Etta read the caption: It is believed that a few Americans and Britons have ties to Japan’s notorious ultranationalist secret societies, including the Dark Ocean Society, the Black Dragon Society, and the League of Blood. According to one source, the man sitting in the top row, second from the left in this rare photograph of a Black Dragon Society meeting in Kyoto in 1932 is an American ex-patriot named Peter Morrison.
Peter Morrison? That was the main character in “Cherry Blossom.” Etta flipped the story over and stared at the typewritten pages. But the Peter Morrison in Lowther’s story was a fictionalized Vincent Buchanan. Or was he?
She squinted at the photo in the book. The man sitting in the top row second from the left wore a suit and tie and had dark hair like the rest of the men. But the photo was washed out, and Etta couldn’t make out his facial features.
She thumbed to the index and found the Black Dragon Society. Chapter four was all about the Black Dragon Society, a secret society originally founded in 1901 to support Japan’s military efforts to take over Manchuria up to the Amur River. Its membership included cabinet members, military officials, and professional spies. In the nineteen thirties the Black Dragon Society expanded its activities around the globe and stationed agents in Europe and the United States.
Etta flipped back to the photo and studied it again. Then she crossed to her bookshelf, pulled down The Western Defense, and stared at the grainy, black-and-white photo of Vincent Buchanan on the back. She studied the photos, and then dropped both books into her bag along with her notebook, the dissertation, “Cherry Blossom,” and the 1985 class roster.
She closed her eyes, trying to conjure up images of Vincent Buchanan and Sakura, but her mother’s lined face emerged instead, pinched in the tight expression Etta had last seen in her rearview mirror the last time she’d seen her family—more than a year ago.
Etta didn’t even know her own mother. How was she going to understand someone she’d lived with just a few months, let alone a long-dead writer she’d never met? Coldness eased through her limbs. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her safety—her life even—relied on her understanding.
* * *
Etta crouched in the shadows next to Buchanan’s portrait and watched her classmates file down the staircase. Mallory Chambers’ voice boomed above the rest: “Now is the winter of our discontent. Made glorious summer by this sun of York; And all the clouds that lour’d upon our house. In the deep bosom of the ocean buried . . .”
Etta recognized Gloucester’s soliloquy from Richard III. Reciting Shakespeare was one of Mallory’s favorite ways to show off, and these were some of his favorite lines to recite. Etta had heard Mallory pronounce the same sentences with the same flourish at least a half dozen times as she’d filed out of class.
Mallory also liked Macbeth and Hamlet soliloquies, the prologue to The Canterbury Tales, and he seemed to have an endless arsenal of poems memorized—Robert Frost, Alfred Tennyson, William Butler Yeats, W.H. Auden.
As Opal Waters bristled by, her hair long and loose down her back, Etta tried to will herself deeper into the shadows, letting her breath out as Opal descended the stairs without noticing her.
Poppy and Reed did not emerge. After several minutes, Etta crept down the hallway and peered around the doorway into the classroom. Everyone was gone. Etta slipped back into the shadows and waited for the students to amble up the stairs and trudge back to the classroom. Then Walker Ryan strode by and closed the door behind him.
Where were Poppy and Reed? Etta’s heart drummed against her temples. She raced to the stairs, taking them as quickly as she could, and then crossed the great room and emerged into the rain. She raced around the lodge to the back entrance, pulled the theater door open, and blinked into the darkness. Silence hung in the air with the dust. “Reed . . .” Etta’s voice echoed through the hollow room.
“Poppy?”
Silence.
Etta spun around. Were they in one of their cabins?
She hardly felt the rain as she ran, keeping her eyes glued to the trail, ignoring the way her bag flapped against her back.
“Whoa. Watch it!”
Etta jerked to a stop and brought her head up. Jordan and Chase were standing in front of her, staring at her. After an awkward moment, they stepped around her and continued down the trail toward the lodge, disappearing into the trees. Etta spun around and broke into a run again. She didn’t stop until she was in the clearing in front of the men’s cabins. She turned in a circle. Which one was Reed’s? She picked a cabin, climbed the steps, and rapped on the door. No answer. She raced to the next cabin, pounding as hard as she could. By the time she’d knocked on all of them, her knuckles were raw.
Etta jogged down the shortcut to the women’s cabins, heaving from the exertion. When had she grown out of shape? She made a beeline to Poppy’s cabin, took the steps two at a time, and pounded on the door. She only heard her own breath in response—short, frantic intakes of air. Etta whipped around and squinted through the rain, which fell in drifting sheets through the clearing.
She took a step forward and then the blood drained from her face. The door of her own cabin was open. She went numb. She heard a low sound—a voice?
She ran down the steps and into the rain, fighting to keep her footing on the trail to the men’s cabins and back to the theater entrance. She slipped inside and hunched forward into the darkness, bringing her hands to her knees, flinching against the sharp pangs in her sides. The door creaked open behind her.
She spun around and stared into the darkness. Her body started to tremble. “Reed?” she whispered.
“Good morning, Loretta.”
Etta cringed at the sound of her given name. She inched backward into the blackness. “Hi Teddy,” she whispered. If she ran down the aisle and onto the stage, could she find the stage exit in the dark?
“I am under orders to bring you to the director’s office. Will you comply, or shall I use force?”
Was Teddy laughing?
“Force?” Etta asked as calmly as she could muster.
“Force is the last resort of any good officer. However, I’m under orders, and disobeying the lawful orders of a superior has consequences. My grandfather and uncles are peace officers. Hauling in outlaws, man slayers, perps, and women of the street is in my genes. I won’t hesitate to use my taser if I have to. Have you ever felt fifty thousand volts coursing through you?”
Teddy was talking a little like Dirty Harry, and Etta had a sense that he neither had a taser gun on him, nor was he prepared to use any other kind of physical force against her. “Teddy, you’re a secretary at a literary academy.”
“I am the administrative assistant to Director Edwin J. Hardin, and he, as my superior, ordered me to escort you to his office. I advise you to stop resisting and follow me. Insubordination is what gets cadets court-marshaled.”
Court-marshaled? Etta didn’t bother to ask. Perhaps Teddy had an actual psychosis that made him believe he worked at a military school. She stared behind her into the emptiness and tried to make out the shape of the velvet seats, the stage, anything. If she ran, and by some miracle managed to make it through the darkness, onto the stage, and out the stage-wing door, where would she go then?
“Okay,” she finally said. “Let’s go.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Etta pretended to scan a Poets & Scribes article about the best five MFA programs in the Northeast, while Teddy reclined in his chair staring at her, his navy tie thrown back over one shoulder. After several minutes passed, she dropped the magazine onto the table next to her and forced a smile. “If the director is busy, I can come back later.”
Teddy narrowed his eyes at her. The stiff hair product he usually slicked his curls back with must have washed out in the rain, and his hair was a mess of loose curls.
When Hardin’s door finally swung open, Etta jumped to her feet.
Reed stepped out and froze when he saw Etta. His eyes flashed to the floor and t
hen back to her face.
“Reed,” Etta whispered. She reached for the bookshelf beside her. Reed made a beeline toward the door. The door didn’t make a sound as it slammed shut behind him. Or maybe it did, because Etta realized someone was saying her name.
She snapped her gaze to Hardin. His lips were moving, but it was Reed’s voice echoing through her head. It felt as though he’d shouted the words at her, even though she was sure he’d only mouthed them. Two of them: “I’m sorry.”
* * *
Opal stood near the windows behind Hardin, her gray gaze set on Etta. The vein down her forehead was more prominent than usual. Hardin was in his chair. His sagging face revealed nothing. He gestured for Etta to be seated.
Hardin and Opal glanced at each other, and then Opal stepped away from the window. “You were not in class today.”
It wasn’t a question, but they both waited for Etta to speak. “I’ve had some stuff, um, issues of a personal nature.” Etta hoped the subject might dissuade any further questions.
Opal glanced out the window, and then fixed her gaze on Etta. “We expect a certain caliber of performance from our student writers, and frankly, you are not meeting that standard. You’ve missed sixteen classes and eight mandatory writing sessions in the last month, and you’ve consistently been absent for meals. During writing sessions, you’ve been observed reading, doodling in your notebook, and staring out the window. You were sighted yesterday outside of the property boundaries—a direct violation of the codes.
“We have reason to believe you may be conducting some kind of personal inquiry that is distracting you and others from writing. Is this true, Etta?”
Etta tried to swallow. She couldn’t find words. She couldn’t get past the words “personal inquiry.”
“Writing is the only reason any of us is here.” Opal said. “Is that why you’re here?”
Etta looked from Opal to Hardin, trying to get words to come out of her mouth. Finally she nodded.
Hardin cleared his throat. “Good. We’d like to review your first semester story now. It is due today, as I understand it.”
Etta clutched her bag closer against her chest, trying to imagine what Reed might have meant when he’d mouthed, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s in my cabin. I’ll go get . . .” She scooted to the edge of her seat.
“No,” the director interrupted. Etta winced. “That will not be necessary. May I have your handbag, Ms. Lawrence?”
Etta stood up. “Why?” She stepped backward and glanced at the door behind her, and then spun around, took the four steps to it, and reached for the doorknob. As she twisted it, panic gripped her. The door was locked. She reeled around, her gaze going to the windows.
Opal stepped to Hardin’s side. “Please calm down. The pressure of the creative life can exacerbate personality disorders. Dr. Ryder, the psychiatrist we told you about, is on her way. She has been delayed by the storm, but we expect she will arrive in a matter of hours.”
Etta tried to speak, but couldn’t get any words to come out.
“You will wait for her right here. Now I’ll need your belongings.” Hardin stepped toward Etta.
Etta gripped the strap of her bag. “No,” she snapped, and the director stepped backward. “Why do you want my bag?”
“We need to make sure you’re not a danger to yourself,” Opal said.
“Dr. Ryder believes you are exhibiting signs of Paranoid Personality Disorder. Have you ever been diagnosed with a psychiatric condition?” Hardin asked.
Etta shook her head.
Opal spoke more slowly: “People with PPD believe others are out to get them. They tend to create conspiracies and become fixated on them. They stop leaving their homes; they stop seeing other people; they stop eating and sleeping; they worry incessantly about problems or situations that do not exist. Do these symptoms sound familiar?”
Tears welled near the corners of Etta’s eyes. She felt like she might be shaking.
“Living in a small community like the one we have here can be difficult for some, not to mention the pressures of the writing life.” It was Opal again, but her voice sounded far away, like she was at the end of a long tunnel.
Etta felt faint. She reached for the bookshelf next to her, her other hand clutching her bag so tightly her hand shook. All she could think to say was: “Am I going to disappear?” But the words sounded so paranoid that she couldn’t bring herself to speak them.
* * *
When Opal and Hardin left the room, and the lock clicked behind them, Etta made a beeline to the windows and pushed on both. She’d spent her childhood living in the only old farm house on the outskirts of Temple austere enough to suit her father, so she was all too aware that wood expands in moisture, making windows in old dwellings useless for months of the year. That didn’t stop tears from welling at the corners of her eyes when neither budged. Condensation clung to the inside of the panes. Etta rubbed at the glass with her sleeve. Even if she got one open, what would she do? Jump? Maybe she was a danger to herself.
She moved toward the photograph of Vincent Buchanan hanging between the two windows. It was different than the portraits that hung all over the lodge. It wasn’t posed. Buchanan was standing in front of a lighthouse. He looked to be around Etta’s age. Or a little older?
Etta crouched, pulled the dissertation out of her bag, and flipped it open to the first page. Vincent Buchanan was born in Buffalo, New York on August 20, 1909. So the photo might have been taken around 1939? By then Buchanan had already won the Pulitzer Prize for Rebellious Tides. Etta flipped to the page of the dissertation where the envelope lay. The rice paper looked wilted, like an autumn leaf clinging to a branch. She tried to still her trembling hands and removed the letter. July 20, 1940 . . . In a few weeks time, I will be on the other side of this ocean we share. Could Sakura have taken the photo?
Etta returned the letter to its envelope, tucked it back inside the dissertation, and shoved the dissertation in her bag. She pushed herself up and walked to Hardin’s desk.
The executive chair squeaked under her weight. A cigar rested half-smoked in an oversized ashtray, which looked as though it had been scrubbed clean since the cigar had been smoked.
How long would Hardin be gone? It was lunchtime. An hour? Maybe a little more. Etta tried to push through the tightness pulsing at the back of her throat.
She opened Hardin’s lower left drawer. A bottle of Macallan rolled toward Etta. She thought about taking a drink. She could almost feel the burn at the back of her throat, the calmness sinking into her stomach. But she slammed the drawer shut. She needed to stay sharp.
Etta found little of interest in Hardin’s desk, except for a handful of letters from authors requesting permission to visit the academy. Marilyn Bernard, one of Etta’s favorite authors, was among the applicants. Etta had pre-ordered her most recent book, Water on the Moon, months in advance. What would the author’s workshops be like? Then a chill washed through Etta. She would not be meeting Marilyn Bernard. She was locked in an office awaiting a psychiatrist’s pronouncement that she was insane.
Etta moved to the wooden filing cabinet across the room. The top drawer contained information related to donors and bequests: legal forms for archival and monetary donations, a donor’s bill of rights, a transfer of stock form. There were annual reports to donors for the previous five years and individual files for past donors. Another file was labeled “prospective donors” and stuffed with a thick fading list of names, which had been printed on a dot matrix paper. The second drawer consisted only of budget spreadsheets, as well as contracts for repairs to the lodge, work on the grounds.
Etta wondered if directing a writer’s academy was the most boring job on the planet, worse than temping at Morgan, Kane, and Associates, until she pulled open the third drawer. It was slightly more interesting. It contained files for authors, and Etta recognized many of the names instantly. Had they all visited the academy at some point? Was Robert North in there?
Isabella Peña? Etta tried to push some files back to see the names in the middle, but they wouldn’t budge. Something must have fallen and jammed everything. Etta opened the drawer all the way and reached for the back, her fingers wrapping around a thick file lodged there. She pulled it out, and her eyes registered the name on the typewritten label at the same instant that she heard Opal’s voice in the reception area.
Etta snapped her gaze to the door then slammed the drawer shut and stepped away from the door. She expected to hear the click of the lock, to see the doorknob twist. But several minutes passed. She couldn’t make out words, but she could hear the cadence. They were arguing. Etta clutched the file folder and padded closer to the door until her ear was pushed up against it.
“Does anyone with a Y chromosome turn your mind to putty? We should have reunited that last one with her fucking father like she wanted.”
Silence. Etta forced air into her lungs and pressed her ear closer to the door.
Opal spoke again, but Etta couldn’t make out her words.
More silence.
Opal again: “Consider what’s at stake here. The major needs to be involved in this one.”
Hardin now: “We already decided. Nothing is at stake. We’ll expel her for misconduct. We’ll have Evelyn sign the report. We’ll release that to every news station in the country if we ever hear from her again.”
“That was before we talked to her. She’s . . . Maybe you were right about the last one. All the Waterhouse boy had to do was say hello to her. But this one, watch her eyes. She knows more than you think.”
“She doesn’t know anything.”
Opal’s voice faded. Did she step further away? Etta slid her ear down. “I’m going to get Mills.”
“Opal . . .”
A door slammed shut. Then it creaked open and slammed shut again.
Etta gazed at the folder in her hand, at the way the typewritten name had yellowed and faded over the years. Lowther, Matthew Kenneth.
The Garden of Dead Dreams Page 17