The Keeper of Dawn

by Hickman, J. B.

  “Don’t look at it,” I whispered, but it was too late. The black and white photograph of Father at the courtyard fountain was already in hand. Why had I even brought it? Why had I taken it from Mother’s photo album before packing anything else? Perhaps because it convinced me that I was glad he hadn’t come. But that was a lie just to get me through it, to keep away the abandoned, hollowed-out feeling that seemed to follow me wherever I went. I felt self-control slide away from me then, glaring back at me from my blurred reflection in the glass. My throat constricted, and a sound escaped me—a kind of whimper—and I looked up to see if anyone had overheard. But I was alone, except for those in the courtyard, who, looking out from the remnants of the old hotel, seemed a world away.

  A distant voice caused me to look up. I brushed away a stray tear and climbed down from the scaffolding. I assumed it had come from the courtyard, but when the voice spoke again, it carried down the dim interior of the hallway.

  “—came late on purpose. He knew the entire school would be watching. That’s why he didn’t use the helipad. Everything’s such a production. Can’t take a piss without checking with his advisors. You know what he told the pilot? ‘I don’t care if they’re not eighteen—they’ll be voting in ’84, won’t they?’”

  I crept through the shadows, following the voice to an open doorway at the end of the hall.

  “Hasn’t said a word to me all day. Too busy planning with his campaign manager. But something tells me he’ll notice me now.”

  “What are you going to do?” a second voice asked.

  “Just expressing my gratitude for sticking me out here on Preppy Island. Here’s to you, Commander and Chief!”

  “Chris, no!”

  The voices were drowned out by the tolling of a bell. The noise was deafening, my teeth rattling with each peal. It sounded three times in succession before I gave in to my curiosity and crossed the hall to the open door.

  The hollow exposure of the clock tower extended overhead. A metal staircase spiraled through the musty air. The entire room shook with each ring. Near the tower’s peak, a student swung from a rope, his legs flailing, the massive black bell tilting back and forth. His friend stood nearby, hands cupped to his ears. The longer I watched, the more lightheaded I became until I was forced to look away. I pressed both hands against the wall until the darkness massing behind my eyes had subsided. By the time the dizziness left me, the boy on the rope had let his momentum carry him to the stairs. There was a tense moment when he clung to the railing before his friend pulled him to safety. As the bell emitted its last shuddering ring, they started down the stairs.

  I recognized Chris, the bell ringer, to be Governor Forsythe’s son. A few days’ growth of facial hair did little to take away the hard edge of his jaw line. His dark hair fell across his forehead like the feathered wings of a bird. Instead of looking guilty, he carried an air of satisfaction about him, as if having just put in a full day’s work.

  His companion was the first to see me. His sandy-blond hair was cut military style. His dark shoes shined like they were new. Except for the sweat rings beneath his arms, his uniform was neat and orderly. He had an urgency about him, and with a hand on Chris’ shoulder, seemed to be directing him down the stairs.

  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 clo
ck 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?”

  CHAPTER 2: THE ABSENT-MINDED PROFESSOR

  “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.

&
nbsp; “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.”