Garden of Stones - By Sophie Littlefield Page 0,46
an adult courier; exceptions had to be approved by Deputy Chief Griswold. But the full-time courier was ill, and the deputy chief had left early to visit his fiancée in Sacramento for the weekend, so Mrs. Kadonada gave the envelope to Lucy and told her that, after she delivered it, she could consider herself finished for the day.
Lucy tried to tamp down her apprehension as she walked through camp. Since the day after the riot, she’d had no direct contact with Reg or Van Dorn, and she’d glimpsed George Rickenbocker only once, at the wheel of a truck going too fast down Avenue C. Over the holidays, Reg had agreed to guest-direct one of the holiday programs. His photo was featured in the Manzanar Free Press, playing Santa for the orphans in the Children’s Village, handing out gifts sent by church groups.
Lucy knew that it was impossible that Reg had changed, that a cruel and dangerous side of him hid underneath the glib public exterior. But this was only a simple delivery. She would find Reg, get his signature, thank him and leave; and that would be the end of it. This was what she told herself over and over as she walked, the cold wind reaching under her dress and through her woolen tights.
But when she arrived at the warehouse, it was locked. Lucy’s heart sank. Many of the offices closed early on Fridays, especially when bad weather threatened. She couldn’t return to the office with the letter; Mrs. Kadonada had said it was imperative that it be delivered today. She had to find Reg.
She would start with his apartment. Lucy walked past the garages, through the decorative gardens and benches at the edge of staff housing. Trying to ignore her skittering apprehension, she rounded the outside row of barracks. When she arrived at his door, marked with a metal plate stamped with his name, she knocked before she could lose her nerve.
There was no response. As she tried to decide what to do next, a young man in an MP uniform came around the corner, his gait uneven. When he saw Lucy, he gave her a sloppy salute.
“Well, hey there, girlie.”
“I am looking for Mr. Reginald Forrest to deliver this letter,” Lucy blurted, holding up the envelope.
“That’s a funny coincidence,” the man said, his words running into each other. “I was just with him. Check in the motor pool office.” He began fumbling at a door with a key, muttering under his breath. He was drunk, Lucy realized with growing unease. But she’d come this far; she had to try.
The front door of the motor pool office was locked, but Lucy followed the sounds of laughter around the back of the building. A slant-roofed addition housed the desks where the mechanics processed WRA paperwork and requisitions. At this hour, it should have been empty, but light leaked from the slats in the window blinds.
Lucy knocked on the door. Inside, voices rose in shouting and laughter, and no one answered. A tumbleweed rolled nearby, swept in by the winds, and Lucy felt the cold seep into her ears. As she stood there deliberating her next move, the wooden door pitched open and a man stumbled out.
“Oh Jesus, girl, where’d you come from?” he said. He had one hand on his crotch, which made him look both vulnerable and menacing. Lucy didn’t recognize him; he was wearing civilian clothes, stocky, and ruddy-faced.
“I have a letter for Mr. Forrest,” Lucy said in a high-pitched, formal voice, averting her eyes from his hand fumbling at his belt. “From Mr. Graves of the Minidoka Relocation Center.” This she knew only because she had read the typed return address, but saying it made her feel more official. The door was on a spring, but before it closed she glimpsed two Japanese girls inside. They wore bright lipstick and tight sweaters and leaned against each other on a sofa, clutching drinks and giggling. One looked vaguely familiar, a girl who played the ukulele in the variety shows and lived far on the other side of camp by the hospital, Block Twenty-eight or Twenty-nine.
“Well, have you ever heard of knocking?” the man said. “Reg isn’t here, haven’t seen him in a while. Maybe you ought to just take that letter back where you got it. In or out, make up your mind, I’ve got to drain the pipes so I’m going to recommend you choose in.”
He staggered along the side of the building, still fumbling with