Garden of Stones (32 page)

She would do it for Garvey, and if it broke his heart, at least hers would have broken first.

* * *

As the garage door rolled up, Lucy noticed a figure standing motionless outside her front door. She pulled in slowly, turned off the car, sat for a moment. She scratched at her waist, where the band of her panty hose cut cruelly into the soft flesh of her stomach, and thought about what to do next.

There were only a few people she could think of who would come to see her on an evening like this—or any evening at all, really—and two of them were on their way to the Saint Francis hotel to start their lives together as a married couple.

“Jessie,” she said as she approached the door, her heart pounding under the pink lace of her dress. How many times had she imagined this moment, the first time she lay eyes on him after all those years? He was different, with the thickset body of a middle-aged man, silver in his hair, an expensive shirt and gold watch. But he was the same too, around the eyes, the shy smile. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in town for work, but I decided to stay an extra day. I was hoping to see you in person.”

“You saw me in person,” she said. “Didn’t you? That morning at the DeSoto.”

“But you didn’t see me. You were only a few minutes behind me, Lucy. I’d made it all the way up the stairs to the lobby when I realized I didn’t have the stunner with me. I dropped it after I shot Reg. I was going to go back when I saw you coming through the revolving door and I panicked.”

“Why did you have to tell me you were going to do it? Why’d you ever call me, Jessie?” she asked. “Were you hoping I’d stop you?”

“No, no. I’d never put that on you, Lucy. I’m so sorry I involved you at all. I should have waited until after it was done. I just...” His eyes grew shiny, and he brushed at them impatiently and cleared his throat. “I just wanted to hear your voice first, I guess. You could always make me feel like everything was going to be all right. Even then. Even after I told you I was going to see him, you made me feel like it would all be okay.”

“You hung up on me,” Lucy said, aching to think of him in some hotel room, alone, deciding to do this thing. Reliving all the hurt and all the shame for the hundredth time, the thousandth, the millionth, and deciding that he would finally end it.

“Only because I knew you’d try to talk me out of it.”

“I would have.” Not because killing was wrong, but because it was a risk; he was gambling everything, whatever was left of his life. And what guarantee was there that in taking Forrest’s life, he could extinguish the pain? Lucy looked at his face, searching for proof that he’d succeeded. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. I am. I really am.” He touched her arm lightly. “But what about you? Lucy, when I think of what I put you through...that you saw what I did. Saw
him
.”

For a moment, Lucy felt it all again, the shock, the regret, the fear. Forrest had been slumped in his chair, blood cascading down his face, his mouth slack. He looked nothing like he did back then. He’d looked so
old
. Staring at his still body, his gut hanging over his pants, his feet splayed in their dirty white sneakers, the cramped room smelling of sweat and feces, Lucy almost felt pity for him.

It had been nothing like the night at Rickenbocker’s room. Then, she’d felt like Nancy Drew, stealing along the back of the staff buildings, stealthy, with her mother’s scarf wrapped around her hair. She saw the way he looked at her when he opened the door, his eyebrows raised in surprise, his smile hungry. She moved fast, carried by the momentum that took her through the door. She brought her mittened hand up and aimed well, her mother’s good scissors heavy in her hand. And when it was done, when Rickenbocker sunk to his knees, clutching his neck and staring at her with his eyes bulging, she felt no pity at all.

He had swayed on his knees for a moment before falling sideways. It wasn’t long before he was still. Blood made a puddle under his cheek. His eyes were open, but they seemed to look past her, as though he’d figured out her ruse and was searching for the real Miyako. He’d never touch her again, though; Lucy had made sure of that, and as she let herself back out into the freezing night, she felt no regret, only satisfaction.

She’d been young, too young to understand how it might play out. Miyako had known, though. She knew they’d come for her, and she knew they’d come for Lucy next. It would never end, and Lucy realized that her mother had done everything she could to save her...even if it meant causing her pain.

Rickenbocker’s death had been for Miyako, and maybe that was why it never haunted Lucy, why she never regretted it.

“It’s all right,” she told Jessie, and she believed it. Forrest had hurt Jessie; now he was dead. It was not her place to forgive either of them, but maybe she could offer something else, the words she’d tried to live by herself. “Just look ahead now. The future is all that matters.”

“I’m not sorry I killed him,” Jessie said. “I’m only sorry I got you involved. Lucy...if it had gone any further, I would have confessed. I would never have let you go to jail for me.”

“Then I’m glad it didn’t go any further.”

“Did your daughter tell you I came by? A couple days after?”

“She told me. She was very curious about my mysterious friend.” Lucy smiled wistfully.

“She mentioned she was getting married. She’s really turned out great, Lucy. You should be proud.”

“Thank you.”

“You know, all these years... Sometimes I would call information, just to find out if you were still here, still living in San Francisco. I guess I just liked knowing that I could find you again. But all that time I never knew you had a daughter.”

“It’s...it’s a long story.”

“I’m sure it is,” Jessie said gently. “It can’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t. But it’s all right.” Lucy paused, wondering how much to tell him. “It might seem strange, but I never really told her about that time.”

“I never talk about Manzanar,” he said, the faint lines between his eyes betraying his age. “Maybe it’s just easier, you know, when you’ve lived through something like that. But ever since I moved to Portland...since my divorce...I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I had nightmares, I—I had a sort of breakdown. One day I bought that gun, but even then I wasn’t really serious. I mean, I bought it in a
feed
store, for Christ’s sake, it’s made for stunning livestock. You don’t need any ID. Hell, a kid could buy one. I didn’t even know if it would work.”

“When you called me that morning, you said you were just going over there to talk to him.”

“I know. I’ve thought about that a hundred times. I mean, calling you... Maybe I still hadn’t decided, I don’t know. But once I got there, once I saw him sitting there, working at his job like he was anyone, like he hadn’t done all those...things...well, right then I knew I was going to do it all along.”

“Jessie. You know you have to be careful now. If they have your gun, they have your prints. Just because they closed the case—”

“I know.” Jessie shrugged, and in the gesture Lucy saw the boy he’d once been, and a thousand memories tumbled through her mind. The way he’d walk with his bat bag slung over his shoulder, like he couldn’t wait to get on the field. The way he held her hand as they roamed the streets of Manzanar. “I know. But I’m not afraid of what happens anymore. He’s gone. That’s what matters.”

He moved toward her and put his arms around her. For a moment Lucy stiffened, and then she relaxed. She rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes, and let him hold her.

When at last she drew away, there were tears in his eyes. “You look beautiful today, Lucy,” he said gruffly. “Please give your daughter my congratulations.”

Lucy watched him from her window, her fingertips resting lightly on the glass. He didn’t look back as he crossed the street and got into a tidy sedan and drove away.

All these things from the past coming to a close. All these loose ends finally being tied up.

Lucy’s back had been aching for hours. Too much standing in those ridiculous, shiny shoes. She stepped out of them right there at the window and left them on the carpet, and then she tugged off the panty hose too, and let them fall on top of the shoes. She could not recall another time that she had walked through her house barefoot.

In her bedroom, Lucy unpinned her corsage and set it on the dresser. She hung her dress and put on her nightgown and went back through the house, turning off lights. Jessie’s visit had stirred up a confusing blend of emotions, on top of her exhaustion from the wedding.

It had been a long time since she’d made so much polite conversation. Jay’s mother never let anyone get a word in edgewise. The men from his office seemed skittish around her, but their wives made an effort. Lucy appreciated that. She wanted her daughter to be in good hands. Patty wasn’t as wary as she ought to be.

Lucy got into her narrow bed and turned off the lamp. She pulled the covers up to her chin and stared at the bars of street light that came through the blinds and striped the ceiling. The crack was getting worse—each year it seemed to travel a few more inches. Nothing that some plaster and paint wouldn’t fix.

Lucy let her eyes drift closed, and the image that came to her mind was from that long-ago moment in San Francisco when Mary had left for the train station and Lucy and Patty were alone in the tiny room she’d rented. She lifted a corner of the Woolworth’s blanket and peeked at her baby. Patty was plain, even at a few days old. Her mouth was slack, her forehead broad, her cheeks ruddy and damp with sweat. Her tiny hands grasped at nothing. She would never know the thrill of turning heads when she walked through a crowd. She’d never move a boy to recklessness or a girl to bitter jealousy. She’d work for her rewards and suffer ordinary disappointments and, quite possibly, she’d always feel as though she was missing something she couldn’t quite define.

One of the final wedding details to be worked out was Patty’s walk down the aisle, since she had no father, no uncles, no older brother, no friend of the family to give her away. When Jay took the two of them to dinner one night a couple of weeks ago, Patty had said that she would just walk down the aisle by herself. She looked so wistful that for a moment, Lucy wished that she had done everything differently.

But Jay had toasted Lucy with his coffee mug. “Don’t be ridiculous. Your mom can give you away. Can’t you, Mrs. T?”

And so it was Lucy who walked with Patty today, holding tightly to her daughter’s arm, unsteady in her satin shoes, trying to ignore the people staring at her. The altar seemed a mile away.
I can, I can, I can,
Lucy repeated in her mind, just like a hundred other times, and before long they arrived.

* * * * *

Acknowledgments

This story began the way so many of my favorites do: on the road with Juliet Blackwell. Over the years, many a boring stint on a plane or in a rental car have been enlivened by conversations with Julie, who I’m convinced knows a little something about every subject on the planet. “Just enough to be dangerous,” I imagine her saying, but it was idle musing on the subjects of Japanese internment and Victorian taxidermy that inspired this book.

Barbara Poelle, my cherished agent, didn’t even bat an eye when I told her what I wanted to attempt. Without her unflagging support, I doubt I’d have had the courage to imagine this story.

I am very grateful to Adam Wilson, my intrepid editor, for embracing this project, advocating for it and guiding me through the early stages. Then, when new adventures called Adam elsewhere, Erika Imranyi was entirely gracious about inheriting not just an author but a manuscript that needed serious attention. Erika and I went through several bruising rounds of revisions, and it means the world to me that she didn’t give up until it was right. It is a privilege to work with her.

A few more thanks are in order: Leonore Waldrip for the brainstorming; Rachael Herron, Nicole Peeler, Mike Cooper and Bob Littlefield for the early reads and encouragement; Dave Madden, for writing a wildly entertaining book that changed the way I view research forever; The Pens Fatales and Murder She Writes for their friendship and support.

Special thanks to William Wiecek, Judy Hamilton and Kristen Wiecek. You are there when I need you, and I will never be able to thank you enough.

A Conversation with Sophie Littlefield

Garden of Stones
is very different from other books you’ve published. What led to your decision to write something new, and what inspired your ideas for the story and characters in the book?

When I began writing several decades ago, I found I loved the freedom of moving between genres—crime fiction, young adult, dark fantasy—trying to craft the most compelling story possible. There is great excitement in treading on unfamiliar ground, and I think risk-taking can lead to captivating and unforgettable stories.

Garden of Stones
came about over a series of conversations I had with my dear friend, author Juliet Blackwell. She is a native Californian, and knew much more about the Japanese internment camps than I did, having grown up in the Midwest. I found this chapter of our nation’s history engrossing and horrifying, so I started thinking about how to explore it through fiction. My own novels often feature women—specifically mothers and daughters—at the heart, which led me to focus on their experience during this troubling era. Other story elements came about serendipitously, even small details like the Nancy Drew mysteries mentioned in the book—I’d unearthed an old copy of
The Mystery at Lilac Inn,
and I kept it on my desk as I wrote.

You’ve written about a very specific—and difficult—period in U.S. history. What drew you to this time and setting? What kind of research did you do, and what were the challenges you faced writing a historical novel?

When I began this project, I knew I had a daunting research challenge ahead of me. I read everything I could get my hands on: dozens of books, first-person accounts, journals, newsletters. I pored over photographs and covered the walls of my office with maps and illustrations.