The Keeper of Dawn (2 page)

His eyes went to the open door. “Promise not to nark?” he
asked me, short of breath from the climb down.

“What?” Chris asked, nearly shouting.

“His hearing is shot,” his friend explained. He put his
mouth to Chris’ ear. “We’re getting out of here.”

“What?”

“We’re leaving!”

The message must have gotten through, for Chris nodded. But
when I started for the door, he put a hand on my shoulder.

“They’ll nab us for sure,” he said, then indicated an arched
doorway beneath the stairs. “They’ll never expect it.”

“But that leads to the courtyard,” his friend said.

“What?”

“There are people in the courtyard.”

“A steeple? In the courtyard?” Chris asked. “Why the hell
would there be a steeple in the courtyard?”

“
People
, not steeple.”

“Relax, would you?” Chris said. “A future West Point cadet
such as yourself could get away with murder.”

“This is a bad idea,” the boy with the buzz cut muttered as
we converged beneath the stairs. Sweat beaded his forehead. “I’m telling you,
this has to be one of the stupidest things we’ve ever done.”

“Far from it,” Chris said, oblivious to his friend’s
apprehension. “You ready or what, Van Belle?”

“No,” his friend said, wiping his forehead with a sleeve. “But
let’s get it over with.”

Though I told myself I wasn’t involved, it did little to
prevent my pulse from racing at the thought of getting caught. I hovered
somewhere between them, breathing in their anxiety and cool, savoring the slow steady
burn that we were in this together.

Just as Chris reached forward, the door burst open, flooding
the chamber with daylight. Max, Wellington’s head of maintenance, stood before
us, the green lawns of the courtyard stretching behind him.

“Going somewhere, were ya?” he said, his teeth mashing a
toothpick as he spoke. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing thick
forearms. The previous day, I had watched him plant Wellington’s oaks with the
rough swagger of someone accustomed to manual labor.

“Wipe that smirk off your face, boy,” Max warned Chris. Despite
being shorter than us, he somehow managed to glare down his nose. “I sure hope
you had a grand time, ’cause you’ll be paying dearly for it. Took me two days
just to get it to ring on the hour.”

“You’re going to have to speak up,” Chris said in his
loudest voice. “It’s my ears.”

Scowling, Max grabbed Chris’ necktie and gave it a hard
yank, bringing Chris’ face level with his own. “How ‘bout now, you little
smartass? CAN YOU HEAR ME NOW!”

“Loud and clear!”

Still holding Chris’ tie, Max grabbed me by the shoulder,
and for a second I feared he was going to knock our heads together.

“Hey, I don’t even know these two,” I said. “I didn’t have—”

“You’ll get your chance,” Max interrupted. “Mr. Hearst ‘ll
sort it out.” Then he turned to Chris’ friend. “What’s your name?”

“Roland,” came the immediate reply. “Roland Van Belle … the
Third.”

“Well Roland
the Third
, we’ll be paying your
headmaster a little visit. And if by some chance you aren’t behind me when we
get there, I’m gonna come looking for you. And don’t think for a second I won’t
find ya, ‘cause there isn’t an inch of this island I don’t know. And when I do
catch ya, there ain’t ever going to be a Roland the Fourth. Is that
understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now march!”

* * * * *

“Twenty-seven times,” Mr. Hearst said, leveling a decisive
gaze across his desk. “That’s how many times the clock tower rang.
Twenty-seven
times.
” He shook his bald head in disgust. “I don’t know which is worse. Having
your parents witness such a disrespectful act, or watching you jeopardize your
future over some juvenile prank that will be forgotten by week’s end.”

We were seated across from the headmaster. Mr. Lawson,
Wellington’s dean, sat to one side. Though Max hadn’t uttered a word since
herding us across the courtyard and into the headmaster’s office, I could feel
him standing behind me. My shoulder still ached from where he had grabbed me, a
grease stain marking where his hand had been.

Roland had just finished telling the headmaster what had
happened with the speed and efficiency that one administers a self-inflicted
wound. The only time he hesitated was to cast worried glances in Chris’
direction.

“We have two hundred and forty-six students at Wellington
Academy, all of whom have a great deal to accomplish by the end of the term,”
Mr. Hearst said. “The only way they can achieve their goals is if each and
every day is scheduled. And the clock tower maintains that schedule. By
disrupting it, you have increased the burden of everyone here.

“Roland, I know you have enough sense to stay clear of Chris
when he lets his rebellious streak flare. In the future, I expect better
judgment from you. If any more problems occur, you’ll find yourself with a new
roommate. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Roland replied, the embracing tone of a military
response projecting his voice.

“Jacob, it sounds like you were indeed in the wrong place at
the wrong time. But perhaps the next time you come across someone misbehaving,
you’ll be more willing to inform a teacher, or perhaps your housemaster.”

I nodded. My relief over the headmaster recognizing I wasn’t
as guilty as the others outweighed the fact that I had done nothing wrong.

The headmaster looked at each of us in earnest.

“By disrupting this school, you have taken away our time, so
now I’m going to take away yours. Your privilege to participate in
extra-curricular activities has been temporarily revoked. Starting tomorrow, in
addition to your daily chores, you will assist Mr. Erikson in restoring this
school’s facilities. You are at his complete discretion. Jacob, seeing how you
were only an accessory, you’ll be allowed to attend a sport two days a week.”

“I got just the thing for them,” said Max. “I’ve been
meaning to replace that guardrail for some time now. Got the new railing, just
haven’t had the time. They’ll see more of that tower than they ever wanted. That
is if you don’t see a problem in them being up there. It looks more dangerous
than it is.”

“The punishment fits the crime. And as for you, young man,”
Mr. Hearst said, turning to Chris. “I just had a lengthy discussion with your
father not more than an hour ago. I know all about how you get expelled or run
away from every school you’ve ever attended. But you’re on an island now—you
can only run so far. You might think you’re the first rebel to come to
Wellington, a regular Holden Caulfield at odds with the world, but I’ve seen a
hundred just like you. Your father made it very clear that if you don’t make it
here, it’s off to military school. And once you get there, you’ll be praying
for a headmaster who’s getting a little soft in his old age. I won’t delude
myself into believing I can correct your destructive behavior, but I
will
contain you. It pains me to see you endanger promising students like Roland and
Jacob here.”

The headmaster ran his hand over his head the way a person
runs their fingers through their hair—a motion that only served to wipe the
sweat from his bald head.

“You are dismissed. Don’t forget your commitment with Mr.
Erikson tomorrow. Report to the clock tower immediately after chores. I’ll
inform your coaches of your absence.” Then he added, “Chris, stay for awhile
longer, won’t you?”

“Just one thing before you go,” Mr. Lawson said as Roland
and I stood to leave. The dean had remained so quiet I had almost forgotten he
was in the room. The only time his eyes had left the headmaster was to drift
across the desk, leaping over the three of us to settle on Max.

“This school has produced its share of great men over the
years. Often times, those same individuals send their sons here, placing them
in our hands in hopes that Wellington will have the same positive influence. However,
it is my experience that the same school and the same last name are no
guarantee for success. I’m often reminded of the adage: the sons of great men
rarely attain greatness.”

Before the door shut behind us, I heard Mr. Lawson say in a
placid tone, “Mr. Forsythe, I’m sure you’re no stranger to corporal punishment.
Some consider it a bit antiquated in this day and age, perhaps even barbaric,
but I’m a firm believer. Twenty-seven seems an appropriate number, wouldn’t you
say?”

 “Oh that smells nice, three-ninety-faw,” Wellington’s
postman said, his nostrils flaring above the envelope. “I’ll bet she’s a sweet
little blonde, ain’t she? And she just so happens to wear Chanel.”

“You nailed it again, Chet,” three-ninety-four, also known
as Charles Patterson, my hall’s prefect, boasted. “Nothing gets by that nose of
yours.”

“Room number?” Chet asked in his Boston accent when I
stepped to the front of the line.

“Three-seventy-five.”

The heavyset postman responded by pushing off the counter,
wheeling his stool through the cluttered mailroom.

“Nothing faw ya, three-seventy-five,” he said, peering into
the wooden bins at the back of the room. “No, wait. Here we go.” He retrieved a
letter and a brown package, then gave the wall a solid kick and rolled back to
the counter. “1608 Brickmore Lane.” He read the return address aloud before
passing the letter beneath his nose. “Musty, from Brooklyn. Ah, and what do we
have here,” he said, lifting the package to his nose. “This is something to be
treasured, three-seventy-five. Someone really caws about ya. There’s nothing
like home-cooking.”

“It’s actually my roommate’s,” I said, noticing Benjamin’s
name on the label.

“Is that the fat little fella I see ya running around with? Well,
this here explains a lot then, don’t it, three-seventy-five?”

I caught up with Benjamin in the cafeteria where breakfast
was being served. His eyes lit up when I handed him the care package. “They
told me there would be a surprise,” he said, pushing his breakfast aside and
tearing open the package. Inside was a bag of homemade chocolate-chip cookies.

We were seated by the window that overlooked the courtyard,
the cavernous cafeteria at our backs. Benjamin absentmindedly bit into a cookie
while perusing the front page of
The Providence Journal
.

“I can’t believe we actually made the headlines,” he said.

“Headlines?”

“Right here on the front page. My mom is going to have a
conniption when she sees this. I bet she already cut the article out and taped
it to the fridge. She’s always clipping things out—cartoons, obituaries, Dear
Abby, you name it. Just look at these pictures,” he said, sliding the newspaper
across the table. “Sometimes I can hardly believe I’m here. Me, Benjamin
Bailey, in my very own palace.” He chuckled. “I never expected it to be this
fancy after being closed all those years. I bet the artwork alone is worth a
fortune.”

I started to laugh, but held my tongue when I realized he
was serious. It was my mother’s fault. She had the nose of a bloodhound when it
came to detecting the signs of dwindling wealth, a trait that, for better or
worse, had carried down to me.

At a glance, the hotel’s elegance was unavoidable: there
were chandeliers, vaulted ceilings, the lobby’s Italian marble staircase,
stuffed leather chairs, Oriental rugs, tapestries, murals and too many
fireplaces to count. All of this produced an environment of exclusive charm, a
reminder that once upon a time, men and women of good taste had spent their
finest hours here, dancing and sipping wine, dining amongst conversations and
laughter and rare works of art, leaning over balconies to take in an island
sunset before retiring to a drawn bath and bed of soft down.

But if one knew where to look, signs of a hasty,
budget-strapped renovation were everywhere. The oak wall panels were chipped,
the rugs faded, the décor mismatched, the silver tarnished. I counted at least
three hallways that had crown molding on one side but not the other; bare walls
attested to missing paintings; the straight, high-backed chairs in the
cafeteria were of wrought iron and obviously originals, but the accompanying
tables were plain, of shoddy craftsmanship, and teetered to either side. It had
been impossible to reverse the years of neglect that had settled over the
resort like a layer of fine dust.

For the first time I felt relieved that my
parents—especially Mother—had not attended the parent reception. I cringed at
the thought of having another part of her past trampled down by the passing
years. I wanted no part in undoing her memories of when she and Father were
young, memories that still lived so vividly within her.

The ringing of the clock tower rose above the clamor.

“That can’t be right,” Benjamin said, checking his watch.

“Let’s go. Class starts in five.”

We discarded our half-eaten breakfasts and hurried from the
cafeteria into the cool morning air.

“My apologies, Jacob,” Benjamin said, tugging at his tie. “It’s
my fault we’re late.”

“Don’t sweat it. You’ll do better tomorrow.”

“But I ought to know how to tie my own tie. Boy, I hate
being late! Especially to our first class.”

We walked along the edge of Oak Yard in our beige trousers, dark
ties and navy blue jackets with a “WA” embroidered on the lapel. Oak Yard hadn’t
been the only part of the Eastbridge campus to be salvaged. Each wing of the
hotel had inherited the name of one of Wellington’s dormitories: Kirkland,
Buchanan, Bowers and Patterson Halls now overlooked the courtyard.

We were ascending the steps of Kirkland Hall when an
upperclassman in front of us said over his shoulder, “Six formers only. Get
lost, newbies.”

“Get lost, yourself,” Benjamin retorted.

Those words, probably more defiant than Benjamin had
intended, caused both the upperclassman and the guy beside him to turn around.

“What did you say?” His face, suntanned from the summer, had
the smug look of superiority. It didn’t help that we were two steps below him. “This
is the Senior’s Door. Only
seniors
can walk through.”

“But our class!” Benjamin cried. “We’ll be late!”

“But our class, we’ll be late!” the boy mimicked.

Benjamin started to protest further, but his words became a
grunt when the boy shoved him in the chest. His friend paid me the same
courtesy, sending us stumbling down the stairs into a group of upperclassmen.

“But we’ll be late for sure,” Benjamin persisted, glancing
at his watch.

“Just ‘cause mommy and daddy paid the big bucks doesn’t mean
you don’t have to pay your dues,” the boy in the doorway said. “And I know
you’re fresh off the boat, ‘cause I’d recognize that fat face anywhere.”

Everyone around us laughed.

“But—”

“Let’s just get out of here,” I said. “We can use the side
door.”

With a final glance at his watch, Benjamin turned and made
his way through the crowd. Neither of us said a word until we had crossed
Kirkland Yard.

“Isn’t that the stupidest thing you’ve ever heard?” Benjamin
fumed, looking back at the dispersing crowd. “A perfectly good door we can’t even
use.”

When the clock tower sounded three successive gongs, indicating
the start of first period, we dropped any pretense of not being in a hurry and
broke into a sprint. I trailed Benjamin, his backpack flopping from side to
side to exaggerate his already awkward run. The squeak of our tread over polished
floors echoed down the empty hall. I watched the agonizingly slow increment of
room numbers, and just beyond, through opaque glass, the silhouettes of
students sitting straight-postured at their desks.

We arrived at the classroom just as the teacher was closing
the door.

“In a rush to learn about European history, are we?” he
asked.

“—watch was … off by … eight minutes—” Benjamin said, out of
breath.

“—couldn’t go through … Senior’s Door—” I added.

The teacher opened the door and with a grand sweep of his
hand, beckoned us inside. “You’ve come to the right place, gentlemen. Please be
seated. All I ask is that in the future you be more punctual, now that your
watch is properly set and you know which door to use.”

We took our seats at the back of the room.

“Most of you probably came here expecting to find Mr.
Donaldson,” the teacher said from the front of the class. “But apparently
living on an island didn’t appeal to him. So instead of Mr. Donaldson, you have
me, Mr. O’Leary, ready to amaze you with the trivialities of history in, of all
places, the shadow of a lighthouse.

“I’ve spent the past six years at Wheaton, so I’m afraid my
knowledge of Wellington doesn’t extend much farther than the football field,
where you have defeated us more years than any Wheaton alumni would ever admit.
So I’m teaching at a school I know nothing about, which, as a history teacher,
makes my skin crawl. So before we begin, I would be most grateful if someone
could share a few facts, or rumors for that matter, about Wellington Academy.”

“Yes,” Mr. O’Leary said, calling on a raised hand.

“It’s been around forever. Both my father and grandfather
went here.”

“What’s your name, young man?”

“Nathan Holmes.”

“Nathan, you’re in a history class. I’m afraid you’ll have
to be more specific than
forever
. As I recall from the headmaster’s
speech, last year was the centennial—”

“Raker Lighthouse is even older,” Benjamin blurted out
without raising his hand. “It’s a Rhode Island historical landmark.”

“You talk like a native,” Mr. O’Leary said, not seeming to
mind the interruption.

“Born and raised in Providence. Home of the Friars.”

Mr. O’Leary smiled. “Not to mention its share of
longshoremen. Anyone else have something to add? No? Well let’s see what
Wellington:
One Hundred Years in the Making
has to say,” he said, opening a book on his
desk. “‘Founded in 1880 when Dr. Richard Kirkland, Eastbridge’s general
practitioner, turned his two-story farmhouse into a boarding school. The school
was originally called Seven Oaks, a name derived from the seven oak trees in
the rear of the Kirkland house. As Dr. Kirkland’s reputation for teaching grew,
fathers from as far as Hartford sent their sons off to study “in the country”
at Seven Oaks.’

“Sounds quintessential Americana to me, wouldn’t you say? Who
wrote this, anyway?” he asked, turning the book over. “Daniel Shard. I wonder what
makes him such an expert. Ian Helding scribed the history of Wheaton. I
actually know Ian quite well. He’s a good man. An honest man. But for some
reason, he chose to leave out those football games against Wellington that were
over by halftime. He didn’t lie about it; he simply chose not to include it. That
doesn’t make it wrong, does it?

“I wonder if there’s anything glossed over in here,” he
said, flipping through the pages. “Perhaps a few embarrassing losses that go
unmentioned? Not to deceive, of course, but merely to maintain the dignity of
one’s alma mater? Certainly there’s no harm in that, is there? Who wants to
read about the bad times when there are so many good things to cherish? But if certain
events are edited, perhaps even omitted altogether, how much trust can we put
in the printed word?”

He placed the book back on his desk.

“How much
unofficial
history do you think there is in
the events that shaped Europe over the past three hundred years? Do we place
our trust in Napoleon’s memoirs, written from exile at St. Helena, which
glorifies war and his attempt to unite Europe? Or do we listen to the grieving
widows and mothers, weeping over a generation of Europe’s lost sons?”

Mr. O’Leary sauntered toward the back of the class, stopping
beside my desk.

“Who writes history, anyway? As Carl von Clausewitz so aptly
penned, ‘history has been written by the victors.’ Not by the vanquished, not
by the downtrodden. Nations, like individuals, are quite capable of living in
denial. Patriotism to a nation is pride to the individual.”

Mr. O’Leary’s gaze swept the classroom. “Patriotism is
pride, multiplied by the millions of her citizens. An event that threatens
either can easily be forgotten, whether by the historian, or the conscience.”

When his gaze met mine, I lowered my eyes.

“Did France achieve glory, or atrocity?” Mr. O’Leary asked,
returning to the front of the class. “There was no holocaust, no extermination
of a race to give us an easy answer. Or, some have argued, was it merely a
by-product of the Revolution? Better to die on the battlefield than by the
guillotine. But was France’s glory worth all the lives lost? And how much of
Europe still bears the scars?”

Mr. O’Leary let this settle in.

“It is my job to present the facts. It is your job to
decipher them. There will be no fence-sitters in my classroom. To not have an
opinion is to not be informed. What lies behind the pages of Wellington’s
history? Was Napoleon a genius, or a madman? Or both?

“So, let’s get started, shall we?”

* * * * *

I silently gave thanks to Perry, my father’s chauffeur, for
teaching me the contents of a basic toolset. It had been Perry who had driven
me to Miskapaug to board the ferry for my first day at Wellington. His dark,
steady gaze in the rearview mirror was ingrained in my earliest memories. I
couldn’t imagine him doing anything but driving down the road, bobbing his bald
head to his favorite jazz beat, which, as he told me once during a rare
conversation, was what he had been doing some fifteen years earlier while
rushing my expectant mother to the hospital. According to Perry, I had come
within minutes of being born in the limo’s backseat to John Coltrane’s
He
Beeped When He Shoulda Bopped
.

“Congratulations, you’re my ace,” Max said when I correctly
identified a socket wrench. “When I got my head in the gears and call out a
tool, I want it in my hand. You two are my grunts,” he said, turning to Chris
and Roland. “You’re going to replace every inch of this guardrail, top to
bottom. That’s right, Bellringer,” he said, getting in Chris’ face. “We’ll see
what you think of this tower after marching up and down these stairs all
afternoon. It’ll make your whippin’ feel like a day in the park.