He dropped me off in White Rock, near the Rhode Island border. After paying him back for the train fare and breakfast, I hesitated before climbing out of the cab.
“Until the next time,” he said.
I smiled. “Right. Until the next time. See you, Sal.”
A taxi drove me to Miskapaug, dropping me off at the waterfront in time to make the four o’clock ferry. The chill ocean air forced me inside where I brooded over what awaited me at Wellington. Had it been discovered that I was in the helicopter? Would I be arrested the moment I set foot on the island? I briefly considered Mother’s offer to return home before banishing the thought from my mind. I had promised Chris I’d come back, and I intended to keep my word.
As Raker’s familiar shape materialized on the horizon, my mind bristled with unanswered questions. What had become of my friends? Had Derek gotten the girls off the island? We had broken so many rules that it was only a matter of time before it caught up to us. By the time the ferry approached the pier, all the worries I had managed to forget during the frantic trip home had returned.
I boarded the bus. As it labored up the hill, the sound of waves receded, the wind died, and island birds took the place of the gulls. When we pulled up to Wellington’s front gate, it felt like I had slipped back into the embrace of a cold nest. It wasn’t the homecoming I had expected, but it was a homecoming all the same.
I came across Derek in the lobby, his arms full of folding chairs.
“Jake! You just get back?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you make it to the … you know …” He looked at me awkwardly. “Did you make it back in time?”
“With time to spare.”
“Good, good. Man, you look like you’ve been through a war. Hope the money helped.”
“Couldn’t have made it without it.” I glanced in the direction of the administrative offices. “Where are Chris and Roland? Did you—” I lowered my voice. “Did you get the girls off?”
“Oh yeah, that was no big deal. They were a little bitchy about rappelling, but I got them down. But man, you got to hear about Forsythe.”
He paused, looking at Julius like a severed head might be concealed beneath the pillowcase. “Uh, well, follow me. I’ve gotta move a ton of chairs before dinner.”
We entered the auditorium where Derek began unloading the chairs. A banner hung over the stage:
Election 1980
Rhode Island Senate Debate
Wellington Academy, Oct. 28th
“So what happened? Did they make it back?”
“Oh yeah, they got back fine,” he said, starting back to the cafeteria for more chairs. “But get this. Instead of landing behind Kirkland, they flew out near the woods. By the time anyone got out there, they were long gone.”
“They got away?”
Derek grinned. “Roland made it back no problem. Liz thought he was Superman for flying you back so you could be at your grandpa’s funeral.”
“And Chris?”
Derek’s grin got even larger. “They started up a search for him. They looked in Roland’s room, and I guess they went into both of ours, too. I was in Nick’s room with the girls at the time. The only reason they didn’t give me or Roland a hard time about being out after lights-out was because everybody was out. I’m telling you, it was a madhouse. I was worried they were going to go room to room.” Derek shook his head, but his grin never faded. “There I was with a roomful of girls and all that liquor. Man, that would have been the end of me. But they waited until morning, just as I was getting back from the beach. They searched the entire school for him.”
“They didn’t find him?”
“They still haven’t found him!”
“No way! Do you know where he is?”
“I saw him yesterday morning at the beach. He spent the night down there. Had me bring him some food and candy bars. He’s loving it. Everyone knows he’s still here, but no one knows where.”
“Why didn’t he leave with the girls?”
“We tried talking him into that, but he wouldn’t do it. He said he had some unfinished business. Something that will make everything else look like child’s play.” Derek looked at me. “You know what he’s talking about?”
You have to promise me one thing … you have to come back.
“No idea.”
Preparations for dinner were underway in the cafeteria. It still felt like Sunday, but the sight of crumbers draping white linen over the tables reminded me that the week had already begun.
Derek shook his head. “I can’t think of what it could be. I mean, how can you top stealing a helicopter?”
“Three-seventy-five.”
It was Chet. The mailman had his head protruding from the mailroom. “Where do ya think yaw goin’ rushin’ through without stoppin’ to see me? We’re closed, but I guess I’ll make an exception this one time.”
I told Derek I’d catch up to him and went over to where Chet was shuffling back to the mail bins, an awkward movement compared to his patented slide.
“Been working some crazy hours,” he muttered, pulling a letter out of the bin. “Crazy hours, I tell ya. This place has been a-hoppin’. Had to catch the six o’clock everyday last week. Never seen so much mail in my life. Everybody’s sending and receiving, sending and receiving. They’re working poor ol’ Chet to death. Now let’s see, what do we have here.” Chet passed the letter beneath his nose and sighed. “Sowey to get yaw hopes up, three-seventy-five. I’m afraid it’s same ol’, same ol’.”
He started to hand me the letter, but pulled up short. Then he leaned closer and sniffed, a look of surprise crossing his face.
“Why three-seventy-five, it smells just like ya! Musty, from Brooklyn.”
CHAPTER 23: A TOUCH OF EVIL
That phrase kept echoing in my head as I ran through the lobby and up the two flights of stairs to my room.
Musty, from Brooklyn.
Though I knew it wasn’t possible, this letter allowed me to forget that the last forty-eight hours had ever happened. Grandpa was still alive. Though I had looked through every room, he had staged his own death and still resided at Brickmore Lane. The fact that the envelope was postmarked the day before he had passed away did little to diminish my excitement, and I took the remaining stairs three at a time.
I was so distracted that I failed to notice that my room was not how I had left it. Drawers were pulled out; the bed was a disaster, the sheets hanging down over the lower bunk; a pair of someone’s muddy shoes lay in the corner, and the damp smell of wet clothes permeated the air.
Only when something stirred in the lower bunk did I notice the disarray.
“About time you got back,” Chris said, pushing the sheets aside. “You have any idea how long I’ve had to take a whiz?”
I could only shake my head. “How …”
“How … how what? How bad is it? Think of Niagara Falls. Think of the Mississippi after a hard rain. Think of jumping up and down on a water bed.”
“How did you get in here?”
“How do I get out of here? Man, look at you, Hawthorne. You’ve got me beat. A regular down-and-out rucksack hobo.” Then he became serious. “You make it back in time?”
“With an hour to spare.”
“And what about your old man? Did he freak out when he saw you, or what?”
I hesitated.
“Never seen him so pissed in my life.”
Chris smiled. “Then it was worth it.” He looked at Julius. “Man, you’re collecting those like they were going out of style. Hey, you done with that?” he asked, pointing to my half-empty soda.
“It’s warm.”
“Not as warm as it’s gonna be.”
“Oh, man. You serious?”
“I’m about to explode. And I’m a goner if I set foot outside that door.”
I reluctantly handed him the bottle, which he emptied out the window.
“Just don’t spill any,” I said, trying my best to
ignore the sound of him relieving himself.
“Nothing to fear,” he assured me. “I’m a great aim.”
After what seemed like an extraordinarily long time, Chris zipped up his fly. “What’cha got there?”
“Just the mail,” I said, tossing the half-opened envelope on the desk. It would have to wait. I had to be alone to read it.
“Hope you don’t mind that I borrowed a few things,” Chris said, referring to the rugby shirt and jeans that were two inches too long. “Forty-two hours and counting,” he said, perching himself on the radiator. “Never thought I’d last this long. But I can’t take all the credit. The media’s been my guardian angel. They’d have a field day if they ever got wind of what we did. God, I’m starving. I can’t believe you don’t have any food in here.”
I reached into my backpack and tossed him a Mr. Crackle.
“Ugh,” Chris groaned. “Derek’s given me a hundred of these.” But this didn’t prevent him from peeling off the wrapper and taking a bite. “Can’t do it,” he said a second later, throwing the candy bar in the trash. “Hey, isn’t it about time for dinner? Here’s a grand idea. Why don’t you get your noose on, you know, get yourself looking a little more re-spec-ta-ble, and go get me something to eat. Roland covered me last night.”
“I ran into Derek. He said you’re planning one final … surprise.”
Chris looked amused. “Surprise. I like that. Mayhew can never keep his trap shut.” He looked up. “Why Jake, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were curious. Jacob Hawthorne, Mr. Prudent, who rides around in stolen helicopters, is curious for the first time in his life.”
“I just can’t figure out how you plan on doing anything. I mean, you can’t even leave the room.”
“That’s the beauty of it. I’m not going to do anything.”
“Then who is?”
Chris’ gaze never wavered. “You are.”
When he stood up, I knew a speech was headed my way. He started with instructions on what I would have to do, as well as the resulting aftermath—the “fall-out” as he called it. He crafted his words in a way that made the outrageous seem attainable. “Scandal” was the word that stuck out. It weighed on me long after he had stopped talking. He paced back and forth in a way that was reminiscent of whenever he imitated his father. Only now, he was no longer imitating. He had decided to fight fire with fire, and out of this conflagration was forged his true identity, burdened as it was by the brand of unwanted similarities.
I looked out at the darkening courtyard. The saplings in the gutter were larger than I remembered, and I looked for a long time at Seymour before realizing the green had drained from his leaves. When Chris turned on the desk lamp, our reflections were superimposed over the image of the dying bonsai.
Chris stood beside me, awaiting my decision. It was up to me. This would be our last time together. I had to decide now. But would it actually change anything? How could I make a difference? I marveled at the circumstances that had led up to this. What he was proposing would ruin careers. But Chris argued we would be doing nothing more than revealing the truth. Certainly there could be no harm in that.
His face hovered over my shoulder.
This was what we all had wanted since the day our fathers had made the headlines. We would no longer be in their shadow. We would make the headlines on our own.
But what did Chris know of my father?
He knew. He knew enough. He knew the resentment and the anger. He knew because he lived with it everyday. He and I were the same.
When I agreed to go through with it, the lips of his reflection curved into a smile.
* * * * *
Here on the island we were kept from the world, but tonight the world was coming to us.
The “Welcome To Wellington Academy” sign had been returned to the courtyard entrance, and high overhead, the beam of Raker Lighthouse swung through the night, sending a shadow play of light over the hotel. Dressed in jackets and ties, the student body was herded into the main lobby after dinner and instructed to mingle with the guests. A reporter spoke into the camera while security personnel monitored the exits. The candidates’ families mingled with a spattering of prominent politicians. Stanley Dunford, the Governor of Rhode Island, walked right past me, and Trevor Billings, the mayor of Boston, was seated on the very sofa where Derek and I had waited for the girls only a few days before. It was among such a crowd that the students fell quietly into the background, like faceless extras on a star-studded movie set. Even Wellington’s teaching staff looked awed as they drifted from group to group—lost disciples amidst a newfound authority.
Being part of such a memorable crowd made it feel like the past had been brought back to life. I was no longer at a boarding school; Wellington was merely a name, with the Hotel Nouveau—in all its former glory—rising up in its place. The auditorium that we were about to enter was no longer where Mr. Hearst addressed the student body each morning. It was the stage where the next Rhode Island senator would be decided, the very room where tomorrow’s headlines were about to be made.
The lobby’s chandeliers sparkled with illumination, drawing attention to the vaulted ceiling that didn’t seem quite as high now that there were enough people to fill the cathedral-sized room. The bright lights and aristocratic crowd made me forget the deterioration that was so apparent in the daylight. How could one notice the chipped wall paneling and lack of artwork when the guests themselves were something to be admired? If anything, the hotel’s age was charming, even flattering, a historic backdrop befitting such a patriotic event.
For one final night, the Hotel Nouveau was being used for what it was intended. Men and women of good taste were once again spending their finest hour here. As I continued to watch those around me, I was struck with the feeling that I had been thrust into one of the old photographs in the infirmary. If seen in black and white, the adults could pass for the vacationers of yesteryear, and the students’ faces—pensive, eager youth suspended above a necktie—looked aged beyond our years. I had become a part of the Raker Island my parents had experienced so many years before. They had sent me into their past, and if Mother had been in attendance tonight, everything would have been just as she remembered. If I went into the courtyard, I would find Father kneeling by the fountain, forever smiling for the camera. Suddenly, I wanted that. I wanted to escape the crowd and spend the evening by his side.
Hearing someone call my name, I turned to see Mr. O’Leary emerge from the crowd. He wore a dark suit instead of his usual tweed sports jacket, and was perhaps the only member of Wellington’s faculty who didn’t look outgunned by the politicians.
“You have my deepest condolences,” he said. “How are you holding up?”
“Better. Sorry I missed your class. We had rehearsals,” I said, referring to the two-hour session in which the debate participants had recited their questions. But little good it had done. I struggled through my question each time I was called upon, Mr. Hutcheson wincing whenever I forgot a word or tripped over my tongue. Only Roland managed to do worse. In fact, he got so tongue-tied that the normally sedate government teacher had shouted at him for his incompetence. But Roland, his mind obviously elsewhere, hardly seemed to care.
“Ah yes. The final hour approaches. How are the nerves?”
“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I said, only half-joking.
“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. A student arrest is enough excitement for one day.”
Chris had finally been apprehended. Max had come across him that morning sleeping in an abandoned room in Buchanan Hall. I had looked up from breakfast to find the maintenance man leading him across the courtyard. Chris hadn’t put up much of a fight, and even Max looked like he was only going through the motions. “I was born to fly,” I had muttered, a mantra intoned partly in tribute, partly to ward off the defeat at witnessing our rebellious leader get led away in handcuffs.
Mr. O’Leary waited for my reaction. When it did
n’t come, he said, “Well, I’ll leave you to the debate. And don’t think I’ve forgotten your introduction. You still owe me the history of Jacob Hawthorne.”
Alone once again, I reached into my jacket. Though Mr. Hutcheson had insisted we memorize our questions, we were permitted to carry a cue card if our nerves got the better of us. I became so worried I’d lose it that I was often caught in the Napoleon pose—one hand tucked into the front of my jacket. I completed the motion by reaching into my opposite breast pocket, which contained a certain musty envelope from Brooklyn.
I hadn’t read it yet. There had been plenty of opportunities, plenty of contemplative hours in my room after Chris had left. But the truth was, I dreaded the idea of reaching those final words. After I read the letter, there would be no more jokes, no more words of wisdom, no more Monday afternoon visits. What I kept in my breast pocket was the last remnant of Grandpa Hawthorne, and I clung to it like it was his final breath.
When the auditorium doors swung open, an orchestrated seating process began. While being ushered down the aisle, I spotted Roland beside a man in uniform who could be none other than General Van Belle II. At a glance, he wasn’t the monster or cold-blooded killer I had imagined. Standing several inches shorter than his son, he had a compact frame, a broad forehead, and a tightness in his shoulders that embodied his highly decorated uniform. His eyes were the same striking blue as Roland’s, but contained within them was the unwavering gaze of a dispassionate hero. It was not by chance that the general was in attendance tonight. Chris had told me that if his father ever made it to the White House, his longtime friend, General Van Belle, would be at the top of a very short list for Secretary of Defense. I watched as he said a few departing words to his son and made his way through the crowd.
An usher directed me to an aisle seat in the third row. A shrewd-looking woman in gold-framed glasses was seated to my left. When I sat beside her, she removed her glasses, letting them dangle from a chain looped around her neck, and gave me a scrutinizing look.
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