The Keeper of Dawn (11 page)

“You nerds better can it,” Chris said. “No talking shop on
my beach.”

“It’s not
your
beach,” Derek said.

“Either way, I don’t want to hear about Wellington. Go find
your own beach if you want to talk about that shit. Talk about girls or
something, anything, but not Wellington.”

“Girls, huh?”

Chris flashed a smile. “I ever tell you how I lost my
virginity?”

“Backseat of your dad’s car?” Derek guessed.

“Too cliché. It was in the Jetranger.”

“In a
helicopter
?” Derek laughed. “No way.”

Roland rolled his eyes as if to say,
here we go again
.

“Back then I didn’t know a cyclic from a collective, but she
made a man out of me, right there at the controls of the Jetranger!”

“That’s phenomenal,” Derek said. Everything with Derek was
phenomenal
.

“And I’ve been blowing my load flying ever since!”

Derek laughed. “That gives a whole new meaning to the word
cockpit
.
Only you, Forsythe. Man, in a
helicopter
. So who was she? Did you ever
see her again?”

“Julia Newton was her name. Haven’t seen her since.”

“You only saw her once, and you remember her name?” Roland
asked.

“Everybody remembers their first,” Chris said, causing
Roland to look down at his toes wiggling in the sand.

“Did she have big ones?” Derek asked.

“A handful.”

“A handful is good.”

We all agreed—a handful was good.

Though I hadn’t thought about her in months, I made a
promise to call Shelly Armstrong when I returned home. A friend had told me she
liked me, and though I hadn’t been interested at the time, now she seemed
distant and wonderful.

“I’m actually seeing someone in Miskapaug,” Derek announced.

“I didn’t know you were slummin’ with a townie,” Chris said.
“She have any friends?”

“Sure, I guess.”

“Tell them to come out and introduce themselves.”

“And how exactly would they do that?”

“They got a boat? They could meet us down here.”

“We’d sneak girls into the dorms all the time at
Eastbridge.”

“Yeah, but you weren’t on an island,” Chris said. “The only
time girls are allowed here is to watch their boyfriends play football. And
they make sure anyone even halfway resembling a female is gone by that
afternoon. Having sex on this godforsaken heap of dirt—now to me, that would be
the ultimate.”

I smiled; I felt myself growing older just by listening to
him. We had been there less than half an hour and Chris was already devising
our next conquest. Ringing Iron Lungs, climbing Raker Lighthouse, hiking to the
beach—it would never end. Each feat was grander and more daring than the last.

I looked out at the neighboring island as another wave
exploded through the archway. White foam rained down; smaller waves rose up and
broke on the rocks. Afterward an eerie calm settled over the area, the water
that had only seconds before contained the force of a deadly weapon fizzed with
tiny bubbles of a carbonated drink.

“It’s nothing serious,” Derek said. “We keep a low profile. She
doesn’t want her friends to know she’s dating a preppy. It doesn’t matter that
we’re all the way out here. Everyone at her school hates us.”

“That’s usually how it goes,” Roland said.

“The girl of my dreams though, Samantha Woodridge, lives
right next door.”

Derek got up and threw a rock into the waves. Watching Derek
with his shirt off was like getting a lesson in anatomy. His athletic physique
made it difficult to determine whether he was a student or a teacher. His skin
was bruised with a deep-rooted acne, the only evidence he was still one of us.
Derek didn’t fit the stereotypes that abounded at prep schools. He was a hybrid
of punk rocker and athlete, conforming just enough to fit in with the jocks
from Eastbridge—Wellington’s most untouchable clique—while still maintaining
his independence.

“Ah, the girl next door,” Chris said.

“She is, too. Long hair, a smokin’ bod …”

“How old?”

“Our age.”

“Brunette?”

“Nope, blonde.”

“How tall?”

Chris asked these questions as if assessing the horsepower
of a car.

“Five-five. Maybe five-six.”

“The real question is, does she know you exist?”

“Not yet,” Derek admitted. “But she will. I invited her to a
party we’re throwing over fall break. Hey, you guys should come. My brothers
are known throughout Greenwich for their
phenomenal
parties. I’d feel
more confident meeting Samantha with the Headliners there to back me. And you’d
get to listen to my kick-ass sound system. What do you say?”

Roland and I politely declined, but Chris was intrigued. “If
I come, you’re stuck with me all week,” he said.

“Not a problem.”

“You can’t go anyway,” Roland said.

“Give me one good reason why not?” Chris asked.

“I’ll give you two: Providence and Newport.”

“What’s in Providence and Newport?” I asked.

“All part of the campaign trail,” Roland answered.

“The Governor drags me along every chance he gets,” Chris
said.

“That doesn’t sound so bad,” Derek said.

“It’s wretched. I’d rather be here, jerking off to the
memory of my social life. The only reason the Governor brings me along is to
parade me around like some prized possession.”

“You don’t know that,” Roland said in a rare contradiction. “It’s
another one of your conspiracies.”

“Of course it’s a conspiracy. That’s all politics is in this
country—a conspiracy to deceive the public. You think it’s a coincidence that
just when the two-term limit in Maryland is up, he hops over here?” Chris shook
his head. “Rhode Island. The day he dropped me off was the first time he ever
set foot in this state. Probably hasn’t even seen the house he bought last
year. But he owns it, and that’s enough. They used to hang carpetbaggers, now
they give ‘em the key to the city.”

“Why Rhode Island?” I asked.

“Why not? Mathias and Mikulski are lifers, but over here the
Senate is up for grabs. Doesn’t matter if it’s Rhode Island or Alaska. As long
as he stays in the spotlight until ’84, ’88 at the latest.”

“What happens then?”

“You think Carter will be around forever? He’s always set
his sights high. Back home they call him the golden child. Almost convinced him
to go head-to-head with Reagan, but a good politician knows when to make his
move.”

Chris got up and paced back and forth. “I stand before you
today on the precipice of change, on the high ground where idealism meets
practical resolution, where past results lead to a promising future. I have a
vision of a public education system that prepares the children of this fine
nation for that next important step. And when I say children, I’m talking about
all
children, children from
all
neighborhoods, from
all
walks of life. Where everyone gets an equal opportunity.”

At that moment a wave swept up the beach, rising all the way
to our rock. We lifted our feet to keep from getting wet, but Chris kept right
on talking, the water rising to his knees.

“This is an exciting time for public education, a time of
change and innovation. The people of this great state have once again made
education their passion. There is a new resolve to overcome the challenges that
lie ahead. We need to get serious about providing a quality education. For it is
clear to me that the people of Maryland believe, as I do, that
education
is our future.”

Chris wrinkled his face in disgust. “That’s
my
fall
break,” he said, sitting back down. “Sounds grand, doesn’t it? I’ll be put on
display as proof that the Governor has a personal interest in public education.
Of course he won’t mention that neither of us have ever set foot in a public
school. The Governor knows what a pain in the ass I can be. He wouldn’t invite
me along if there wasn’t a reason. But screw it. I’m not going. I’ll be
partying in Greenwich, getting rowdy with the Headliners.”

“If you go, you won’t fly,” Roland warned.

“I’ll fly.”

“How? He won’t let you.”

“I’ll find a way. But I’m only going if we’re
all
going. That includes you, Jake. No fence-sitting on this one.”

“My mother would kill me,” Roland said, in effect answering
for us both.

“You just saw your mother. She probably doesn’t want to see
you again so soon.”

“They’ve already bought my plane ticket.”

“Cancel. Use them for Thanksgiving.”

And just like that, Chris moved on to the next distraction. Instead
of talking about bringing girls to the island, he obsessed over spending fall
break at Derek’s. As I listened to him whittle away our excuses, Long Island
felt far away. How many times had I wanted to return home, and now I was
considering postponing that very thing? Though I wasn’t sure when it happened,
my homesickness had left. The island had a way of making you forget. With
isolation came an amnesia that made it difficult to consider anything beyond
the immediate. Schoolwork and Wellington’s social nuances were imperative,
while the happenings of the world were reduced to mere headlines forgotten
fifteen minutes after breakfast. A life involving mothers and fathers, brothers
and sisters, seemed distant and strange. The Headliners had become my brothers,
and Wellington’s strict faculty fit the role of my father all too well. The
muffled voice of my family—in the form of weekly letters—was the only reminder
of my previous life.

In place of homesickness arose a sense of belonging—not to
Wellington, but to the Headliners. If I didn’t accompany them to Derek’s, I’d
spend fall break wondering what I was missing. But it was 1608 Brickmore Lane
that convinced me to join them. Brooklyn was only a short train ride from
Greenwich, and it would be easy to visit Grandpa without Mother around.

Roland gave in shortly after I did, which wasn’t surprising,
as I couldn’t imagine him and Chris spending an entire week apart. Chris acted
more pleased than Derek, like it was his house we were going to visit.

“Time for a swim,” he announced, peeling off his shirt. “I
want to see what that anvil is like.”

“The what?” I asked.

“That rock out there. It’s shaped like an anvil.”

“Looks more like a house to me.”

“Well Jake, maybe we can go cloud-gazing some time and have
a philosophical discussion on what exactly is floating overheard. But right now
I’m going for a swim. Anyone care to join me?”

“Too cold for me,” Derek said.

“I thought you wrestlers were tough? What about you two?”

“Don’t have my trunks,” Roland said.

“Me either,” I said.

“Man, talk about a bunch of pussies.”

When he crossed the beach, I couldn’t help but stare at the
feathered wings tattooed across his back. They extended from shoulder to
shoulder, running the length of his spine to end just above the waistline.

“Nice tattoo!” Derek shouted. “When’d you get it?”

Chris shouted back: “I was born with it!” Then he ran
through the surf, the dark wings on his back moving with a life of their own.

“Seriously, how long has he had that?” Derek asked Roland.

“Not sure,” Roland replied, cleaning sand from between his
toes. “Since he started flying, I think.”

“Does his father know?” I asked.

“He was the first one Chris showed.”

At that moment, Chris jumped up—the wings on his back
lifting into the air—and dove headfirst into the water. He surfaced twenty feet
away and let out a yell.

“Whoa!”

“Too cold for me,” Derek said, though sitting in the sun, it
was hard to imagine the water being cold.

Chris had swum to within thirty feet of the Anvil. When his
shoulders protruded from the water, I assumed he had reached higher ground, but
the water surrounding the Anvil had lowered as well, revealing dark rocks
covered with seaweed. Even the waves around the beach had retreated, allowing
the distant call of an unseen gull to carry across the water. Chris must have
sensed it too, for the wings on his back crinkled an inch toward his spine, and
shuddered.

A deafening explosion erupted from the archway, sending
water high into the air. The wave showered over the Anvil, filling the archway
with a thousand swirls and eddies. Though Chris was well out of range, the
water around him rose past his chest, forcing him to tread water.

“What’s he doing?” Roland asked when Chris started to swim
back.

Though Chris cut through the water with a powerful
breaststroke, he was drifting to the left—in the direction of the archway. I
was surprised he still couldn’t touch bottom. But at last he reached shallow
water and waded the rest of the way in.

“Back kind of soon, aren’t ya?” Derek asked.

“Strong … undertow,” Chris replied, sucking air.

“I thought for sure you’d make it,” Roland said.

“Yeah, who’s the pussy now?” Derek said.

But for once, Chris didn’t fight back. He sat beside me,
shivering on the warm rock. He was uncharacteristically quiet, and nothing
could break his stare from the Anvil.

I was watering Seymour when Benjamin returned from his
weekend at home. He was wearing the same clothes he always wore after visiting
his parents—blue jeans an inch too short and a Providence Friars shirt
half-tucked in—but his face was clouded over with the same dull expression he
had had on Friday.

“You got a phone call,” he said, throwing his bag on the
bunk. “It’s international, so Maurice told them to call back to give you time
to get down there.”

An international call could only mean one person—David. Though
the last time he had called was from Istanbul, I still pictured him working for
Father. The son of a New York Appellate Court Justice, David was now an
expatriate as well as an ex-Hawthorne. It only seemed appropriate for he and
father to be on opposite sides of the world.

Not bothering to put on my shoes, I sped down the stairs and
through the lobby, shouldering my way through the Sunday afternoon crowd making
their obligatory phone call home. I was checking my watch for what must have
been the tenth time when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Muli bwanji, achimwene,” David said.

“Hey. You’re speaking in tongues.”

“How are you, my brother?”

“I’m fine. Where are you?”

“Malawi.”

“Where?”

“One of Africa’s better kept secrets.”

“I was about to write you off for dead.”

“You couldn’t be so lucky. I’ve been meaning to call …”

“Yeah, yeah. Excuses, excuses. Mother sends me a copy of
your letters.” I almost mentioned the crude map I had drawn, plotting David’s
course around the globe whenever another letter arrived. “You’re tough to keep
track of. Who’s that in the background?” I asked, hearing a girl laugh.

“My … traveling companion.”

“You mean girlfriend?”

David always had a girlfriend, though they rarely lasted.

“That’s still a little ambiguous at the moment. How about
you?”

“How about me, what?”

“Any girlfriend?”

“Sorry, Charlie. No girls on the island.”

“I guess that makes it a little difficult. So what’s this
about your school? Mother makes it sound like some tropical paradise.”

“She’s delusional as usual. It’s not as impressive as it
sounds, believe me.”

“Are you staying at that resort she always used to talk
about?”

“The Hotel Nouveau, yeah.”

“And they’re hosting a political debate next month?”

I often had to remind myself of the debate. Raker Island
hardly seemed civilized enough for adults, let alone the leaders of government.
Aside from Chris ranting about his father, the debate was rarely brought up.

“Sounds impressive to me,” David said.

“Yeah, I guess. But the classes aren’t that different from
Homestead.”

“But you’re at a prep school now. I can’t believe it, my
little preppie brother. So talk to me. I want all the dirt.”

I talked mostly about the Headliners. I didn’t have the
heart to tell him about the occasional run-ins with Loosy-Goosy, my mediocre
grades, or how I had been ostracized by the school. “I’m going to Greenwich with
them for fall break.” After a short pause, I added, “I was also planning on
swinging by and seeing Grandpa. Though I doubt Father would approve.”

The silence that followed went on for so long that I began
to think we had gotten disconnected.

“You ever hear from him?” I asked.

“A couple times a month. But you know how he hates answering
the phone. I let it ring until he picks up, always with a few choice words.”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about Grandpa.
I hadn’t been aware Grandpa even owned a phone, but then one day it rang from
behind a stack of encyclopedias.
If it’s important, they can stop by
, he
told me without leaving his chair.

After our conversation, I walked out into the cool September
air, thinking back to that climactic night three years before when David had
come home, unknowingly sabotaging my science project.

* * * * *

I had been brainstorming most of the afternoon on how to
devise an apparatus that would allow a raw egg to withstand a twelve-foot drop
onto a hard surface. Out of desperation, I had decided on a roll of toilet
paper. I was in the process of delicately guiding the egg into the center of a
roll of Charmin Extra Soft when David, who was supposed to be in Albany with
Father for the Higginson trial, went running past the kitchen and up the
stairs. In my surprise, I inadvertently squeezed the egg, my fingers dipping
into its cool, gelatinous innards.

“Nasty!” I jerked my hand away, the egg yolk spilling on the
ceramic tile with a wet plop. “Shit!” I threw the roll of toilet paper away and
rinsed my hands, making a mental note to clean the floor as I raced up the
stairs after David. I found him in his old room searching through a box he had
pulled from the depths of his closet.

“Hey,” he said in a distracted voice.

“What are you doing here?”

“I don’t believe this,” he said, looking at the osprey
calendar above the desk. His old bed was adorned with flower imprints and
countless decorative pillows—all part of Mother’s new décor. “Where’s all my
shit?”

“Shouldn’t you be in Albany?”

“I should if I were still on the Higginson case,” he
replied, beginning to sift through the contents of the box, his tie dangling in
front of him.

“Does he have you working out of the lingerie office?”

The Hawthorne Law Office in Manhattan faced a Calvin Klein
billboard that depicted drop-dead gorgeous models standing provocatively in
their underwear. The billboard changed every three months or so, supplying the
lawyers with a fresh supply of fifty-foot-tall beauties.

“No,” David said. “I quit.” He disappeared into the closet
and came out with another box, this one labeled “Soft ‘n Gentle, White Bathroom
Tissue,” reminding me of the egg that lay splattered across the kitchen floor.

“
Quit
? What do you mean you quit?”

“It’s a long story, Jake,” he said, loosening his tie. “I’ll
tell you all about it someday when you’re older.”

“But I
am
older.”

“Not old enough.”

“Well, exactly how old is old enough?”

David looked at me, annoyed. “Older,” he said, and began
sorting through the box.

“So what are you going to do now? Are you moving back home?”
I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“There’s little chance of that.”

He had an uncharacteristic five o’clock shadow, and when our
eyes met, my brother looked older than he ever had. Something silent and
menacing stood in the fifteen years that separated us.

“I’m going to France,” he said, returning his attention to
the box. “To Paris. I leave tonight. That is if I can find my passport.” He
overturned the box, sending its contents tumbling to the floor. A high school
yearbook and an unopened Christmas present landed at my feet.

“Paris! What’s in Paris?”

“Here, make yourself useful,” he said, shoving a shoebox in
my direction.

I fought the instinct to pester him with more questions and
began searching through the shoebox filled with old school papers, Marvel comic
books, and what looked to be love letters. My mind was filled with so many
unanswered questions that I nearly overlooked his passport.

“Got it!” I cried.

“Yeah?” David looked up. “You’re the man, Jake! Let me see.”

“No way.” I slipped the passport into my back pocket. “Not
until you tell me what’s going on.”

“Come on. Hand it over.”

“You heard me. No answers, no passport.”

“All right. But it’s got to be quick.”

“Spill your guts, or the passport gets it.”

“All right,” he said, looking amused. “I guess I owe you that
much.”

I pushed Mother’s pillows aside and sat beside him on the
bed.

“It’s kind of like this. You know how you feel on the last
day of school? How the last few hours crawl by and you’re watching the clock,
waiting for summer to begin?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“That’s what I’ve been feeling for … well, for quite awhile.
I’m anxious, like on that last day of school, waiting for something new to
begin.”

“So … you’re taking a vacation,” I said, still confused.

“Not exactly.”

“An extended vacation? A what do you call it? A sabbatical?”

“Sort of. Let’s just say I need to get away from …” He
paused.

Away from him
.

“Away from it all,” he said.

“But why Paris?”

“It’s not
just
Paris. That’s just a starting point. I
want to see the world. I want to go off the beaten path. I’m not even sure
where yet. I’ll figure it out as I go. Look, you might not be able to make
heads or tails of it now, but someday you’ll know what I’m talking about.”

“How long will you be gone?”

David threw his hands in the air. “Who knows. A month, a year.
It’s hard to say. But hey, look, we’ll still see each other. You know how
Mother talks about the Riviera. You won’t have to push too hard to get her over
there.”

“What about Father?”

He paused. “The old man isn’t much for vacations. But we’ll
see.”

And then he was gone. One last handshake and quick hug
goodbye, then he disappeared into the backseat of the taxi that had been
waiting for him. I lingered in the driveway, our great home piled up behind me,
knowing that in a few hours David would be an ocean away. Even after the taxi
had left, I still saw him standing in the driveway looking back at me. The fact
that he hadn’t packed a single bag indicated he was doing more than going on
sabbatical. He was running, and he wasn’t looking back.

I was in the kitchen intending on cleaning the floor when
Father came home. The interrogation that followed was inevitable. My father had
the disturbing ability to remain perfectly calm while coming within an inch of
exploding into a fit of rage. The fact that he had never lost his composure did
nothing to make me less terrified. I was telling him that David had returned
for his passport when the sound of Mother’s heels came down the hall. A moment
later she entered the kitchen.

“What? What is it?” she asked, sensing something was awry. When
Father didn’t answer, she turned to me. “Tell me.”

“It’s David,” I said. “He’s gone.”

“Gone?” Her eyebrow shot up. “Gone where?”

“To the airport. He was only here for a few minutes … to
pick up his passport.”

“Passport? What’s this about?” She glanced at Father, who
was studying the floor as if something of great interest held his attention.

“He said he was going to Europe,” I said. “To Paris.”

“Paris? Well that’s just not possible. Jonathan, how is that
possible? Aren’t you finishing up the Higginson trial this week? Isn’t David
giving closing arguments? He can’t just … up and go on vacation.”

“I don’t think …” I began, but my mouth had gone dry,
forcing me to swallow. “I don’t think it’s a vacation.”

Mother’s jaw dropped open, her hand drifting up like she was
concealing a yawn. The hand stayed there, stuck to her lips. I knew that her
mind was racing, that it had only taken that one statement, and she knew
everything. Not only did she realize what David had done, but also, what had
driven him to do it.

My mother didn’t shed a single tear at discovering her
oldest son had run away from home. Emotion came very close to breaking through
the proper etiquette that she prided herself on; her quivering lip almost
turned into something more, but in the end, she didn’t allow herself to grieve,
at least not in front of me. Instead, she began to back away, her body only
capable of slow, precise movements.

“Jacob, you’d better go. Your father and I … have to talk.”

“But I—”

“Go!”

Except for backing awkwardly through the kitchen, she
maintained her composure. But as I turned to leave, her right heel came down in
the egg yolk and slipped out from under her. Father lunged forward, but not in
time to stop her from falling backwards. She landed with a heavy thud, looking
mildly surprised to be suddenly on the floor, with raw egg smeared across the
bottom of her skirt.

Then she burst into tears.

At that moment she ceased to be Diane Hawthorne, daughter of
the late Senator William Rose, wife of Jonathan Hawthorne, benefactor of the
community. She was simply a middle-aged woman sitting on her kitchen floor,
weeping over the loss of her son. Father and I stood beside her, our arms at
our sides, our hearts reaching out at a mother’s grief.

“You!
You
!” she cried, her hand clutching Father’s
leg. “You!” Then she bowed her head, her body shaking with sobs.

The sound of Mother crying carried through the house,
carried up the stairs and down the hall into David’s old room where I returned
the boxes to the closet. Our house, where so many feelings lay suffocated over
the years, now amplified our grief, perhaps eager that emotion of any kind
stirred within its walls.

I remained in David’s room, searching for some trace of him
amid the various pictures and knickknacks. But there was nothing. It was like
he had never lived there at all.