The Keeper of Dawn (16 page)

When the shape of a strange house jutted into view, I had
forgotten where we were going. I stood next to the others. Though I stayed
perfectly still, my surroundings remained in motion. A wall of shadows extended
above us. Not a single light shone from the house.

“So what now, captain?” Chris asked.

Derek shrugged. “We could always throw a rock at her
window.”

“Beats breaking and entering,” Chris said, surveying the
house. “So, which window is hers?”

Derek looked at him blankly.

“Right. Well, there can only be what … thirty or forty? We’ll
just start with—”

He was cut off by a dog’s bark. At first I thought it was
Shadow, but when the barking continued, I realized it was coming from inside
the house.

“He sounds really big,” Roland said. He lay sprawled in the
grass, one eye closed. Then he added in his deepest voice: “The Sentinel. There’s
no escape from …
The Sentinel
.”

The dog’s barking became louder. Its claws scratched at the
window.

“Nothing like an old-fashioned security system,” Chris
remarked.

The dog refused to shut up. A light turned on inside the
house.

“Okay, this was a bad idea,” Derek admitted. “Let’s get out
of here.”

“But I’m comfortable,” Roland slurred.

“Up we go,” Chris said, hoisting Roland to his feet.

As we were preparing to leave, a window slid open above us. “Jeff?”
a girl’s voice whispered. “Jeff, is that you?”

Her silhouette was framed in the window. A dim light shone
behind her, highlighting the fringes of her blond hair. The dog continued to
bark.

“Sorry to disturb you, miss,” Chris said. He was backing
away from the house, guiding Roland with a firm hand. “Got the wrong address.”

“Hey! Who is that?” She lifted up the screen and stuck her
head out the window. “Do I know you?”

“We’re the Highlighters,” Roland said, leaning heavily on
Chris. “Sorry, no girls allowed.”

We walked faster. We had reached the tree line by the time I
realized Derek wasn’t with us. In fact, he hadn’t moved at all. He stood,
looking forlornly up at the window. I started back for him, but Chris stopped
me.

“Actually, we met three years ago,” Derek said. “At the
Bollinger’s Halloween party. You probably don’t remember. I’m Derek, Derek
Mayhew. I live up on the hill. We’re neighbors.”

Nothing from the window but silence. Even the dog stopped
barking.

“Anyway, we threw a party tonight and I was wondering—”

“I heard your party,” the girl said. “All of Greenwich heard
your stupid party. And what, you were wondering if I was going to come? Are you
insane? I wouldn’t be caught dead at your house.”

“Okay, well just forget we were ever here,” Derek said,
backing away.

“Do you have any idea what time it is? It’s three in the
morning. Three in the
fucking
morning! I could have you arrested for … for
stalking me or something. Better yet, I’ll tell my father a Mayhew is
trespassing on our property. He’ll come out and shoot every one of you!”

“Okay, we’re leaving,” Derek said, walking fast now.

“He’s always talking about you. But then again, who isn’t? You’re
the laughing stock of the entire town!”

We were all jogging, trying to get out of range of her
voice. But the farther we went, the louder she shouted.

“Why don’t you do everyone a favor and go back to whatever
TRAILER PARK YOU CRAWLED OUT OF!”

No one spoke on the way back. Derek looked haunted. The only
time we stopped was for Roland to throw up. I had sobered up by the time we
returned. The alcohol was still in me, but my surroundings had stopped
spinning. I had grown up around families like Samantha’s, and I should have
prevented Derek from going. It was ironic, really. He was so carefree at
Wellington, but here at his own home, it seemed that the world was against him.

As we crested the final hill, I heard a disembodied voice
rise above the wind. No matter where I went, the words followed me, as if the
voice that sang them was my own.

Fair the day shine
as it shone on my childhood;

Fair shine the day
on the house with open door.

Birds come and cry
there and twitter in the chimney,

But I go forever and
come again no more.

I awoke sprawled across a leather sofa to a high-pitched
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. I didn’t know where I was or what I had done to feel this way. Noon
felt like dawn and every inch of my body ached. My stomach was upset and
rumbling with hunger, and a sharp pain had settled behind my eyes. I had
neither the courage nor the ambition to move. Memories of last night were
elusive. The irritating beep eventually forced me off the sofa and across the
hall to the balcony.

The day was overcast. A steady drizzle hung in the air. Evidence
of the previous night littered the grounds. A tow truck was backing toward the
swimming pool (BEEP-BEEP-BEEP), squeezing between Zeus and Dionysius. Two men
in hip waders sloshed through the dark, oily water. The once elegant swimming
pool resembled a prehistoric tar pit. A large hose from a second truck was
draining the pool. The tow truck driver—a man with a heavy beard and an ample
beer gut—stepped out of the truck and shook his head in disbelief as the roof
of Derek’s car emerged.

When one of the men lifted the crystal swan from the
water—the oil oozing off its smooth surface—it felt like I was watching the
recovery efforts of an oil liner spill when dead birds are pulled from the
ocean. The tow truck driver continued shaking his head.

Remnants of the party were strewn throughout the house like
clues to an unspeakable crime. There were muddy footprints on the carpeting,
broken chairs, empty bottles of beer, wine and liquor, and a pile of hardened
vomit on one of the Persian rugs. Servants and maids rushed back and forth in a
cleaning frenzy. I did my best to stay out of the way, retreating to the
basement—the quietest area of the house—where I drifted in and out of sleep.

Our morning ritual of reading the paper was postponed until
that afternoon. We sat in the kitchen eating Southwestern omelets Derek had
cooked. Though the entertainment section of
The Hartford Courant
lay
before me, my hangover made reading difficult, and I continued to watch the men
outside. They had drained the pool—the walls were now a glossy black—and the
convertible sat outside the ring of statues, a black blob dripping in the
grass.

According to Chris, Roland was in pretty rough shape. As
cruel as it sounded, news that someone was worse off than I was helped improve
my mood. Chris and Derek were mysteriously unaffected by the previous night’s
drinking. Derek looked tired and hadn’t bothered to shave, while Chris was
bright-eyed and annoyingly flippant. Despite a scratchy voice from smoking, he
wouldn’t shut up about the party.

“I don’t know which was better—Trav driving your wheels into
the pool, or Zack getting shit on by those nutso birds. I never thought I’d say
it, but last night would’ve rocked if I’d been stone-cold sober. And you, Jake,
you wouldn’t stop talking about some girl playing the piano. A piano. That
kills me.”

At least he had enough sense not to bring up Samantha. He
eventually became engrossed in an article on the senatorial debate in
Providence. As much as Chris claimed not to care about politics, he devoured
every article that so much as mentioned his father.

“So who won?” Derek asked.

“Depends on who you ask,” Chris replied, sipping his coffee.
“Coleman hedged on foreign policy and stressed his economic stimulus plan. The
Governor droned on about his accomplishments. They’re both broken records. It’s
all scripted. For once I’d like someone to ask them a question from out in left
field. One they hadn’t gone over a hundred times with their advisors. Something
hypothetical like: if Martian leaders landed on Earth and crapped on the White
House lawn, what would you do about it? Or, if Hugh Hefner invited you over for
a little soirée at the Playboy Mansion, would you go?”

“They should have a wrestling match to see who gets to be
senator,” Derek said, only half-listening.

“Coleman would win, hands down. He’s a World War Two Vet. He
was storming Normandy when the Governor was poppin’ the Cavalcade Queen’s
cherry at junior prom. But for being a marine, I can’t believe what a pussy he
is when it comes to foreign policy. The Democrats have corrupted him.”

The more he talked, the worse Chris’ voice became. By the
end of breakfast, he sounded like a raspy chain-smoker.

“Did you ever tell your father where you were?” I asked him.

“I called Ronnie, his campaign manager. Boy was she the
wrong one to talk to. It was her grand idea to drag me along the campaign trail,
so I got an earful.”

“Bitched you out, huh?” Derek asked.

“Speaking of getting bitched out, where’s Mrs. Mayhew? I
figured I’d wake up to a poolside crucifixion.”

“Don’t know,” Derek said. “Probably went shopping or
something.”

Derek’s family continued to amaze me. With a nonexistent
father and a disappearing mother, they bore a certain resemblance to my family,
but I had never felt such a strong sense of abandonment than I would that week
in Greenwich. Brotherhood was the only remaining shred of family values. They
were brothers before anything else, more a clan than a family. Their strong
rivalry, even their closeness in age, had been absent from my upbringing. As
close as I felt to David, he was more a distant uncle than a brother. It was
difficult to follow in his footsteps—after fifteen years, the trail had gone
cold.

Derek’s brothers made a brief appearance in the kitchen,
each of them hung-over and carrying with them an atmosphere of regret. Travis
looked the worst, and he stood for some time staring out the window at the
workers in the pool vacuuming the residue of oil.

After breakfast, I went to the library where Wolfgang and
Strauss had returned to their cages. Wolfgang regarded me with unblinking eyes.
Strauss shuffled back and forth on his perch like he wanted to say something.

“Rrrrrreeeee! Rrrrrreeeee!” Wolfgang shrieked.

But Strauss shook his head, refusing to be interrupted. Then
he announced: “You pooh in cage! Gimme some!”

* * * * *

“I noticed your robins are still around.”

I was seated on the couch, my head pillowed in ivy. Grandpa
had the fan running despite the cool weather, the plants fluttering when its
metal head swiveled in their direction.

“They stay longer each year, the little devils,” he said. “They’ve
gotten quite used to me. Pampered is more like it. I set out the BroadLeafs
every spring now. Next year they’ll probably expect me to
build
their
nest.”

It felt good to be back in the cluttered living room. So
much had happened since my last visit, but this room hadn’t changed, like it
had been only yesterday that I burst through the door, complaining that my
parents had enrolled me in a boarding school.

The week had gone by in a blur. When Derek’s mother, whom we
were now encouraged to call Annie, or even Mom, had learned that the sons of a
New York Court of Appeals Justice, a decorated Army General, and the Governor
of Maryland were spending a week under her roof, she went into an uproar at not
being told sooner. She immediately canceled her shopping trip to spend the
afternoon with us. The gruff, hawk-eyed woman who had been roused from bed by
her drunken son discharging a firearm in attempt to murder the family pets
transformed herself into the most prim-and-proper mother anyone could hope for.
Perched on the divan, with the velvet collar of her spencer jacket tossed
casually over a georgette blouse, she talked for hours about the Mayhew family,
oblivious to her son’s embarrassment. She apologized profusely about how out of
control the “gathering” on Saturday night had become.

It made for an incredibly boring afternoon. Only Roland had
been genuinely courteous. I didn’t speak unless directly asked a question, and
by the end of the afternoon, Chris looked to be entering the beginning stages
of a coma.

“And the mother was home the
entire
time?” Grandpa
had asked. But it was Strauss and Wolfgang who stole the show, causing him to
laugh so hard he became short of breath. Perhaps it was the Dickens enthusiast
coming out in him, for he seemed to commiserate with the macaws.

“So, how is Seymour getting along?” he asked.

“He’s still kicking,” I said. “Though I had to … reposition
him.”

“They can be picky about their sunlight. And how about you? How
are you holding up?”

“Fine. School’s good.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Unable to meet his gaze, I looked out the window, as if I
might find the meaning of his question lying on the front porch.

“Better.”

“Good. Better is good, all things considered. I have to
admit I was worried about how you would handle everything. But you seem to be
doing quite well.” He eased out of his recliner and went to the window. On the
way over, he caught his foot in the carpeting and nearly tripped before
disentangling himself.

“I think it’s getting harder to hide your circle.”

“Hmmm? Oh. Well, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately.”

I smiled, surprised that he no longer denied its existence.

“So you’ve served your time, and have an entire week to do
as you please.”

“Yep.”

“So here you are.”

“Here I am.”

“In Connecticut, in Brooklyn. Everywhere but Long Island.”

A moment of silence passed, filled by the buzzing of the
fan.

“Why is that, do you think, hmmm? Why is it that you didn’t
go home for your week off? Maybe not the entire week, but for a day or two. You
came
here
, after all.”

“Mother isn’t even there. She’s still in New Hampshire. The
house would be empty without her.” But it was more than that. “I feel I have to
prove something before I go back. Something has to happen.”

“Something has to happen?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Explain away. I’ve got all the time in the world.” Grandpa
stood patiently before me, his hands clasped behind his back.

I took a deep breath. “Well, when I first went to
Wellington, it felt like I’d been kicked out of the house.”

“And now?”

“Now it feels more like I ran away. Like David.”

“
Not
like David,” he said, raising a finger. “You
need to get that out of your head. It’s better now than later. Better your
Raker Island than Morocco. Or New Zealand, or Katmandu. Though I’ve heard New
Zealand is out of this world.”

“Has he ever told you?”

Grandpa’s eyebrows rose. “Told me what?”

“Told you why he left.”

Sighing, Grandpa looked at the floor, his gaze tracing the
pattern of his walking circle.

“Back when David worked for the firm, he felt he was always
in your father’s shadow. He could never measure up, or so he believed. Hawthorne
is a well-known name in New York. So David left, and then your father was
elected judge and sold the firm. And then, well …” He glanced over at me, and
for a second it looked like all the life had drained from his eyes. “Well, you
know the rest. Neither spoke to each other again. It’s been tough on him,
tougher than he’ll ever let on, not getting the chance to bury the bad blood
between them. He and I are the same, in that regard. There’s nothing like
regret to make you feel the full weight of your years. And here you come along,
after all this. And now there’s the question of what to do with you.”

“So … what
do
we do with me?”

Grandpa bent down and removed a shoot of ivy from the
walking path. “You can’t change the past. You can’t dwell on it either. What’s
done is done. There’s no path set in stone for you like there was for David. So,
where do we begin? Hmmm. How about with that age-old question: what do you want
to be when you grow up?”

He sat beside me on the couch, which was something he had
never done before. “Let’s start with the basics. What is it you enjoy doing?”

“Fencing and fixing lighthouses.”

He smiled. “Something tells me professions in either of
those fields is somewhat limited. What do you enjoy in school?”

“English and history, mainly. I read quite a bit. Well, at
least I did before school started. Now there’s no time.”

“Well, you can’t very well become a professional reader.” He
sat very still, his body motionless except for a slight trembling in his hands.
“Wait! I have it!” he cried, leaping off the couch. “Stay right where you are,
young Jake. I shall return.”

With a theatrical swirl of his robe, he vanished from the
room. As he creaked down the hall, I realized that this was the first time I
had ever been in a part of the house without him, and the room—sensing its
master was away—began to change. Outside the afternoon was aging, sending a
feeble light through the front porch window. The walls around me became vast,
flat shadows; the red carpet a matted, indistinguishable darkness, and
Grandpa’s walking circle appeared as a halo shining its pale magic from the
floor.

Grandpa returned a moment later dragging one of the kitchen
chairs behind him. “This is an old trick of mine,” he said, positioning the
wooden chair in the center of the room beside the fan. He faced me from behind
the chair, resting his hands on its curved back. “It’s a simple exercise to
test one’s imagination. I want you to clear your mind of everything. Sweep away
all the clutter. I don’t want any thoughts about girls or school or talking
birds popping into that head of yours.”

“Well
now
I’m thinking about all those things.”

“Well get rid of it. We want a clean slate to work with. Is
it clean?”

“As clean as it’s going to get.”

“Good. Now what I want you to do—”

Suddenly a high-pitched shriek drowned out his voice. While
talking, Grandpa had inadvertently leaned on the chair, tilting it back just
far enough so that the tip of its front leg moved into the unforgiving path of
the fan. A plume of sawdust shot into the air, the chair vibrated, and a small
woodchip landed on the couch beside me. Grandpa yanked the chair back to
safety, staring in disbelief as a cloud of sawdust settled over him.