The Keeper of Dawn (21 page)

“What?”

“Someone’s been writing graffiti in the bathrooms.”

“You don’t say,” Mr. O’Leary said with a straight face, but
it wasn’t long before a smile shone through his beard.

“It’s been you all along!”

He laughed. “What can I say? I have a weakness for
Shakespeare.”

“A teacher writing graffiti,” I said, getting back into bed.

“But graffiti of the highest caliber. I consider it
accessible
literature.”

As I devoured my dinner, Mr. O’Leary talked of the day’s
events, though the conversation soon turned to fencing. Wellington had been
invited to its first tournament at Andrews, a private school in Providence. Though
the dream was still too fresh to get enthused, I feigned excitement.

“It’s two weeks from tomorrow.” He grinned wolfishly. “For
once we get to fight someone other than ourselves.”

When I finished eating, Mr. O’Leary set my empty plate on
the bed stand and brought over a telephone.

“What’s this?”

“This,” he said dramatically, “is a telephone.”

“I can see that.”

“I have been given explicit instructions by your mother for
you to call her the minute you open your eyes.”

“My mother? You talked to my mother?”

I had only spoken to her once in the past two months. The
idea of Mr. O’Leary having a discussion with her didn’t seem possible.

“It’s standard procedure to contact your parents in a
medical emergency.”

“A
medical emergency
?” I laughed, inwardly cringing
at Mother’s reaction to those words. “Isn’t that overdoing it a bit?”

Mr. O’Leary paused. “Jake, what’s the last thing you
remember?”

“I remember seeing you in the hall. That’s about it.”

“You had a severe case of hypothermia. You collapsed shortly
after you got back. By the time we got you down here, your heart had stopped. I
don’t know about you, but in my book, that’s a medical emergency. You also have
three stitches in your knee. Not too bad, all things considered. So the very
least you can do is call your mother. As a parent, I can assure you she’ll want
nothing more than to hear the sound of your voice. And I would say a special
thanks to Nurse Bennett is in order. She’s the one who resuscitated you.”

I was too surprised to respond.

“Had you not gotten hurt so badly, you’d be in a heap of
trouble. Mr. Hearst spent the better part of his day explaining to your parents
exactly how a student rappels down a cliff and falls into the ocean when they
should be sitting in first period. But, I promised myself I wouldn’t lecture
you. Let me just say there will be no more going down to this beach of yours. And
your mother has made it abundantly clear that you aren’t so much as to look at
the individuals who formerly made up your so-called Headliners. That includes
Roland and Derek.”

“But—”

“Absolutely not. She’s threatened to pull you out of here,
and honestly, I can’t say I blame her.”

“If it wasn’t for them, I would never have made it back.”

“If it hadn’t been for them, you would never have gone down
there in the first place.”

I nodded, too tired to argue. But there was something else I
had to know.

“Is Chris …”

Mr. O’Leary raised an eyebrow. “Expelled? No.”

“But if it were up to you, he would be.”

Mr. O’Leary sat on the adjacent bed, in the very spot Chris
had been not so long ago. “If it were up to me, Chris Forsythe would have never
set foot on this island. His life is a rollercoaster. He bounces from school to
school thinking he can destroy anything that crosses his path without having to
stick around to clean up the mess. He doesn’t belong here, nor does Wellington
have anything to offer him. I taught him at Wheaton, and in the short amount of
time he was there, he managed to cause an enormous amount of damage. Even worse
than what happened today, if you can believe it.”

“Will he get expelled after the election?”

“I don’t know, Jake. But as far as you’re concerned, Chris
Forsythe might as well have been expelled. Is that understood?”

I nodded, adding, “For the record, it wasn’t his fault.”

Mr. O’Leary smiled. “All I know is that when Chris Forsythe
is around, people get hurt.”

“He told me about Bobby Ingram.”

“He did, did he?”

Though Chris had spoken in confidence, I retold the story of
the coal mine, trying to convey Chris’ remorse.

“Bobby was a good kid,” Mr. O’Leary said, his eyes growing
distant. “Sometimes, as a teacher, you imagine what your students will grow up
to be. A dentist, an attorney? Maybe a writer? But not with Bobby. Up here,” he
pointed to his head, “Bobby Ingram will always be sixteen. And if Chris
genuinely regretted what had happened, he would have learned from his mistake.”

I wanted to tell him that it had been Chris’ concern for
Roland that had led us to the Anvil, but held my tongue.

I called Mother after Mr. O’Leary had left. She was
overjoyed to hear from me, and tried to convince me to come home. She knew now
that sending me to Wellington had been a mistake. She would be returning home
soon, in a matter of days, and the house would be empty without me. In the end,
I convinced her to let me stay by promising to keep away from my friends. But
what I didn’t yet understand was that the bond we shared was too strong to be
undone by a halfhearted promise. And though Wellington was effective at keeping
us from the rest of the world, it could do very little to keep us from each
other.

The events of the day had made me vengeful, and I lay awake
much of the night, my pent-up anger becoming focused on the distant face
peering down from the edge of the cliff.

* * * * *

There were hands around me, moving in the darkness. Four
hooded figures stood in the room: two at the head of the bed, one at the foot;
the fourth held a white towel.

The towel felt heavy in my hands. Two days ago my heart had
stopped, and now a wild thrill surged through me, causing it to leap in my
chest. As I looked at the figure lying in bed, the arm-cast visible in the
moonlight, an old wound opened up. Suddenly I could put a name to the emotion
he evoked. It was pity. I pitied Loosy-Goosy; not for what was about to happen,
but for who he was.

When he stirred in his sleep, Derek grabbed his legs, Chris
secured his arms, and Roland placed a towel between his teeth. Loosy-Goosy
struggled awake, letting out a low moan. He squirmed helplessly, his eyes white
with terror.

“This is for Benjamin, you son of a bitch,” I said, hardly
recognizing my own voice.

The towel whistled through the darkness, colliding with the
prostrate form on the bed. It wasn’t rage or hatred that guided my hand, but
our own crude justice. The memory of Benjamin demanded it. Perhaps we each had
our own reason for being there; perhaps we each saw someone different writhing
in pain. But for me it was the same face that had peered over the cliff, those
lidded eyes looking down on me, feeding off my fear.

I swung the towel, again and again. Once it started, there
was no end to it. It was more than I thought I had in me, and when Chris
grabbed my arm, stopping me in mid-swing, I was covered with sweat.

Derek and Roland released their hold. Loosy-Goosy was
nothing more than a twisted shadow in the sheets. Seeing him like that made me
fear him less, and whatever power he previously had over me was dispelled.

The upcoming debate sparked a renewed interest in our
forgotten corner of the world. The tight race between Senator Coleman and
Republican hopeful, Governor Forsythe, created a volatile political landscape
in which the two parties bickered back and forth. The Democrats derided having
the debate at a prestigious boarding school, considering it an arrogant display
of elitism; meanwhile, the Republicans rallied behind the decision, claiming
that it showcased the strength of America’s education system. The political
talking heads joined in the fray, throwing the names of Raker Island and
Wellington Academy across the headlines.

It was politics as usual. But amidst what some considered
predictable candidates and a lackluster campaign, Wellington itself became a
topic of debate. It was a widely held belief that cloistered, unisex schools no
longer existed. The prep school culture, so intrinsic to those participating in
it, was either ignored or forgotten by everyone else. The scene of a dining
hall filled with boys in jackets and ties obediently bowing their heads as the
headmaster or rector says a prayer makes one think of their grandfather’s
generation, where tradition backed by hardnosed discipline ruled the day. But
here it was, caught on the front page for all to see. Previously exposed only
in the occasional movie or clichéd novel ending tragically in suicide, the
boarding school was seen as part of a bygone era, not a modern way of life. And
the fact that it was in current events instead of the entertainment section
made it all the more captivating.

Soon our isolated haven became flooded with newcomers. Young
reporters peered into classrooms and congregated outside the headmaster’s
office; attractive women in designer business suits strode through the
courtyard with a camera man trailing behind; police officers and security
personnel plodded across Oak Yard and huddled over maps in the gazebo.

The same newspapers that had only a short while ago read
like a “Who’s Who” of our fathers now included the names of Wellington’s
faculty. “It is with the highest honor that Wellington Academy will voice the
citizens’ questions in search for Rhode Island’s future leader,” Mr. Lawson was
quoted. Mr. Hutcheson’s statement read, “What better way to eliminate
partisanship by turning to this country’s youth. As a student, what better way
is there to discover that every citizen can make a difference? This is an
innovative, grassroots effort of which the forefathers of our great nation
would strongly approve.” Even some of the students were quoted. Joel Abernathy,
whom I had seen falling asleep in Government on more than one occasion, claimed
to have political aspirations of his own, and was thrilled at the opportunity
of participating in the debate.

But these days it was becoming more difficult to sleep in
Mr. Hutcheson’s class. With the debate only days away, the atmosphere in
Government had intensified, with Mr. Hutcheson leading us through reenactments
of previous debates. There was Nixon vs. Kennedy, Stevenson vs. Kefauver in the
Democratic primary, and I even got to read one of Honest Abe’s rebuttals aloud
in the famous Lincoln vs. Douglas debates for the 1858 Illinois State Senate.

The upcoming debate also influenced Miskapaug’s opinion of
Wellington, as the coastal town had become the unexpected benefactor of an influx
of reporters, journalists and political entourages. It was like summer had come
early: hotels and restaurants were full; even a few tourist shops reopened
despite the relentless wind that blew in from the ocean. The only negative
article in the local papers was “CHAUVINIST NATION,” in which a feminist posed
the question of who would represent women at a debate held at an all-boys
school asking questions to all-male candidates.

I now ate breakfast and lunch alone. Every so often I would
glance over at our old table. Roland and Derek rarely looked up from their
newspapers. When Roland gave me a hesitant wave, I returned the gesture. Nothing
was the same without Chris. Mr. O’Leary had been right—he might as well have
been expelled. But this didn’t prevent me from looking for him. I didn’t know
what I would say if our paths happened to cross; perhaps nothing, but I didn’t
want the brief moments in Loosy-Goosy’s room, or his confession in the
infirmary, to be our last time together.

I drifted aimlessly through the week. There were no more
expeditions to the beach, no more rebellious conversations. Even work on the
lighthouse had been suspended until the new Fresnel lens arrived. The only time
I helped Max was to replant the three sapling oaks that Chris had cut down. Wellington
had become a school like any other, filled with lectures and homework and not
much more. The more time passed, the more anxious I became. I began to expect
the unexpected. I anticipated seeing Chris around every corner. I frequently awoke
during the night, straining to hear that soft tap on the door that would tell
me it was time to go. But no knock came, and even if it had, where else was
there to go?

What I had been waiting for came in the form of an unmarked
letter. Other than the incident involving marijuana, Chet took little interest
in intra-school mail. There was no “musty, from Brooklyn” comment, or wisecrack
about not having a girlfriend. But on this occasion, Chet ran the letter
beneath his nose, once, twice, and finally a third time. He looked up at me,
his eyes wary.

“Smells like trouble,” he said finally, handing over the
envelope.

Inside was the familiar Waldorf-Astoria letterhead covered
with Chris’ sloppy handwriting.

“Girls coming to our beach. Saturday at 1500. This will be
farewell.” It was signed, “The Great Houdini.”

* * * * *

When I awoke Saturday morning to the sound of a helicopter,
I knew even before opening my eyes that Mr. Noble had returned. I scrambled out
of bed, threw on some clothes, and sped down the hall. I emerged from Kirkland
Hall as the helicopter was landing. A second helicopter had just lifted off,
and as I watched it fly into the distance, a group of men exited the grounded
helicopter and approached the school. Mr. Noble, dressed in his great-grandfather’s
uniform, saluted me.

“What a glorious day to bring Raker Lighthouse back to life.
Can I count on your assistance this morning?”

“Absolutely,” I said, falling in beside him.

“There is much to do, so very much to do. It might be best
if you meet me in the courtyard in say, one hour. But in the meantime, if you
could tell me where I might find Mr. Erikson, it would be much appreciated.”

“I’ll give you one guess.”

Mr. Noble flashed me a smile and led his men to the
lighthouse.

I showered and ate breakfast. Because we were allowed to
sleep in on Saturdays, the cafeteria was so quiet I could hear one of the cooks
singing “Sittin’ On the Dock of the Bay” whenever anyone passed through the
kitchen doors. Watching the Coast Guardsmen pass in and out of the lighthouse
rekindled my curiosity over how they would get the Fresnel lens in the lantern
room.

The sound of the helicopter filled the cool morning air as I
waited for Mr. Noble at the courtyard fountain. A moment later the Pelican
appeared over Kirkland Hall with a thick cable suspended beneath it. Mr. Noble
emerged from the lighthouse and backed through Oak Yard with a walkie-talkie
pressed to his ear, his eyes never leaving the helicopter. A small crowd of
onlookers had gathered in the courtyard, and several faces—looking like they
had just awoken—peered from dorm windows.

“A few more feet,” said a voice over the walkie-talkie as
Mr. Noble came up beside me. “A little lower. Okay, okay. You’re there.”

The helicopter hovered over the lighthouse. Men on the
catwalk grabbed the ends of the cable that divided into a dozen smaller
segments and secured them to the perimeter of the lantern room.

“Keep ‘er steady.”

“Lines are secure. Over.”

“You boys clear out of there. Over,” Mr. Noble instructed
into the walkie-talkie.

“Bolts are unfastened,” came the reply once the men had
disappeared from the walkway. “Eagle’s Nest is empty. Waiting for your command.
Over.”

“Proceed,” Mr. Noble said. “Over.”

At his command, the cable beneath the helicopter went taut,
and the conical, metal rooftop lifted from the structure.

Mr. Noble leaned toward me with a boyish grin. “Didn’t I
tell you we’d pop the top off this teakettle?”

When the helicopter had dropped from sight, taking the roof
of the lighthouse with it, a voice shouted from the walkie-talkie, “Touchdown!”

“Good job, boys,” Mr. Noble said. “We’re halfway home. You
know what to do. Over and out.”

“Why aren’t you flying?” I asked when Mr. Noble returned the
walkie-talkie to his belt.

“They call in the real flyboys for jobs like this. They’ll
be pushing tow capacity, so they’re down to a skeleton crew. Today I’m only a
voice in their ear.” He rattled his keychain. “And the spare keys in case my
pilot locks himself out.”

“What about Max?”

“Max? Max is making sure his hammock doesn’t blow away,” Mr.
Noble said, permitting himself to smile. “You know how it is with men like your
Max. He’d carry the lens up on his back if he could.”

“Did he ever figure out how you were going to get it up
there?”

Mr. Noble glanced at the lighthouse. “Let’s just say not
much gets past Raker Island’s light keeper. I’m surprised I had him scratching
his head for as long as I did.” He looked at me from the corner of his eye. “By
the way, he told me about your … mishap.”

“He did?” Max hadn’t said a word about it to me.

Mr. Noble shrugged. “You can’t have an island full of boys
without a few of them falling in the ocean.”

Just then some garbled conversation came over the
walkie-talkie, causing Mr. Noble to perk his ears up before turning the volume
down. “Only a voice in their ear,” he said regretfully.

“I think I got frostbite on my feet,” I said, kind of
bragging about it.

“Ah yes, frostbite,” Mr. Noble said, as if there wasn’t an
ailment he hadn’t personally experienced. “Any toes amputated?”

“
Amputated
?
No way.”

“Well you know what you’ve got there?”

“Hmm?”

“A nice scar. Not one that you can see, but it’s a scar just
the same. Thirty years from now when you step out into the snow and feel that
cold creep back in, you’re going to think back to when you had your tangle with
the sea. That’s what a scar is. A reminder that once upon a time you were hurt
bad enough to be changed by it.”

Mr. Noble went on to talk about the various scars and
accidents he had encountered in the Coast Guard until his name came over the
walkie-talkie.

“Noble here. Over,” he said, turning the volume back up.

“We’re set to go. Over.”

“Everything ready in the Eagle’s Nest? Over.”

“Ready and waiting,” came Max’s gruff voice. “Over.”

“Then let’s put the jewel in the crown, gentlemen. Look
sharp up there, Miller. Over.” Then he turned to me with a sparkle in his dark
eyes. “This is my favorite part.”

When the helicopter reappeared, a pod-like container of
concentric discs dangled from the end of the cable. Mr. Noble issued commands
over the walkie-talkie as the Fresnel lens was lowered into the exposed lantern
room. Though I had already come to the conclusion that I wouldn’t be of any
help in such a grand operation, I felt a thrill as I followed Mr. Noble up the
rickety staircase after the lighthouse’s rooftop had been returned.

With only a four-foot gap along the perimeter, the lantern
room was nothing more than a tight sleeve that sheathed the Fresnel lens. And
most of this cramped space was crowded with men securing the lens. Instead of appearing
oversized, the Fresnel lens had a way of making everything around it seem
small—Max’s hammock looked little more than a cobweb, and it felt as though I
had suddenly shrunk upon entering the room. Rows of mirrored panels covered the
lens like Venetian blinds. The daylight caught in these panels brightened the
room, turning the lens into a cocoon wrapped in concentric metal bands with
sunlight hatching out of every crevice.

We found Max on a ladder tightening a lag bolt in the
ceiling with what looked to be an oversized socket wrench.

“So what do you think?” Mr. Noble asked.

“About what?” Max replied without looking down.

“About your new one-and-a-half million candlepower lens.”

“I’ll be happy when it’s over.”

Mr. Noble smiled. “Hope you don’t mind that I brought your
apprentice.”

“One more won’t make much difference in this crowd,” Max
replied, the wrench clicking in his hand. “Besides, this is just a warm-up. Come
Tuesday, these towers will be filled with security.”

Mr. Noble smiled wryly. “Who knew you were so popular? Unfortunately,
you’ve got us here until tomorrow. But you have my word. We’ll do our best to
stay out of your way.”

I went out to the walkway as the Coast Guardsmen continued
their work. I hadn’t been back there since the night we had searched for
Raker’s bloodstain. I even managed to locate the spot on the cement that had
inspired our imaginations, though in the daylight it looked like nothing more
than a grease stain.

It wasn’t long before Max emerged from the crowded lantern
room.

“Tomorrow can’t come soon enough,” he said, sticking a fresh
toothpick in his mouth. With both hands gripping the railing, he looked out
over the island as if steering some colossal vessel out to sea.

“Why are they staying overnight?”

“Who knows. Safety protocols. Government procedures. Because
it takes two men twice as long to do a job with all the jabbering they do.”

I glanced back at the lantern room. “You think you’ll still
sleep up here?”