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 …”
I wasn’t much better, only offering a handful of words whenever cornered into a conversation.
And looking up to see Mr. O’Leary watching us. He knew we weren’t getting along, knew we weren’t fitting in with the group. He somehow knew that Benjamin cried himself to sleep most nights, and that Wellington was only a temporary stop for me. Tugging the fringe of his beard, Mr. O’Leary began another story. And his eyes were on me, asking those questions no one dared to ask aloud. I wondered how many others he had seen like me, not ready to let go? I wondered, too, how many fathers had he replaced?
Over a few casual conversations in which I said very little, Mr. O’Leary seemed to know my most well-guarded secret. He tried on numerous occasions to recruit me for fencing, but I always declined, claiming I was enjoying football. But if anything, football was a punishment. The pain during practice was all too real—it was the blood in the back of my mouth, the deep ache spidering across my back. And that suited me just fine, for I didn’t want any chance of enjoying Wellington. The last thing I wanted was to be pitied or given special treatment. I just wanted to serve my time, show my father I was willing to sacrifice for future successes, and get on with my life.
As the days went by, I kept Mr. O’Leary at a distance. Between classes, I would watch him cross the courtyard amidst a throng of students caught beneath his spell. A few of the younger ones, probably without even knowing they did it, assumed his gait with their hands clasped behind their back and the thoughtful, distracted look of an absent-minded professor in their eyes—an O’Leary trademark. A part of me—the part that persisted on ignoring what it meant to be a Hawthorne—wanted to rush out and join them. The feeling spread, and I wondered what it would be like if I let down my guard long enough to give Wellington a chance.
CHAPTER 3: 1608 BRICKMORE LANE
TWO YEARS EARLIER
The modest two-story house of red brick looked smaller and less inviting than the one I remembered coming to as a child. Standing before it extinguished any hope that Grandfather’s house would be different from the other homes in the neighborhood. Set close to the street and even closer to its neighbors, the yard was nothing more than a patchwork of grass not much wider than the sidewalk. The front porch sagged to one side, with a damp collection of leaves from last fall having settled into the corner. A rusted pair of chains that once held a wooden swing rattled in the breeze; a half-rotted trellis did its best to fence in the crawlspace beneath the porch.
The house at 1608 Brickmore Lane didn’t match my memories. I even double-checked the address to make sure I had the right house. Recollections of Grandfather’s consisted of Christmas Eve—the only time Father had taken us there—when strands of lights twinkled down from snow-covered eaves.
I almost turned back, fearing that the kind old man from Christmases past had changed as well. Perhaps my parents had kept him out of my life for a reason. But then I thought of David, and forced myself through the rickety fence.
A movement in the window caught my eye. With his face pressed to the glass, Grandfather was peering through the paisley curtains with the wariness of a sentry guarding his post. When I gave a hesitant wave, his eyes widened. Then he beckoned me inside.
“Well isn’t this a surprise,” he said, swinging the screen door open. “Most unexpected. You’ve grown a foot since I saw you last. Come in, come in.”
The entryway’s drawn curtains did little to conceal the room’s neglect. The blue paint was cracked along the walls and ceiling, the curtains discolored, the red carpeting frayed in a path down the center of the room. A layer of clutter had settled over every surface. Books sprouted from shelves and were stacked precariously on tables. Encyclopedias were piled so high in front of an old radio that only its metal antennae were visible. The feeble daylight filtering into the room only added to the impression that my grandfather resided in a dimly-lit antique shop.
“So what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Grandfather asked.
“I was just in the area and thought I’d drop by.”
“Just … drop by?”
“Have I come at a bad time? I can come back later if you like.”
“No, you’re no bother. Of course not. It’s just that, well Jacob, you haven’t been by in a good many years. Not since you were knee-high to a grasshopper anyway.”
“I know. It’s been awhile.” My eyes darted about the room. “I thought maybe we could … you know, catch up on lost times.”
His eyebrows rose. “Lost times?”
By then my eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting to notice the cataracts obscuring Grandfather’s blue eyes. The closer I looked, the more compelling his opaque gaze became, and before I could prevent it, all the unanswered questions that I had bottled up came bursting out.
“It’s just that … well sir, I find it strange that we’re related and … and we haven’t seen each other in so long. I mean, you’re my grandfather and I don’t even know you. Well, I know you, but I don’t really know you. We haven’t even gone fishing. I don’t even know if you like fishing, but that’s not the point. The point is my parents blame you for what happened with David. I hear them talking at night. I know he used to visit. So that’s why I’m here. I want to know why David left. Once you tell me, I’ll leave as soon as you like.”
&n
bsp; Instead of responding, Grandfather looked down at his slippers as if I hadn’t spoken a word. When he looked back up, he flashed a ridiculous smile.
“That’s all fine and dandy. But what I want to know is, have you ever taken a cold shower?”
“A … a cold shower?”
“Yes. A cold shower.”
“I don’t see how—”
“Well, hope to God you never have to! I got in the shower yesterday morning, turned on the water, and WHAMMO!” He clapped his hands together. “It felt like ice running down my back. Nearly knocked me over! That sudden a shock is dangerous for a man of my years. It can shut down the old ticker for good.
“Just as I suspected, the pilot had gone out. The water heater is down in the basement, and the only way to get down there is from outside. This house was built before the war—the first war, mind you—and back in those days, homes were built for inconvenience. So there I was on Sunday morning, when most decent people are suiting up for church, outside in my bathrobe, still shivering from that cursed shower. So I went down and relit the water heater using my BroadLeafs. Do you know what BroadLeafs are, boy?”
I shook my head. I had no idea what BroadLeafs were, or what my crazy grandfather was ranting about.
“Here, I’ll show you. Come along.”
I followed him into the kitchen where he shoved a box of matches at me. Inside were three matches, each twice the length of a regular match.
“See how long they are? They’re like that so they can reach the pilot, among other things. As it turned out, I forgot the matches outside. Probably set them down when I was closing the basement door. You’d be surprised how many things you forget when you’re my age. When I went back out, this was all that was left.” He took back the box and gave it an agitated shake. “Three matches! That’s all! It was brand new. Where’d the rest of them go?”
I returned his inquisitive glance, hoping he wasn’t expecting a response.
“It wasn’t windy, so they couldn’t have blown away. The only other possible explanation, assuming I’m not completely off my rocker, is that someone came into my yard, saw the unguarded matches, and ran off with them.”
The absurdity in Grandfather’s voice crept into his eyes. “But our conscientious match thief decides it would be too easy to run off with the whole box, so he takes all but three. Apparently he didn’t want to leave me matchless. Are you with me?”
“I … I think so. I still don’t know what—”
But he refused to be interrupted. “It’s been pestering the bejesus out of me. It doesn’t make any sense. What on earth became of those matches? There has to be a rational explanation. But then,” he held up a finger. “Then, it dawned on me. It’s springtime.”
“Springtime?”
“Yes, springtime. And do you know what happens in the springtime?”
I shrugged. “Well, lots of things.”
“Lots of things indeed. There, look out there.” He pointed out the kitchen window, the very window he had been peering out of when I arrived, completely unaware of his search for the BroadLeaf match thief.
“Do you see it?”
“You mean that tree?” I asked, referring to the maple that straddled the property line.
“Yes, the tree. Look closer at the tree.”
I searched the branches from top to bottom, but all that caught my eye was a squirrel scampering up the smooth bark. I was on the verge of giving up, but then I saw it. Cradled in the fork of two stout branches, a pair of robins chirped contentedly in their nest of BroadLeaf matches.
“Ha!”
Grandfather slapped me on the back. “The goddamn robins stole my matches! Probably work better than twigs.”
“As long as they don’t set themselves on fire!” I said, which got us both laughing.
“I’ve always enjoyed bird watching,” Grandfather said, still looking at the maple. “But in all my years, I’ve never seen anything like this.”
When I turned from the window, Grandfather studied me from the corner of his eye.
“I used to tell my students a joke before an exam to loosen them up. It helps relieve the tension. You’re too serious, Jacob. You’re much too young to be that serious. Now, let’s go in the other room, shall we?”
He led me back into the entryway and through an archway that was so low I had to duck my head. Grandfather performed the movement automatically, calling back just in time, “Watch your cap. Apparently the builders were little people.”
The entryway’s red carpeting flowed into a spacious living room crowded with plants. A hibiscus sat on a stack of National Geographics, a spindly fern peeked from behind the curtains; in the corner, a nest of ivy shot tendrils in every direction, tangling about the legs of the coffee table, stretching the length of the couch, writhing through the shaggy carpet like green snakes searching to warm their cool blood in the sun.
“I let them have the run of the place,” Grandfather said. “They’re the lungs of the house. They help clear the air and bring the room to life, don’t you think?”
He stood at the center of the room. The carpeting looked particularly threadbare along the edges, with entire sections worn thin from heavy usage such that spots of floorboard shone through. This faded perimeter consisted of a foot-wide swath in the shape of a perfect circle, one that could not have been drawn more precisely with a compass.
“Please, sit,” Grandfather said, motioning to the couch.
He went to the picture window that overlooked the porch. A television was positioned in the corner; it was an ancient thing, sagging heavily on four legs, stacked with books, the thick screen bulging outward, covered in a layer of dust that indicated it had accepted its purpose as that of another bookshelf.
“So I’m the one who drove David away, am I? Made him quit his job and run away from home. Is that what they told you?” He glanced over his shoulder as if expecting an answer, and perhaps he got one from my expression, for he turned back around before I could reply. “No, I highly doubt a retired schoolteacher is capable of such things. But there was a time when I tried doing just that. I was much younger, of course. I was intent on steering a young man down what I believed to be the proper path. And sure enough, the only thing I accomplished was to drive him away. But that young man wasn’t your brother, Jacob.”
He turned from the window. “It was your father. And believe me, I’ve had many years to dwell on my mistake. So I wasn’t about to do the same with David. Your brother needed someone to talk to, and I was willing to listen. He came to me one day, complaining of a family who was taking over his life: which, of course, I was all too familiar with. As he got older, your father became more and more insistent that David follow in his footsteps.” He sighed. “The burdensome influence fathers have over their sons … Call it human instinct, call it hubris of man, call it whatever you like. The truth is, I’m guilty of it, and so is your father.
“The first time David came to me, he was a senior at Princeton. His path to becoming a lawyer was falling into place. He’d stop over when he was home on break.” Grandfather smiled at the memory. “We’d talk for hours. As a matter of fact, he’d sit in that exact same spot.”
“But you couldn’t talk him out of going to law school?”
“I didn’t want to. If he asked for my advice, I gave it. Most of the time we talked of other things. I’m not sure if he put much stock in his grandpa’s advice or not, but we developed a friendship. And that’s a rare thing—friendship bridging three generations. I barely knew my grandparents, let alone became friends with them.”
Grandfather walked as he spoke, pacing the edges of the room. He performed this motion slowly, thoughtfully, his slippered-feet shuffling along. Watching him, it occurred to me that his path matched the circular pattern in the carpeting. Never once did he look down to see where he was going; instead, he looked at me or the space in front of him, his feet never leaving the worn circle in the floor. Grandfather didn’t walk the circle’s per
imeter; rather, he was pulled along it as if led by some unseen guide.
“But yes, in the end, David chose to go to law school. Though law wasn’t his true calling, he felt he was too far along to change direction. Now he’s off exploring the world. What your parents had hoped was an overdue trip to Europe has become something else entirely. Last I checked, Santiago is nowhere near Europe. Can’t even keep track of what continent he’s on, let alone country. And your parents think I’m to blame for putting such crazy notions in his head. I guess it’s my reputation of always sticking my nose in other people’s business. But let them think what they wish. I have no regrets. How can I regret the very thing that brought me closer to one of my grandchildren?”
Suddenly he stopped. “What? What is it?”
“Nothing.”
“It’s something, because you’re clearly not paying attention to a single word I’m saying. So let’s get this resolved before I waste any more time on you. Now, out with it!” he said, jabbing a finger in my direction.
“It’s your … your circle there.”
“My circle?”
“The circle you walk around. The worn carpeting there in the floor.”
“Circle?” He looked about the floor. “I don’t see a circle.”
“You don’t see that circle?” I stood up and pointed out what was obviously right in front of him.
“No, as a matter of fact I do not. Can’t see much without my specs these days.” He went to the recliner, put on his glasses, and reexamined the floor. “All I see is the carpeting.”
“You don’t see the circle? That pattern there in the carpeting?”
“Absolutely not. If you must know, the human mind thinks best when a person walks.” Grandfather pointed to his temple for emphasis. “Modest exercise gets the blood flowing to stimulate the brain. Some of the world’s most brilliant ideas have been conceived while walking, or when performing some trivial task. I think best when I’m up and about. Besides, it’s good exercise.”
The Keeper of Dawn Page 4
