The Keeper of Dawn (17 page)

But the disaster wasn’t over. The fan recoiled on impact,
tilting back on its stand to send its breeze into Grandpa’s midsection, making
his robe flap wildly, which only added to his look of stunned bewilderment. Then
the fan recovered, rocked forward, teetered for a heartbeat, looked hungrily at
the old man’s foot, and toppled over.

“Grandpa!”

He moved his slippered foot out of the way just in time. The
fan fell with a defeated clang, though it managed to catch a strand of red
carpet between its wire-guard, propelling a severed chunk of it into the air
like a streak of dried blood.

“My carpet!” he yelled. “Quick! Unplug the monster!”

I ran to the wall and yanked the fan’s cord from the outlet.
I half-expected to find it still going now that it had gotten a taste of blood,
but its blade slowed to a stop.

“Goodness,” Grandpa said, retying his robe. “That thing is a
safety hazard.”

“You think?”

Still flustered, Grandpa carried the fan into the other
room, leaving me to examine the jagged woodchip on the couch. When he returned,
we both looked skeptically at the injured chair, which now leaned to one side.

“So does this ruin your test?” I asked.

“Oh yes, the test!” He had been looking at the chair as if
unsure how it had gotten there. Then he became serious, crossing his arms and
saying, “The test is a simple one. There are no wrong answers. I want you to
clear your mind. Look at this as a search for the truth. Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“Now …” he said, pointing dramatically at the chair. “Tell
me what you see.” Then he added, “Tell me
all
you see.”

“I see a chair that just got its leg chopped off by your
killer fan.”

Grandpa said nothing.

“Is that it?”

“It is if that’s
all
you see.”

“What else would I see? It’s a chair.”

The teacher stood watching me. His silence made me uneasy,
like I was failing at something.

“Sorry, but that’s all I see. I don’t really know what—”

“Why don’t you stand up?” He motioned for me to get off the
couch. “Stretch your legs a bit. You’re too comfortable sitting down. Comfort
dulls the mind. Now tell me, what runs through your mind when you look at the
chair?”

I reluctantly got up and took a few steps forward. The
teacher watched stoically, his arms crossed.

“I see the chair, but it looks a little out of place,” I
said, proceeding cautiously. “I’m used to seeing it in the kitchen. I guess,
like most of your stuff, it’s been around for years.”

“Many years indeed. Since before you were born.”

“Okay, so it was around when Grandma was still alive. She
probably sat in that chair.”

“She did indeed.”

“I see her sitting there eating her breakfast. Her eggs and
Raisin Bran—”

“Cheerios. Your grandma always ate Cheerios.”

“Okay, her Cheerios. She’s eating her Cheerios while you’re
getting ready to go teach at Franklin.”

“Great! Now keep going.”

I was walking then, pacing really, not in any particular
direction, but stretching my legs in the spacious room like Grandpa had
suggested, my eyes never leaving the chair.

“Of course it wasn’t
always
in your kitchen. It had
to come from somewhere. Maybe Grandma picked it up at an antique shop.”

“Myer’s Antiques, just down the road.”

“Myer’s Antiques. There you go. So it’s probably really old.
Mother is always buying antique stuff. She likes things with history. Maybe … maybe
someone important once sat in it.”

“Yes! Yes! A very important ass sat right there in that chair!”

“I see … I see an inventor sitting on it in his garage while
he’s hard at work.”

“What’s he working on?”

“I don’t know. What’s he working on?” I asked myself. I
started circling the chair then, looking at it from all angles, making a wide
loop around the teacher and the object of discussion. “The rubber band!” I
said, snapping my fingers. “He’s inventing the rubber band. He created the
rubber band while sitting in
that
chair.”

“Where would we be today without the rubber band? What about
before that?”

“The rubber band inventor bought the chair new, so before
that it was … nothing. Well, not nothing, but a tree. Its pieces were in the
thick trunk of a tree.”

“What kind of tree?”

His question quivered in the air, became not a question
posed by the teacher to the student, but a question voiced in my own mind.

Though I wasn’t sure when it happened, my feet had found the
groove of Grandpa’s walking circle. My eyes never lifted from the chair. I was
vaguely aware of the floorboard and tangled carpet passing beneath my feet. Staying
on that track was as subconscious as walking itself. My eyes were transfixed to
the center of the circle where a hobbled kitchen chair had once stood, to the
place where the trunk of a massive tree now rose from the floor.

“An old oak,” I said. “An
ancient
oak that was cut
down by the English settlers.”

“Very good,” the teacher said, sounding satisfied. “Very
good indeed. Congratulations, Jake. I believe you have passed the test.”

But my feet were still moving.

“There’s more.”

“More?”

I was still circling and didn’t want to stop; couldn’t have
stopped if I wanted to. “Yes, more. We’ve covered the past, now for the
future.”

“Yes, of course. We mustn’t forget the future.”

“When the chair passes out of your hands, the new owner will
keep the kitchen table and the rest of the chairs, but he won’t like this one.”

“It’s flawed.”

“It slants to one side. He’ll pitch it. It’ll end up …”

“In a junkyard,” the teacher said, beginning to walk the
circle behind me. Or was he in front of me? We walked at the same thoughtful
pace, our eyes never leaving the chair.

“Yes, a junkyard. Where a homeless man will see it one day
and take it away.”

“In his shopping cart with wheels that wobble.”

“He’ll wheel it back and show it off to all his friends. He’ll
sit on it in front of them …”

“Like a king of fools on his tottering throne.”

Round and round we went. Though I didn’t entirely understand
it, we were pursuing something together. Was it the pursuit of each other? That
endless pursuit of youth trailing behind wisdom, but losing something along the
way, only realizing what was lost when the other had been obtained. Or was it
the pursuit of creation? Whatever it was, there was no turning back, no turning
around, no stopping or starting over. Round and round we went, like two
orbiting planets contending the same star.

“But the chair won’t last long,” I said.

“It will get very cold one December night.”

“So cold that the homeless man and his friends won’t make it
till morning.”

“Not without a fire.”

“So they break the chair up and set it ablaze.”

“And sit around it, holding up their gloved hands.”

“And they’ll tell stories about when they were young, when
they had families and jobs.”

“And they will live to see the morning come …”

We stopped and looked across the circle at one another. Then
I walked the remaining half-circle, coming up behind him. He smiled, looking me
flush in the eye with an expression of fatherly pride.

“Jake,” he said, “I do believe you have a creative streak in
you. We have created something from nothing … or at least, from not much at
all. Electrifying, isn’t it? You never know quite where you’ll end up.”

I felt pleased, like I had stumbled upon some great
discovery.

“So, what’s next?”

“Next? Let’s save that for another day, shall we? Your old
grandpa can only do so much.”

I left shortly thereafter, already anticipating my next trip
to Brickmore Lane.

Aggressive Soviet impulses.

Those three words were all that came back to me as I took
the stage and shook Mr. Hutcheson’s hand. Those three words, the heart of a
foreign policy question, was why my name was announced as one of the winners of
the debate contest.

The week before break, Chris had given each of us an
envelope containing a typed paragraph on Waldorf-Astoria letterhead. Mine had
read:

Governor, as a United States Senator, foreign affairs 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, how would you use
American military power to deal with foreign crises such as these?

“It’s your ticket to fifteen minutes of fame,” Chris had
said. “With any luck, you’ll be asking the future Senator of Rhode Island that
very question.”

Roland was also onstage, his dumbfounded expression matching
my own. I had submitted the question out of courtesy to Chris, not because I
thought it would amount to anything. Though I couldn’t find him in the crowded
auditorium, I felt his eyes on me. His disgust over the upcoming debate led me
to believe he was using me, but for what purpose I couldn’t tell.

Chris had managed to get into an alarming degree of trouble
since returning to the island. Governor Forsythe was furious that his son had
gone unsupervised for fall break. It was Wellington’s isolation, not its
prestige, that had convinced him to enroll his troublesome son. Chris refused
to name the other students who had been onboard the yacht. Even Mr. Lawson’s
threat of expulsion failed to elicit a confession. With the debate only a week
away, Chris was well aware of the bad press that would cross the headlines if
Governor Forsythe debated at the school his son had been expelled from. So for
the time being, Wellington was stuck with Chris, which was perhaps why Mr.
Lawson resorted to one of the school’s more anachronistic punishments.

“Stumping” hadn’t occurred at Wellington in many years. A
student sentenced to stumping was given an axe (typically one with a dull
blade) and assigned to chop down a tree. The worse the offense, the thicker the
tree. Back when wood was used for cooking, stumping was as practical as it was
an effective punishment. Apparently Mr. Lawson was a firm believer in stumping,
as he had a picture in his office (the room was otherwise bare of decoration)
depicting a boy swinging an axe at the base of a tree while a stern-faced
headmaster looked on.

Mr. Lawson’s excitement over reinstating this punishment, however,
would be short-lived. When housemaster Henderson led Chris out of the dean’s
office to assign a tree for Chris to “stump,” Chris charged down the hall—axe
in hand—shouting like a lunatic. Ms. Cartwright, who was taking her lunchtime
walk in the courtyard, screamed at the top of her lungs when she saw Chris
bearing down on her. She continued to scream long after he had rushed past her
into Oak Yard. By the time the heavyset Mr. Henderson caught up to him, Chris
had chopped down three of the school’s sapling oaks. “And I would have gotten
them all if that axe had a decent edge to it,” he would later tell me.

Wellington was becoming hard pressed not to expel Chris. But
due to the current political environment, Chris remained at Wellington, though
any pretense of him being a student was dropped. Until the time came when he
could be expelled in a discrete fashion, Wellington’s purpose was to
contain
Chris, not to educate him. To cover up any sign of preferential treatment, Mr.
Hearst sent Chris’ infractions to the faculty discipline committee, where it
would conveniently be tied up until after the debate.

In the meantime, Chris was transferred to the faculty dorms
in the room adjacent to the housemaster’s. The only time he was allowed to
leave was to attend class. He wasn’t permitted to participate in sports, or
even perform his daily chores. His meals were brought to him.

Chris must have known punishment was headed his way before
break was over, which was why we came back a day early to try to reach the
Anvil at low tide. There was an unspoken understanding that it would be our
last trip to the beach.

* * * * *

We left before sunrise. The early hour and empty halls made
the school feel abandoned. The only light was a faint glimmer atop the
lighthouse—likely Max rousing himself for another day of work. Wellington
hadn’t yet returned, and our footsteps echoing down the uncarpeted halls
reminded me of home when Father was away.

We passed through the field behind the school and approached
the dark forest. Night lingered beneath the trees. The only sound was brittle
snaps of branches underfoot. The trees had begun to shed their leaves,
revealing holes of blue-black sky overhead. The remaining foliage resembled
leftover pieces of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle that trembled in the cool air.

Time off the island had warped my perspective. Greenwich was
already a blur. A week of the Mayhew’s ostentatious hospitality left me feeling
privileged and undeserving. Here at Wellington, there was only hard work and
glimpses of the hotel’s deteriorating luxury, a reminder that even the most
prominent families needed to succeed. It was an environment that made it
possible to feel deprived. I wanted to sit by the ocean and listen to Chris; it
didn’t matter about what: cynicism over his father, a previous school that had
tried to keep him under their thumb.

When the trees began to thin, my eyes sought the ocean. Its
surface was lit with a soft light—either the last reflection of the stars or
the quick approaching dawn. Our destination lay along its edge, a black speck
on the water. The darkness had taken the depth out of the landscape, leaving the
beach a flat shadow wedged into the shoreline.

We scrambled down the cliffs. Without daylight, rappelling
was similar to that first time in the fog. At the halfway point, I could only
see the rope—moist with dew—extending in either direction. Even Derek and Chris
descended with caution, but soon we were passing beneath the cedars, the sound
of waves beckoning us down the final sandy slope.

The tide was lower. The Anvil looked taller, steeper too,
the archway having grown to the mouth of a cave. Dark sea moss indicated where
the water had previously risen, its upper fringes having dried into patches of
green fur. The area beneath the moss-covered rock tapered in, making the Anvil
look like a loose tooth that the sea was determined to remove. The succession
of boulders protruding from the water appeared as a chain of steppingstones
extending in a wide, semi-circular arc.

The air coming off the water was cold, and my feet made
shallow prints in the hard-packed sand. The sea was calm, the waves curling
over and foaming ashore. Though the sun hadn’t risen, narrow bands of pink and
magenta sat atop the eastern horizon.

The boulders were an assortment of shapes and sizes, some
flat as tables, others jagged and uneven. The largest was over twenty feet in
length; the smallest just big enough to stand on. Though most were evenly
spaced, a sizeable gap split the middle that would require a substantial jump
to cross.

I expected Chris to charge into the water, but he dropped to
a knee and studied the waves. It was difficult to tell if the tide was rising. Though
no one said it, we were all thinking about what would happen if we got out
there and couldn’t get back.

“Should have plenty of time,” Derek said without conviction.

“Feels colder than last time,” Roland said.

Chris rose from his crouch. “I didn’t come down here for the
view,” he said, stepping into the surf.

We started across the rocks, gaining momentum as we went. What
we hesitated to do in the beginning, we didn’t think twice about toward the
end. The calm water was a reassurance. Even if the tide rose, we would only get
our feet wet coming back. The midway point presented the only challenge, where
a seven-foot gap had to be crossed. Behind us, the beach looked little more
than a triangle of sand, and I could begin to make out the broad expanse of
Raker’s shoreline.

The Anvil stood before us. I watched the others jump ashore,
waiting for a lull in the waves before joining them. I landed at the base of a
dead hickory, the Anvil’s only tree, and used its gnarled roots to pull myself
to level ground.

The size of a large house, the Anvil didn’t take long to
explore. The sides were steep but climbable. A narrow, crooked trail led to the
water. A confused pile of loose stones covered in bird droppings protruded from
the summit.

Derek studied the empty horizon through his binoculars as we
congregated over the archway. Roland chucked rocks at driftwood floating in the
water a dozen feet below. Chris sat with his back to a rock, eyes closed to the
rising sun. Instead of his token cigarette, a blade of grass dangled between
his teeth.

“Any sign of one of those waves?” he asked without opening
his eyes.

“Flat as a board, captain,” Derek reported.

“That’d be awesome if one of those big ones came,” Roland
said.

“It wouldn’t be awesome if you got wet.”

“They don’t get big enough to reach up here.”

“Wanna bet? Didn’t you see the one when Chris had his swim?”

“I saw it. I just don’t remember it being that big.”

“Trust me, it was big,” Derek said.

“I know it was big, but not, you know,
big
.”

A discussion on waves ensued, but soon sputtered out. Through
it all, Chris remained quiet.

“Hey, what’s with you?” Derek asked him.

Chris opened an eye. “What?”

“You haven’t said a word.”

“I’m relaxing.”

“Normally we can’t shut you up,” Roland said.

“What is this, designated story time? What would you like to
hear about today, ladies? How about something melodramatic, like when I was
forced to live on an island for a year without any chicks and decided out of
sheer boredom to kill myself.”

“That’s got a ring to it,” Roland said, smiling.

“Yeah, you could jump off right here,” said Derek.

“Too cold,” Chris said, his eyes still closed. “If I went,
I’d make it messy. Here you get sucked under the rocks and your bloated corpse
washes ashore three days later.” He readjusted himself. “It’s someone else’s
turn. I’m taking the day off.”

“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I got in this huge
brawl with Zack?” Derek asked. “It was at this wrestling meet in Philadelphia—”

“No offense, Mayhew,” Chris interrupted, “but we just spent
an entire week with your family. How about giving someone else a chance?”

Chris’ eyes were open now.

“It’s got to be about Jake.”

“Jake!” Derek called. “Let’s hear about Jake.”

“It’s Jake’s turn,” Roland said, cupping his hands to his
mouth. “Let’s hear about Jake!”

“Me?” I said. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Oh I’m sure there’s something,” Chris said, sitting
forward. “Everybody’s got something. For example, what made you visit your
grandpa instead of your parents when you were less than an hour from home?”

“Chris,” Roland warned, shooting him a look. “Ignore him,
Jake.”

“What? It’s an innocent question.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Sure it is. You know me, Jake. I get curious. I think about
things that are none of my business.”

“It’s no secret, really,” I said. “What do you want to
know?”

Chris settled back against the rock. “I want to hear about
Judge Hawthorne. I want to know why he doesn’t call on Sunday night. I want to
know why Derek’s phone was ringing off the hook for Roland, but you never once
got a call from home.”

“When was the last time
the Governor
called?” Roland
asked.

“That’s different. I avoid him whenever I can. Jake’s a nice
guy. Even if he hated his father’s guts, he wouldn’t be that disrespectful.”

“You’re being an asshole.”

“I know I’m being an asshole. But whenever someone spends a
lot of time with their grandparents, there’s always a problem at home.
Every
time.”

“Chris, seriously,” Roland said. “
Drop it
.”

“What? Why is it such a big deal? So what if Jake’s father
is too busy to pick up the phone. The rest of us have
issues
. I mean, it
can’t be any worse than what I go home to. Or you, Roland Van Belle
the
Third
.”

Roland looked away in disgust.

Derek pretended to adjust his binoculars, looking regretful
for coercing Chris into talking.

“You’re here for a reason, Jake,” Chris continued, oblivious
to how uncomfortable he was making everyone. “And like the rest of us, you’ve
got stories. In fact, I’m willing to bet yours is the best story of all. You
just haven’t told it to anyone.”

“We should be getting back,” Roland said, standing up. “I
think the tide’s coming in.”

Despite being put on the spot, I found Chris’ curiosity
appealing, even flattering. He treated me as an older brother would—with good
intentions and little respect. He managed to be rude and sincere at the same
time. It was this quality about him that had brought us together. Perhaps he
needed to be reminded that he wasn’t the only one who suffered from an
inadequate home life. Perhaps he needed us just as much as we needed him.

“No, it’s okay,” I told Roland. “He’s right. It’s no big
deal, really.”

When Roland sat back down, I talked at length about
something I hadn’t thought of for some time. I had forgotten most of it, or
made up lies to deceive myself into believing something less hurtful than the
truth. But as I spoke, it came back to me with unexpected clarity.