ceramics studio. Etta shook the engagement ring into her palm and set it back on Olivia’s desk.
Etta left her cabin and ascended the hill to the east of the lodge, hunching her shoulders into the wind. As she descended into the cedar grove, she hummed to block out the low moaning of the wind, and thought about her story.
Back when she’d run along the Huron, characters introduced themselves to her; plots mapped themselves out; dialogue sprang forth. Now all Etta could think about was the eerie darkness that seemed to be settling over the forest, the incessant howling, and the gusts that pushed her back a half step for every step forward. Finally she spun around, abandoned her planned route along the south side of the grounds toward the cemetery Carl had told her about, and sprinted toward her cabin. She slowed to a stop on the lawn in front of Roosevelt Lodge, rested her elbows on her knees, and swallowed down gulps of air.
“Are you experiencing a myocardial attack?”
Etta yanked off her hat and stood. Her classmate Reed Morinsky stood a foot away staring at her, his thin lips folded downward. “Reed. Hello. I’m just, I was just, you know, running.”
Reed pushed his wire-framed glasses onto his nose with his middle finger and gazed at her, as though trying to assess whether she was really all right.
“What are you doing out here?” Etta asked, hoping to break the silence.
“I’m rehearsing my lines.” Reed said it in a matter-of-fact tone that suggested that Etta should have known what he was doing, which of course she did, since that’s all Reed had been doing for more than a month.
“Oh right. How’s the play coming along anyway?”
Reed shrugged. Like most of her classmates, Reed was a few years younger than Etta, but he was nearly a foot taller than her with a mop of thick blondish-brown hair. It was long in the back and fringed in the front. He’d been waiting in line last week to get his hair cut by Candy. In addition to a culinary student, she was a licensed hairdresser, much to the delight of the director. Most years he hired a hairdresser from Jackson to cut students’ hair once a month. Candy’s own hair was cut in a blunt cut with wispy bangs, a la Jane Jetson. Etta wasn’t sure she wanted the intern anywhere near her head with a pair of scissors. Reed’s haircut confirmed that determination.
“When is the play again?” Etta asked. She knew the answer to that too, but Reed’s silence was a tad unnerving.
“Tomorrow.”
“Right. The equinox party. Okay, well, better, you know, let you . . .”
“Did you hear the announcement?”
Etta took a step backward and glanced toward the
Lodge. She’d run past the garden on her way back to her cabin. Maybe Carl would be out tending it.
“Hardin canceled the compulsory writing session this evening. Instead there will be an all-school meeting at seven—attendance mandatory.”
Etta turned and squinted at Reed. “An all-school meeting. What’s that?”
“I envisage it is as it sounds: a gathering which everyone is required to attend.”
“Yes. Thank you, Reed. I mean, why, what about?”
“I thought perhaps you would know?”
Etta dropped her gaze to her hat. Her knuckles were white. She relaxed her fist.
“Hardin didn’t say what it’s about?”
“Only that it’s of importance. And mandatory.”
Etta nodded, twisted around, and ran along the south side of the lodge. She was past the garden before she realized that she hadn’t said goodbye to Reed.
* * *
Etta arrived in the great room at five minutes before seven and hovered near the door. Most of the students had stayed at the lodge after dinner, and a number of them were draped across the sofas in front of the fire. The Poet’s Row students were clustered near the windows, and the sound of their laughter occasionally erupted through the room. A couple of girls sat cross-legged on the floor playing cards. Outside the grayish afternoon was giving way to darkness, and the room glowed yellow with firelight and with the puddles of light from the rustic chandeliers. Someone had set up four rows of dining room chairs behind the couches.
“Hi Carl,” Amanda Watson called from the sofa.
The chef strode in from the dining room. His cowboy hat was tipped forward, and he had a wooden chair in each arm. His cheeks were ruddy above his five o’clock shadow—perhaps chapped by the wind? He set the chairs down, and his face eased into his boyish grin. He tipped his hat at Amanda and winked.
Etta stepped back into the entry hall, rubbed her hands together, and ran them down the front of her wool sweater. Didn’t Carl know what a snob Mandy Watson was? She’d written her entire novel in verse. Of course, he could tip his hat at whomever he pleased if he wanted to listen to Mandy prattle on about how a lot of people wrote novels and a lot of people wrote poetry, but she’d decided to try her hand at doing both at the same time.
“Hi Loretta. Whom are you hiding from?”
Etta spun around and met Petra Atwell’s gaze. The resident author had on a knee-length wool cape, which matched her cherry-red lipstick. Her foundation was even more caked on than usual. She held an unlit cigarette between her claw like-fingers.
“It’s Etta.”
“Oh yes, how soon I forget. If it’s a comfort, I had a hell of a time remembering my third husband’s name. Always called the poor bastard Dick. That was number two’s name. But come to think of it, Dick was a fitting name for number three too.”
Etta managed a polite smile, and Petra stared at her for a long moment.
“I hate to break off such an edifying conversation . . .” Petra waved her cigarette in the air. “But I have a feeling I’ll need this before our little get together. What I’d really like is a drink, but that Texan’s so stingy with his whisky, I may as well have water.” Petra reached for the iron door handle.
“Ms. Atwell?” Etta said.
Petra spun around, and her coat fanned out around her. She was so petite that for a moment she looked like a child, like Little Red Riding Hood. “Jesus, don’t call me Ms. It makes me think of all that Gloria Steinem, 1970s crap. White ivy league Playboy bunnies liberating us from our bondage and all that shit.”
Etta stared at her.
“You had a question?”
“Oh, yeah, do you know what this meeting is about?”
Petra shook her head. “I’m not in Edwin’s inner circle, but the man canceled a compulsory writing session, so it must be paramount. Vince didn’t cancel one in all the years he ran this place.”
“You knew Vincent Buchanan?” By the time Etta’s words were out, the heavy door had slammed closed behind Petra, and Etta was standing in the foyer alone.
The door creaked open again, and Etta stepped toward it. Maybe Petra had heard her question after all? Opal Waters stepped inside, and the smile froze on her lips when she saw Etta.
Etta stepped out of the way and tried to think of something to say, but words tangled on her tongue.
“Hello.” Opal unbuttoned her apple green pea coat and thrust it toward Etta. Etta reached for it, gathering the wet wool in her arms, and frowned. Did the poet think Etta was a door person? Opal’s heels clicked against the wood floor as she strode into the great room.
Where had Opal been? All of the visiting and resident authors had rooms on the fourth floor of the lodge. It wasn’t exactly nice weather for a walk. The wind was still howling and tiny raindrops had started pelting from the sky.
Etta slung Opal’s coat onto a bare hook and then glanced over her shoulder and slipped her fingers into one of the pea coat’s satin-lined pockets. It was empty. She found the other pocket and slipped her hand inside. She fingered the contents: a key, a pen, a crumpled piece of paper.
Edwin Hardin’s deep voice echoed into the foyer, and Etta yanked her hand from Opal’s pocket. The meeting had begun. Etta pulled the crumpled piece of paper from Opal’s pocket and stared at it. She considered returning it. Instead she walked to her own raincoat, pushed the piece of paper into her pocket, and raced into the great room.
Chapter Six
Etta found the only vacant chair at the end of the back row, next to Chase Quinn.
“Hi Chase,” she whispered.
He didn’t turn.
She sat up in her chair, trying to see over Mallory Chambers’ head, and scanned the room for Olivia. She hadn’t seen her roommate all afternoon.
Director Hardin stood in front of the hearth. His stately voice always made what he said sound significant, except Etta had no idea what he was talking about. She must have missed something, because he wasn’t making any sense.
“Chase,” she whispered and then tapped on his arm.
Chase glared at her.
“Sorry, can you tell me, did I miss something?”
Chase rolled his eyes and shrugged, turning his gaze back to the director.
Etta stopped herself from sticking out her tongue at the back of his coppery head. Instead she tried to focus on what Hardin was saying, no matter how little sense it made.
“Carry on with your scholarly activities. Do not hesitate to wander the grounds, but please travel in pairs and groups.” Hardin’s eyes wandered toward the ceiling. “Galen was always unstable, but he had good times and bad. He could be coherent. However, by the time he was admitted into the Oregon State Hospital . . .” A tremble seemed to ascend through Hardin’s body then his head quivered, and he let out a sigh. “He was delusional—dangerous.”
A gasp came from somewhere in the crowd, and Etta felt her own heart thumping against her chest.
Hardin’s eyes softened. “Now, let’s not panic, students. We are not certain that Galen has been trespassing. We were notified of his release from the hospital five months ago. Since then, we’ve been more vigilant than usual about securing the property, and we have reason to suspect someone has been camping near the west boundary. I must emphasize again: Galen was not released because he is better, but because the state claims it can no longer afford to care for those with his condition, with the budget cuts and whatnot.” Hardin’s eyes seemed to get lost on something behind the students. “Roosevelt Lodge was Galen’s home for a short while, and we expect he may return. Please do not under any circumstances speak to strangers, and report anything out of the ordinary immediately.” He looked at the ceiling. “Any questions?”
In front of Etta, Mallory Chambers bolted to his feet. “Are you telling us, sir, that there’s a madman on the loose?”
A darkness seemed to pass over the director’s eyes. “Mr. Chambers, name calling is unnecessary. However, yes, Galen should be considered . . . unst
able.”
A hand rose in the center of the room. Etta couldn’t hear the speaker. “Please stand and repeat your question.” Hardin’s voice seemed to be wearing down, as though he’d already grown tired of answering questions.
Maura Wilkins’ black curls rose above the rest of the heads. “Sir, what about the party tomorrow? We’ve been working hard on the play, rehearsing every day, will this interfere . . .” Her voice trailed off.
Hardin wrinkled his forehead. “The equinox party will go on as planned. That reminds me, if there are no other questions, I have an announcement.” He rifled through his pocket and pulled out a card. “Yes, yes, our chefs will need some help with food preparation. I know many of you have agreed to help with decorations or will be preparing for the dramatic production, but can any of you assist our chefs on tomorrow afternoon?”
A hand rose in the front of the crowd.
Etta straightened her spine and tried to see over all the heads, the rows of hair—straight, curly, a bald spot. Amanda Watson? Was it Mandy? She would be eager to spend the day flirting with Carl. Without thinking Etta thrust her hand into the air, and Hardin nodded in her direction.
“Okay, Ms. Saxon, and whoever that is back there. Two should be sufficient.” He slipped the card back in his jacket and continued shuffling through his pocket.
The director pulled cards from his pocket, glanced at them, and slid them back in, dropping his hand to his side. “I thought I had . . . in any event, if there are no further questions, I will call this meeting to an end with a reminder for everyone to be vigilant. If anything strikes you as out of place in any way, it is imperative that you report to me immediately.”
Edwin Hardin stepped away from the hearth and made a beeline for the staircase. The room swelled with a cacophony of voices. Olivia had volunteered? Etta slumped against the back of her chair. Liv liked to cook? Etta could hardly prepare a ham sandwich and had once started a fire while boiling eggs. At home she ate as many dinners as possible at a restaurant or out of a take-out box. Of course, how hard could party food be? Anyone could arrange carrots and celery on a platter.
The Garden of Dead Dreams Page 4