by Rachel Simon
She grabbed hold of the handrail. “Right behind you,” she called out to them. Her voice had the same resonance it had under the dome of the Capitol in Harrisburg, and when Lynnie said, “Follow us, Kate,” Kate hoped she’d heard it, too.
Tom told her the history as they climbed. The lighthouse was built in 1838 and in its heyday saved many ships from ruin. The face was made from a metal grille set over the windows; and when the lamp was turned on, the distinct design could be seen for miles. The lighthouse was sixty feet high, and the story went that the designer built another, a twin, somewhere along the eastern seaboard. But although many had gone in search of it, it had never been found, and no one had ever known with certainty if he’d made the story up or if the structure had been lost to the elements. In any event, this one ceased operation in 1947, then deteriorated for decades. Finally it became so forgotten, it stopped appearing on maps.
Kate could see Lynnie and Hannah disappear into the top—“the lantern room,” Tom said. She could hear Hannah squeal, “We’re here again!” and Lynnie reply, “It’s so cool!”
“Now that it’s been restored,” Tom continued, “it’s my favorite place to bring tourists. People flock here no matter how bad the weather. Everyone loves this lighthouse.”
At last Kate reached the top of the staircase and stepped into a glass-enclosed room with an enormous lamp in the center. Taller than Kate, wider than three people pressed side by side, it was made of concentric rings of glass prisms. Fortunately it wasn’t lit, so there was no competition for the windows—and what a view! Kate and Lynnie and Hannah could just gape out in every direction, without the hindrance of reflections. She walked toward the sisters, and together they looked. To one side spread the wide, sandy beach, hugged by mansions. She moved around the perimeter of the tower. To the other side stretched the frenzied ocean. The sky felt close, with low, dark clouds and rain sheeting down. The storm roared all around them.
“You came up here as kids?” Tom asked, his voice loud enough to be heard.
Hannah and Lynnie had not moved from their spot at the window, but Hannah turned. “We were at that party at the Paulsen house, and I’d taken Lynnie for a walk, and a storm came up suddenly. This looked like a place where we could wait it out, and we did.”
“I bet it didn’t look this good then.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Was this lamp here?”
“I think it was a different one. It looked like a glass beehive, but a lot of it was broken.”
“That was this one. It got repaired as part of the restoration. It’s a multiprismed lens called a Fresnel. This one’s a third-order Fresnel. They used to be lit by kerosene, but this one’s now electric.” He went on, and as Hannah wandered over to examine the lamp, Kate made her way to Lynnie.
She was standing before the pane of glass facing the shoreline, a location that provided a view of both land and sea. The houses along the sand had lights in their windows. Although the beach was almost enveloped by the roiling sky, Kate could tell it was empty.
Kate put her arm around Lynnie’s shoulders and leaned close, until their cheeks were almost touching. In a voice too soft for anyone except Lynnie to hear, she said, “This is why you wanted to make this trip, isn’t it.”
Lynnie, eyes fixed outside, nodded.
“You wanted to be back in this place with your sister.”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve made her very happy.”
“I’m glad.”
“You’ve made me happy, too. Do you know how you’ve done this?”
“By bringing you here?”
“Yes, Lynnie. By bringing me here.”
Lynnie looked at her, and Kate felt as if she could almost see the vulnerability in Lynnie’s soul. The child who couldn’t stay with her family. The mother who couldn’t keep her child. The woman who’d waited a lifetime for a man who could never return.
“Are you still sad about what happened?” Kate asked.
“Yes.” And then something changed in Lynnie’s eyes. The fragility gave way to a sureness. The sorrow gave way to a peace. “But I picked the right house to go to.”
“You did,” Kate said.
Lynnie turned back to the window. She reached over and took Kate’s hand, and as they gazed out into the writhing storm, Kate squeezed their palms together.
Behind them, Kate heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs. It hadn’t occurred to her that other tourists might battle their way across the beach in this storm.
But when Kate turned to welcome the strangers into the dim room, it was not a group she saw. It was a solitary person. A tall, lean, African American man with a head of white hair and the kindest of faces.
“Lynnie,” Kate said, but Lynnie was turned to the window.
Tom reached out and shook the man’s hand warmly, as if he were an old friend. The man then lifted a hand in greeting to Hannah and opened his arms toward the Fresnel lens, as if introducing it to her. Clearly, this was a routine that he and Tom had done many times.
The man turned around to a lever and threw the light on.
It burst into the room, the brilliance so strong, it made Kate squint—and it made Lynnie turn around.
At that moment, Lynnie saw the man, and he saw her. Bathed in the radiant light, they took each other in.
Their faces shared the same puzzled expression. Slowly, the man turned to Hannah and then to Kate. And then he rotated back to Lynnie. His eyes dropped to the necklace on her chest.
The man cried out, a cry beyond words.
His eyes were glistening. His lips began to move, and he was breathing hard. Then he parted his mouth and pressed through a sound. “Fuh.”
Lynnie stared hard at him.
“Fuh,” the man repeated. And then he added, “The.”
Tears came to Lynnie’s eyes as her fingers flew to her chest. She raised her hands and made a sign. “Feather,” she said.
They each dared to take a step forward. Their age fell away, and they took each other into their arms.
How many others are out there? Kate asked herself. How many other lives are hidden, and hearts are seeking? How many would give anything in the world to be held by the person they love?
In the lighthouse keeper’s bungalow, as the storm roared outside, she shook her head and returned her attention to Tom and Hannah. The three of them were all sitting in the living room, Hannah’s face alternating between shock and smiles. “So, six years ago,” Tom was saying, “this guy shows up out of nowhere and walks into the office of the most prominent real estate agent in town. He writes down on a piece of paper that he’s deaf. Then he writes that he’s been trying to find the lighthouse with the face for a long time, and now he wants to buy it. Most lighthouses aren’t for sale, and who the heck has that kind of money? But the real estate agent picked up a phone and called the Coast Guard, and when they learned about him, they thought they might save themselves the wrecking costs. They named a price, and before the agent had hung up, the guy had written a check, and next thing you know, he was living here.”
“What’s his name?” Kate asked.
“Homan. Homan Wilson. He was named for homing pigeons.”
“Homan.” She said it slowly and sweetly.
“He mostly spends his time in his shop, in the back of this house. He makes things. He made a wheelchair that can roll on the beach. Once he fixed this place up, I knew it’d help the tourist trade, so I asked if I could bring folks here. ‘Anytime,’ he wrote, and also that he’d never close the door. He just asked me to ring the bell so he’d know I was taking someone up—”
“Bell?”
“These lights.” He pointed around the ceiling. “I rang the bell before we went up. Didn’t you see?”
“No,” Kate said. “I was so intent on getting into the lighthouse, I didn’t notice.”
“Well, he has two rules. One is I ring the bell, anytime day or night.”
“And the
other?” Hannah asked.
“I have to get everyone who comes to sign the guestbook.”
“Oh? Where’s that?”
“In the lantern room,” Tom said. “And everyone has to sign it before they leave, no matter who they are or what hour they show up. So I ask him one day, What’s up with this? Even the owner of the Poseidon Inn doesn’t care that much about the guestbook. And you know what he said?” Tom looked out the window, up into the lantern room. The Fresnel light was glowing. The two bodies were silhouetted inside the glass, safe from the storm. They were holding each other, her cheek on his chest, his head tucked into her neck, moving back and forth as if dancing to their own beat.
Tom shook his head. “This is what he said: ‘I’m waiting for someone.’ Yup. ‘I’m waiting for someone,’ he said.”
PART IV
SAFE
Dreams of Home
BEAUTIFUL GIRLS
2011
The schoolchildren burst into the lobby of the Washington office building, and, as always, the guard at the front desk wondered why they weren’t more dazzled by the luminous glass mosaic on the wall before them. He still fancied, seven years after the enormous artwork had been set in place, that kids wouldn’t be able to resist the way the lights behind the glass made each piece of the fifty-foot mosaic glow as the viewer moved from one end to the other. He wished the teacher and parent chaperones would get them to turn their attention from the Washington Monument key chains and Lincoln Memorial T-shirts they’d just purchased on the Mall, and from all their giggling and text messaging, long enough to look.
But this day was no different from any other: The group—sixty or so, probably fifth graders—just chatted and goofed around as the adults herded them inside the elegant lobby. A few kids did notice they were being urged across a marble floor toward yet another landmark. And one boy in particular, with a mop of curly blond hair, even stopped before it. Otherwise they were just another group of noisy kids. “Face forward, guys, we’ve only got a few minutes!” one chaperone called out. As usual, the other chaperones lined up the kids so the mosaic—prominently noted in Google searches as a great backdrop for photo ops—was behind them.
It still took the students a few moments to settle down. Finally, everyone was smiling dutifully except for the curly-haired boy. A kid of average height, at one end of the middle row, he kept turning back to the mosaic. Only the shout “You too, Ryan!” got him to face forward.
The cameras snapped at the sixty smiles. “Okay. Move on out,” bellowed a teacher.
The students, breaking immediately into conversation, surged back toward the lobby doors. Two adults shooed along the stragglers.
“What’s gotten into you, Ryan?” one of the chaperones asked.
“Look at this mural,” Ryan said, still drawn to its allure as the lobby emptied out. “I’ve never seen anything like that. It’s so cool.”
“Yes, it’s a very pretty piece of art,” the chaperone agreed, her voice as smooth and no-nonsense as her bobbed hair. Wearing a tailored suit, she was the only chaperone not displaying the sweatshirt that read, “Best School in Chapel Hill.” She looked as impeccable as an anchorwoman. “We have to stick to the schedule,” she said.
“I know, but Mom—”
“No slowing everyone down.”
He let out a groan of preadolescent exasperation but allowed her to push him forward. The guard noticed the mother’s smile as she walked out with her son, her face turning from severe to loving. The automatic doors opened and the two of them were gone.
The guard turned his concentration to the security monitors on his desk. Parking garage fine. Elevators fine.
Only when he heard the click of high heels did he look up again. It was the same woman, this time without her son.
No one ever came back in after the school groups posed for their pictures. Yet there she was, walking right past him, slowing as she neared the giant scene of the mosaic. She seemed to be drawn to the center of the mosaic, a complex landscape of opalescent sea and land stretching deep into the distance, filled with Victorian houses and mighty trains and carousel horses and gnarled woods and a sunlit farm. Then the woman drifted to the left, the side that was colored with dusk. The side with the silvery jetty and the lighthouse that wore a man’s face.
She studied the glow cast from the lighthouse man, shaking her head. “Just like the one Grammy always talked about…,” the guard heard her say quietly. Then she looked to the side, apparently seeking a plaque. What she found instead was the exhibit screen, and as she came close, the image of a man appeared with a voice-over in the background—because the man was using sign language. The work was called Dreams of Home, it explained, a collaboration of artists of many abilities and disabilities who created art that could be appreciated by all people. “Visual transcriptions,” the voice said, “are available for visitors who align themselves with the textured strip at their feet. You can follow it by moving from one side of the artwork to the other.”
The woman glanced down at the grooves cut into the marble floor. Then she looked at the guard and asked, “Is there anyone here who could tell me more about this?”
“Let me call Public Relations for you,” the guard said.
“No,” the woman said. “Not that. I’d like to speak with whoever’s in charge of bringing this here.”
Oh, he thought, she was one of those who had to go to the top. “You mean the curator,” he said. He wrote down the name and address, crossed the floor, and pressed the paper into her hands.
So as Ryan Campbell looked at rockets in the National Air and Space Museum, Julia Campbell called him on his cell phone and said he should keep looking at the exhibit with the rest of the class. She’d catch up with him within an hour, just as soon as she made a quick visit to an art academy she needed to see on the other side of the Mall.
The curator, Edith, was wiry and spiky-haired, in hip red glasses, and she greeted Julia warmly. The academy, she explained as they stood in the reception area, featured exhibitions of outsider art a few times a year. The mosaic was one of their most prominent acquisitions, but it was too large for their galleries. That’s why it was in the lobby across the Mall.
“It tells a story, doesn’t it?” Julia asked.
“Oh, yes.” Edith’s eyes lit up. “Quite a story.”
“And is it… is it a real story?”
“It is.”
“So you mean the lighthouse is real, too?”
“Very.”
“Oh. Oh, wow. I never would have guessed…” She cleared her throat. “Can you tell the story to me?”
“It’s long. To do it justice, I’d need to take you to my office. I have something there that’s part of the story but isn’t on display.”
“But I need to catch up with my group.”
Edith smiled. “You might want to let them know you’ll be awhile.”
The office Julia entered was teeming with art. Portraits, landscapes, abstract paintings, sculpture, textiles, furniture, ceramics. In the center of the room was a large oak desk, its surface buried beneath origami figures, wire designs, hand-carved musical instruments.
Julia walked in slowly. She’d always loved art and was even on the board of the Nasher Museum of Art at Duke, although her husband had little patience for it. She’d in fact been considering greater involvement once the divorce was over, maybe completing her bachelor’s in art history. But she’d never seen art like this.
Trying to absorb it all, she was taken aback when her eyes lit upon something she recognized. Behind a cluster of crane-shaped lamps, beneath an assortment of papier-mâché globes, she could see a wooden box. A wooden box with carved flowers and animals and plants.
“What’s that?”
“Why, that’s what I was going to show you,” Edith said with surprise. “When the mosaic was donated to us, the collective included this box for us to keep in our archives. It has a lot of documents and other material. They provide an interes
ting background on the story the mosaic is telling.”
“May I touch it?”
Julia pushed aside the papier-mâché globes on top of the box to lift the hinged lid.
There it all was. Rodney’s collar. The twigs that spelled l u v. The photos of Ivamae and Betty. The envelope of her baby hair. The brown wool cap, the one Grammy said had belonged to Julia’s father. It was all she’d ever known about him, except that he was handsome.
And there, beneath all the objects, was a packet of letters tied with a yellow ribbon.
That very afternoon, sitting on the floor beside the box, Julia began reading the letters and discovered that the world she’d always believed herself to be in—the world that had so confounded and frustrated her—was only a part of a much larger picture. As she submerged deeper and deeper into memory and realization, learning the story she’d never guessed, she came to feel an admiration she could not have imagined. Julia had never before seen Grammy as a hero. But here she learned that on a single night, that’s exactly what Grammy had become. She’d made a commitment from which she’d never wavered, even as Julia grew into a sensitive young girl. Grammy had still listened no matter how distraught or self-involved Julia was. She’d held Julia’s hand when friends got her into trouble or a boy she liked didn’t know she existed. And when Grammy died, Pete carried on, giving her fatherly advice, warning her against marrying Brian Campbell, walking her down the aisle just the same, before he too passed away.
She pored over each letter, too suffused with emotion to look up. As she neatly returned the last letter to the packet, she saw, in the bottom of the box, a folder. She opened it to find magazine clippings that Grammy must have collected over Julia’s life. There were articles about John-Michael Malone’s exposé and the battle to close the School. There was a magazine photograph of a parade on the day the School shut down, with two smiling female residents holding a banner high in the air. And the last piece was Grammy’s obituary.
