A Sudden Light

by Garth Stein

  I remember all of that. I remember feeling relieved and thankful that my mother had saved me. And then? Sprawled out on the basement floor of Riddell House, I didn’t even know what my future was. Was I being pulled away from my friends to be sent to some boarding school like my father? Was I being pulled away from my friends to move to England? All I knew was that I felt really resentful. I could have been in college by then if I had realized it was all so transient. I could have been pushed ahead and molded by special programs and been through with all the educational nonsense by then. I’d thought my mother was offering me permanence over the sublime. I’d thought she and I were together with our decision, choosing the safe over the daring and unknown. I trusted her. She struggled so hard with the problem and finally came to her decision, so of course I agreed with her because I hated to see her struggle.

  The pain was subsiding, the ringing in my ears fading. But there was no light.

  I wondered if the basement of Riddell House would be where I died, and wouldn’t that be funny? My lack of life experience flashing before my eyes.

  But then I saw light. A crack at first, which opened into a rectangle of blazing brightness. A man stood before me. I was still on the floor holding my head. He knelt down and touched my head, and I felt better.

  “Dad?” I asked, because I didn’t know who it was. And how would my father have found me anyway?

  The man stroked my hair gently, and it made me feel so much better that I closed my eyes and a groan escaped from me involuntarily. The man helped me to my feet and to the steps, up and out. I collapsed on the grass, woozy and dizzy. The man grasped my hand and held it tight, and reached out and lightly touched my forehead, but it didn’t hurt at all.

  “Grandpa?” I asked, because with the bright white light behind the man, I still couldn’t see.

  “Trevor,” the man whispered.

  It was a voice I recognized. I’d heard it before. I strained to focus. I wanted to see, but my eyes were crossed, almost. That was some blow. I couldn’t make out the man’s face; it was all shadow. I was frustrated because I wanted to see.

  “You’ve come to save us,” the man whispered.

  And then I couldn’t stand it. I knew that voice. I’d heard it before, but I couldn’t see; my vision was so cloudy—I gritted my teeth and strained against the grogginess that engulfed me. The man stood tall, and then I understood. As much as I tried to see him, I would never see the man clearly. He would always be a shadow, a blur.

  “Ben,” I said.

  When I said it, he seemed to relax, and so did I. He looked up to the sky and took a deep breath.

  “How beautiful,” he whispered so faintly I could barely hear.

  “It’s you,” I said.

  Ben smiled and then vanished in the breeze.

  * * *

  I gathered myself and made my way into the kitchen a bit unsteadily. My father was sitting at the table with his new best friend, the blue binder, and a thought occurred to me, perhaps the result of the blow to my head: Exactly how much did Serena have to do with the blue binder? She said she worked for a real estate developer. And my father had told the notary that Dickie had summoned him. And Dickie was Serena’s boyfriend but was never at the house. I felt there was something going on that I didn’t quite see. But it hurt my head to think that hard, so I gave up on it.

  Meanwhile, Serena was flitting about the kitchen, removing sheets of cookies from the oven with a mitted hand. A baseball game was on the television. The Mariners. What day was it? Saturday?

  “Well,” Serena chimed cheerily, “look what the cat dragged in!”

  She turned to me with her Cheshire grin, which fell flat immediately when she saw the knot growing on my forehead.

  “What happened?” she asked with great concern, flying toward me.

  “I hit my head.”

  She touched my forehead; it burned.

  “How?”

  “In the basement.”

  “What were you doing in the basement?”

  “Exploring.”

  She shook her head disapprovingly.

  “Sit.”

  I sat, and she brought me a tea towel soaked with cold water and wrapped around some ice cubes.

  “What happened?” my father asked.

  “I was looking around in the basement, and I ran into a pipe.”

  “Does he have a concussion?” my father asked Serena.

  She rolled her eyes and sighed. She came to me and sat at my side. She took my hands in hers.

  “Look at me.”

  We locked eyes, and she scrutinized me this way and that, studying my pupils. Then she held up a finger and moved it side to side, up and down. I tracked it with my eyes.

  “It’s not a concussion,” she said. “And if it is, it’s so mild, the doctor would only tell him not to run around for a few days. So don’t run around.”

  “Did you used to be a nurse or something?” I asked.

  “I’ve been a nurse for twenty-three years, Trevor,” she said pointedly. “I was born into it, you could say. I’m hoping to retire soon, however. Please heal quickly so I can go on my way. Are you hungry? Would you like dinner?”

  I was hungry. I was starving. She made me a turkey sandwich that might have been the best turkey sandwich I’d ever tasted; maybe the blow to my head had accentuated my sense of taste. As I ate, my father slipped out of the room with the binder, and then Serena sat across from me at the kitchen table, propped her chin on her fist, and stared at me.

  “What are you looking at?” I asked, feeling self-conscious.

  “What were you looking for in the basement, I wonder.”

  “Just . . . around.”

  “No,” she said. “I know you. You’re goal driven. You’re up to something. What is it?”

  I decided it was time to confide in Serena. I had enough information to make a case, and maybe change the fate of Riddell House. I slipped my hand into my pocket, removed my father’s wedding ring, and placed it on the table between us.

  “My dad lost his wedding ring. I found it in the basement.”

  Serena regarded the ring at length. “I don’t suppose it might have fallen off his finger on the chance he’d ventured down there?”

  “I don’t think he’s gone down there, number one. And it wasn’t lying on the floor or anything. It was hidden away in a little cubbyhole. Like someone had put it there on purpose.”

  “I see.”

  “I didn’t do it. My dad didn’t do it. Did you do it?” I asked.

  “Not I.”

  “That leaves Grandpa Samuel. Or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or the ghost I saw down there.”

  Serena sat back in her chair and smiled broadly.

  “Ah, here we have it,” she said. “The ghost of Riddell House. You’ve been ghost hunting. Of course!”

  “But I’ve seen him,” I said. “He’s here.”

  “And who is he?”

  “Benjamin Riddell.”

  “And why would Benjamin Riddell be haunting Riddell House?”

  “I think it has to do with the development,” I said. “He wants the land returned to nature and not developed.”

  “Yes, yes, Trevor. We know all that. That’s why Elijah set up the trust that prevented Abraham from developing the land. But Elijah could only stop Abraham, not any future heirs. So now it’s up to Grandpa Samuel to decide—”

  “But that’s what Ben really wanted. So he’s stuck. He can’t leave—”

  “Well, then, he will continue to be stuck,” Serena said sharply. She stood up and cleared my empty plate. “What are we most concerned with? You do want your mother and father to be together again. That is correct, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “The development is the perfect solution to all of our problems. It’s the only solution, really. Dickie has done an excellent job setting up a very good deal for everyone. So it disappoints a ghost or two. Will we put that ahead
of our needs, Trevor? Are you willing to set aside your own happiness, not to mention the happiness of your parents, me, Grandpa Samuel, and your future children for generations and generations just to placate a silly ghost—and one who doesn’t bother with much haunting, by the way. We’re not rising to the level of that poltergeist movie: no one is sucking you into the TV set, as far as I can see. So, really, Trevor. Let’s set all this aside and have no more talk about ghosts; it will give you nightmares. Run along now and play. Or read a book. Or write in that journal of yours; I see you writing in it regularly. But write about something positive. Write about the future. Don’t write about the past; it’s dreary and depressing and has nothing to do with our potential.”

  She turned away from me and resumed her kitchen duties, but I didn’t leave.

  “Dickie is a real estate developer, isn’t he?” I asked.

  “Yes, he is,” she replied, paying me no mind.

  “You said you work for a real estate developer. Do you work for Dickie?”

  She groaned and shook her head, turning to face me.

  “I work with Dickie, not for him. Are there any other questions, Detective? Or can I get back to my cooking?”

  I was unsatisfied by her response, but I felt pushing her further wouldn’t benefit me, so I left her in the kitchen and went upstairs. I was distrustful of Serena, but my head hurt and I wanted to lie down with my music and my headache. On the way, I stopped in the bathroom. I glanced at myself in the mirror as I washed my hands and noticed the purplish bruise on my forehead. I leaned in toward the mirror to check my eyes and thought my pupils looked a little dilated, but I couldn’t tell for sure. I was exhausted from the day and retreated to my room. Before I slipped off my jeans, I emptied my pockets: my father’s wedding ring and my watch. I’d forgotten to tell Serena about the watch, though that likely wouldn’t have made a difference.

  I climbed into bed, put on my headphones, and turned on some Bob Marley. I reached for one of Harry’s journals, which I had stowed under my pillow, and I read.

  November 12, 1901

  November was soon upon us, and preparations were being made to return to town for the winter; the days had grown too short and too rainy for logging, and it was time to shut down the harvest until March. The men, grimy and long bearded, walked through camp with vacant gazes. They were going off to other jobs—at a mill or fishing or longshoreman work—but none of them really wanted to leave; the adjustment to the other life was difficult. They anticipated the emptiness they would feel when their hands no longer held an ax, the longing for the smell of pine sap and burning wood, the hunger for cured slab bacon and johnnycakes and gritty, burnt coffee.

  “What will you do over the winter?” Ben asked me late one evening, and I felt stung. Not because I imagined he would make plans for me, but because I hadn’t thought to make plans for myself. I had been so contented with Ben and our ways, it never occurred to me that it would end.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “What will you do?”

  “Oh, I have to go back to Seattle again and ingratiate myself to my father. Do the social things I’m supposed to do. Be a Good Son.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “I wonder,” Ben mused, “if a man is accountable for the sins of his father.”

  I said nothing, but wondered along with Ben, as we stared into the flames that crackled in the fire pit.

  “Thoreau says that the sleepers on which the rails are laid are the bodies of men,” Ben continued, “and that the train is carried on the broken spirits of those who built the tracks. My father has supplied the bodies and the spirits for all the railways in this great land of ours. That’s a devastating sum.”

  Ben was fond of challenging me so: giving me a reading assignment and then testing my fluency with the concepts.

  “But Thoreau admits that the men who give up their liberty for work, readily do so,” I protested.

  “Because they have no alternative,” Ben cried, engaging in the debate. “We can feel justified by saying it’s their own choice, but choice without alternative is only a sleight of hand; it is a magician’s force-play, during which you believe you have free will, but your fate has already been decided: the magician already knows which card you will pick!”

  “And so exploitation is your father’s offense?” I asked.

  “Disregard for the human spirit is his offense,” Ben said. “Disregard for the universal spirit. Sometimes I wonder if I was brought here to pay for my father’s sins. Or, perhaps, I was brought here to offer him salvation. Perhaps it is through me that he will see the truth that has eluded him thus far.”

  “If anyone can accomplish the task,” I said, “I’m sure it will be you.”

  – 24 –

  AUTOMATIC WRITING

  It felt as if someone had nudged me awake, but no one was there. I looked over at the glowing LCD clock, which read 02:33. I was terribly thirsty. I went downstairs, using the front stairs because I didn’t care if I woke anyone up. It didn’t surprise me that Grandpa Samuel was sitting at the kitchen table, and I wondered for a moment if I was going to get Zen Grandpa or Crazy Grandpa.

  “You should be asleep,” I said as I turned on the hood light so as not to startle him too badly.

  He didn’t acknowledge me. He was hunched over the table, writing something on a Post-it note pad. He wrote quickly and deliberately, shielding his work with his opposite forearm, his head down. I didn’t believe it was my place to interrupt him.

  I put ice in a glass and filled it with water from the sink because, to be honest, I was getting sick of the lemonade. The water tasted horrible; it was metallic and made my tongue feel funny. So I poured out most of the water and filled the rest of the glass with lemonade, producing a lemonade-flavored water-drink, diluted enough to take out its sweetness, but with enough flavor to cover the taste of rust. I sat across from Grandpa Samuel and held the icy glass to my forehead between sips, and I imagined myself in an old black-and-white movie in which a guy holds a sweaty glass to his forehead in the heat.

  Post-it after Post-it. He scrawled letters, words, sentences at a furious pace and with great effort. After writing a note, he peeled it from the pad and placed it on a pile of other notes. Note after note, until he had a stack of a few dozen Post-it notes. Until he ran out of steam.

  He put down his pen and looked up at me.

  “You should be asleep,” I said.

  “Serena usually makes me my medicine.”

  And after she makes you your medicine, you hear dancing, I thought but didn’t say. I wondered briefly if Serena was doing a Psycho on Grandpa Samuel. Dressing up and pretending she was his dead wife. I winced. At this point, I trusted no one.

  “I’ll make it,” I said.

  I took a saucepan from the hanging rack and spilled some milk into it. I fired the stove. I was going to make it for real this time. While it was heating up, I stood over it, watching for bubbles because my father had taught me how to scald milk, a lost art, thanks to Louis Pasteur.

  “Two parts milk—”

  “One part medicine,” I said. “I know.”

  “The medicine keeps me awake.”

  “The medicine makes you sleep,” I corrected.

  “This medicine makes me sleep,” he agreed. “The other medicine—the pills—they make it so I can’t sleep.”

  When the bubbles came, I turned off the heat and poured the warmed milk into a tall glass. I filled the rest of the glass with medicine and set it before Grandpa Samuel; then I sat down across from him. He cupped his hands around his glass, closed his eyes, and smiled.

  “You warmed it for me,” he said. “Sometimes Serena warms it, but not usually. I like it warm.”

  He took a sip, and I could hear him swallow loudly. My forehead throbbed a bit, but I’d been sleeping, so I felt rested. I reached for the pile of Post-it notes.

  “Can I look at what you’ve been working on?” I asked.

  “What have I been
working on?” Grandpa Samuel wondered in reply.

  “Your notes.”

  I took them and assessed the pile. It was pretty clear that they were in reverse order, top to bottom. I started to lay them out. Each one had a few words on it, but some had more. Some were small printing and intense; others were only one or two words. I quickly realized that they were not random scribbling. The more I unstuck them and laid them out, the larger the story grew, until the table was covered with Post-it notes.

  “Can I borrow your pen?” I asked him.

  I numbered each note in the upper-right-hand corner, so I could keep track. I had forty-seven canary-colored Post-it notes laid out. I studied them from above, helicopter view.

  “What made you write this?” I asked.

  “Write what?”

  “Your notes.”

  “I don’t think so,” he said, shaking his head and sipping his medicine.

  I remembered the note about John Muir. The Mountains of California. It seemed to come from nowhere. Even Grandpa Samuel didn’t know what it meant. And Serena said Grandpa Samuel did that all the time: jotted down nonsensical notes. Maybe they weren’t nonsensical. Maybe they just hadn’t been deciphered properly.

  “You told me you hated Ben,” I said. “Remember that? When I asked about him before, you said he gave away the Riddell fortune or something.”

  Grandpa Samuel took a long drink of his medicine.

  “I ran into him today in the basement,” I continued. “Well, I ran into a pipe. But he came to help me. Does he ever help you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “When does he help you?”

  “He keeps me company,” Grandpa Samuel said. “He sits with me when I can’t sleep and he tells me stories, and he keeps me company in the barn when I’m working.”

  “What kind of stories does he tell?”

  “He would climb the tallest trees. Not to cut them down, just to climb them. They’d use gaffs to get into the canopy, and then they would climb barefooted and bare-handed, up to the very top. No ropes or anything. It was very dangerous, but also very exciting.”