The Keeper of Dawn (26 page)

I kept expecting to see water or maybe even the coastline,
but there was no end to the clouds. It felt like we should be there by now, but
time had become indefinite, as hard to measure as everything else. I found it
difficult to disbelieve my senses. Staring into the never-ending tunnel of
gray, the vertigo began to set in. I closed my eyes, but this wasn’t enough. I
sank into one of the seats in the back and put my head between my knees. I had felt
safe watching Chris work the controls. I wanted to run up and ask him where we
were, but my biggest fear was that he was as lost as I was. If we were too
high, how would we know when we reached the coast?

When the helicopter veered left, I stood up and peered out
the window. Below us were trees, then a road, followed by a row of beach
houses. My sense of direction was telling me we were going farther inland, but
I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t find any landmarks—only open fields and dark
trees—but then the coast swept into view.

Chris swung us back around and followed the road. We waited
for the beach houses to give way to Miskapaug, but the town never appeared. Finally
Chris pulled up and hovered above a field near the highway.

“We can’t go back!” Roland shouted.

Chris gave him a strange look.

“We can’t go back! We won’t be able to find the island!”

“I’ll find it!” Chris assured him.

Roland shook his head. “If you can’t find Miskapaug, you’ll
never find Raker! Not in this storm! We’ll get lost! We should go with Jake!”

“And leave the Pelican? No way! We’re going back!”

Now that we had made it, I didn’t want to leave them. Everything
had happened too quickly. Getting off the island had loomed as such a
farfetched possibility that I hadn’t considered what to do once we reached the
coast.

“Find Miskapaug!” Chris shouted, noticing my hesitation. “It
can’t be more than a mile! If you can’t get a taxi, you’ll have to hitchhike! You
got money, right?”

I felt my jacket and nodded.

“Then you’ll be fine!” He smiled. “Didn’t I tell you I’d get
you here?”

“I owe you one!”

He shook his head. “You don’t owe me shit, Hawthorne! Now
get out of here!”

“You ever jump out of a perfectly good helicopter, soldier?”
Roland asked with a John Wayne accent.

“No, sir!”

It took both of us to open the door. The rain came shrieking
in; the rotors screamed in my ears. I jumped to the ground and backed away. The
wind made it an effort to look back, but I caught one last look at them before
they swung out of view. Chris was bent over the controls, his face illuminated
in the cockpit’s ghostly light. Roland stared straight ahead as they circled
around and flew across the ocean.

When I turned toward the highway, a gust of wind swept
across the field, dislodging the wad of money from my jacket. Before I could
stop it, a cloud of dollar bills exploded into the air. I yelled and waved my
arms, grabbing for the money. My eyes hadn’t had time to adjust to the dark,
and by the time I found the flashlight at the bottom of my pack, most of the
money had scattered across the field. I hunted through the mud and tall grass,
but only recovered five dollars.

I made my way out to the road. The strength of the storm
surprised me. In all the rush I had forgotten to bring an umbrella, and the
cold rain stung my skin and got in my eyes.

Despite the lost money, I couldn’t stop thinking about
Roland and Chris. How would they ever find the island? What if they went out
too far and got lost?

When a light flashed over my shoulder, I assumed it was more
lightning. But when it began to flash in a repetitive pattern, I turned and
looked back. On the horizon a distant light shone through the clouds. At first
I thought it was the helicopter—Chris and Roland had come back for me. But this
light rotated, disappearing before coming back around and, for an instant,
shining in my eyes. Then, quite suddenly, I knew: Raker’s eye, blinded for so
many years, once again shone forth from the island.

I stood on the shoulder of the dark highway. Somewhere to my
left lay Miskapaug and a late-night search for a taxi or bus, neither of which
would get me out of Rhode Island for five bucks, let alone to New York. In the
opposite direction was the empty road and the distant possibility of hitching a
ride: which, the longer I considered it, was my only option. Though the promise
of a town seemed like the obvious choice, it would be pointless without money. I
would be hitchhiking regardless. I might as well be going in the right
direction.

I walked the shoulder of the road, following the thin beam
of my flashlight. When a dollar bill blew across the highway, I scooped it up
and jammed it in my pocket. The rain refused to let up. I vaguely remembered
not having eaten dinner, which triggered a concert of rumbles from my stomach. I
ate two of Derek’s candy bars which brought little satisfaction. Every so often
a car went by, and for a few hopeful seconds my outstretched thumb was
illuminated in the blinding glare of its headlights. But on this road of
abandoned beach houses, no one stopped.

The road wound back and forth in frustrating curves. I
remembered it being a pleasant drive in the car, but it was a nuisance on foot,
undermining my already slow progress. When it finally stopped raining, I could
hear the ocean again, the waves a reminder that I was no farther from the coast
than when I had started. My clothes clung to my skin, and despite the
unseasonably warm temperature, a numbness had crept into my toes, making me
feel clubfooted as I plodded ahead.

Time was against me. Whatever hope I had of catching a ride
diminished with each passing car. Though it was too late to turn around, I
regretted not having gone to Miskapaug. The farther I went, the more tempting
it became to stop. After all, what was the point of continuing? It wasn’t like
I could walk to New York. It was nearing midnight, and what little traffic
there had been had disappeared. In the end, it was my friends who kept me
putting one foot in front of the other. How could I stop when they had risked
so much?

The darkness of a country highway fell over me when the
flashlight died. Though the storm had passed, clouds still blotted the sky. Wasn’t
there a town up ahead? I couldn’t remember. Nothing looked familiar. The
monotony was interrupted when I came across a vacant gas station. Most of the
windows were broken; weeds had risen through the cracked cement. A nearby
streetlight flickered and hissed, illuminating the graffitied “Pump-and-Go”
sign.

I sat with my back to the building. I was so tired that the
concrete felt comfortable, and the longer I remained, the more difficult it
became to get back up. How far had I traveled? Three miles? Maybe four? I
closed my eyes and imagined riding in Derek’s convertible, the dashed lines of
the highway streaming by in a continuous blur. More than food, even more than
sleep, I desired effortless motion. Somewhere in the distance arose the steady
purr of an engine, and I imagined the miles ticking down one by one …

I must have dozed off, for when I lifted my head, a car was
parked at the pump. The driver was eyeing the deserted gas station as if he
couldn’t believe his luck.

“Hey kid,” he said, rolling down the passenger window. “You
know where I can get some gas? I’m running on fumes here.”

Still drowsy, I approached the idling car, stepping lightly
on the blister on my heel. The car looked like a Cadillac from the sixties. It
didn’t have any hubcaps, and the rear tire looked to be a spare. When a low
cough sounded from beneath the hood, I was reminded of Perry, my father’s
chauffeur. “It’s running with a hitch. It’ll ride about like I walk,” I
imagined him saying, referring to his bad knee that would stiffen up after long
car rides.

“I’m not really familiar with the area,” I said.

At the sound of my voice, a short-haired dog with a black,
snub-nosed face sat up in the passenger seat, its breath fogging up the
half-rolled down window.

“Well, thanks,” the man said, putting the car in gear.

“Actually, I was kind of looking for a ride.”

The man looked back at me. “Oh,” he said. Then he turned and
studied the windshield.

I was close enough now to see that he was beginning to lose
his hair. It wasn’t receding like Father’s, but thinning, with spots of scalp
showing through.

“I have some money,” I offered.

“Where you headed?”

“A funeral. I mean New York. I’m going to New York.”

“A
funeral
?” He looked at me again, his gaze taking
in my wet, muddy clothes.

“If you can get me even remotely close to there …”

Though the man didn’t say anything, he was nodding. Whether
it was my ragged appearance or the absurdity of hitchhiking to a funeral, I
seemed to have gained either his pity or his trust.

“What the hell. Hop in. I can get you to New London. That’s
assuming we don’t run out of gas.”

Down the empty stretch of highway we drove, the headlights
shining off the slick blacktop. The Cadillac sat low to the ground and didn’t
have much in the way of shocks, for even the smooth highway felt bumpy. But I
didn’t mind. Compared to walking, the miles felt effortless.

Neither of us spoke during the thirteen miles to the next
gas station. As the man filled up, to which I contributed two dollars, I looked
at the nearby payphone, knowing one phone call would end it all. Regardless of
what Father had told her, Mother would do everything in her power to get me
home once she learned I was hitchhiking. A car would pull up in a few hours and
I would be whisked back to Long Island. But when my hand reached for the door
handle, Chris’ words came back to me:
You’ll see what I’m talking about when
you show up at that cemetery tomorrow and look your father dead in the eye
.

I had to get back on my own. I had to prove that I no longer
needed him.

We left the rural highway and merged onto I-95. The welcome
sign to Connecticut gave me confidence for the first time since landing in the
helicopter. It was nearing four in the morning, and the ten miles to New London
went by quickly. The storm had passed, but the night was still damp. The only
sound besides the unsteady hitch of the engine was kicked-up water from passing
semis.

The man dropped me off at a truck stop just off the
interstate, saying that I should be able to get a lift from one of the
truckers. I thanked him for the ride and threaded my way through a maze of
eighteen-wheelers.

Dolly’s Diner was in full swing. Truckers lined the bar, cigarettes
and coffee close at hand. The one nearest me cast a hunted glance down the bar
before removing a silver flask from his leather jacket, which he used to top
off his coffee. He swirled his drink with a dirty finger before taking a sip. When
he looked up and saw me watching, he smiled a toothless grin, his open stare
drilling through my numbness and fatigue.

I went to a corner booth and skimmed the menu. The
combination of bright lights, country music and smell of frying bacon jolted me
out of my stupor. Though I felt everyone’s eyes on me, it was good to be around
people again. I searched the bar for a sympathetic face, dreading the moment
when I would have to ask for a ride.

A pear-shaped woman who smelled of grease and cigarettes
took my order, her eyes never lifting from her notepad.

“You got money, right?”

“Yes,” I said, reaching into my pocket.

“I believe you. Hate to ask, but sometimes you never can
tell.”

I sat and watched the trucks thunder by. How many all-night
diners were there between here and New York? How many hitchhikers strung out
from a night of no sleep? Was I the only one spending their last crumpled
dollar bill? I had seven hours to travel just under a hundred miles. All I
needed was one or two more rides. But something stronger than sleep deprivation
made me doubt I would ever get home.

Grandpa had died and everyone was going about their lives
like nothing had happened. It was disrespectful that I hadn’t learned of his
death until days afterward. I would still be at Wellington if David hadn’t
called. I vowed not to disrespect Grandpa’s memory by pretending nothing was
wrong. The quick ride to New London felt like cheating. The truth was that I
wanted to hitchhike. I wanted to walk for miles in the rain. My own misery
would prevent me from forgetting what had happened.

I devoured my breakfast. I procrastinated asking for a ride
by flipping through the business section of
The Providence Journal
—the
same paper that had dubbed us the Headliners. I convinced myself that if I
looked up, instead of a room full of sullen waitresses and callous truck
drivers, Chris, Roland and Derek would be there. It would be September again,
and our fathers would be in the headlines.

“You done with the Sports, fella?” a deep voice asked.

Two booths over sat a bear of a man. His hands rested on an
unopened menu, palms up, like turtles overturned on their shells. He wore a
baseball hat low on his forehead, the bill curled down as if he wished to keep
the diner’s bright lights out of his eyes. He would have looked more at home
with the other truckers at the bar, but he sat alone in this booth not far from
mine, alert despite the early hour.

“Much obliged,” he said when I brought him the Sports
section.

I returned to my seat and continued perusing the paper with
little interest. It was at Wellington that I had gotten in the habit of reading
the morning paper, but it no longer seemed necessary. It still felt like
evening, and the paper (though it was yesterday’s) marked the end of the day.

“Well, if it isn’t old Sal,” the waitress said, coming over
to the man’s booth. “By the way, I’m mad at you.”

“How come?” the man asked, setting the paper down.

“
How come
? Why do you think, how come? It’s been
three weeks,” she said, holding up three fingers. “
Three weeks
. You think
I wouldn’t notice?”

“Ah, they went and changed up my route. Had me going all the
way to Ohio.”

“Ohio? What’s in Ohio?”

“Timbuktu, that’s what.” Sal smiled. “Maybe I’ll take you
there someday.”

“Promises, promises …” the waitress said, making me wonder
how it could be the same wary-eyed woman who had served me.

“But I’m back on my old route,” Sal said, as if nothing
could make him happier. “You’ll be seeing plenty of me. Probably get sick of
me.”

“Oh I doubt that. You want the regular?”

“Don’t you know it. And don’t be forgetting that waffle. The
wife has me on another diet, but what she don’t know won’t hurt her.”

“She’s a gem,” Sal said after the waitress had left. “The
heart and soul of this place. Takes a special person to clear dishes and refill
coffee two hours before dawn.”

The waitress brought out Sal’s food in half the time it had
taken mine, and after another volley of flirtations, she left him to his
breakfast. Sal removed his baseball cap and stuffed a napkin down the front of
his shirt, though it covered only a fraction of his broad chest. Finding little
interest in the headlines, I kept glancing over at him, disregarding Mother’s
chiding that she could think of nothing ruder than watching someone eat. Though
he never looked up from his plate, Sal seemed to know I was watching him.

“My one remaining vice,” he said, taking a drink of coffee. “No
more booze. No more smokes.” He turned and cast a longing glance at the bar. “Just
coffee.”

“Where you headed?” I asked.

“Providence to Trenton,” he replied, disregarding the empty
booth between us. “My old route. Two hundred eleven miles with one stop in
between. Can do it in just under five hours on a good day. It can get a little
dicey in the afternoon, but she’s smooth sailing in the morning.”

“You call this morning?”

He smiled and wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, a
quick motion that made a sound like sandpaper over wood. “What gets me is the
paper. They don’t get ‘em out until five, sometimes five-thirty. I like my
paper with breakfast, but here I am, reading yesterday’s news.” He shook his
head. “Always a day behind.”

The waitress returned to refill Sal’s coffee. “You okay?”
she asked me, and I nodded.

Sal lifted the coffee cup to his lips. “Can give you a lift
if you’re heading west.”

“Really? That’s … that’s great. I’m going to New York.”

“Can get you as far as Greenwich. Have an hour pit-stop in
New Haven to unload. Will hit Greenwich at seven-thirty. Give or take.”

“That’s great. Thanks. Thank you. I’m actually in a hurry. The
thing is—”

Sal stopped me by raising a thick-knuckled finger in my
direction. “A good-looking kid going from New London to New York on Sunday
morning. Probably going to church.” He returned his attention to his Belgian
waffle. “Some things I don’t need to know.”

I joined Sal as he finished breakfast. He sweat while he
ate, as if the act of raising a fork to his lips was an effort. As he was
paying the bill (which he hadn’t bothered to look at), a girl about my age
entered the diner. She was stunning. Her hat and scarf—both a bright
yellow—danced in my vision. She went straight to the bar and spoke with one of
the waitresses, pointing at a display case of pastries. The crowd of truckers,
the cloud of smoke, even the early hour, seemed like such an unlikely place for
her. I felt guilty just for looking at her, for letting my eyes linger on this
dash of pleasure thrown into my bleak, unending day.

Sal picked up on my stare and twisted around in the booth. “That’ll
put a spring in your step.” He smiled. “Why, you should see yourself. Looks
like you’ve had about four of these.” He rattled his empty coffee cup.

Embarrassed, I looked away.