The Keeper of Dawn (28 page)

I went into the kitchen. This is where it had all started,
where Grandpa had cast his spell that kept pulling me back over the years,
convincing me that there was something more to be discovered. But now there was
only an empty room, and the robins chirping outside the window. It was some
time before I looked away from the nest of Broadleafs, knowing that it would be
the last.

Each room housed its own distinct memories. Instead of a
spare bedroom, the room at the end of the upstairs hallway was a classroom
where lessons on bonsai had been conducted. They were all still there, basking
in the sunlight like obedient students, waiting patiently for the next lecture
to begin.

“Looks like you won,” I said to Julius, running a hand over
his leaves.

I avoided the living room until the end. It was here, amidst
the torn carpeting and assorted plants, that the openhearted recluse had shined
the brightest. There were lectures and jokes in the rest of the house, but
friendships had taken shape here. I looked for some time at my familiar seat on
the couch, at the recliner, and of course, at the walking circle. Upon closer examination,
I would notice that the narrow path worn into the floor was completely bare. There
were no loose shags or frays of carpeting; only bare floorboards shone through,
as if Grandpa had finished what he had set out to do all along.

I stood beneath the archway, not wanting to enter because
then I would be that much closer to leaving. And once I left, this house, these
rooms with their quaint idiosyncrasies, would be out of my life forever. I
finally took a step forward, coming to sit on the couch with the same shoot of
ivy stretching behind my head, the same clock ticking from above the
television; even the afternoon sunlight coming in through the porch window
indicated it was the same time of day as our weekly visits. I waited patiently,
as if Grandpa was napping in the recliner with a book in his lap and would
awaken at any moment.

Tears spilled down my cheeks. I was alone—truly alone—for
the first time in this house. When I looked up, I saw the kitchen chair leaning
on its front leg, and a cloud of sawdust shooting into the air. In the empty
space before me, there was an old man walking, his robe swirling about him, his
eyes filled with bewilderment. When at last these visions had dissolved, I
became fixated by the daylight reflecting from the ring of polished wood. As
afternoon turned to evening, this light dimmed, and finally went out all
together.

* * * * *

With daylight, money and a full night’s rest, the return
trip went by quickly and without incident. I spent the night on Grandpa’s
couch, not waking until the morning. Fortunately I didn’t make the commute to
Greenwich alone. I took Julius with me, his delicate leaves protected by a
pillowcase. The move wouldn’t be easy, but it was better than the alternative.

I found Sal in a corner booth at the sub shop. He looked up
from his paper and waved me over like we met there everyday.

“Well, well. Looks like you actually spent the night under a
roof,” he said as I slid into the booth across from him. “Same clothes, but
we’ll get you back in fighting shape in no time. Gotta make good time. Promised
I’d make my daughter’s musical, so you’ll have to eat on the road. I highly
recommend The Italian. Salami and provolone is a match made in heaven.”

Connecticut seemed smaller in the daylight. The murky shapes
of yesterday’s dawn had been replaced with steady traffic and periodic glimpses
of the Long Island Sound. We rode in silence that was only broken by Sal’s
interjections about traffic patterns, the weather and New Jersey drivers (they
were the ones you really had to watch out for). But nothing bothered the
opinionated truck driver for long, not even the stop-and-go traffic around
Bridgeport.

He dropped me off in White Rock, near the Rhode Island
border. After paying him back for the train fare and breakfast, I hesitated
before climbing out of the cab.

“Until the next time,” he said.

I smiled. “Right. Until the next time. See you, Sal.”

A taxi drove me to Miskapaug, dropping me off at the
waterfront in time to make the four o’clock ferry. The chill ocean air forced
me inside where I brooded over what awaited me at Wellington. Had it been
discovered that I was in the helicopter? Would I be arrested the moment I set
foot on the island? I briefly considered Mother’s offer to return home before
banishing the thought from my mind. I had promised Chris I’d come back, and I
intended to keep my word.

As Raker’s familiar shape materialized on the horizon, my
mind bristled with unanswered questions. What had become of my friends? Had
Derek gotten the girls off the island? We had broken so many rules that it was
only a matter of time before it caught up to us. By the time the ferry
approached the pier, all the worries I had managed to forget during the frantic
trip home had returned.

I boarded the bus. As it labored up the hill, the sound of
waves receded, the wind died, and island birds took the place of the gulls. When
we pulled up to Wellington’s front gate, it felt like I had slipped back into
the embrace of a cold nest. It wasn’t the homecoming I had expected, but it was
a homecoming all the same.

I came across Derek in the lobby, his arms full of folding
chairs.

“Jake! You just get back?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you make it to the … you know …” He looked at me
awkwardly. “Did you make it back in time?”

“With time to spare.”

“Good, good. Man, you look like you’ve been through a war. Hope
the money helped.”

“Couldn’t have made it without it.” I glanced in the
direction of the administrative offices. “Where are Chris and Roland? Did you—”
I lowered my voice. “Did you get the girls off?”

“Oh yeah, that was no big deal. They were a little bitchy
about rappelling, but I got them down. But man, you got to hear about
Forsythe.”

He paused, looking at Julius like a severed head might be
concealed beneath the pillowcase. “Uh, well, follow me. I’ve gotta move a ton
of chairs before dinner.”

We entered the auditorium where Derek began unloading the
chairs. A banner hung over the stage:

Election 1980

Rhode Island Senate Debate

Wellington Academy, Oct. 28
^th

“So what happened? Did they make it back?”

“Oh yeah, they got back fine,” he said, starting back to the
cafeteria for more chairs. “But get this. Instead of landing behind Kirkland,
they flew out near the woods. By the time anyone got out there, they were long
gone.”

“They got away?”

Derek grinned. “Roland made it back no problem. Liz thought
he was Superman for flying you back so you could be at your grandpa’s funeral.”

“And Chris?”

Derek’s grin got even larger. “They started up a search for
him. They looked in Roland’s room, and I guess they went into both of ours,
too. I was in Nick’s room with the girls at the time. The only reason they
didn’t give me or Roland a hard time about being out after lights-out was
because
everybody
was out. I’m telling you, it was a madhouse. I was
worried they were going to go room to room.” Derek shook his head, but his grin
never faded. “There I was with a roomful of girls and all that liquor. Man,
that would have been the end of me. But they waited until morning, just as I
was getting back from the beach. They searched the entire school for him.”

“They didn’t find him?”

“They still haven’t found him!”

“No way! Do you know where he is?”

“I saw him yesterday morning at the beach. He spent the
night down there. Had me bring him some food and candy bars. He’s loving it. Everyone
knows he’s still here, but no one knows where.”

“Why didn’t he leave with the girls?”

“We tried talking him into that, but he wouldn’t do it. He
said he had some unfinished business. Something that will make everything else
look like child’s play.” Derek looked at me. “You know what he’s talking
about?”

You have to promise me one thing
…
you have to
come back
.

“No idea.”

Preparations for dinner were underway in the cafeteria. It
still felt like Sunday, but the sight of crumbers draping white linen over the
tables reminded me that the week had already begun.

Derek shook his head. “I can’t think of what it could be. I
mean, how can you top stealing a helicopter?”

“Three-seventy-five.”

It was Chet. The mailman had his head protruding from the mailroom.
“Where do ya think yaw goin’ rushin’ through without stoppin’ to see me? We’re
closed, but I guess I’ll make an exception this one time.”

I told Derek I’d catch up to him and went over to where Chet
was shuffling back to the mail bins, an awkward movement compared to his
patented slide.

“Been working some crazy hours,” he muttered, pulling a
letter out of the bin. “Crazy hours, I tell ya. This place has been a-hoppin’. Had
to catch the six o’clock everyday last week. Never seen so much mail in my life.
Everybody’s sending and receiving, sending and receiving. They’re working poor
ol’ Chet to death. Now let’s see, what do we have here.” Chet passed the letter
beneath his nose and sighed. “Sowey to get yaw hopes up, three-seventy-five. I’m
afraid it’s same ol’, same ol’.”

He started to hand me the letter, but pulled up short. Then
he leaned closer and sniffed, a look of surprise crossing his face.

“Why three-seventy-five, it smells just like ya! Musty, from
Brooklyn.”

That phrase kept echoing in my head as I ran through the
lobby and up the two flights of stairs to my room.

Musty, from Brooklyn
.

Though I knew it wasn’t possible, this letter allowed me to
forget that the last forty-eight hours had ever happened. Grandpa was still
alive. Though I had looked through every room, he had staged his own death and
still resided at Brickmore Lane. The fact that the envelope was postmarked the
day before he had passed away did little to diminish my excitement, and I took
the remaining stairs three at a time.

I was so distracted that I failed to notice that my room was
not how I had left it. Drawers were pulled out; the bed was a disaster, the
sheets hanging down over the lower bunk; a pair of someone’s muddy shoes lay in
the corner, and the damp smell of wet clothes permeated the air.

Only when something stirred in the lower bunk did I notice
the disarray.

“About time you got back,” Chris said, pushing the sheets
aside. “You have any idea how long I’ve had to take a whiz?”

I could only shake my head. “How …”

“How … how what? How bad is it? Think of Niagara Falls. Think
of the Mississippi after a hard rain. Think of jumping up and down on a water
bed.”

“How did you get in here?”

“How do I get
out
of here? Man, look at you,
Hawthorne. You’ve got me beat. A regular down-and-out rucksack hobo.” Then he
became serious. “You make it back in time?”

“With an hour to spare.”

“And what about your old man? Did he freak out when he saw
you, or what?”

I hesitated.

“Never seen him so pissed in my life.”

Chris smiled. “Then it was worth it.” He looked at Julius. “Man,
you’re collecting those like they were going out of style. Hey, you done with
that?” he asked, pointing to my half-empty soda.

“It’s warm.”

“Not as warm as it’s gonna be.”

“Oh, man. You serious?”

“I’m about to explode. And I’m a goner if I set foot outside
that door.”

I reluctantly handed him the bottle, which he emptied out
the window.

“Just don’t spill any,” I said, trying my best to ignore the
sound of him relieving himself.

“Nothing to fear,” he assured me. “I’m a great aim.”

After what seemed like an extraordinarily long time, Chris
zipped up his fly. “What’cha got there?”

“Just the mail,” I said, tossing the half-opened envelope on
the desk. It would have to wait. I had to be alone to read it.

“Hope you don’t mind that I borrowed a few things,” Chris
said, referring to the rugby shirt and jeans that were two inches too long. “Forty-two
hours and counting,” he said, perching himself on the radiator. “Never thought
I’d last this long. But I can’t take all the credit. The media’s been my
guardian angel. They’d have a field day if they ever got wind of what we did. God,
I’m starving. I can’t believe you don’t have any food in here.”

I reached into my backpack and tossed him a Mr. Crackle.

“Ugh,” Chris groaned. “Derek’s given me a hundred of these.”
But this didn’t prevent him from peeling off the wrapper and taking a bite. “Can’t
do it,” he said a second later, throwing the candy bar in the trash. “Hey,
isn’t it about time for dinner? Here’s a grand idea. Why don’t you get your
noose on, you know, get yourself looking a little more re-spec-ta-ble, and go
get me something to eat. Roland covered me last night.”

“I ran into Derek. He said you’re planning one final … surprise.”

Chris looked amused. “Surprise. I like that. Mayhew can
never keep his trap shut.” He looked up. “Why Jake, if I didn’t know any
better, I’d say you were curious. Jacob Hawthorne, Mr. Prudent, who rides
around in stolen helicopters, is curious for the first time in his life.”

“I just can’t figure out how you plan on doing anything. I
mean, you can’t even leave the room.”

“That’s the beauty of it.
I’m
not going to do
anything.”

“Then who is?”

Chris’ gaze never wavered. “
You
are.”

When he stood up, I knew a speech was headed my way. He
started with instructions on what I would have to do, as well as the resulting
aftermath—the “fall-out” as he called it. He crafted his words in a way that
made the outrageous seem attainable. “Scandal” was the word that stuck out. It
weighed on me long after he had stopped talking. He paced back and forth in a
way that was reminiscent of whenever he imitated his father. Only now, he was
no longer imitating. He had decided to fight fire with fire, and out of this
conflagration was forged his true identity, burdened as it was by the brand of
unwanted similarities.

I looked out at the darkening courtyard. The saplings in the
gutter were larger than I remembered, and I looked for a long time at Seymour
before realizing the green had drained from his leaves. When Chris turned on
the desk lamp, our reflections were superimposed over the image of the dying
bonsai.

Chris stood beside me, awaiting my decision. It was up to
me. This would be our last time together. I had to decide now. But would it
actually change anything? How could I make a difference? I marveled at the
circumstances that had led up to this. What he was proposing would ruin
careers. But Chris argued we would be doing nothing more than revealing the
truth. Certainly there could be no harm in that.

His face hovered over my shoulder.

This was what we all had wanted since the day our fathers had
made the headlines. We would no longer be in their shadow. We would make the
headlines on our own.

But what did Chris know of my father?

He knew. He knew enough. He knew the resentment and the
anger. He knew because he lived with it everyday. He and I were the same.

When I agreed to go through with it, the lips of his
reflection curved into a smile.

* * * * *

Here on the island we were kept from the world, but tonight
the world was coming to us.

The “Welcome To Wellington Academy” sign had been returned
to the courtyard entrance, and high overhead, the beam of Raker Lighthouse
swung through the night, sending a shadow play of light over the hotel. Dressed
in jackets and ties, the student body was herded into the main lobby after
dinner and instructed to mingle with the guests. A reporter spoke into the
camera while security personnel monitored the exits. The candidates’ families
mingled with a spattering of prominent politicians. Stanley Dunford, the
Governor of Rhode Island, walked right past me, and Trevor Billings, the mayor
of Boston, was seated on the very sofa where Derek and I had waited for the
girls only a few days before. It was among such a crowd that the students fell
quietly into the background, like faceless extras on a star-studded movie set. Even
Wellington’s teaching staff looked awed as they drifted from group to
group—lost disciples amidst a newfound authority.

Being part of such a memorable crowd made it feel like the
past had been brought back to life. I was no longer at a boarding school;
Wellington was merely a name, with the Hotel Nouveau—in all its former
glory—rising up in its place. The auditorium that we were about to enter was no
longer where Mr. Hearst addressed the student body each morning. It was the
stage where the next Rhode Island senator would be decided, the very room where
tomorrow’s headlines were about to be made.

The lobby’s chandeliers sparkled with illumination, drawing
attention to the vaulted ceiling that didn’t seem quite as high now that there
were enough people to fill the cathedral-sized room. The bright lights and
aristocratic crowd made me forget the deterioration that was so apparent in the
daylight. How could one notice the chipped wall paneling and lack of artwork
when the guests themselves were something to be admired? If anything, the
hotel’s age was charming, even flattering, a historic backdrop befitting such a
patriotic event.

For one final night, the Hotel Nouveau was being used for
what it was intended. Men and women of good taste were once again spending
their finest hour here. As I continued to watch those around me, I was struck
with the feeling that I had been thrust into one of the old photographs in the
infirmary. If seen in black and white, the adults could pass for the
vacationers of yesteryear, and the students’ faces—pensive, eager youth
suspended above a necktie—looked aged beyond our years. I had become a part of
the Raker Island my parents had experienced so many years before. They had sent
me into their past, and if Mother had been in attendance tonight, everything
would have been just as she remembered. If I went into the courtyard, I would
find Father kneeling by the fountain, forever smiling for the camera. Suddenly,
I wanted that. I wanted to escape the crowd and spend the evening by his side.

Hearing someone call my name, I turned to see Mr. O’Leary
emerge from the crowd. He wore a dark suit instead of his usual tweed sports
jacket, and was perhaps the only member of Wellington’s faculty who didn’t look
outgunned by the politicians.

“You have my deepest condolences,” he said. “How are you
holding up?”

“Better. Sorry I missed your class. We had rehearsals,” I
said, referring to the two-hour session in which the debate participants had
recited their questions. But little good it had done. I struggled through my
question each time I was called upon, Mr. Hutcheson wincing whenever I forgot a
word or tripped over my tongue. Only Roland managed to do worse. In fact, he
got so tongue-tied that the normally sedate government teacher had shouted at
him for his incompetence. But Roland, his mind obviously elsewhere, hardly
seemed to care.

“Ah yes. The final hour approaches. How are the nerves?”

“I feel like I’m going to throw up,” I said, only
half-joking.

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen. A student arrest is enough
excitement for one day.”

Chris had finally been apprehended. Max had come across him
that morning sleeping in an abandoned room in Buchanan Hall. I had looked up
from breakfast to find the maintenance man leading him across the courtyard. Chris
hadn’t put up much of a fight, and even Max looked like he was only going
through the motions. “I was born to fly,” I had muttered, a mantra intoned
partly in tribute, partly to ward off the defeat at witnessing our rebellious
leader get led away in handcuffs.

Mr. O’Leary waited for my reaction. When it didn’t come, he
said, “Well, I’ll leave you to the debate. And don’t think I’ve forgotten your
introduction
.
You still owe me the history of Jacob Hawthorne.”

Alone once again, I reached into my jacket. Though Mr.
Hutcheson had insisted we memorize our questions, we were permitted to carry a
cue card if our nerves got the better of us. I became so worried I’d lose it
that I was often caught in the Napoleon pose—one hand tucked into the front of
my jacket. I completed the motion by reaching into my opposite breast pocket,
which contained a certain musty envelope from Brooklyn.

I hadn’t read it yet. There had been plenty of
opportunities, plenty of contemplative hours in my room after Chris had left. But
the truth was, I dreaded the idea of reaching those final words. After I read
the letter, there would be no more jokes, no more words of wisdom, no more
Monday afternoon visits. What I kept in my breast pocket was the last remnant
of Grandpa Hawthorne, and I clung to it like it was his final breath.

When the auditorium doors swung open, an orchestrated
seating process began. While being ushered down the aisle, I spotted Roland
beside a man in uniform who could be none other than General Van Belle II. At a
glance, he wasn’t the monster or cold-blooded killer I had imagined. Standing
several inches shorter than his son, he had a compact frame, a broad forehead,
and a tightness in his shoulders that embodied his highly decorated uniform. His
eyes were the same striking blue as Roland’s, but contained within them was the
unwavering gaze of a dispassionate hero. It was not by chance that the general
was in attendance tonight. Chris had told me that if his father ever made it to
the White House, his longtime friend, General Van Belle, would be at the top of
a very short list for Secretary of Defense. I watched as he said a few
departing words to his son and made his way through the crowd.

An usher directed me to an aisle seat in the third row. A
shrewd-looking woman in gold-framed glasses was seated to my left. When I sat
beside her, she removed her glasses, letting them dangle from a chain looped
around her neck, and gave me a scrutinizing look.

“Ah, one of the
chosen ones
,” she said, pointing to
the card that displayed the number 7 that the usher had clipped to my chair,
indicating that I would be asking the seventh question of the night. “Do tell,”
she asked in a teasing fashion, “what do you get to drill them with?”

My hand crept toward my breast pocket. “It’s uh … it
involves aggressive Soviet impulses.”

“How I envy you,” she said, putting her glasses back on. “You
must be so excited.”

Nervous was more like it. Dreadfully nervous.

I was seated so close to the stage that I could see Brian
Metcalf, the debate commentator, as clearly as if I were watching him on TV. He
was seated at a small table, his attention never straying from the tidy stack
of papers before him. Two lecterns stood before a blue curtain that spanned the
back of the stage. Television cameras were positioned along the periphery. I
looked longingly at the seats in the balcony. Being in such close proximity to
the stage left me nowhere to hide, with every tick of the clock carrying me to
a place I didn’t want to be.

The woman next to me, sensing my agitation, leaned over and
whispered, “The trick is to not let them intimidate you. Forget their titles. They’re
only men. Think of it as if you were asking your father a question.”