by John Enright
“Any coyote in here?” Atticus asked.
“We don’t eat dog in Kentucky.”
“It’s like New England chowder,” Lydia said, “only without fish and cream.”
“Dominick,” Atticus said, “what is your strongest childhood food memory, good or bad?”
“Can’t say I have any. I have always found it curious how people claim to have these vivid memories of their youth when so much has come in between.”
“You never ate squirrel and corn burgoo for days on end,” Charlie said.
“No. Maybe that is it—being untraumatized by my youngest years, I have no memory of them.”
“Or maybe your childhood was just so upsetting that you have suppressed all those memories,” Lydia said. “I had a friend like that once. The men in her family did terrible to things her as a child, but when she grew up she remembered them all as saints, wouldn’t hear a word spoken against them.”
“No,” Dominick said, “I’m pretty sure my youth was uneventful. It’s the future I’m suppressing.”
“The past is just what we make of it anyway,” Atticus said, using a piece of French bread to clean the bottom of his bowl. “In this case, a memorable stew.”
“What do you mean by that?” Charlie asked.
“That I’d like another helping,” Atticus said.
Charlie got up to refill Atticus’s bowl. “No, I meant what you said about the past being just what you make it? The past is the past. You can’t change what happened.”
“At the very least he can choose what he wants to remember,” Dominick said.
“But that doesn’t change what did happen.” Charlie put Atticus’s bowl back in front of him and cut some more French bread. “Other people could set him straight on that.”
“So, we rely on others to confirm or deny our version of the past?” Atticus said.
“Some sort of consensus, yeah, I guess, but it is what it was.”
“So, the truth about the past relies upon some sort of consensus. You know, the past can get pretty complicated.”
“Doesn’t change the facts.”
“But what if the consensus changes? Doesn’t that then change the past?”
“I think people forget the complications,” Lydia said. “And some people lie.”
Charlie was shaking his head. “I know what you’re saying,” he said, “but that’s not history. That’s propaganda. It’s like the liberal media always twisting the news to make America look bad.”
Now that the conversation had become pointedly political, Dominick totally withdrew from it. He knew that Charlie didn’t mind his smoking a cigar in the house, but he went to the back door anyway and opened it to smoke, just to get away from the table.
“So, there you are, Charlie,” Atticus said. “The same set of events, two different ways of seeing it.”
“But only one way is correct. It’s like them terrorists blowing things up. I suppose they think they’re right, but they’re dead wrong. You can’t twist that around and justify it.”
“Is everything so black-and-white, Charlie?” Lydia asked. She was stacking their empty bowls to take to the sink. “God knows, I’ve been wrong about plenty of things I didn’t fully understand.”
“Well, I suppose you could be initially misinformed about things and have to refine your opinion later, but if you have the right set of beliefs to guide you, you’ll get it right. You can’t keep changing history to suit yourself is all I’m saying.”
“I’m afraid, Charlie, that is all history is—arranging the past to suit ourselves,” Dominick said from the doorway.
“Or to fool others,” Atticus added.
“Then your history is bunk,” Charlie said. “Give me Fox News and the Bible.”
“De gustibus non est disputandum,” Dominick said.
“To each his own fantasy,” Atticus agreed.
“I’ll drink to that,” Charlie said, and he poured them each more Maker’s Mark from the bottle Dominick had brought. The doorbell rang, and Charlie went to answer it.
In Atticus’s library Dominick had found a history of lighthouses on the bay and their keepers. At one point in history there had been a good dozen lighthouses marking the entry into and the twists and hazards of the bay, and, since they burned whale or coal oil, they needed constant tending. They could never go dark, and the horns or bells that were their fogbound voices must always be ready to speak. It was what Lydia said about black-and-white that had set Dominick off on this train of thought. He had seen her black-and-white as a lighthouse light flashing its signal against the night, that simple binary missive—I am here; this is who I am—because each light had its own identifiable interval, and each lighthouse’s foghorn or bell had its own constant pitch and tone and timing. Their constancy was essential. They could not go dark or silent, could not change, could not move, or they would not only lose all meaning but become themselves the enemy, part of the hazards they were meant to defend against, luring the unwary to destruction.
Wasn’t that Charlie’s point, in a way? That safe passage through life required constancy, certainty, assuredness? To insure that the harbor you return to is the same familiar harbor that you left? Good guys and bad guys, the safe channels of our forefathers versus the shoals of shipwreck? As political analogy, how romantic.
But what Dominick had been most curious about were the keepers of the lights. For obvious geological reasons few of the lighthouses were located in easily accessible places. Most were reachable only by the sea, on remote rocks or islands, doomed by purpose and design to occupy the most inhospitable locations. A lighthouse cannot cower from the sea. David-like it must confront its Goliath nemesis, rock face to wave face—in this case the North Atlantic and its famed nor’easters. These were places where no normal human being ever chose to live. But lighthouse keepers did live there, sometimes with a wife and family. One had to wonder at the choice, as none were exiled there nor sentenced there, and there was competition for positions. The pay was paltry, even by the standards of the day, and the living quarters often mean and always cold and damp. Retired seamen were preferred, sailors home from the sea, because their hard lives had left them unpampered and they knew the value to a man at sea of that light ashore. But the solitariness—every watch your own and every watch alone—must have been daunting for men who had lived their lives as members of a close-knit crew. Of course, there was no captain; that might have been a plus for some of them after years of rigid hierarchy. At a lighthouse you were captain and crew.
They had to be men of the sea, because even on land now the sea was their closest and constant companion, and a small craft that they could manage and maintain alone was their sole connection to the world behind them. In their small boats they saved the lives of many shipwrecked sailors. Some lost their own lives in storms. To a man they liked to fish. An uncommon number of lighthouse keepers were the sons of lighthouse keepers. Dominick wondered if the sense of duty was an inheritable trait, because the life of a lighthouse keeper was all about duty, not personal gain. Beyond the danger and the solitude and the discomfort there was a further basic subjugation—that he was a servant of the light, a vassal to a beacon and its sole server.
Whereas the privateers Dominick had read about had been in their game wholly for themselves, changing history as they went along and as it suited them, the lighthouse keepers—their fellow New England seamen—had taken the opposite tack. Their game was not about themselves and profit and change but about service and solitude and constancy. Very black-and-white.
Well, not always about solitude. If you were young enough and in lust enough, a rustic cottage for two on a cliff above a scenic panorama could be an ideal romantic setting. The passion of the pounding sea, the freedom of being alone together, free to make love at any time of day and anywhere you wanted. Dominick always wondered about all the clothes they wore back then—heavy clothes, wool and muslin, with petticoats, buttons, long johns and leggings—and infrequent bath
s. How would you rewrite passion into that historicity?
In the lighthouse history book only one such occasion had been included. A lone keeper at a remote island station had requested permission to bring his mother to live with him and to hire a housekeeper to help her. Permission granted; only the mother never arrived, just the housekeeper. Her name was Catherine, a very proper name. Three years of—one would like to think—bliss and a child ensued before poison rumors infected the chain of command and a pair of Lighthouse Service inspectors (was one tall and one short?) arrived unannounced at dawn one day. The keeper answered the door in his pajamas. It was all written up by hand in a five-page report. He was asked “why he kept his clothes in her [the housekeeper’s] room. He said he always did as that room was drier. When informed that no other room in house showed signs of having been occupied and asked where he slept, he said he slept in a chair in dining room.” His resignation was asked for and received on the spot. That keeper’s record for keeping the light had always been ranked as excellent. He had received a commendation the year before for saving the lives of a boat owner and his wife. After his dismissal he vanished from the Service and from local history. Dominick liked that. At least when he vanished he left behind a slew of unpaid bills.
The lighthouses—those that were left—were all automated now. All the lighthouse keepers were gone. Electronic-light buoys marked the channel now, and, of course, all the bigger boats and ships had radar and global positioning gizmos, revolving antennae and satellite hook-ups. Instead of sailing ships tacking in and out of the bay, huge container ships and tankers now screwed their arrow-straight courses and precisely angled turns down the shipping lanes without even having to look out the bridge window. Modern meteorology had stripped storms of their advantage of surprise. An occupation had disappeared. The privateers were all gone too, Dominick thought, all moved ashore.
When Charlie returned to the kitchen he was speaking over his shoulder. “Sure, come on in. These folks will verify who I am. Guys, meet the front line in our fight against those terrorists we were talking about—two gentlemen from Homeland Security.”
Sure enough, following behind him, in their jeans and windbreaker uniforms again but this time with ICE baseball caps, were agents Mutt and Jeff. “They just need to confirm with you who I am and that I do live here. They’re investigating that attack up in Old Grofton.”
Dominick was still standing by the back door, smoking his cigar and meditating on the life of a lighthouse keeper. Lydia was at the sink, rinsing and stacking dinner dishes. Atticus was still seated at the kitchen table. No one said anything. Charlie didn’t seem to notice. “I guess the Florida plates on my Bronco in the driveway raised an eyebrow.”
“Actually, sir, we had some difficulty tracing you and your car to this address. The house is not in your name.”
“No, the wife’s. She’s got the deep pockets in this household. But glad to help. Let me get that driver’s license for you. That’s from Florida, too, you know.” Charlie went cheerfully on out another door. Silence in the kitchen.
“A little cell meeting, gentleman?” the short agent finally spoke, a slight knowing smile on his lips.
“Burgoo,” Atticus said.
“Say what?” the tall agent said. His hand flicked to and away from the grip of his sidearm beneath the windbreaker.
“Burgoo,” Dominick said, blowing cigar smoke out the door. “We are here for a burgoo feast. That’s an Arab word, you know.”
“Atticus, who are these men?” Lydia asked.
“These men are from the federal government, dear. They are our public servants.”
“But those hats.”
“Yes, the icemen cometh.”
“Why don’t they take them off, indoors and all?”
“Can’t you see it’s a uniform, dear? Ignore them like you do all men in uniform.”
“We’ll deal with you in a moment, ma’am,” the tall one said.
“You’ll take your hat off in the kitchen,” Lydia said.
“We’ll deal with you in a moment, ma’am.”
Charlie came back into the kitchen with his wallet, pulling out his driver’s license. “Here you go. Charles Owens. That’s my Florida address, but these good folks here can tell you that me and the missus spend close to half the year here in this house. Now, how can we help you catch your terrorists? You think they might be hiding out here on our island? What sort of suspicious stuff should we be on the lookout for? You guys like a cup of coffee or something?”
“Is that your weapon, Mr. Owens?” the short one asked, handing Charlie’s license back to him after barely looking at it.
“Which weapon is that?” Charlie answered, still smiling, eager to help.
“That firearm there, sir,” shortie said, pointing to an over-under shotgun leaning in the corner by the outside door. “Would you step away from the weapon,” he said to Dominick, who had not even noticed the shotgun before. Dominick took a few steps into the room.
“Well, yeah. I just been cleaning it,” Charlie said. “Why?”
“Turn around, Mr. Owens.” The tall one this time, stepping forward, his windbreaker pulled back clearing his sidearm. “You.” He motioned to Atticus still at the table. “Up, over next to him. You, too.” He pointed to Dominick to join them. “Turn around, hands on the wall. You too, ma’am.”
They were all four thoroughly frisked by the tall man. Lydia’s face turned scarlet. Atticus’s turned white with rage. Charlie could not understand what was happening. “Wait, wait. What’s going on here? This is my house. That’s my shotgun. I got rights here—second amendment, fourth amendment. Take your hands off the lady!”
The tall agent pushed Charlie hard against the kitchen wall. “You don’t want to assault a federal officer or interfere with the performance of his lawful duties,” he said. “That’s a felony.” When he got to frisking Dominick he had to lean close because of Dominick’s size, and Dominick could smell the sweet scent of fruity chewing gum on his breath. It had been so long since Dominick had been touched by human hands that the brisk pat-down first registered almost as an electric shock then lingered as a pleasurable tingling.
When the tall one had finished his frisking, the short one asked, “Is there anyone else in the house?”
Atticus went to Lydia’s side to put his arm around her, but she shrugged him off. She was staring intently, quizzically at the short agent, her eyes slightly squinting, her head tilted to one side, as if trying to remember or recognize something familiar.
“You’ll pay for this,” Atticus said.
“I asked if there was anyone else in the house.”
“No,” Charlie said. “There’s no one else here.”
“Are you expecting any more members tonight?”
“Any more members of what?” Charlie asked.
“I’ll ask the questions. Who is this woman?” The short one had his little notebook out.
“This is my wife,” Atticus said. He was looking at her now with some concern. Lydia hadn’t moved, but her face had taken on a perplexed look, her lips pursed.
The agent flipped back a few notebook pages. “That would be Lydia Jameson?”
“You’re Allah Meriwether, aren’t you?” Lydia said. “You’re an evil man.”
“Are you Lydia Jameson?”
“Allah Meriwether. A disgrace to his family.”
“Yes or no.”
“Yes, you are. The Bristol Meriwethers, I bet. There was always that side of them, the ones they tried to hide, the runts of the litter.”
“What’s wrong with her?” the tall one asked. “What is she talking about?”
At the word runt the short agent had stopped making notes and closed his notebook. “Look, your game is up. Cooperate and deliver any illegal aliens or foreign agents associated with your little group or face the consequences. You all should be aware that you and others with whom you are associated are subjects of an active and ongoing investigation. My name is
not Meriwether, ma’am.” And they left.
“What the fuck?” Charlie said. “Are they smoking it or taking it in the arm? What other members? What aliens? What foreign agents?”
“Looks like you are an enemy of the state now, Charlie. See how easy it was for that consensus to change.” Dominick said. His cigar had gone out and he was relighting it. “All you had to do was invite them into your house.”
“Dominick, I think we’d better be going,” Atticus had gotten Lydia’s coat and was trying to get her to put it on, but she wasn’t helping. She was playing with her iPod. She hadn’t moved from the spot where she had been frisked.
“Atticus, how come you broke this? It won’t work.” Her color was normal now, her voice even.
“Time to go, dear,” he said, draping the coat over her shoulders.
“I went before I left the house. You broke my thing. It won’t play.”
Atticus gently put the earphones into her ears. “How’s that?”
Lydia smiled. “But I fixed it,” she said.
“Atticus, you two go ahead. I’m sure Charlie will give me a ride home later.” It was time for Dominick to play the distance card he always held in his hand like a Get Out of Jail Free card, the one that said I am not family, even an old friend, just a temporary houseguest; I hold indemnity against all moments tragic, intimate, dramatic, and/or interpersonal. Wherever Lydia had gone only Atticus need follow. Besides, in the car he couldn’t finish his cigar.
They drank more Maker’s Mark as Dominick made a stab at explaining to Charlie the agents’ interest in aliens, explosives, and Lord Witherspoon.
“But why bust into my house? I don’t know any aliens. I despise all bombers. And Lord Witherspoon doesn’t even exist.”
“But Lord Witherspoon, the terrorist alien, has become central to their understanding of events. That’s their history of the case and they are sticking to it.”
