The Keeper of Dawn (3 page)

“Off with those ties,” Max told us. “They’ll just get in
your way. That’s it, let ‘em loose. Roll up your sleeves while you’re at it. Let
your arms breathe.” Max led by example, the sleeves of his flannel rolled up to
the elbow. “Now use those wrenches like I showed you,” he instructed when Chris
and Roland had joined us at the tower’s peak. A fresh toothpick dangled from
his lips, his reddish hair and graying sideburns dulled to the same rusted
color of the surrounding ironwork. “Those joints are corroded, so they’ll be
stubborn. If they don’t budge, you’ll have to jolt ‘em loose with a hammer.”

Only when Chris and Roland had twisted and hammered till
they were red in the face did Max emerge from the clock’s gears, take up the
wrench, and with a mighty heave that made his forearms bulge, twisted the joint
loose. “Once you’ve got this apart, take it to the maintenance shed and put it
behind the tarmac next to those tires I showed ya. Then bring up the new, as
much as you can carry.”

Then Max was back beneath the gears, occasionally calling
out for a tool, only emerging to watch Roland and Chris make the final, arduous
steps. He did little to conceal his enjoyment at watching the sons of a
governor and a four-star general do his dirty work. For two hours that
afternoon, the entire class structure was reversed. Despite spending the
previous eight years in the governor’s mansion, Chris was forced to do the
bidding of a lowly maintenance man in the narrow heights of a malfunctioning
clock tower.

Max had the clock synchronized to the bell (“Iron Lungs,” as
we had begun to call it) the following morning, which meant that the leisurely
hours of handing him tools were over. He rejoined his team renovating Bowers
and Buchanan Hall, leaving me to haul guardrail alongside Chris and Roland on
those afternoons when I wasn’t trying my best to fit in on the football field.

Despite being a perennial contender for the
All Saints’
Sword
—the Round Table Conference’s championship trophy—Wellington had been
removed from athletic competition after announcing it would transfer its campus
to Raker Island. The field’s poor condition and lack of facilities were as much
a deciding factor as the island itself. Because the decision to transfer hadn’t
occurred until late spring, the nearby independent schools had already filled
their fall schedules, leaving Wellington without athletic competition for the
first time since Dr. Kirkland had taught there. The nail in the coffin had been
when the athletic director resigned, taking with him the invaluable connections
he carried around in his back pocket.

But football was so ingrained in Wellington that an
intramural league was established, with the four halls competing against one
another. This might have worked better had the hall assignments not determined
the football squads. Patterson Hall housed the defensive secondary, Buchanan
and Kirkland the offensive and defensive lines respectively, leaving Bowers
Hall with the offensive backfield. As a result, Saturdays’ games were perhaps
the most lopsided in the school’s history.

A confusion of white and blue jerseys collided before
veering toward open field—or in our case—fairway. Wellington’s football field occupied
what used to be the resort’s golf course, the end zones hedged between a
dried-up water hole and the swell of the fourteenth green. Despite the invasion
of knee-high prairie grass, the landscape had a manicured consistency. The
hills looked strategically dropped into place, the rise and fall of the land
guided by man’s hand. Coach Thurman barked orders from the sidelines in attempt
to dredge up some semblance of organization to the adolescent mob that careened
across the field.

Having participated in only two practices, I spent most of
the game watching Buchanan Hall’s high-powered offense steamroll down the
field. By the time I subbed in for our strong safety, William Foster, who
twisted his ankle late in the third quarter, I found myself amidst a frustrated
defense playing a game that had already been lost.

When the ball was hiked, Roger Elsner, Wellington’s all-conference
left guard, broke through the line on a post-pattern. Since he was no longer able
to push around two hundred and fifty pound nose tackles, Roger was trying his
hands out as wide receiver. And for a big guy, he was surprisingly quick. He
snatched the ball from the air, stiff-armed Hawkins to the ground, and barreled
in my direction. Roger’s game-face—clenched teeth accentuated by a guttural
yell—filled my vision. My feet froze in place, conveying to the world that I
was a non-combatant mistakenly placed on the field of battle.

Roger ran straight at me. Was he aiming for me? He
looked
like he was aiming for me, and I doubted I could have avoided him if I turned
and ran into the end zone that I was supposed to be
defending at all cost
,
as Coach Thurman had bellowed at his defensive squad in an ironclad voice that
never dropped below a shout. The inevitable bone-crunching collision somehow
ended with me draped across Roger’s shoulders, the end zone jolting up and down
as we thundered unchallenged down the field. As the strength left my arms, I
slid down to cling to his waist. My legs, sensing danger was near, came to life
and lifted free of Roger’s cleats that stamped and churned the ground below.

I still maintained my grip even after he eased into the end
zone. When his teammates rushed him, I was caught up in the fray, the only blue
jersey among the white, feeling foolish and celebratory at the same time. I
even exchanged a high-five before scurrying back to the Patterson sideline.

Coach Thurman, confusing my avoidance of getting trampled as
determination to make the tackle, kept me in for the rest of the game. My legs
were still fresh when the ball was thrown deep, and I went after it at a full
sprint. My teammate, Loosy-Goosy and I were guarding the receiver, and when I
jumped for the ball, we collided in midair. The only memory I have of those
split seconds was hearing a brittle snap rise above the cheering crowd, ringing
in my head long after the play ended. After they took Loosy-Goosy off the
field, ashen-faced and screaming, I felt the collective stare of Patterson Hall
all the way back to the locker room.

My fears were confirmed Monday morning when John Bixley,
Patterson’s nose tackle, shoved me into the wall on the way to geometry. “You
listen good, Hawthorne,” he said, his big hand pinning my head to the wood
veneer. “From now on, every practice is gonna be living hell. You hear me?
Living
hell
. We’re gonna hit you harder than you’ve ever been hit. All of us from
the old school got your number.”

I wasn’t aware I had a bloody nose until Mr. Haverty stopped
in the middle of proving the Pythagorean Theorem. “Jacob, are you bleeding?”

My hand went to my nose, which was sticky with blood. “Oh,
it’s nothing. I get these all the time.”

“Well, go clean yourself up. And don’t dawdle in the halls.”

I proceeded to Buchanan Hall’s lavatory and pressed a paper
towel to my nose. With my head tilted back, a message on one of the stall doors
caught my eye.

The man that hath no music in himself,

Nor is not mov’d with concord of sweet sounds,

Is not squeezing hard enough.

I surprised myself by laughing. Still smiling, I removed the
blood-splotched paper towel from my nose and threw it in the trash. On the way
out, I stopped to examine myself in the mirror. My reflection looked tired,
maybe even a little scared, but the bleeding had stopped. I went to the window.
It felt unusual to be there, alone, in my own private space, away from
the
group
, with nothing in the halls but silence. For the first time since
setting foot on Raker Island, Wellington felt far away.

I looked out at the empty courtyard, trying not to think of
the hazing stories that circulated through the school. Nicknames were prevalent
at Wellington, but Charles Patterson, also known as Loosy-Goosy whenever he was
out of earshot, was the name that kept running through my mind. What he lacked
in physical stature, he compensated for in authority. From his spacious room at
the end of the hall, he frequently abused his position as Patterson Hall’s
prefect by granting favors to his friends, and reporting insignificant
infractions to those who crossed him. But in the face of authority,
particularly around the headmaster, Charles Patterson would go all
“loosy-goosy”, like the air had been sucked out of him. It wasn’t a coincidence
that he lived in Patterson Hall. According to Derek, Loosy-Goosy’s father was
the owner of one of the largest Macintosh apple orchards in Maine and had given
Wellington such a large endowment that it would have been rude if they hadn’t
named one of the dorms after him.

Later that evening, when I saw his slender arm in a cast—a
much bulkier object than was ever intended for his delicate body—I knew that
the days of flying beneath his radar were over.

* * * * *

“My name is Andre Chen and I’m from Hong Kong. I have been
to twenty-two countries, four continents and six states in the U.S. My
favorites are Madagascar, Asia and Utah. My favorite animal is the chameleon
because it changes colors and its eyes maneuver independently of one another. The
chameleon is indigenous to Madagascar.”

Andre Chen stood at the head of Mr. O’Leary’s class looking
more like a kid-brother than someone my own age. Despite his appearance,
something predatory lurked in his quiet demeanor that made me uneasy. He spoke
without inhibition and already seemed to know exactly what he wanted out of
life.

“I collect coins. My favorite is ancient Rome’s Silver
Denarius. I always carry it with me.” He patted his shirt pocket. “I’ve never
seen a snowfall. I get carsick, but not airsick or seasick. I have a twin
sister who is nothing like me.”

No acne marred his face, no puberty cracked his voice, yet
his mind and personality had developed, leaving his body leagues behind. More
than once Andre spoke in conflicting voices, stating an adult ambition only to
follow it with a childlike admission. “I’m going to be an inventor, like a
modern-day Benjamin Franklin, whose accomplishments will be used to improve our
quality of life. My favorite character in
Star Wars
is Chewbacca.”

Mr. O’Leary started his class each morning with a student
sharing their “history”. He left it to our discretion what we considered this
to be—trivial or profound, whimsical or traumatic—as long as it shed light on
some past event.

Instead of looking slovenly or unkempt, Mr. O’Leary’s beard—brown
with a hint of early gray—further refined his appearance into that of a
dignified gentleman, or perhaps more appropriately, a distinguished scholar. It
gave him the roundness of maturity that his otherwise sharp-edged features and
decisive gaze did not possess. Watching him tug at the edges of his beard while
deep in thought, it became apparent that he struggled with concepts just as we
struggled, and that even his great mind occasionally failed to grasp the
meaning of some complexity.

Mr. O’Leary watched Andre Chen take his seat without a flicker
of emotion, quite unlike his disposition during formal dinner. Four nights a
week the student body, dressed in Wellington’s navy blue blazers and dark ties,
sat in assigned seats and dined with the faculty. I, along with Benjamin and
five other underclassmen from Patterson, were assigned to Mr. O’Leary’s table. In
his tweed sports jacket and button-down shirt casually open at the collar, Mr.
O’Leary took a special interest in first-year students. After the plates had
been cleared, he would lean back in his chair and talk of his childhood in Ohio,
or of his travels abroad while completing his postgraduate work in London.

“I noticed you didn’t get much playing time Saturday,” he
mentioned one evening after the others had left. I had been assigned as our
table’s “crumber” and was clearing the dishes. “Patterson’s smaller than the
other halls, but they’ve got spirit.”

“You come to the games?”

He laughed. “Where else would I go? Since I’m no longer
traveling with the fencing team, I’ve turned into an avid football fan.”

“I’m on probation, so they don’t let me play much,” I
admitted, suspecting Mr. O’Leary was aware of my involvement in ringing Iron
Lungs, as anything noteworthy spread through the school like wildfire.

“Have you ever considered changing sports?”

“Let me guess …”

“Fencing?” he said, smiling. “We have room for you. Seeing
how everyone lives and breathes football around here, I’m sure Coach Thurman
has enough players. What do you say?”

I was on the verge of agreeing, but something about Mr.
O’Leary made me distrustful. It was like I had been thrust onto a movie set
where the troubled student is confronted by the teacher who will reach out and
change their life in some profound way. Mr. O’Leary was too good to be true. He
didn’t have to ask who was getting along at Wellington. Though he did his best
to include us, Benjamin and I were always seated farthest from the
conversation. Night after night, Benjamin sat with his tie loosely constructed,
his forced attempts at conversation taking the form of long bouts of silence
and sullen “uh-huhs,” broken up by tirades of unrelated topics that left the
table smothered in silence.

“Though it’s nothing like the time in Boy Scouts when we
hiked in the Adirondacks. It rained two days straight without letting up a
single drop. I was the only one who could get the campfire started. One time I
even did it without any matches at all! Everyone accused me of using my
glasses, you know, to catch the sunlight, but I didn’t. I just blew on the
coals from the night before, and poof! Up went the flames, just like magic. Alikazam!
No one believed me, but I always play fair and square. I always …”