The Keeper of Dawn (13 page)

When I noticed a few personal belongings on the floor, I
realized this was where Max slept. It wouldn’t occur to me until later that
perhaps the face I had seen peering out of the lantern room hadn’t been a ghost
after all.

“I like to keep to myself,” Max said, not the least bit
embarrassed. “I could do without so many teenagers running about. No offense,
Jake. You’re better than most. It’s no mystery why their parents ship ‘em off
eight months a year.”

“You remind me of my great-grandfather,” Mr. Noble said,
looking at Max with admiration. “If ever there was a loner, it was him. He was
a lighthouse keeper for thirty-eight years at Robbins Reef. And this, I am
proud to say, was his uniform.” He ran his hands down the bronze buttons
adorning the front of his coat. “Not exactly standard issue for the Guard, but
I like to wear it in his honor whenever I have the privilege of frequenting a
lighthouse. He loved his work—the peace, the solitude. It was a humble,
thankless profession, but I like to think of all the immigrants who arrived
safely in America because of him.

“But those days are over,” he added. “I’m confident that I
speak the truth when I say that those men who toiled to make the coastlines of
this great nation safe would be honored that you choose to spend your nights
here, Mr. Erikson.”

Accustomed to working in silence, Mr. Noble brought some
life into the lighthouse. He talked as we worked, and being the dramatic fellow
that he was, talking encompassed his hands, leaving him very little to work
with. Mr. Noble spoke passionately about the past and the dead profession of
his great-grandfather, and rather dully about the present and, seemingly, his
own lot in life.

He even talked Max into excusing me fifteen minutes early to
show me the helicopter he had flown to the island, or “helo,” as he called it. As
we were leaving Oak Yard, we came across Chris smoking a cigarette outside
Kirkland Hall.

“That your Pelican?” he asked Mr. Noble.

“It actually belongs to the United States Coast Guard, young
man,” Mr. Noble replied. “But yes, I am the pilot.”

“Don’t those new ones have the dual tail rotors?”

“… That’s actually the Seahawks,” Mr. Noble said, looking at
Chris more closely. “The Navy always gets the new toys before we do.”

“They let you fly much?”

“Over twelve hundred hours logged,” Mr. Noble boasted. “You
have an interest in flying, do you?”

“I’ve flown a Jetranger. I’m working on getting
instrument-rated.”

“Really? That’s fantastic. I think you’ll find aviation to
be a most rewarding experience. And you’ve gotten such an early start.”

“I was born to fly.”

Mr. Noble smiled politely. “Well, confidence is important
for a young pilot. Tell me, do you two always dress alike?” he asked, pointing
at our shirts. The only difference was that Chris had cigarette holes burned in
his sleeves where he had seen how close he could get to singeing his arm.

“Everyone looks the same around here,” Chris said, flicking
his cigarette into Oak Yard. “Except you.”

“That suits me just fine,” Mr. Noble said, straightening the
high collar of his uniform. “Say, we were just on our way out to the helo. You
can come along if you like. It’s not every day I run into someone interested in
flying. Tell me, have you ever considered a career in the Coast Guard?”

A strong wind cut across the field behind Kirkland Hall, and
for the first time that afternoon, Mr. Noble was appropriately dressed. A
narrow path led through the knapweed to where the orange Coast Guard helicopter
rested on the helipad. Its flat, heavy blades were motionless in the wind that
swept the tall weeds about my legs and prompted me to roll down my
shirtsleeves.

We were in the helicopter for nearly an hour. Chris hardly
said a word. He listened as Mr. Noble explained every button, gauge and device
in sight. For perhaps the first time in his life, he was the obedient student
his teachers had never seen, and in my mind, the dark wings on his back began
to flutter.

* * * * *

I was dreaming of snowfall. The sky was lit with a weak
light—either dawn or twilight—just enough so that I could follow the trail of
footsteps deeper into the trees. The smell of wood-smoke sweetened the air. The
crunch of my boots through the snow filled my ears. I kept my hands in my coat
sleeves, my breath clouding the chill air. Overhead, crows had gathered in the
leafless branches, twisting their necks to peer down at me.

Hadn’t I done this before? The trail of footsteps looked
familiar, like I should know where they led and who had made them. It felt like
home was around the next bend.

Just as I braced myself for the first peal of thunder, something
pulled me out of the dream. There were hands around me, grabbing me in the
darkness. But I didn’t want to go. It was too soon. I only needed another
minute. If I hurried, this time I wouldn’t be too late.

I came rushing out of sleep. Hands fidgeted about my head,
rustling in the silence of the enclosed room, pulling hard on the sheets. When
I tried to sit up, only my head lifted from the pillow. The sheets bound me to
the bed. Figures were in the room, their heads covered in white pillowcases.

Is this part of the dream, I wondered? But then something
Benjamin had said came back to me.
They were dressed up like they were in
the Ku Klux Klan or something. Missed ‘em by less than sixty seconds, no
kidding
.

Three figures surrounded the bed, while a fourth stood in
the center of the room. I tried to cry out, but there was something lodged in
my mouth, and I only succeeded in making a choked, gurgling noise. I continued
to struggle, trying unsuccessfully to spit out what was in my mouth.

“Look what I’ve caught. A homo and a Headliner. Surprised
you two aren’t in the same bed,” Loosy-Goosy said, twirling a white towel in
his hand like it was a lasso. “Which one of you weasels wants it first?”

Benjamin squealed loudly then, which seemed to suffice as a
response.

I have little recollection of when it began or ended. My
eyes latched onto the towel’s trajectory. Strapped to the bed unable to move,
the darkness became my protector. What I couldn’t see wasn’t happening. But
there came a point when I could no longer convince myself that the sounds below
me were something other than Benjamin being beaten. There was something hard in
the towel, for once, when it struck the sideboard near my head, it sounded like
pool balls breaking. But the other noise was greater; not louder, but more
horrible. Benjamin’s moans had lost any quality of being human, and every
utterance of pain reduced the darkness of the room. Lying there knowing I was
next was like sifting through broken glass waiting to get cut. Then something
crashed to the floor, and I was convinced they had broken Benjamin. He had
finally caved in from all the teasing and torment, and now lay cracked and
broken in a hollow heap.

When it was over, Loosy-Goosy removed his hood. His face was
inches from my own. He breathed in what I exhaled, feeding off my fear,
expanding with it until all I could see were his pale face and lidded eyes.

“It’s your day of reckoning, Hawthorne,” he whispered. “Every
day I’ve had this,” he held up his cast, “I’ve been dreaming of this moment.”

He dangled his unlikely weapon above me, tormenting me with
it. And when I smelled soap, I knew what rattled at the bottom of the towel. I
struggled to break free, but the sheets bound me like iron. Loosy-Goosy stepped
back and casually twirled the towel through the air.

When the first blow struck me in the shoulder, a bright
light exploded behind my eyes. Before I could recover, the second blow came,
this one on my right bicep, and then a third on my calf just below the knee. Each
blow struck me in a new place—the legs, the chest, the groin, the abdomen. Only
my feet, head and neck went untouched. The pain was inside me, pulsing with
every heartbeat, raging like a caged animal. It was dark when I opened my eyes,
bright when I closed them. The towel kept spinning through the darkness. Whistle-thud.
Whistle-thud. I writhed beneath the sheets with every impact. My throat ached
with pent-up screams. Blow by blow, I was reduced further and further until
only a quivering, helpless child remained. I wanted out of this nightmare. I
wanted daylight and sandy beaches and surf. I wanted to go home.

I could not say how long it lasted, only that finally, it
was over. Though there was no new pain, my muscles, even my bones, continued to
throb. Loosy-Goosy was over me saying something, but his words were static; the
only noise that mattered was my own flesh, inflamed and screaming. When he
removed the hard, rubbery object from my mouth, I was too exhausted to cry out.
I spit up something—warm and liquid—was it blood?

It was an effort to roll on my side. After several attempts,
I drug myself into the sitting position. I didn’t want to move, but I had to
see what had become of me. By the time my feet touched the floor, Benjamin had
also found the strength to get out of bed. We staggered around the room like
old men, groping for the light. The room had never seemed so large, so unknown
and dangerous. At last my fingers found the switch and the overhead flickered
on.

Loosy-Goosy and his thugs had vanished. The light was both a
blessing and a curse, for it made the pain more real, eliminating whatever
chance that this had all been a nightmare. Every part of my body ached; even my
jaws were tired, like I had been chewing gum for hours. We looked in the
mirror, then at each other, astonished to find ourselves intact. After enduring
all that pain, there wasn’t a single scratch or bruise on us (though we would
be black-and-blue by morning). What I had spit up had been saliva, not blood. The
only thing that had broken was Seymour. The small bonsai lay on the floor amid
a heap of broken pottery and spilled soil.

My eyes returned to the mirror. But instead of my
reflection, I looked at Father’s picture. Had he always been smiling? I stepped
closer, trying to find any joy in his expression other than grim satisfaction. He
wasn’t smiling at Mother thirty years ago; his smile was meant for me, and all
the throbbing pain in the darkness.

“Sorry about Seymour,” was strangely what Benjamin chose to
say.

Normally I would have been devastated, but after what we had
been through, a knocked over bonsai didn’t seem that catastrophic.

“It’s no big deal.”

Benjamin relocked the door, double-checking it even though
we both knew it would do little good.

“Sorry, Jacob,” Benjamin said, easing himself back into bed.
“I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”

“That’s nonsense and you know it. Loosy-Goosy’s had it out
for me since day one.”

This seemed to satisfy him.

“Are you going to tell anyone?” I asked.

Benjamin looked older without his glasses, his eyes smaller
and less trusting. He shrugged. “What good would it do?” he said, squinting up
at me. The Benjamin I knew would have gone running to the housemaster, or
perhaps to the headmaster himself.

I knelt next to Seymour to survey the damage. Though the
stoneware pot was destroyed, the tree was still intact. I salvaged as much
loose soil as possible, scooping it into a glass. I pulled the curtains back,
opened the window, and stepped onto the sill. Benjamin felt around for his
glasses and watched as I climbed onto the roof with Seymour and a glass of
soil.

It was nearing midnight and all the lights in the courtyard
were out. It had rained during the day, leaving the night clear and cool. I
went down the slant of the roof, the terracotta tiles cool beneath my bare feet,
and gingerly sat at the edge. Weeds and several small trees protruded through
broken holes in the gutter. After a bit of searching, I gently lowered Seymour
down beside them. By the time I had positioned the soil around his trunk, the
sharp pain in my muscles had deepened into a stiff, relentless ache. The bonsai
looked delicate next to the other trees, its miniature branches trembling in
the night breeze, making me wonder how it would ever survive. My only hope came
from Grandpa’s words about bonsai growing alone on cold mountaintops.

I remained on the rooftop, feeling safe in all that open
space. Overhead the moonless sky was loaded with stars, but the night’s
brightest light shone from Raker Lighthouse, a reminder that Max was alone in
his isolated haven. But it wasn’t long before this light went out as well,
leaving only the stars to shine down. And soon they too began to disappear,
winking out one by one as if plucked from the sky.

“I’m George Donaldson from Dover, and I’m a first year
student. Both my dad and grandpa went here, so I’ve been hearing about
Wellington since I was a kid. Eh, let’s see, I hope this exam is easier than
the last one. I feel pretty good about the French Revolution, but I’m a little
shaky on the Napoleonic Wars.”

When he cast a worried glance at the unopened exam on his
desk, the entire room emitted an impatient sigh. George reminded me of my own
insecurities over announcing my “history” to the class, like I had anything
worthwhile to say. I had come to dread each morning when Mr. O’Leary’s gaze
swept the room, at times lingering on me, but always calling on someone else,
as if he enjoyed dragging the torment out for one more day.

Later that afternoon, I saw George at practice—another
faceless combatant at the bottom of the swimming pool. Why hadn’t I noticed him
before? Was this how everyone thought of me? The quiet kid at the back of the
room who wouldn’t be missed if, one day, he didn’t show up?

“I’ve come to pick a fight,” Mr. O’Leary said, stepping
beside me on the plithe. It was my first day of sparring, which was a relief,
as I had long ago become bored of the endless stretches and unexplainable
drills such as walking on the sides of my feet. Clad in white, he looked more
like a waiter at a five-star restaurant than a fencing instructor. But instead
of offering me a menu, he handed me a foil, and in place of a bottle of wine, a
mask was tucked in the crook of his elbow.

“Are you crazy? I’m not sparring you.”

“And why not?”

“Because you’ll destroy me.”

“I’m here to teach, not to compete. One of fencing’s most
steadfast rules is to have your first practice bout with your instructor. Besides,
I know how difficult my exam was. Here’s your shot at a swift and violent
revenge.”

Sparring proved more difficult than it looked, with Mr.
O’Leary’s fluid movements making me feel clumsy and ill-prepared. Even the
simplest maneuvers—the lunge and the parry—eluded me. Mr. O’Leary instructed as
he went along, his terse commands accompanying the swing of his weapon. The
equipment only added to my awkwardness—the mask, the bulky pads, even the
leather gloves that fit loosely over the cuffs of my jacket. I was more
accustomed to Max’s work gloves.

“Keep your poise, Jake,” Mr. O’Leary instructed after a
particularly embarrassing incident where I had become so off-balanced that I
was forced to pinwheel my arms to keep from falling. “Balance is just as
important as speed. When balance is lost, you are forced to defend instead of
attack.”

The air was filled with the sound of clashing steel. Though
my successful hits on Mr. O’Leary (few as they were) felt staged, I began to
experience the sport for what it was. From my stretching pad overlooking the
pool, I had watched a civilized combat fought by gentlemen, a duel without
bloodshed. But the spectator wasn’t exposed to what went on behind the mask—the
sweat, the emotional strain, the precarious balance of strategy and skill.

After practice, I helped Mr. O’Leary carry the plithes into
the storage room. A metal closet filled with old lifejackets stood in one
corner; the remnants of a diving board lay propped against the far wall.

“I keep hearing about this group of students,” Mr. O’Leary
said as we stacked the last of the equipment into place. “They call themselves
the Headliners. Apparently their fathers are so important, teachers give you
high marks on your last name alone.”

“That’s not true!”

“Not in my classroom it’s not.”

“Our fathers made the headlines on the same day, and the
next thing you know, no one wants anything to do with us. Most of what they say
isn’t even true.”

“I’m not judging you.”

“We look out for each other. Even with all the stupid
rumors, I’m glad to be part of it.”

“Are you part of it, Jake? Or are you caught up in it?”

When I didn’t respond, he added, “They’re all two years
older. You’ve been following them around ever since that incident in the clock
tower.”

“It’s better than being alone.”
I’m better off than
Benjamin
.

“What about guys your own age? What about Joel, James and
Arthur at dinner? What about Benjamin? Or the guys on the team?”

But it was too late for that. As usual, Mr. O’Leary was all
questions, and I didn’t have the answers.

“If you don’t mind my asking, what was your father in the
paper for?” he asked.

“A court ruling. It was a lawsuit at Columbia, for
affirmative action or something.”

“How old was the ruling?”

“A couple weeks. Why?”

A puzzled look crossed Mr. O’Leary’s face, but in a flash it
was gone.

“No reason,” he said, running his fingers through his beard,
which was still moist with sweat. Then he was quiet for so long that I began to
hear water dripping in the distance. He had stopped stroking his beard, and
when I looked over at him, it seemed to jar him out of whatever trance he had
entered.

“So you’re one of the Headliners,” he said. “I can see I’m
not going to change that. Okay, here’s the deal. I’m going to share with you one
of those well-guarded secrets teachers like to keep to themselves. My first
year out of college, I taught at a boarding school near Amherst. I was like you—new
to this whole environment. The headmaster there, Mr. Perkins, an extraordinary
man, sat me down on my first day and told me what he referred to as the ABC’s
of teaching at an all-boys school.

“In adolescence, boys are clannish. Girls are intimate, but
boys are more tribal. They’re like wolves—they socialize in packs. They’re
loyal to those in their pack, but suspicious of outsiders. When a boy comes to
boarding school, he is alone for the first time in his life. As a result, he
loses his identity in the group. But it is also in the group that he truly
finds himself. Forget about education, forget about the Ivy League and that
six-figure job at the end of the road. A boarding school’s
real
mission
is to give boys good tribes with good elders. If this is done properly, they
will prosper and grow. But give them no tribes, and they will create their own
without elders, and they will become irretrievably lost.”

Mr. O’Leary was watching me, weighing the impact of his
words.

“It’s not that simple.”

“But that’s just it—it
is
that simple. As complicated
as everything may seem, you have two choices. You have to decide, Jake, who
will be your tribe. Wellington, or the Headliners?”

“No. No, that’s not it at all. It’s not just Wellington or
the Headliners. I need my friends because … because things go on here that the
school doesn’t know about.”

“What kind of things?”

“Like how a … a certain person has to shower after
lights-out because everyone teases him.”

“Who has to do that?”

I had already said too much, but I couldn’t stop. “Like how
upperclassmen sneak into your room at night and … and …” But I couldn’t repeat
what had happened that night.

“And what?” Mr. O’Leary’s face was close to mine. “What did
they do to you?”

“No. No, it’s not me.”

“Jake, I’m sure there are things that go on here that I
don’t know about. But your friends can’t handle everything on their own. This
is your chance. I can’t help if you don’t talk to me. Why do you have to shower
after lights-out?”

“It’s not me. It’s … it’s Benjamin. There was a misunderstanding
in the shower, and now everyone is teasing him. It’s bad. Real bad,” I added,
looking away. “He doesn’t want to be here. Besides, he’s not learning anything
he doesn’t already know.”

“Is that why he’s been so quiet lately?”

“I think so.”

“Who’s doing this to him?”

“He won’t say.”

Mr. O’Leary thought this over. “Okay. Fair enough. You did
right by telling me.”

Afterwards I went and washed up. At dinner that night, I
looked at the faces around our table, talking and laughing among themselves, and
thought to myself, this is no tribe of mine.

* * * * *

The sea was rough that day. The morning sun hung low over
the water, scattering light across the backs of waves that broke against the
hull. The wind filled my ears as I watched the harbor of Miskapaug materialize
on the horizon. Masts of docked ships rose into the air, the coastline a gray
shadow behind them. The ferry sounded its courtesy horn when a fishing boat
crossed our path. Men in sweatshirts and stocking caps scurried across the
deck, their breath visible in the chill morning air.

I had fantasized about leaving so many times, but now that fall
break was finally here, it felt that I was leaving with permission, with a
promise that I would soon return. I was taking part of the island with me, or
rather, a part of me still remained back on shore, looking out across the
water, awaiting the inevitable return. When I forced myself to look back, the
island lay obscured in fog, leaving only Raker Lighthouse to witness our
departure.

A small yacht passed through the ferry’s wake to pull along
our starboard side. There they were—Chris, Roland and Derek—hardly recognizable
in their street clothes and dark sunglasses. A girl wearing a blue bandana
manned the wheel, and a second girl with dirty blond hair—probably Holly,
Derek’s girl—sat beside her. The sight of them was proof that their plan had
worked. Holly and her older sister had picked them up at the beach. I was stuck
boarding the ferry since one of us had to forge their signatures. My reward was
the privilege of riding shotgun all the way to Greenwich.

When Holly looked over and waved, it was like an electric
charge had been set off aboard the ferry. Suddenly there was a crowd around me
with everyone pushing to get a better look. There were shouts and whistles;
even the ferry sounded its horn. The girls’ jackets concealed all but their
smiles and long hair, but it was enough to reawaken a thrill that left me
clinging to the railing. It had been so long since I had seen a girl my own
age, and they were somehow better than I remembered.

I was watching Chris. He was shouting something to Roland
and Derek. Then they stood up, turned from the ferry, and in one quick motion,
bent over and pulled down their pants. Holly screamed and covered her face; the
girl driving looked back and smiled. Everyone onboard the ferry was laughing.

After they had pulled their pants up, Roland turned and
bowed graciously. Then Chris made a forward motion with his arm and the yacht
sped ahead. With the incident over, the area around me cleared out. Still
smiling, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a short, pudgy boy
looking up at me through thick glasses.

“Thought I might find you here,” Benjamin said.

“Just enjoying the weather,” I said, stuffing my hands in my
leather jacket.

“It never takes long for the cold to find Rhode Island,” he
said, squinting into the wind. “You going back to Long Island?”

“I’m spending the week at Derek’s, in Greenwich.”

He nodded, his eyes watching the horizon.

“I’m sure your parents are happy to get you back,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess,” came the sullen reply. And as if it
required a tremendous effort, he looked back at Raker Island. Though we shared
little other than circumstance, it had been enough to form a bond, strengthened
by rejection, forged by tears in the dark. Benjamin might have distanced
himself, but he couldn’t hide what was in his eyes.

“I won’t be coming back, Jacob,” he said, still looking
across the water. “My grandma’s in a nursing home now, so Mother has time to
teach again.” He made a valiant attempt at smiling. “I was going to tell you
earlier, when I was packing, but …”

Not sure what to say, we fell into an uncomfortable silence,
content to watch Miskapaug’s slow approach. The town had changed since I had
last seen it. The tourist shops had closed with the change of seasons. A
stillness inhabited the seaside streets like the town had gone into
hibernation. The pier was the only exception, where a crowd of parents awaited
the return of their wayward sons.

We said a hurried goodbye that left me feeling unworthy of
his friendship. Didn’t we have something more to say? I watched as Benjamin
descended the stairs, skirted the edge of the crowd, and retrieved his bag from
the attendant. I hung at the back of the crowd, doing my best to avoid the
parent-son
reunion. I thought of Father’s simple handshake and quiet
words, and was grateful my parents hadn’t come.

Ms. Cartwright stood on the pier between two men in dark
suits, nervously flipping through the signature list. She shook her head and
showed them the clipboard, very likely pointing at Chris’ signature that I had
forged. Chris had feared his father would send “a few of his goons” to escort
him home, and with good reason. He had tried to run before.

I shouldered through the crowd and walked the three blocks
to the Bayside Theater, our agreed upon rendezvous. I didn’t have to wait long
before a cherry red Mustang pulled up and the four of us rode out of town.