The Keeper of Dawn (9 page)

“What was all that about?” he asked.

“You know the kid with the cast?”

“The one I pushed?”

“Yeah. I’m the one who broke his arm.”

“Oh.”

“It was an accident. It happened during football. That’s the
real reason they’re after me, but they used the excuse of trespassing in
Oak
Yard
.”

Max shook his head.

“The kids from the old school take it pretty seriously. I
guess they figure it’ll be around a long time.”

Max gazed into the rain. “Nothing stays here for long. Nothing
but that lighthouse.”

I looked up into the cloud-filled sky as another round of
thunder crashed overhead.

“Storms out of the south are the worst,” Max said. “But they
move in a hurry over water. It shouldn’t be long.”

The storm didn’t interest me as much as the fact that Max
seemed to know so much about the island. He talked like he had spent his entire
life here. I thought back to what he had told Roland after catching us in the
clock tower.
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.

Trapped in the gazebo with no work to do, Max opened up to
conversation, which came in spurts of unrelated small talk. Neither of us were
in a hurry to leave, for Loosy-Goosy’s umbrella lay at our feet, and the rain
had lessened enough to reveal the walls of the courtyard.

The storm left the island as quickly as it arrived. The sun
shone brokenly through the passing clouds, reflecting off small pools of
runoff. The frogs lining the fountain continued to spit their streams, spilling
water onto the sidewalk.

“Looks like we don’t have to stay the night after all,” Max
said. “I wouldn’t let it bother you that they got the best of you. If you give
me their names, I can report it first thing to Mr. Lawson.”

“That might make it worse.”

“Figured as much. Some things you have to fight on your
own.” He stepped from the gazebo and retrieved the walkie-talkie. “She still
works,” he said, holding it to his ear.

Then he turned and, with his head down, returned to the
lighthouse.

Sections of the
New York Times
lay spread across the
table. Of Roland, I could only see his fingers curled around the edges of the
Perspective
section. Chris tossed grapes above his head and caught them in his mouth,
looking down every so often at the day’s headlines. Derek’s breakfast sat
untouched, steam rising from a stack of pancakes as he perused a column of
stock quotes. Derek’s father was founder and CEO of The Sentinel, a company
that had made a killing in home security systems. They had recently issued
their IPO, and there wasn’t a morning that went by when Derek didn’t check
their stock price.

I was reading the New York Court of Appeals ruling in the
highly publicized affirmative action case involving Columbia University. Alicia
Simms, a twenty-year-old white female, had filed a lawsuit against Columbia
claiming that despite being valedictorian of her graduating class and scoring
in the top one percent on the SAT, she had been denied acceptance due to
admission quotas. Over the course of several years, the case had made its way
to the New York Court of Appeals, which had ruled 5-3 in Alicia Simms’ favor. When
I read the court majority’s ruling, it was my father’s voice that spoke the
words:

The state shall not discriminate against, or grant preferential
treatment toward, any individual or group on the basis of race, sex, color,
ethnicity or national origin in operation of public employment, public
education or public contracting. The goal of the 14
^th
Amendment, to
which the nation continues to aspire, is a political system in which race no
longer matters. A system which permits one judge to block with the stroke of a
pen what is clearly defined in the Constitution tests the integrity of our
democracy.

I read the article in its entirety, recalling Mother’s
advice to stay abreast of Father’s cases, as nothing was more embarrassing than
being informed of a ruling by someone outside the family.

My eyes strayed across the cafeteria to where Benjamin sat
gazing out the window. I had tried convincing him to join us, but he refused. Ever
since the lighthouse, he had drawn in on himself. Though he still voiced his
homesickness, his sobs were less audible, as if the sound brought back his fear
from the stairwell.

“I don’t
believe
this.” Chris was hunched over the
newspaper, his nose inches from the print.

“What?” Roland asked.

“I knew he came here for a reason. I knew it! This SUCKS!”
he shouted, flinging the paper across the table.

Derek picked up the paper and read aloud: “‘Final Senatorial
Debate’ … no way!”

“What?” Roland asked.

“Oh, this is phenomenal. You’re going to flip when you hear
this.” He cleared his throat. “‘The debate for the Rhode Island Senate seat,
featuring Senator Coleman seeking reelection, and Republican Candidate,
Governor Michael Forsythe, will be hosted by … Wellington Academy.’”

“Let me see that,” Roland said, setting his paper aside. “Wow.
And here I’ve been reading about how my father plans to modernize the military
in the post-Vietnam era. Talk about boring.”

“Did you know about this?” Derek asked Chris. But Chris
didn’t respond. He was slouched in his chair staring out the window.

“Have they ever had a debate at a school?” Roland asked.

“It says here it’s
unprecedented
,” Derek confirmed,
still skimming the article. “‘In an effort to boost citizens’ awareness of
Rhode Island’s heritage, the debate will take place on Raker Island, in the
shadow of the state’s oldest lighthouse.’”

“Carpetbagger,” Chris muttered darkly. “It’s bullshit.”

“What do you mean?” Derek asked.

Instead of answering, Chris made a hasty departure, leaving
behind his half-eaten breakfast. Roland left shortly thereafter, taking Chris’
tray with him. I finished the last few bites of my breakfast, also preparing to
leave.

“Hey, what were you reading about?” Derek asked.

“Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“Try me.”

“A New York Court of Appeals ruling on affirmative action. Excruciatingly
boring, but my father is one of the judges, so I felt obligated.”

To my surprise, Derek reacted as if I had stated the
profound.

Later that morning, the student body was summoned to the
auditorium. Mr. Hearst strutted across the stage and reiterated the morning’s
headlines to much applause. Mr. Hutcheson, the government teacher, who appeared
to be in a mild state of shock, announced that a contest would be held where
each student could submit a question for the candidates. The winners, selected
by the faculty and the Rhode Island Board of Elections, would get to ask their
questions live during the televised debate.

As I was leaving the auditorium, Mr. O’Leary motioned me
over with a dramatic wave. “I come bearing good news,” he said, presenting an
envelope. “Not only will you get to witness our future leaders engage in
debate, but your disciplinary probation has at last come to an end. Your days
of backbreaking labor, brief as they were, are officially over.”

“Oh.” I examined the envelope without opening it.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“I was expecting at least a minor display of enthusiasm.”

“It’s just that … I’ve been helping Max in the lighthouse,
and it’s kind of a two-man job.” I felt guilty at the thought of abandoning Max
after he had come to my rescue.

“Are you telling me you’re
enjoying
your punishment?”
Mr. O’Leary shook his head. “If only the headmaster knew.”

“It feels more like work than punishment.”

“So much for negative reinforcement. Okay, here’s a
thought,” he said, running his fingers through his beard. “If you were to
continue your work with Max three days a week, that would still leave two
afternoons for sports.”

“I think I’m already testing Coach Thurman’s patience. Most
coaches require you to be there every day.”

He smiled. “I know one who doesn’t.”

“Let me guess …”

“Oh come on, it’ll be fun. And it will keep you off the
football field.”

Earlier that day, I had come across Loosy-Goosy in the hall.
He had done his best to glare at me, but due to the thick brace around his
neck, he only managed to look like the victim of a serious accident. To return
to the football field was unthinkable.

It seemed that Wellington was doing everything in its power
to confuse its student athletes. Football had been played on a golf course, and
fencing was conducted at the bottom of the empty indoor Olympic-sized swimming
pool. Numbers in black linoleum tile marked the depth; a hot tub—as bone-dry as
the pool—sat in the corner. All that remained of the diving boards were the
octagonal heads of corroded bolts set into the floor. And though the pool had
probably been drained years ago, the faint scent of chlorine lingered.

Three dozen masked combatants wielded their weapons where
swimmers had once swum laps, filling the pool with a boring multitude of
look-alike superheroes, the antithesis of Zorro in his flowing black cape and
sword that actually had a sharp tip. Mr. O’Leary conducted the practice from
the shallow end, the room’s acoustics magnifying the shrill clinks of metal on
metal. But once sparring commenced, he lowered his mask and joined the fray,
quickly becoming lost in the action.

Anderson, an upperclassman who looked suspiciously
out-of-shape but was rumored to be a lethal fencer, guided me through a series
of rigorous stretches and bodyweight exercises. I was disappointed when
informed I wouldn’t so much as touch a foil until the second week of practice. Anderson’s
attention often returned to the combatants below while stretching at the pool’s
perimeter. I was just as distracted, as the pull toward dueling was stronger
than the preparation for it. By the end of practice, I never wanted to assume
the en garde position again. As the team picked up the mats and surged toward
the shallow end, Mr. O’Leary removed his mask and called up to me:

“Up the foil, up the epee, up the saber. Up the irons!”

* * * * *

The first time I heard of “the Headliners,” I was standing
in line waiting for Rosa to slop more scrambled eggs onto my plate.

“Look, the Headliners are at it again,” someone commented to
his friend. “You
know
they’re getting special treatment if they have
time to read the paper.”

It didn’t occur to me that I was one of the Headliners until
I took my seat beside Chris, Roland and Derek, the headlines spread across the
table. I decided to wait until lunch to bring it up. We were seated at the same
table, the only difference being that the newspapers were gone, and eggs and
cereal had been replaced with a chunky, lukewarm bowl of spiceless chili.

“Have you heard what they’re calling us?”

“Hmmm?” Roland muttered.

“The Headliners. I overheard someone at breakfast.”

“You got to admit it’s got a ring to it,” Derek said,
smashing a fistful of crackers and dropping them into his chili.

“You know about this?”

“I was there when Hayes came up with it. Think about it—it
fits. It’s like we’re in a band or something headlining a world tour.” He shook
his head spastically. “Comin’ at’cha live!”

“
How
does it fit?”

“Remember yesterday morning? All our fathers were in the
paper. On the
same
day. Coincidence? I think not. Besides, you know how
nicknames are around here.”

“Nicknames are one thing, but everyone thinks we’re getting
special treatment. They think the only reason we’re here is
because
of
our fathers.”

“Get used to it, Jake,” Chris said. “It’ll follow you
everywhere you go. You really think with my D-minus GPA and five expulsions,
that anyone in their right mind would let me in here?”

“Six,” Roland said, blowing on his chili.

“What?”

“Six expulsions.”

“Six? You sure?”

Roland nodded. “You’re forgetting Wheaton. You always forget
Wheaton.”

Chris shrugged. “Who’s counting?” He pushed his lunch tray
away and looked over his shoulder. “Okay, here we go. Follow me, young Jake. Revenge
is sweet.”

“I’m still eating.”

“That chili can’t get much colder,” Chris said, getting up. “Come
on.”

I followed him across the cafeteria to the mailroom. Earlier
that morning, instead of issuing his standard reply of “Musty, from Brooklyn,”
when handing me Grandpa’s letter, Chet had said: “When ya gonna get yawself a
gurl, three-seventy-five? Yaw a good lookin’ lad.” Apparently I had gone too
many weeks without a perfumed letter.

“Three-ninety-faw!” I heard Chet say now, his heavy face
alarmed. Loosy-Goosy stood at the front of the line, looking victimized in his
neck brace. “My Gawd! What happened to ya? Yaw collecting casts like they was
going out of style.”

“Just the mail, Chet,” Loosy-Goosy said.

Chet obediently slid to the back of the mailroom, returning
with a heart-shaped envelope. “Oh my, three-ninety-faw,” he said, flashing
Loosy-Goosy a knowing smile. “And it’s not even Valentine’s Day. That purty
gurl of yaws in Maine sure knows how to make ya feel better.” But when he
passed the bright red envelope beneath his nose, his eyes widened. “Why,
three-ninety-faw, this smells like a
man
!”

Everyone in line burst out laughing. Loosy-Goosy’s face
turned red, as if the neck brace was restricting his breathing. Then he
snatched the envelope out of Chet’s hand and stalked off, his chin pointing
defiantly in the air.

Chris couldn’t stop laughing.

“You sent him that?”

“Only after dousing it with cologne. After what that little
shit did to you, I couldn’t resist.”

“A sprained neck isn’t enough?”

“We’ll have him in a body cast by Christmas.”

ONE YEAR EARLIER

Grandfather was usually reading the newspaper when I
arrived, or if it was the first Monday of the month, flipping through the
latest
National Geographic
. But on this occasion he was napping in the
recliner, the rise and fall of his snores greeting me as I crossed the porch
and entered the house. He didn’t wake until after I had taken my accustomed
seat on the couch. He straightened in the chair, picked up the open book in his
lap, and began reading, completely unaware that I was in the room.

All was quiet with the exception of a fan (which added more
in the way of noise than circulation) and the occasional turning of a page. The
only relief from the late summer heat was a small window air conditioner. A
series of ancient fans were placed throughout the house to circulate the
limited supply of cool air. I gave them a wide berth, as the only protection
from their metal blades was a barred safeguard with gaps large enough to
squeeze a hand through.

Grandfather’s white hair stood defiant in the lamplight,
having survived the years without receding a single inch (though later, while
standing beside him, I would discover a bald spot shining like an egg from the
protective basket of its nest). I think Grandfather would have preferred he
lost his hair, since he could never keep it in any presentable order. Each day
it rebelled, crossing this way or that, exerting its own free will, at times
standing straight on end.

Gradually, with no particular beginning, I became aware of
the most trivial details: the reading lamp that bathed Grandfather’s bowed head
in gold; his cloudy-blue eyes moving across the page and then jumping back like
the carriage return of a typewriter; the clock ticking from its perch above the
unused television. The clock looked frozen in time with its small doors stuck
open, the chime bird exposed on its ledge to perpetually signify the passing
hour with a singsong reminder it was no longer able to voice. The room emitted
a patience as if it had witnessed this same scene a thousand times, with the
old man quietly reading and the entire house holding its musty breath and
showing no sign of taking another.