The Keeper of Dawn

by Hickman, J. B.

  “Ah, one of the chosen ones,” she said, pointing to the card that displayed the number 7 that the usher had clipped to my chair, indicating that I would be asking the seventh question of the night. “Do tell,” she asked in a teasing fashion, “what do you get to drill them with?”

  My hand crept toward my breast pocket. “It’s uh … it involves aggressive Soviet impulses.”

  “How I envy you,” she said, putting her glasses back on. “You must be so excited.”

  Nervous was more like it. Dreadfully nervous.

  I was seated so close to the stage that I could see Brian Metcalf, the debate commentator, as clearly as if I were watching him on TV. He was seated at a small table, his attention never straying from the tidy stack of papers before him. Two lecterns stood before a blue curtain that spanned the back of the stage. Television cameras were positioned along the periphery. I looked longingly at the seats in the balcony. Being in such close proximity to the stage left me nowhere to hide, with every tick of the clock carrying me to a place I didn’t want to be.

  The woman next to me, sensing my agitation, leaned over and whispered, “The trick is to not let them intimidate you. Forget their titles. They’re only men. Think of it as if you were asking your father a question.”

  This didn’t help.

  I withdrew the cue card from my jacket and studied the question. But as the empty seats around me began to fill, my eyes were drawn to the stage. Soon a senator from Rhode Island would be standing before me. But it was Chris’ father—the same man whose arrival to Raker Island had captivated the entire school—that was the source of my anxiety.

  I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Everything okay, Jacob?”

  It was Mr. Hutcheson.

  “Got your question there, I see,” he said. “Good, good. Remember, only use the cue card if you absolutely have to.” The government teacher continued down the aisle, his face flushed, eyes roaming the crowd.

  The room erupted in applause when the candidates emerged from behind the curtain. Each man waved as if the applause was meant for him alone. They exchanged a quick handshake and took their places behind the lecterns. The crowd murmured its excitement over the two great men that stood before it. I, too, fell beneath their spell, finding it impossible to look away. Senator Coleman looked shorter than he did on television. But my eyes lingered longest on Governor Forsythe. He stood tall behind the lectern, the stage lights glinting off his silver hair. There was something magnetic about this man whom I knew only through newspaper articles and the bitter recollections of his son. Though Chris didn’t physically resemble his father, there was a similarity in their mannerisms that made their relationship undeniable. This was how Chris looked when forced to remain quiet—pensive, perhaps even vulnerable, impatiently waiting for the chance to speak his mind. Their influence lay in their words, and it was this similarity that bound father and son so conclusively that it rendered any difference insignificant. Chris might not see his father when he looked in the mirror, but he heard him in his voice. While his father had been vying for control of the state, Chris had done everything in his power to take over Raker Island. And, as fate would have it, the final battle of both conflicts was to be fought in the same crowded auditorium.

  When the sixty-second countdown began, the magnitude of what was about to unfold charged the silence of the room. I wondered how the commentator could remain so calm when my stomach was twisting itself in knots. A man standing behind the main camera counted down the remaining seconds on his hand: five, four, three, two, one.

  “Good evening and welcome to the third and final debate for the U.S. Senate for the state of Rhode Island,” the commentator announced, his steady voice coming over the auditorium’s loudspeakers. “I’m Brian Metcalf, and I will be tonight’s commentator. Senator Samuel Coleman and Governor Michael Forsythe are with us here tonight at Wellington Academy. It is my pleasure to inform you that tonight’s program is unlike any other debate in the history of Rhode Island. Students from Wellington Academy have been selected to ask these candidates questions. My job as moderator is to enforce the length of the candidates’ responses, only asking questions myself if I think there needs to be continuity and balance.”

  After the commentator had outlined the rules of the debate, each of the candidates gave a ninety-second introduction, of which I heard very little. Instead, I kept rereading my cue card, and whenever I happened to glance up, my eyes locked on Governor Forsythe.

  Following the introductions, the camera turned to Timothy Shuler, who stood up and asked the first question. Though Timothy was considered to be one of Wellington’s brightest, he was better known for squeezing pimples over the Bowers Hall lavatory mirrors. His explosive acne had earned him the nickname, Vesuvius. It didn’t seem possible that tens of thousands of viewers were, at that very moment, listening to Vesuvius ask the Rhode Island Senator if the national inflation rate had jumped from 7% to 9% because OPEC had doubled its oil prices last year. And if so, how could our nation become less vulnerable to such external influences in the future?

  An immeasurably slow count had started inside my head. Time ceased to be measured in minutes or seconds; only this internal number mattered, and when it reached seven, all eyes would focus on me.

  When the next question was asked, the woman beside me, the entire audience, even the candidates, ceased to exist. But I wasn’t alone. In my mind, Chris was seated beside me, leaning over to whisper in my ear. In all his cunning resourcefulness, he had escaped yet again. He had come to the debate to ensure I would fulfill my promise. After all, it was his question that had won the contest, not mine.

  The next student rose and spoke into the microphone.

  But it was Chris’ voice that I heard. He had led us to the beach and beyond. And now he had given me the key to the debate. As Governor Forsythe described his plan on improving public education, I slipped the cue card back into my jacket, replacing it with a tri-folded sheet of Waldorf-Astoria letterhead. When I looked down, it was Chris’ barely legible handwriting that stared back at me.

  It’s the truth, Jake. If I’m making it up, then nothing will come of it.

  I fidgeted with the letterhead, smoothing the creases with my finger, the words blurring into indecipherable lines.

  Somewhere in the background, Senator Coleman gave his rebuttal.

  Politics is a house of cards, Jake. You only have to remove one, and everything collapses.

  I concentrated on the letterhead, rereading Chris’ words until they were fresh in my mind. As the next student rose to ask their question, a man walked up the aisle and stopped beside me. He held a microphone and was looking at the number clipped to my chair. Suddenly I had the urge to yank it off and hurl it into the crowd.

  For once, you’ll make the headlines instead of him.

  It felt like Chris was actually beside me, his wild, intoxicating look burrowing through me. His shirt was off. The black wings on his back were vibrating, blurring like a hummingbird’s.

  You didn’t want to come here any more than I did. He forced you to come just like the rest of us. What I’m offering is your only shot at revenge. Make him regret ever sending you here. Prove to him once and for all that you won’t let him screw up your life. Don’t run from him, Jake. Your brother tried that. Where’d it get him?

  Governor Forsythe was speaking, pointing over the lectern to stress his point, his words pulling me closer to the stage. Someone was handing me a microphone. The light of a camera shined in my eyes. In the process of getting up and reaching for the microphone, the letterhead slipped from my lap and tumbled to the floor.

  Think of the scandal, Jake. It will ruin any chance he’s got.

  But I knew something of scandal, didn’t I? I knew how it could ruin more than a career. And I also knew the length a family would go to cover it up.

  “… My question is … is for you, Governor Forsythe, sir.”

  Suddenly, for no particular reason, Sal’s voice was speak
ing in my head.

  I actually came to miss hating him. I needed him more than I thought. I needed that touch of evil in my life.

  Something had changed since I had heard those words. They had become more than just a truck driver recalling his troubled childhood. The words seemed to come from within me, in a voice I didn’t recognize.

  “Aggressive Soviet impulses,” I blurted out. “Eh … what I mean is that as a United States senator, foreign affairs will … will play a much larger role in your responsibilities. In light of recent events, President Carter has been criticized for responding late to aggressive Soviet impulses, for insufficient build-up of our armed forces, and a paralysis in dealing with Afghanistan and Iran. If you were in the Senate, what would your take be on the use of American military power to deal with foreign crises such as these?”

  I collapsed in the chair. I felt both despondent and relieved, like a heavy burden had been lifted from my shoulders. The governor rattled off his response that sounded as scripted as that morning’s rehearsal. I only half-listened to the subsequent questions and responses, feeling disconnected from the charge that had been building inside me since the night before. And as this bottled-up energy released itself, I was left with something not entirely my own, something that would linger long after the debate. It was regret; a borrowed, unwanted feeling that couldn’t be dispersed by the stuttered recital of a few half-memorized lines.

  When a familiar voice carried over the loudspeakers, my surroundings swam back into focus.

  “Governor Forsythe, your campaign for the Senate has been spearheaded by the most expensive marketing campaign in this state’s history. In fact, if you look closely at the numbers, your campaign should have exhausted the funds raised by over six million dollars. My question is, have you used any of the money that you embezzled from the State of Maryland Employee Trust Fund over the past eight years to pay for these extra expenses?”

  The room went quiet. Somehow it was Roland saying these things, asking the very question that I had committed to memory.

  “And I would also appreciate it if you could take some time to talk about Angela Donnington. I’m sure the viewers, not to mention your wife, would be interested in knowing how you bribed her to prevent her from going to the press about your torrid—”

  When the feed on Roland’s microphone cut out, the room became so quiet it felt that the air had been sucked out of it.

  “What did that young man say?” the woman beside me asked, putting her glasses on and peering over her shoulder. “Angela who?”

  “Angela Donnington. D-O-N-N-I-N-G-T-O-N,” I said as she scratched the name down in her notebook. I also recited the question on embezzlement verbatim. It was the least I could do.

  To his credit, the commentator spoke like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “I think what we’d all like to hear about is the life expectancy of Social Security. The wage earners in this country—especially the young—are supporting a Social Security system that continues to drastically affect their income. How much longer can wage earners expect to bear this ever-increasing burden? Senator Coleman, let’s start with you.”

  The candidates also did an admirable job, though it was some time before Senator Coleman wiped the smirk from his face. Chris’ father looked slightly flushed before regaining his composure, the unbecoming expression merely a ripple passing over an otherwise calm body of water. But his composed demeanor and subsequent response on the pros and cons of Social Security were irrelevant. His son, recently arrested for stealing and operating a helicopter belonging to the United States Coast Guard, had started a wildfire, one that was beyond his power to control. No matter how persuasive his words, they would do nothing to stop a flood of journalists from investigating Angela Donnington and the alleged embezzlement of the Maryland Employee Trust Fund. The audience would remember those two names long after the intricacies of foreign policy. Angela Donnington, an executive secretary living in Baltimore, would be hounded by the press. Questions would be raised. How could a single mother raising three children afford such a beautiful home? When was the last time she had held a steady job? Neighbors and relatives would be interviewed. The assets of Maryland’s Employee Trust Fund would be analyzed. All expenditures related to Governor Forsythe’s campaign would be brought beneath a microscope.

  The truth would come out. Tomorrow’s headlines might as well have already been printed.

  CHAPTER 24: THE KEEPER OF DAWN

  “WELLINGTON’S LARGEST UPSET SINCE WATERLOO,” ran the headlines in The Providence Journal the morning after the debate. Those words turned out to be prophetic, for Senator Coleman went on to win a second term by a six percent margin. Angela Donnington issued a statement to the press in which she confessed having an affair with Governor Forsythe, as well as receiving substantial payments over the past three years for not going public with the information. A preliminary investigation of the alleged embezzlement of the Maryland Employee Trust Fund had begun, though it would be some time before any prosecution was initiated.

  “Phenomenal,” Derek said while reading the election outcome over breakfast. “Beats stealing a helicopter any day.”

  Newspapers were hard to come by these days. I couldn’t find a single copy in Mrs. Lawrence’s office, or even in the cafeteria. But the damage had already been done—Wellington Academy would forever be associated with the demise of a political frontrunner. Mr. Lawson’s public relations masterpiece had backfired in the worst imaginable way. In the days following the election, it felt like the school had contracted a terminal disease. Whatever advantage Wellington had once held over the competition had exploded over the front page of every newspaper in the northeast. The school’s seclusion was now seen as isolation, the distance to the coast more for its own protection than to back any claim of superiority.

  Without Chris and Roland, it felt that I had overstayed my welcome. Aside from reading the paper over breakfast, I saw little of Derek. He spent most of his time with his fellow wrestlers, and I did my best to fit in with the fencing team. When we spoke, it was usually of some past event, or to inquire if there had been any word from the roommates. We had no way of contacting either of them, and only knew through word of mouth that Roland had been transferred to a school in D.C., and Chris was in juvenile detention awaiting trial.

  Though I was now generally more accepted, I missed the times when we had been at odds with the school. I missed the trips to the beach, the dash of unexpectedness amidst the meticulously scheduled boarding school life. I even missed working alongside Max, and hearing Chet utter those cherished words: “Musty, from Brooklyn.” I still hadn’t opened Grandpa Hawthorne’s letter. I kept it tucked in the pocket of my uniform, a badge of sentimentality.

  It seemed that even Mr. O’Leary had forgotten about me. Though his other students had long since announced their “history” to the class, he never called on me. His eyes would sweep across the room during roll call, as if peering through a haze of absent-mindedness before launching into the morning lecture. As the weeks went by, my anxiety that accompanied first period receded.

  I didn’t return to the lighthouse until the week preceding Thanksgiving. Though it had remained dark since the debate, it was still the topic of speculation. Ironically, the only times it had been illuminated were considered to be Wellington’s darkest hours. Having finished my afternoon chores early, I was passing through the library when I overheard Ms. Cartwright surmise to the librarian that perhaps there was some truth to Raker’s curse after all. Though it was likely said in jest, hearing an adult speak of the pirate’s fable brought back memories, and before I knew it, I was off looking for Max.

  I saw little of the reclusive maintenance man these days, but it didn’t take long to track him down. I found him rummaging through the junk pile behind the maintenance shed, the very place I had dumped untold armloads of railing and the remnants of Raker’s old lantern. In fact, broken glass from the lens was still there, glinting among the weeds
and contorted piles of rusted metal in the late afternoon sun.

  “Haven’t you had enough of that place?” he asked, straightening from a pile of fishing poles. A gray cat sat nearby on a gutted-out air conditioner. She remained so motionless she could have been mistaken for a statuette placed among the remnants of the hotel, a place where only Max was capable of salvaging anything of value. But then she shook her bushy tail, wrapping it around her the way a woman throws a scarf over her shoulder, and regarded me with jaded, indolent eyes.

  “I just feel like being alone for awhile,” I said.

  “Can’t think of a better place for it,” Max said, sorting through his keys.

  Max still had the sleeves of his flannel rolled up despite the onset of autumn, though he wore a long-sleeved T-shirt underneath.

  “You can use that space-heater if you want,” he said, his breath clouding the November air. “I’ll be up in a bit, but take all the time you need.”

  “I’m surprised you aren’t working on renovations. You finally finish?”

  “Finish? Yeah, tell me another one. As of yesterday, all work has been suspended.” He let this settle in. “Didn’t I tell you? Nothing on this island lasts for long.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  He smiled. “There’s always something to do when the fish are biting.”

  I took my old route through Oak Yard and up the staircase to the walkway, where I sat facing the island’s southern shore. It was colder up there, the windless air more brittle, as if the lighthouse had risen out of autumn into the first altitudes of winter. The days had grown shorter and the sun hung low in the sky, sending its flushed light across the ocean. Far below, the succession of cliffs resembled a garden-staircase tumbling down the side of the island, a petrified waterfall of rock, the jagged edges smoothed over by the slanting rays of the sun. The forest, once dense and formidable, was now a patchwork of gray trees that did little to cover the island’s rocky shoulder.