The Keeper of Dawn (29 page)

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 speaking
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.

“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.

I reached into my jacket and pulled out my father’s picture.
When had I last looked at it? When
hadn’t
I, was perhaps the more
appropriate question. There wasn’t a day that had gone by when I hadn’t glanced
at it wedged in the corner of the mirror. In fact, some mornings I studied his
reflection instead of my own. The image was so ingrained in my mind that I
could see the details with my eyes closed: the fountain on which his foot
rested, the base of the lighthouse rising over his shoulder, his enigmatic
smile. The picture felt more like an actual memory than some trivial event that
had taken place before I was born. It had been so long since I had seen him, it
was difficult to imagine him without hair, with age-lines around his eyes and
wrinkles framing his mouth. When I thought of him, it was this youthful, black
and white image that came to mind.

“So this is where you spend your free time.”

It was Mr. O’Leary. He stood with an elbow on the railing as
if it were the lectern in his classroom. I stood up, muttering about needing
some fresh air.

“That was quite a climb,” he said, clutching his stomach to
ease a side ache. “Actually, I saw you in Oak Yard and came up here to
reprimand you.”

“You’re determined.”

“That I am. You ever been in there?” he asked, glancing at
the lantern room.

“Sure. You wanna go?”

“Maybe in a little while. Some fresh air will do me good. Quite
a view,” he added, looking at the ocean without much interest.

Mr. O’Leary put his back to the railing, perhaps to relax,
but it only made him look more out of place. The lighthouse didn’t seem like
somewhere he would ever care to be. It was the equivalent of showing up for
first period and finding Max lecturing about the correlation between the
Hapsburgs and the Holy Roman Empire.

“Is Wellington … leaving?” I asked.

“Leaving?” Mr. O’Leary’s forehead wrinkled. “Leaving where?”

“The island.”

“Now what makes you think that?”

“Max said that renovations have stopped.”

Mr. O’Leary pursed his lips. “News to me.” Then he smiled. “Why,
you worried you might actually fence somewhere other than a swimming pool?”

I was about to respond when a familiar sound caught my
attention. In the distance, a dark speck hovered in the sky. It was miles away,
flying over the ocean. Mr. O’Leary followed my gaze, and we both watched as the
helicopter approached. Just when I became convinced it was coming to the
island, it veered to the west.

“You miss your friends, don’t you?” Mr. O’Leary asked.

I nodded. “Every day.”

We both watched until the helicopter disappeared in the
glare of the sun.

“Never in a million years would I have expected it from
Roland,” he said. “Don’t get me wrong. You’d have to be pretty dense not to
know where those questions came from, but Roland was an exemplary student. As
honest as they come.”

“But in a way … he
was
being honest.”

“I suppose that’s one way to look at it.”

A moment of silence passed. I continued to watch the
horizon, half-expecting something else to appear. Perhaps the silhouette of a
ship, or another helicopter. But there was only the flat blue of the ocean.

“What’s that you got there?” Mr. O’Leary asked.

“Hmmm? Oh, nothing,” I muttered, slipping the picture back
into my jacket.

“Wait a second. Not so fast. Come on, let’s have a look. Probably
one of your girlfriends you’ve got lined up for the holidays.”

Not seeing any way around it, I took the picture back out
and handed it to him.

“Let’s see here …” he said, taking out his reading glasses. “This
looks rather old. Rather old indeed. Wait a second …” He removed his glasses
and circled around to the other side of the lighthouse. I reluctantly trailed
behind.

“Quite amazing. This place really hasn’t changed,” he said,
looking down into the courtyard. “You’re full of surprises, Mr. Hawthorne. And
here I thought it was next week’s date. My apologies. I didn’t mean to pry,” he
added, somewhat sarcastically, and returned the picture. Then he put his
glasses away and looked out at the horizon as if willing to let the
conversation drop. At first I couldn’t believe my good luck, but as the silence
lengthened, I considered it unusual, even offensive, that he didn’t have the
courtesy to inquire more about the picture.

“Well, aren’t you even going to ask who it is?” I asked.

“Who what is?”

“The man in the picture.”

“As a general rule, I never ask a question to which I
already know the answer.”

I was on the verge of asking him who he thought it was—eager
for the chance to prove him wrong—but then realized this was probably exactly
what he wanted. In the end, I resigned myself to silence.

“It’s your father,” Mr. O’Leary said after a moment.

I looked at him. “The resemblance is that strong, huh?”

“There’s actually very
little
resemblance.”

“Then how did you know?”

He shrugged. “Who else would it be?”

When I didn’t respond, he said, “He must be very proud with
his son questioning the leaders of the free world.”

“Yes,” I said, feeling his eyes upon me. “My family is
proud.”

“Oh, I didn’t even realize. Was it … was it his father who
passed away last month? You’ll have to excuse me, Jake. Sometimes I can be an
insensitive oaf.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.” I looked at my watch. “Well,
I should probably—”

“If nothing else, at least you got to see him at the
funeral.”

“Who?”

“Your father.”

I started to formulate a response, but stopped, fearing he
would hear the lie in my voice. Suddenly I regretted showing him the
photograph. Why had I even brought it up here?

“Jacob,” I heard him say. “I think this has gone on long
enough.”

“What? What’s gone on long enough?”

When he spoke, his voice became magnified with
self-importance, as it often did when reciting literature. “This above all: to
thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day. Thou canst
not then be false to any man.”

“More Shakespeare?” I asked, relieved he was joking.

But Mr. O’Leary did not respond.

“I don’t get it,” I said, running the words over in my head.

“And what exactly don’t you get?”

“The punch line. It’s not funny.”

“It’s Hamlet. It’s a tragedy. There is no punch line.”

I looked at him, confused.

“To thine own self be true,” he said again.

“Look, I don’t really know—”

“Jacob, it’s okay.”

Why was he looking at me like that? “… What’s okay?”

“You can say it,” he said, a paternal quality entering his
voice.

“Say what? What are you talking about?”

I started to back away.

“I just want you to know that it’s okay,” he said, following
me.

“Look, I don’t know what you’re—”

“It no longer has to be a burden.”

“Burden? There’s … there’s no burden.” When I laughed, the
noise twisted in my throat, coming out dry and humorless.

“You no longer have to fight it. Let it go.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just … hey, leave
me alone!”

We had circled around to the other side of the lighthouse. The
walkway was unnaturally quiet without the wind, making my voice sound loud,
even desperate. I lifted one arm and leaned heavily on the railing.

Somewhere far below, the island fell in ledges to the sea.

I struggled to steady myself as the first wave of vertigo
pressed into my periphery. Something so enormous loomed over me that if I
looked up, I would lose my balance and fall from the edge.

“You need to hear it, Jacob. You need to hear it from
yourself.”

“Don’t do this. Don’t you fucking do this!”

“Say it, Jacob.” His face was close to mine. “The truth has
to start with you.”

But this
was
the truth. Father
had
been at the
funeral. How could I ever forget the anger in his eyes when he looked up and
saw me there? Infuriated that I had come back against his wishes, he had forced
me to find my way back to Wellington.