Kiss River (13 page)

“The wild boars?” he asked me. “Hogs, you mean?”

“Right. Livestock used to run wild around here,” I said. “Some of the hogs just took off and now they are mean as molasses.”

I told him just about everything I know about the Outer Banks, trying to make up for looking stupid when I said that thing about Vermont being part of Canada. I think he was impressed with all I know.

He told me about Vermont, and how he lives in the capital, I forget its name, and how even in Kentucky he lived in the city, where it’s “civilized.” I’d already figured out he was no country boy.

“It feels slow and empty here,” he said. But I did get him to admit that if he was in Vermont this time of year he’d be sitting in three feet of snow instead of on a sandy beach.

He told me about how they were trained in the Coast Guard,
how they had to watch for any signs of strange activity on the beach at night, how we should really be dimming the lights on the beach, just like Mr. Hewitt said. But no one was officially telling people to do it, and people just hadn’t gotten the message yet. Americans can be selfish, he said. They want to keep their lights and their cars and all and not sacrifice anything, and all the while the German U-boats are attacking our ships, which are lit up from behind by the lights on shore. I argued with him, telling him that my family and my neighbors cared very much what happened, and if someone told us we had to dim our lights, we would do it in a heartbeat. I asked him if he hated the Krauts and the Italians and the Japs. I never use the word
Kraut,
but it slipped out and I know it was because I wanted to sound older and more worldly, but he didn’t like it.

“Don’t use that word,” he said. “They’re Germans. Don’t use Kraut or Heinie or Wop or slant-eyes or any of those words. It brings us down to their level.”

I was glad he couldn’t see how my cheeks were burning. “I don’t usually use that word,” I said. “I’m not sure why it came out.”

I told him about Mr. Sato living in the house over on the sound and he looked very interested in the fact that we had a real Japanese man nearby. He asked me if I knew about the internment camps, where we were locking up Japanese people who live in the United States. I was
so glad
Dennis had taught me about the internment camps. I said I thought it was wrong to lock them up, since I know that’s what Dennis believes and he’s made me believe it, too. But Sandy said it’s necessary.

“It seems unfair,” he said. “I know most of those people are innocent. But we can’t take the chance that they’re not. Look at Pearl Harbor.”

I thought about Mr. Sato, how I used to see him fishing, looking content in his wheelchair on his deck, how I’d sometimes wave to him and he’d wave back. Even though he’s Japanese, I hate the thought of someone coming to take Mr. Sato away from his home and his daughter-in-law and lock him up. The thought actually put tears in my eyes and Sandy noticed that.

“You’re a nice girl,” he said to me. He touched my forehead, I think to move some hair or sand off it, but I’m not sure. I
wanted to tell him I thought he was nice, too, but I couldn’t make the words come out, so I just smiled back. He didn’t try to kiss me, but I really wanted him to. I would have let him.

Around three, we could hear the jeep coming up the beach and so I said goodbye and ducked into the woods. I watched him climb into the jeep and heard someone say, “Hey, what happened to you? Where’d you get those clothes?” and I wondered what he would say back, but I couldn’t hear his answer. I was sure he would make up something that wouldn’t get me in trouble. I watched until the jeep disappeared around the curve in the beach, then I headed home, grinning a silly grin, and thinking how if I’d come out the night before, it would have been Jimmy I’d seen on the beach.

“Jimmy?” I said to myself as I was walking. “Jimmy who?”

T
he light faded from the sky above the ocean as Gina sat down on the top step of the lighthouse. This had quickly become her private haven. She’d climbed the spiral staircase every evening since starting to work at Shorty’s three days earlier. Although she still held tight to the railing as she ascended those last few steps high above the craggy rim of the tower, she no longer suffered from vertigo up there. Once she was seated and looking out to sea, the small frustrations of the day disappeared and she felt her body begin to relax. It was not peace she found at the top of the lighthouse; there was no peace for her anywhere. But sitting up there, awed by the vastness of sea and sky, she became keenly aware of both her insignificance in the world at large, as well as her importance to one small child.

If it was not peace she found up there, at least it was rest. Working at Shorty’s was even more exhausting than teaching, and her feet were on fire by the end of her shift. She’d taken no time off yet, and didn’t plan to until Monday, wanting to get into
the rhythm of the job and put some money in her pocket. The tips were surprisingly good for such a seedy-looking place. But tips would not be enough to help Rani, the child whose picture was, now and always, in the pocket of her shorts.

As usual, she’d taken off her sandals to walk through the swirling waves toward the tower, and the cool water had felt wonderful on her feet. She’d forgotten to leave the sandals at the bottom of the stairs this evening, however, and now she leaned over to drop them, one at a time, over the side of the railing into the core of the lighthouse. She watched them fall through the spiral of stairs until they disappeared in the darkness, and she listened for the echoing
thunk
as they hit the tile floor far below her.

Although she had the feeling she was wasting precious time, she liked working at Shorty’s. Wednesday had been hard, because the other waitresses were too busy to give her much guidance, but now she was starting to feel like a part of the place. The three old men, Henry, Walter and Brian, nursed beers or milky coffee, and they seemed to have taken an instant liking to her, probably because of her love for the lighthouse. Or at least, what they perceived to be her love of the lighthouse. Brian brought in old pictures of the structure, along with newspaper articles from the days of the Save the Lighthouse committee. It amazed her to read those old articles, because Alec O’Neill was the indisputable driving force behind the committee to save the Kiss River light. He was quoted several times in every article. His name was everywhere. And now he was being such a mule about raising the lens.

When Walter and Brian spoke passionately about the lighthouse, Gina couldn’t help but get caught up in their zeal about the place. She’d pretended at first, but she felt their passion about the lighthouse, and a little of that couldn’t help but rub off on her. Certainly, she had some feelings of attachment to the lighthouse from reading Bess’s diary. She liked to imagine Bess climbing these spiral stairs, and she could picture her out on the beach at night with the Coast Guard patroller, Sandy, whose real name the young girl had cut from the one page of her diary where she’d written it, excised carefully as if with a razor.

Gina had called the lighthouse association the day before, asking to speak with the contact given to her by Walter and Brian.
The man sounded as old as they were, but he remembered the earlier battle to raise the lens well.

“Has the vet come around?” he’d asked when she explained the reason for her call.

“Excuse me?” she’d asked, wondering if there was some World War II veteran she needed to contact.

“I don’t recall his name,” the man said. “The veterinarian who didn’t want the lens raised.”

“Oh.” She sighed. She should have guessed. “Alec O’Neill.”

“That’s right. We’d been all set to fund the salvaging of the lens, but he stood in the way. Both literally and figuratively. He came here in person to stop us.”

“Well, I’ve spoken with him, and he doesn’t want to play an active role in raising it,” she said carefully. “But I don’t know that he—”

“Well, miss.” The man sounded suddenly tired as he interrupted her. “We’ll help, but only if you can get the vet to come around. Not worth putting our effort and money into something that’s doomed to fail again. Without the support of the locals, the cause is hopeless.”

She’d gotten off the phone knowing she had no choice but to speak with Alec O’Neill again. No matter who she talked to about the lens, the conversation always circled back to him. So, she’d made a lunch date with Alec for Monday, a bit surprised when he agreed to see her. She’d be better prepared to meet him this time, arming herself with facts about the lens so she would sound as though she knew what she was talking about. If she couldn’t persuade him to help her, maybe she could at least get him to agree not to stand in her way.

Stars were appearing in the darkening sky when she heard the sound of footsteps below her on the lighthouse stairs. Peering down into the black hole of the tower, she spotted the beam of a flashlight bouncing off the walls, getting ever nearer, and wondered if she should be afraid. She’d come up when it was still light out and had not thought to bring her own flashlight with her.

“It’s just me,” a male voice reassured her from the darkness. Clay.

“Hi,” she said as he came into view.

He turned off his flashlight, then sat next to her on the top step. “Great night up here,” he said. “Are the mosquitoes getting you?”

“Not yet,” she said. “I don’t think they get up this high.”

“They do,” he said, and seemed to be about to say more, but grew quiet. Clay was a mystery to her. He worked late hours and she rarely saw him. His sister was a chatterbox and an open book, but Clay kept to himself, and her conversations with him had been limited to the mundane. That was fine. She needed a landlord far more than she needed a friend, and she was grateful to him for allowing her to stay here. But she always felt a bit awkward trying to get a conversation going with him when Lacey wasn’t around.

“I think it’s nice that you bring Henry to Shorty’s every day,” she said, testing the waters. “He enjoys it so much. I think he’d probably go crazy if he was stuck at home.”

“Well, I don’t take him every day,” Clay said. “I don’t always have the time to pick him up. I feel terrible then. I know he looks forward to it. Brian offers to pick him up sometimes, but I don’t think that old man should have a license, frankly.”

“Well, let me know the next time you can’t get away,” she said. “I could get him on my break.”

He looked surprised. “That’s really nice of you. Thanks.”

“The least I could do,” she said, meaning it. She felt beholden to her hosts. She’d cooked for them a couple of nights, usually leaving Clay’s meal in the refrigerator for him to heat up later, since he was rarely home for dinner. She’d bought some groceries, but other than that, she’d given little back in return for their hospitality. “Is Lacey home yet?” She looked over her shoulder at the keeper’s house, with its vibrant nighttime windows.

Clay shook his head. “She’s at an Al-Anon meeting,” he said.

“Ah.” She wished he would elaborate, but of course, he didn’t, and a silence stretched out between them. She knew Al-Anon was a support group for the families of alcoholics, and she wondered what family member had prompted Lacey to join. Gina’s best guess was her stubborn, aggravating father.

“I’m meeting your father for lunch on Monday,” she said.

“Are you now?” Clay wore a slight smile.

“I thought I’d give him another chance to tell me he won’t help me raise the lens.”

Clay laughed. “You’re a glutton for punishment.”

“Why is he so stubborn about it? If he would just give me the go-ahead, I could find the money and it would all be taken care of.”

Clay drew in a long breath, stretching his arms out in front of him. “There’s a lot about my dad that I don’t understand,” he said, lowering his arms to his knees again. “He just doesn’t want anything to do with the lighthouse anymore. When it toppled over, that took the wind out of his sails. So to speak.”

She felt annoyed. If it had so little meaning to him, why did Alec have to stand in her way?

“Is he the alcoholic?” She blurted out the question before she could stop herself. “I mean, is he the reason Lacey goes to Al-Anon meetings?”

Clay looked utterly stunned, then burst into laughter, and Gina cringed.

“That was too personal a question,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He shook his head, still chuckling. “I’m just trying to picture my father as an alcoholic, that’s all. No, it’s actually Lacey’s father—her
biological
father—who’s a recovering alcoholic. She goes as a support to him.”

She had not expected that answer. “I thought…you don’t have the same father?” she asked.

He shook his head. “We thought we did when we were growing up, but the truth came out a long time ago. Lacey’s a bit quiet about it, but I really don’t think she’d mind you knowing. She got close to Tom, her father, after she learned the truth. Lacey’s the one who got him sober. And he’s the one who got her doing stained glass. He used to share a studio with our mother.”

It took her a moment to absorb all that information. “Lacey’s relationship with your father, then…How is it?”

“Oh, it’s very good now. They had their ups and downs when Lacey was younger, and she had a rough year when she found out our dad—my dad—wasn’t really her father. But they’ve worked it all out. She’s crazy about Tom, though.” Clay shook his head with another chuckle. “He’s a strange guy, but she
adores him. He didn’t raise her, so she doesn’t have any of the checkered history with him that she has with Dad.”

“Well, it seems she turned out okay,” Gina said. “I think she’s an amazing person.”

“Mmm,” Clay said, but he sounded noncommittal.

“How about your mother?” Gina asked. “Does she live around here?”

He looked surprised by the question. “My mother’s dead,” he said. “I thought you knew that.”

“Oh, Clay, I’m sorry.” She touched his arm, embarrassed. “I didn’t know. I assumed your father and mother were divorced.” She’d assumed far more than that. She’d figured that Alec had left Clay’s mother, most likely to run off with another woman. Olivia, or someone else. That’s what men tended to do. She had not thought of him as a widower.

“I think you have my dad figured wrong, Gina,” he said. “He’s not the divorcing type. He’s not the drinking type. He may be stubborn, and he may be giving you a hard time, but you won’t meet a better person than my father.”

Gina touched his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I believe you, and you’re right. I’ve been making him into a monster instead of merely a thorn in my side.”

Clay smiled at that.

“How long ago did she die?” Gina asked. “Your mother?”

“Nearly twelve years. She died Christmas Day, 1990.” He was staring toward the dark horizon, and she thought there was a glaze of tears in his eyes.

“Had she been ill long?” she asked.

Again, he was quiet. Then he shook his head. “She wasn’t sick,” he said. “She worked at a shelter for battered women in Manteo, and on Christmas Day, this guy named Zachary Pointer came in looking for his wife, waving a gun. My mother stood in front of the woman to protect her, and he shot her.”

Gina’s hand rose quickly to her throat, and sudden tears filled her own eyes. “Oh my God, Clay,” she said. “How awful. I’m so sorry.”

“Lacey was with her,” he said. “She saw the whole thing. I honestly don’t think she’s ever quite recovered from it.”

“Why do you say that?”

Clay looked thoughtful a moment, then shook his head. “No reason,” he said, evading her.

“Tell me,” she prompted.

He shrugged, as though avoiding the question, but then he spoke. “Lacey’s just…she’s amazing, as you said. She’s a lot like my mother that way. Very caring about other people. But she doesn’t care enough about herself. My mother was the same way. That’s why she risked her life for that woman. I don’t want to see Lacey make those kind of sacrifices.”

“Have you ever talked to her about it?” she asked.

“Not in so many words.”

She wanted to tell him that if he was truly concerned about his sister, he should talk to her, but the conversation had gone so much deeper than she’d ever anticipated that she didn’t dare push him further. Instead, she changed the subject. “Your stepmother seems nice,” she said, remembering Olivia’s graciousness the one time she’d met her—and feeling much better about the woman now that she knew she wasn’t a home wrecker. “How do you get along with her?”

“Olivia’s terrific,” he said. “She’s been great for Dad. And Jack and Maggie are a kick.” His smile was wide, but disappeared quickly. “Olivia was the doctor on duty in the E.R. when my mother was brought in,” he said. “She tried her best to save Mom’s life.”

“Oh my gosh,” Gina said. “You have a very complicated family.”

He smiled at her. “Is there any other kind?”

She supposed there was not, but the truth was, she had little experience with families. She’d had her mother, and that had been it. Yet family was what she craved. The mix of personalities, the ups and downs Clay had spoken of, the occasional animosity and disagreements, and the love that was underlying all of it. That’s what she had never had and what she wanted more than anything.