The Keeper of Dawn

by Hickman, J. B.

  “He told me about Bobby Ingram.”

  “He did, did he?”

  Though Chris had spoken in confidence, I retold the story of the coal mine, trying to convey Chris’ remorse.

  “Bobby was a good kid,” Mr. O’Leary said, his eyes growing distant. “Sometimes, as a teacher, you imagine what your students will grow up to be. A dentist, an attorney? Maybe a writer? But not with Bobby. Up here,” he pointed to his head, “Bobby Ingram will always be sixteen. And if Chris genuinely regretted what had happened, he would have learned from his mistake.”

  I wanted to tell him that it had been Chris’ concern for Roland that had led us to the Anvil, but held my tongue.

  I called Mother after Mr. O’Leary had left. She was overjoyed to hear from me, and tried to convince me to come home. She knew now that sending me to Wellington had been a mistake. She would be returning home soon, in a matter of days, and the house would be empty without me. In the end, I convinced her to let me stay by promising to keep away from my friends. But what I didn’t yet understand was that the bond we shared was too strong to be undone by a halfhearted promise. And though Wellington was effective at keeping us from the rest of the world, it could do very little to keep us from each other.

  The events of the day had made me vengeful, and I lay awake much of the night, my pent-up anger becoming focused on the distant face peering down from the edge of the cliff.

  * * * * *

  There were hands around me, moving in the darkness. Four hooded figures stood in the room: two at the head of the bed, one at the foot; the fourth held a white towel.

  The towel felt heavy in my hands. Two days ago my heart had stopped, and now a wild thrill surged through me, causing it to leap in my chest. As I looked at the figure lying in bed, the arm-cast visible in the moonlight, an old wound opened up. Suddenly I could put a name to the emotion he evoked. It was pity. I pitied Loosy-Goosy; not for what was about to happen, but for who he was.

  When he stirred in his sleep, Derek grabbed his legs, Chris secured his arms, and Roland placed a towel between his teeth. Loosy-Goosy struggled awake, letting out a low moan. He squirmed helplessly, his eyes white with terror.

  “This is for Benjamin, you son of a bitch,” I said, hardly recognizing my own voice.

  The towel whistled through the darkness, colliding with the prostrate form on the bed. It wasn’t rage or hatred that guided my hand, but our own crude justice. The memory of Benjamin demanded it. Perhaps we each had our own reason for being there; perhaps we each saw someone different writhing in pain. But for me it was the same face that had peered over the cliff, those lidded eyes looking down on me, feeding off my fear.

  I swung the towel, again and again. Once it started, there was no end to it. It was more than I thought I had in me, and when Chris grabbed my arm, stopping me in mid-swing, I was covered with sweat.

  Derek and Roland released their hold. Loosy-Goosy was nothing more than a twisted shadow in the sheets. Seeing him like that made me fear him less, and whatever power he previously had over me was dispelled.

  CHAPTER 18: MAKING THE FULL MOON BLUSH

  The upcoming debate sparked a renewed interest in our forgotten corner of the world. The tight race between Senator Coleman and Republican hopeful, Governor Forsythe, created a volatile political landscape in which the two parties bickered back and forth. The Democrats derided having the debate at a prestigious boarding school, considering it an arrogant display of elitism; meanwhile, the Republicans rallied behind the decision, claiming that it showcased the strength of America’s education system. The political talking heads joined in the fray, throwing the names of Raker Island and Wellington Academy across the headlines.

  It was politics as usual. But amidst what some considered predictable candidates and a lackluster campaign, Wellington itself became a topic of debate. It was a widely held belief that cloistered, unisex schools no longer existed. The prep school culture, so intrinsic to those participating in it, was either ignored or forgotten by everyone else. The scene of a dining hall filled with boys in jackets and ties obediently bowing their heads as the headmaster or rector says a prayer makes one think of their grandfather’s generation, where tradition backed by hardnosed discipline ruled the day. But here it was, caught on the front page for all to see. Previously exposed only in the occasional movie or clichéd novel ending tragically in suicide, the boarding school was seen as part of a bygone era, not a modern way of life. And the fact that it was in current events instead of the entertainment section made it all the more captivating.

  Soon our isolated haven became flooded with newcomers. Young reporters peered into classrooms and congregated outside the headmaster’s office; attractive women in designer business suits strode through the courtyard with a camera man trailing behind; police officers and security personnel plodded across Oak Yard and huddled over maps in the gazebo.

  The same newspapers that had only a short while ago read like a “Who’s Who” of our fathers now included the names of Wellington’s faculty. “It is with the highest honor that Wellington Academy will voice the citizens’ questions in search for Rhode Island’s future leader,” Mr. Lawson was quoted. Mr. Hutcheson’s statement read, “What better way to eliminate partisanship by turning to this country’s youth. As a student, what better way is there to discover that every citizen can make a difference? This is an innovative, grassroots effort of which the forefathers of our great nation would strongly approve.” Even some of the students were quoted. Joel Abernathy, whom I had seen falling asleep in Government on more than one occasion, claimed to have political aspirations of his own, and was thrilled at the opportunity of participating in the debate.

  But these days it was becoming more difficult to sleep in Mr. Hutcheson’s class. With the debate only days away, the atmosphere in Government had intensified, with Mr. Hutcheson leading us through reenactments of previous debates. There was Nixon vs. Kennedy, Stevenson vs. Kefauver in the Democratic primary, and I even got to read one of Honest Abe’s rebuttals aloud in the famous Lincoln vs. Douglas debates for the 1858 Illinois State Senate.

  The upcoming debate also influenced Miskapaug’s opinion of Wellington, as the coastal town had become the unexpected benefactor of an influx of reporters, journalists and political entourages. It was like summer had come early: hotels and restaurants were full; even a few tourist shops reopened despite the relentless wind that blew in from the ocean. The only negative article in the local papers was “CHAUVINIST NATION,” in which a feminist posed the question of who would represent women at a debate held at an all-boys school asking questions to all-male candidates.

  I now ate breakfast and lunch alone. Every so often I would glance over at our old table. Roland and Derek rarely looked up from their newspapers. When Roland gave me a hesitant wave, I returned the gesture. Nothing was the same without Chris. Mr. O’Leary had been right—he might as well have been expelled. But this didn’t prevent me from looking for him. I didn’t know what I would say if our paths happened to cross; perhaps nothing, but I didn’t want the brief moments in Loosy-Goosy’s room, or his confession in the infirmary, to be our last time together.

  I drifted aimlessly through the week. There were no more expeditions to the beach, no more rebellious conversations. Even work on the lighthouse had been suspended until the new Fresnel lens arrived. The only time I helped Max was to replant the three sapling oaks that Chris had cut down. Wellington had become a school like any other, filled with lectures and homework and not much more. The more time passed, the more anxious I became. I began to expect the unexpected. I anticipated seeing Chris around every corner. I frequently awoke during the night, straining to hear that soft tap on the door that would tell me it was time to go. But no knock came, and even if it had, where else was there to go?

  What I had been waiting for came in the form of an unmarked letter. Other than the incident involving marijuana, Chet took little interest in intra-school mail. There was no “musty, f
rom Brooklyn” comment, or wisecrack about not having a girlfriend. But on this occasion, Chet ran the letter beneath his nose, once, twice, and finally a third time. He looked up at me, his eyes wary.

  “Smells like trouble,” he said finally, handing over the envelope.

  Inside was the familiar Waldorf-Astoria letterhead covered with Chris’ sloppy handwriting.

  “Girls coming to our beach. Saturday at 1500. This will be farewell.” It was signed, “The Great Houdini.”

  * * * * *

  When I awoke Saturday morning to the sound of a helicopter, I knew even before opening my eyes that Mr. Noble had returned. I scrambled out of bed, threw on some clothes, and sped down the hall. I emerged from Kirkland Hall as the helicopter was landing. A second helicopter had just lifted off, and as I watched it fly into the distance, a group of men exited the grounded helicopter and approached the school. Mr. Noble, dressed in his great-grandfather’s uniform, saluted me.

  “What a glorious day to bring Raker Lighthouse back to life. Can I count on your assistance this morning?”

  “Absolutely,” I said, falling in beside him.

  “There is much to do, so very much to do. It might be best if you meet me in the courtyard in say, one hour. But in the meantime, if you could tell me where I might find Mr. Erikson, it would be much appreciated.”

  “I’ll give you one guess.”

  Mr. Noble flashed me a smile and led his men to the lighthouse.

  I showered and ate breakfast. Because we were allowed to sleep in on Saturdays, the cafeteria was so quiet I could hear one of the cooks singing “Sittin’ On the Dock of the Bay” whenever anyone passed through the kitchen doors. Watching the Coast Guardsmen pass in and out of the lighthouse rekindled my curiosity over how they would get the Fresnel lens in the lantern room.

  The sound of the helicopter filled the cool morning air as I waited for Mr. Noble at the courtyard fountain. A moment later the Pelican appeared over Kirkland Hall with a thick cable suspended beneath it. Mr. Noble emerged from the lighthouse and backed through Oak Yard with a walkie-talkie pressed to his ear, his eyes never leaving the helicopter. A small crowd of onlookers had gathered in the courtyard, and several faces—looking like they had just awoken—peered from dorm windows.

  “A few more feet,” said a voice over the walkie-talkie as Mr. Noble came up beside me. “A little lower. Okay, okay. You’re there.”

  The helicopter hovered over the lighthouse. Men on the catwalk grabbed the ends of the cable that divided into a dozen smaller segments and secured them to the perimeter of the lantern room.

  “Keep ‘er steady.”

  “Lines are secure. Over.”

  “You boys clear out of there. Over,” Mr. Noble instructed into the walkie-talkie.

  “Bolts are unfastened,” came the reply once the men had disappeared from the walkway. “Eagle’s Nest is empty. Waiting for your command. Over.”

  “Proceed,” Mr. Noble said. “Over.”

  At his command, the cable beneath the helicopter went taut, and the conical, metal rooftop lifted from the structure.

  Mr. Noble leaned toward me with a boyish grin. “Didn’t I tell you we’d pop the top off this teakettle?”

  When the helicopter had dropped from sight, taking the roof of the lighthouse with it, a voice shouted from the walkie-talkie, “Touchdown!”

  “Good job, boys,” Mr. Noble said. “We’re halfway home. You know what to do. Over and out.”

  “Why aren’t you flying?” I asked when Mr. Noble returned the walkie-talkie to his belt.

  “They call in the real flyboys for jobs like this. They’ll be pushing tow capacity, so they’re down to a skeleton crew. Today I’m only a voice in their ear.” He rattled his keychain. “And the spare keys in case my pilot locks himself out.”

  “What about Max?”

  “Max? Max is making sure his hammock doesn’t blow away,” Mr. Noble said, permitting himself to smile. “You know how it is with men like your Max. He’d carry the lens up on his back if he could.”

  “Did he ever figure out how you were going to get it up there?”

  Mr. Noble glanced at the lighthouse. “Let’s just say not much gets past Raker Island’s light keeper. I’m surprised I had him scratching his head for as long as I did.” He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “By the way, he told me about your … mishap.”

  “He did?” Max hadn’t said a word about it to me.

  Mr. Noble shrugged. “You can’t have an island full of boys without a few of them falling in the ocean.”

  Just then some garbled conversation came over the walkie-talkie, causing Mr. Noble to perk his ears up before turning the volume down. “Only a voice in their ear,” he said regretfully.

  “I think I got frostbite on my feet,” I said, kind of bragging about it.

  “Ah yes, frostbite,” Mr. Noble said, as if there wasn’t an ailment he hadn’t personally experienced. “Any toes amputated?”

  “Amputated? No way.”

  “Well you know what you’ve got there?”

  “Hmm?”

  “A nice scar. Not one that you can see, but it’s a scar just the same. Thirty years from now when you step out into the snow and feel that cold creep back in, you’re going to think back to when you had your tangle with the sea. That’s what a scar is. A reminder that once upon a time you were hurt bad enough to be changed by it.”

  Mr. Noble went on to talk about the various scars and accidents he had encountered in the Coast Guard until his name came over the walkie-talkie.

  “Noble here. Over,” he said, turning the volume back up.

  “We’re set to go. Over.”

  “Everything ready in the Eagle’s Nest? Over.”

  “Ready and waiting,” came Max’s gruff voice. “Over.”

  “Then let’s put the jewel in the crown, gentlemen. Look sharp up there, Miller. Over.” Then he turned to me with a sparkle in his dark eyes. “This is my favorite part.”

  When the helicopter reappeared, a pod-like container of concentric discs dangled from the end of the cable. Mr. Noble issued commands over the walkie-talkie as the Fresnel lens was lowered into the exposed lantern room. Though I had already come to the conclusion that I wouldn’t be of any help in such a grand operation, I felt a thrill as I followed Mr. Noble up the rickety staircase after the lighthouse’s rooftop had been returned.

  With only a four-foot gap along the perimeter, the lantern room was nothing more than a tight sleeve that sheathed the Fresnel lens. And most of this cramped space was crowded with men securing the lens. Instead of appearing oversized, the Fresnel lens had a way of making everything around it seem small—Max’s hammock looked little more than a cobweb, and it felt as though I had suddenly shrunk upon entering the room. Rows of mirrored panels covered the lens like Venetian blinds. The daylight caught in these panels brightened the room, turning the lens into a cocoon wrapped in concentric metal bands with sunlight hatching out of every crevice.

  We found Max on a ladder tightening a lag bolt in the ceiling with what looked to be an oversized socket wrench.

  “So what do you think?” Mr. Noble asked.

  “About what?” Max replied without looking down.

  “About your new one-and-a-half million candlepower lens.”

  “I’ll be happy when it’s over.”

  Mr. Noble smiled. “Hope you don’t mind that I brought your apprentice.”

  “One more won’t make much difference in this crowd,” Max replied, the wrench clicking in his hand. “Besides, this is just a warm-up. Come Tuesday, these towers will be filled with security.”

  Mr. Noble smiled wryly. “Who knew you were so popular? Unfortunately, you’ve got us here until tomorrow. But you have my word. We’ll do our best to stay out of your way.”

  I went out to the walkway as the Coast Guardsmen continued their work. I hadn’t been back there since the night we had searched for Raker’s bloodstain. I even managed to locate the s
pot on the cement that had inspired our imaginations, though in the daylight it looked like nothing more than a grease stain.

  It wasn’t long before Max emerged from the crowded lantern room.

  “Tomorrow can’t come soon enough,” he said, sticking a fresh toothpick in his mouth. With both hands gripping the railing, he looked out over the island as if steering some colossal vessel out to sea.

  “Why are they staying overnight?”

  “Who knows. Safety protocols. Government procedures. Because it takes two men twice as long to do a job with all the jabbering they do.”

  I glanced back at the lantern room. “You think you’ll still sleep up here?”

  “It’s as good a place as any,” Max said, not seeming to mind the question. Then he smiled. “As long as no one turns on the light.”

  Our conversation, if you could even call it that, gave way to a lengthy silence, during which I recalled the picture in the infirmary. Identifying Max as the curly-haired boy at the ribbon-cutting ceremony explained his familiarity with the island. He had grown up here. He had witnessed the hotel in its prime, attended its banquets, mingled—in one way or another—with the vacationing couples. Perhaps he too had ventured down to the beach and waited for low tide to reach the Anvil.

  “Gonna storm tonight.”

  “Tonight?” I asked, looking at the clear blue sky. “You sure?”

  He looked over and winked. “Call it a hunch.”

  “Max, what was it like here before … you know, when the hotel was still open?”

  Max straightened up. “Now what makes you think I know anything about that?”

  I told him about the picture, and the toothpick that had given him away.

  “I’m surprised that thing is still around,” he said. “My dad caught me smoking the day before it was taken. Gave me hell for it, too. Don’t know why, but I’ve always had to have something in my mouth. Practically went from sucking my thumb to smoking. So I started in on toothpicks, at least around my old man.”