by A. L. Jambor
Joshua had won the scholarship from the Rotary Club that would allow him to go to Temple University in the fall, and his mother felt it was her success, too. All her sacrifices were paying off, and her son would change the family's fortunes. She wanted to go back to Wisconsin, to her mother's farm, after Josh graduated from college. He was going to study medicine, and she imagined him taking over old Doc Swanson's practice back in Cedar Lake.
Joan often fantasized about the day they'd arrive at her mother's farm. She envisioned her mother's face when she showed off Josh's diploma, how they would sit around the big table in the kitchen as Josh told stories about the patients he saw and the lives he'd saved, and her dreams never included her drunken, womanizing husband.
Yes, her Josh would save them all and get them out of this cramped, miserable lighthouse where the gritty residue left by the sand and saltwater blowing under the door and onto her floor nearly drove her mad. The constant sound of the wind and the roar of the sea were not to her liking, and she was always yelling at the children to wipe their feet before coming inside. It was unnatural to raise children in such a place, and she knew who was responsible -- Joe.
He had been handsome when they met eighteen years ago when she was a girl of sixteen. Joe was twenty, and her father thought he was a good catch, but when she became pregnant without the benefit of marriage, his opinion of Joe changed, and he held a shotgun across his lap at the impromptu wedding in the chapel where Joan had been baptized as a baby.
Joan performed her wifely duties but it was never enough for Joe. He liked drinking and chasing women -- period. He had few good qualities, but they were lost in a sea of broken promises and unfulfilled dreams. After their fifth child was born, Joe's uncle, who lived in Oceanville, heard that Cape Alden was looking for a lighthouse keeper and used his Rotary connections to insure that Joe would get the job. Within a week, Joe and Joan were on their way to New Jersey in a truck they borrowed from her father.
Joe
Joan hated New Jersey at first sight, but Joe felt as if he'd died and gone to heaven. In the spring and summer, girls from the high school would walk by the white picket fence that separated the lighthouse yard from the dirt road leading to the beach, and he'd lean against the fence with a cigarette poised between his lascivious lips. He didn't trifle with them, though. He'd learned his lesson about bedding young girls when he knocked up Joan, but it was fun to imagine being eighteen again. If Joe wanted a quickie, he'd go to Morton's Inn where Bertha Callahan spent her Saturday nights. She was always willing to go to the men's room with him for a dollar.
Joe also liked to watch the Widow Johnson sashay by on her way to town. She lived nearby in a cottage owned by the railroad. Her name was Charlotte, and Joe had been friends with her husband, Artie. They often drank together at Morton's Inn until the owner, George Morton, cut them off while they were still able to walk home. Artie liked to talk about upstate New York, where he and his wife had been raised. Their relationship was that of a brother and sister, and when Joe learned that Artie and Charlotte hadn't consummated their marriage, he began to toy with the idea of seducing the innocent young bride.
When Joe saw Charlotte coming up the wooden walkway, he'd smile, and she'd stop to chat with him until his wife came out of the lighthouse and glared at her. Joan never concealed her contempt for the winsome redhead, and she would tell anyone who would listen that Charlotte Johnson was a floozy who lured men to her house when her husband was at work. Of course, Joan had no proof of any such thing, but it was better to warn the women in town of the snake in their midst.
The day Artie died, Joe had gone to the cottage "to console her," but he was unable to seduce the grieving girl. She had dismissed him with barely a glance, and he used her rejection as an excuse to get drunk. As for Joan, she was more worried now that Artie was gone. It meant the cottage down the walkway from her innocent children would become a hotbed of lust and loose morals.
Charlie
Josh entered his last year of high school in the fall of 1940, and Charlie was in eighth grade. Girls would come by the lighthouse looking for Josh, and they giggled too much for Charlie's taste, but they were pretty and he was in the throes of adolescent angst. He would wake up at night with an erection and cringe when his little sisters snored. Sharing a room was difficult enough at his age, but why couldn't he share one with Josh?
Joan didn't have time to mediate between Charlie and his sisters, so when he asked her about sharing with Josh, she'd simply smack him across the face hard enough to leave a bright red welt, and stare at him through narrowed eyes.
"Josh needs his privacy. He has to study."
Charlie understood what that meant -- you have no rights here. You are a nuisance, like an extra appendage that should be clipped off at the joint.
Charlie's disdain toward his brother grew, and his moods would swing out of control. He took his frustration out on his little sisters. When the youngest asked him to play with her, he'd backhand her and yell at her to leave him alone. When Joan told him to watch them, he'd tease them until they cried. He'd steal Joe's cigarettes and smoke them at night when everyone went to sleep, and then he'd go to the beach and sit on the sand near the Widow Johnson's house.
One winter day near the end of 1940 when it was too cold to sit on the beach, Charlie was under the eaves hanging over the window at the front of the lighthouse when he saw Josh leave the house and walk toward the beach. Charlie snuffed out his cigarette and followed Josh. He watched as his golden brother climbed the cottage steps where he was greeted by Charlotte Johnson, and then saw him kiss her on the mouth. Charlie's erection rose so fast his hands went to his crotch as if someone would see, and when Josh and Charlotte disappeared into the cottage, Charlie went to the porch.
He crouched down, crawled across the porch to the window, and peeked inside. Josh and Charlotte were on the sofa. Charlie knew what necking was because his friends talked about it all the time, but he'd never seen anyone do it before. He was mesmerized, and he rubbed his crotch. When they stopped and got up, he ducked down, and then peeked over the sill to see Josh leading Charlotte by the hand to the bedroom. He didn't think she looked happy.
Unable to resist the urge to watch what would happen next, Charlie went to the side of the cottage. Josh and Charlotte were lying on the bed, and his hand was on her breast. Charlie came, and soiled the front of his trousers, but he barely noticed as he continued to spy on them. Josh unbuttoned Charlotte's blouse and she pulled her arms from the sleeves. Her skin was so white and her arms were covered in freckles. Josh kissed her neck, her throat, and she moaned....
"Charlie." It was ten-year-old Birdie standing on the walkway. "Mama wants you."
She tried to come near, but he snarled at her.
"You shouldn't sneak up on people," he said.
She backed away, and then ran away before he could smack her. She kept going until she was near the front door of the lighthouse. In the light coming from the streetlamp at the end of the walkway to their house, Birdie saw the stain on Charlie's pants.
"Did you pee yourself?"
He came up to her and smacked her across the face before she could get away.
"Shut up. You say anything to Ma and I'll kill you."
Birdie shuddered "I won't tell," she said softly.
Humiliated, Charlie went to his bedroom window and climbed inside to change his pants before Joan saw him. He heard Birdie talking to her but he couldn't hear what she was saying. He changed and went back outside so he could enter through the front door. Birdie was sitting on the sofa in the living room with a wet cloth on her cheek.
"Where have you been?"
Joan stood in the kitchen door with the light behind her. She looked like a sentinel ready to shoot him on sight, and he knew Birdie had told her what happened. It was hard to lie to Joan, and the girls were no match for her.
"I was walking."
"I asked you to get the girls washed up for supper."
Charlie's hands shook so he shoved them into his pockets. He tried to think of some response that would appease her, but his mind was blank. All he could think of was Charlotte's breast. He swallowed. He felt an erection forming and spun around. Within seconds, Joan was on him, smacking his head with a rolled up magazine.
"You won't turn your back on me!" she shouted.
Birdie cringed as each blow hit him, and she moved to the corner of the sofa. The other girls were at the table waiting for dinner, and the youngest, Kerry, began to cry.
Charlie put his hands to his head to try and keep the magazine from hitting him, but Joan was too fast. She hit his back, his sides, and his buttocks. As she tormented him, Charlie's instincts kicked in, and he raised his arm and turned so fast she didn't have time to react. He hit her on the side of the head so hard she went to the floor, landing on her backside. The look of shock on her face surprised Charlie, and he stood over her, staring at her hard, just as she had done to her children.
For a moment, Joan thought he might hit her again, but he stayed his hand. He had made his point, and she crawled backward until she was able to grab hold of the end table and stand. She kept walking backward, and then she straightened her skirt and ran her hand over her hair.
"Go wash up," she said.
Charlie looked at Birdie cowering on the sofa and his glare made her stomach clench. He had hit Mama, and she hadn't done anything about it. He had been dangerous before, but now, he was too frightening to imagine. No one could control Charlie Jackson now.
Joan never told Joe that Charlie had hit her, and she kept a distance from her son lest he think he could do it again. Joan kept a knife in her apron pocket, a pocket knife that Josh had been given for his birthday, and if Charlie ever laid a hand on her again, she would protect herself.
Charlie Jackson, Mayor Emeritus of Cape Alden
The cushion on his electric wheelchair was too thin for Charlie Jackson. His tailbone ached, his hips hurt, and his mood was sour as he waited for his caregiver to finish in the house. He chose to stay on the porch looking out at the sea rather than watch her make his lunch.
His house, a large, Dutch Colonial on Neptune Lane in Cape Alden, had been built in 1960. From the street, the windows and front door looked as if the house had a startled face. When they first moved in, Charlie's wife, Olivia, had tried to alter the house's appearance by adding large shutters and windows on each side of the front door.
Last March, Charlie Jackson had had a stroke. It followed the heart attack he'd suffered in December during a town hall meeting about a television show that wanted to film in Cape Alden. The subject of the show was the murder of Charlotte Johnson, and Charlie didn't want to bring that sort of publicity to his town, for he still thought of Cape Alden as his town. He'd been the mayor for thirty years and still felt that it was his duty to protect it from those who didn't understand the effect something like that might have on a small seasonal town. Did they really want thrill seekers ruining their summer?
For years Charlie had argued in favor of tearing down the dilapidated cottage where the murder had taken place, but Constance Penny fought him at every turn. She wanted it restored and added to the lighthouse tour. No one had been in the place for over seventy years, and for all they knew, it was still covered in Charlotte Johnson's blood, so why that damn Constance Penny wanted to restore it, well, he just didn't understand it at all.
The stroke had left him with a droopy mouth, a stiff arm, and a bum leg. His son and daughter, from whom he had been estranged since his wife died, lived in northern New Jersey and had no interest in visiting him. Charlie Jackson had no one, and as he sat looking at the sea, he had plenty of time to ponder the mistakes of the past. Memories began to surface and things that should have stayed buried in time, were now rising like Lazarus from the grave.
Adjustments to the house had been made so Charlie could live there alone. The front screen door had been removed so when he went outside, he just left the front door open. His study had been turned into a bedroom with an automatic bed and lots of room for his wheelchair. Medications lined the end tables, and his caregiver, Charlene, always left a plastic bottle with a straw filled with water, which he was able to grab with his good hand. He also had a roll-in shower installed in the first floor bathroom, but Charlene warned him not to try to take a shower alone. Whether he listened was up to him.
Charlene came every day to take his blood pressure and to make sure he was taking his meds. She was also there to ensure he hadn't fallen out of bed or slipped in the shower. It was hard to leave him alone at the end of the day, but Charlie insisted upon it. He didn't want to be watched by strangers twenty-four hours a day.
Charlie turned his wheelchair around and rolled into the kitchen where Charlene was finishing the dishes from the night before.
"I left your lunch on the table," she said. "I had to shoo the cat away, so I put another plate on top of it to keep him away."
"He's an old devil."
She smiled.
"He's really not that bad, Mr. Jackson, but I think he has your number. I fed him and his dry food bowl is full. He should be all right until tomorrow." "
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and left it lying over the edge of the sink to dry before looking at him.
"Can I bring you anything tomorrow?"
He shook his head. "Can't smoke or drink. Can't taste food."
"All right, then I'll see you in the morning. Remember to lock your doors when you come inside."
He waved his good hand, and then thought of something.
"I need a new cushion. My ass hurts."
"I'll see what I can do," she said as she walked out the door.
"Leave the door open."
She obliged him, and he rolled out onto the porch again. He watched her back her car onto the street, and she waved to him before hitting the accelerator, leaving him alone and vulnerable to the world.
The air was hot and he saw black clouds gathering over the ocean, and then he saw her. She'd been appearing at the edge of the driveway for several months and her stare always sent chills up his spine.
Charlie knew her, and he knew why she was here, but that didn't mean he'd put up with her showing up like she owned the place. He put his hand on the control knob of his wheelchair and backed up so he could turn it around and go back inside. He felt her watching him even as he closed the door by rolling into it and pushing it shut with his knees. Using his good hand, he turned the lock, but he knew it wouldn't keep her out.
Celia Morton. She would linger on the road outside his house and taunt him with her sad eyes and mournful expression. The first time he saw her was around the same time his cat, Beelzebub, showed up and adopted Charlie. The cat had been through some bad scraps, which had cost him an ear and one eye that didn't open as wide as the other. The gray tabby would "wink" at Charlie whenever Celia showed up, and Charlie would try to throw things at the wicked feline, who always got away before the object reached him. Despite the volatility of their relationship, Charlie liked having the cat around. At least he felt as if he didn't live alone with his thoughts of the past.
He thought of that "reporter woman" as he rolled to the kitchen. She had stirred up quite a commotion in the town hall, generating excitement over the prospect of visitors that would help put the town in the black for the first time since the recession began in 2008. Normally, Charlie would have contemplated such a request with objectivity, but when he learned the title of the story she wanted to produce, he had to shut her down.
The murder had taken place near the lighthouse where Charlie grew up, where he and his family had lived, and he'd known the victim. He feared that his family, his name, would be linked to Charlotte Johnson, the victim, and all his good works as mayor would be forgotten.
Charlie had worked hard to create his image and that of the town, and now his cozy world was threatened by echoes of a past he thought he'd eradicated with thirty years of public service. He'd attended the town
meeting and spoken so eloquently that he was sure he had won them to his side, and then that woman reporter had spoken, and Charlie's arteries, clogged with the detritus of cigarettes and brandy, contracted, sending him to his knees as he rose to object to the woman's request.
As he recuperated in the hospital, Charlie hoped his health crisis would allow the council to see how important this was to him, but in his absence they had voted to allow the show to film there, and there was nothing he could do to stop the production. During his time in rehab, he heard that the reporter had been in an accident, and again his hopes were raised, especially when the people the show kept sending to investigate the crime also ended up sustaining some random injury. After a while, reporters stopped coming to Cape Alden.
In March, as spring drew near and the weather briefly turned warm, Charlie decided to walk to town. His doctor had told him to keep active, and he was tired of his treadmill. As he strolled down Main Street, however, he saw that woman reporter, the one who had started all the commotion, standing in front of the café. He watched her as she walked away, her left leg limping, and he kept wondering why she was still here. That was the first time Celia Morton showed up.
Celia stood in front of the hardware store with her eyes fixed on him, boring into his soul. Charlie shivered, and then fell to his knees. His head hurt, and he couldn't lift his arm or cry out for help. Jerry, the owner of the hardware store, ran to him and called 911 on his cell phone. After they stabilized him in the hospital, Charlie spent two months in rehab, but the stroke left him with infirmities that would stay with him for the rest of his life.
Now, as he entered the kitchen, he saw the cat on the table trying to move the plate covering his lunch and he tried to smirk.
"Git, you old devil," Charlie said, and Beelzebub looked at him with his one good eye. "Stop smiling."
When Charlie got to the table, the cat moved to the other side of the plate where it sat and stared at him. Beelzebub watched his master struggle to lift the plate, which was his wife's "plain" and heavy stoneware, off his food, and then he glanced at the cat, who winked at him.
