The Keeper of Dawn (4 page)

I wasn’t much better, only offering a handful of words whenever
cornered into a conversation.

And looking up to see Mr. O’Leary watching us. He knew we
weren’t getting along, knew we weren’t fitting in with
the group
. He
somehow knew that Benjamin cried himself to sleep most nights, and that
Wellington was only a temporary stop for me. Tugging the fringe of his beard,
Mr. O’Leary began another story. And his eyes were on me, asking those
questions no one dared to ask aloud. I wondered how many others he had seen
like me, not ready to let go? I wondered, too, how many fathers had he
replaced?

Over a few casual conversations in which I said very little,
Mr. O’Leary seemed to know my most well-guarded secret. He tried on numerous
occasions to recruit me for fencing, but I always declined, claiming I was
enjoying football. But if anything, football was a punishment. The pain during
practice was all too real—it was the blood in the back of my mouth, the deep
ache spidering across my back. And that suited me just fine, for I didn’t want
any chance of enjoying Wellington. The last thing I wanted was to be pitied or
given special treatment. I just wanted to serve my time, show my father I was
willing to sacrifice for future successes, and get on with my life.

As the days went by, I kept Mr. O’Leary at a distance. Between
classes, I would watch him cross the courtyard amidst a throng of students
caught beneath his spell. A few of the younger ones, probably without even
knowing they did it, assumed his gait with their hands clasped behind their
back and the thoughtful, distracted look of an absent-minded professor in their
eyes—an O’Leary trademark. A part of me—the part that persisted on ignoring
what it meant to be a Hawthorne—wanted to rush out and join them. The feeling
spread, and I wondered what it would be like if I let down my guard long enough
to give Wellington a chance.

TWO YEARS EARLIER

The modest two-story house of red brick looked smaller and
less inviting than the one I remembered coming to as a child. Standing before
it extinguished any hope that Grandfather’s house would be different from the
other homes in the neighborhood. Set close to the street and even closer to its
neighbors, the yard was nothing more than a patchwork of grass not much wider
than the sidewalk. The front porch sagged to one side, with a damp collection
of leaves from last fall having settled into the corner. A rusted pair of
chains that once held a wooden swing rattled in the breeze; a half-rotted
trellis did its best to fence in the crawlspace beneath the porch.

The house at 1608 Brickmore Lane didn’t match my memories. I
even double-checked the address to make sure I had the right house. Recollections
of Grandfather’s consisted of Christmas Eve—the only time Father had taken us
there—when strands of lights twinkled down from snow-covered eaves.

I almost turned back, fearing that the kind old man from
Christmases past had changed as well. Perhaps my parents had kept him out of my
life for a reason. But then I thought of David, and forced myself through the
rickety fence.

A movement in the window caught my eye. With his face
pressed to the glass, Grandfather was peering through the paisley curtains with
the wariness of a sentry guarding his post. When I gave a hesitant wave, his
eyes widened. Then he beckoned me inside.

“Well isn’t this a surprise,” he said, swinging the screen
door open. “Most unexpected. You’ve grown a foot since I saw you last. Come in,
come in.”

The entryway’s drawn curtains did little to conceal the
room’s neglect. The blue paint was cracked along the walls and ceiling, the
curtains discolored, the red carpeting frayed in a path down the center of the
room. A layer of clutter had settled over every surface. Books sprouted from
shelves and were stacked precariously on tables. Encyclopedias were piled so
high in front of an old radio that only its metal antennae were visible. The
feeble daylight filtering into the room only added to the impression that my
grandfather resided in a dimly-lit antique shop.

“So what do I owe this unexpected visit?” Grandfather asked.

“I was just in the area and thought I’d drop by.”

“Just … drop by?”

“Have I come at a bad time? I can come back later if you
like.”

“No, you’re no bother. Of course not. It’s just that, well
Jacob, you haven’t been by in a good many years. Not since you were knee-high
to a grasshopper anyway.”

“I know. It’s been awhile.” My eyes darted about the room. “I
thought maybe we could … you know, catch up on lost times.”

His eyebrows rose. “Lost times?”

By then my eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting to notice
the cataracts obscuring Grandfather’s blue eyes. The closer I looked, the more
compelling his opaque gaze became, and before I could prevent it, all the
unanswered questions that I had bottled up came bursting out.

“It’s just that … well sir, I find it strange that we’re
related and … and we haven’t seen each other in so long. I mean, you’re my
grandfather and I don’t even know you. Well, I know you, but I don’t
really
know you. We haven’t even gone fishing. I don’t even know if you like fishing,
but that’s not the point. The point is my parents blame you for what happened
with David. I hear them talking at night. I know he used to visit. So that’s
why I’m here. I want to know why David left. Once you tell me, I’ll leave as
soon as you like.”

Instead of responding, Grandfather looked down at his
slippers as if I hadn’t spoken a word. When he looked back up, he flashed a
ridiculous smile.

“That’s all fine and dandy. But what I want to know is, have
you ever taken a cold shower?”

“A … a cold shower?”

“Yes. A cold shower.”

“I don’t see how—”

“Well, hope to God you never have to! I got in the shower
yesterday morning, turned on the water, and WHAMMO!” He clapped his hands
together. “It felt like ice running down my back. Nearly knocked me over! That
sudden a shock is dangerous for a man of my years. It can shut down the old
ticker for good.

“Just as I suspected, the pilot had gone out. The water
heater is down in the basement, and the only way to get down there is from
outside. This house was built before the war—the f
irst
war, mind you—and
back in those days, homes were built for
inconvenience
. So there I was
on Sunday morning, when most decent people are suiting up for church, outside
in my bathrobe, still shivering from that
cursed
shower. So I went down
and relit the water heater using my BroadLeafs. Do you know what BroadLeafs
are, boy?”

I shook my head. I had no idea what BroadLeafs were, or what
my crazy grandfather was ranting about.

“Here, I’ll show you. Come along.”

I followed him into the kitchen where he shoved a box of
matches at me. Inside were three matches, each twice the length of a regular
match.

“See how long they are? They’re like that so they can reach
the pilot, among other things. As it turned out, I forgot the matches outside. Probably
set them down when I was closing the basement door. You’d be surprised how many
things you forget when you’re my age. When I went back out, this was all that
was left.” He took back the box and gave it an agitated shake. “Three matches!
That’s all! It was brand new. Where’d the rest of them go?”

I returned his inquisitive glance, hoping he wasn’t
expecting a response.

“It wasn’t windy, so they couldn’t have blown away. The only
other possible explanation, assuming I’m not completely off my rocker, is that
someone came into my yard, saw the unguarded matches, and ran off with them.”

The absurdity in Grandfather’s voice crept into his eyes. “But
our conscientious match thief decides it would be too easy to run off with the
whole box, so he takes all but three. Apparently he didn’t want to leave me matchless.
Are you with me?”

“I … I think so. I still don’t know what—”

But he refused to be interrupted. “It’s been pestering the
bejesus out of me. It doesn’t make any sense. What on earth became of those matches?
There has to be a rational explanation. But then,” he held up a finger. “Then,
it dawned on me. It’s springtime.”

“Springtime?”

“Yes, springtime. And do you know what happens in the
springtime?”

I shrugged. “Well, lots of things.”

“Lots of things indeed. There, look out there.” He pointed
out the kitchen window, the very window he had been peering out of when I
arrived, completely unaware of his search for the BroadLeaf match thief.

“Do you see it?”

“You mean that tree?” I asked, referring to the maple that
straddled the property line.

“Yes, the tree. Look closer at the tree.”

I searched the branches from top to bottom, but all that
caught my eye was a squirrel scampering up the smooth bark. I was on the verge
of giving up, but then I saw it. Cradled in the fork of two stout branches, a
pair of robins chirped contentedly in their nest of BroadLeaf matches.

“Ha!”

Grandfather slapped me on the back. “The goddamn robins
stole my matches! Probably work better than twigs.”

“As long as they don’t set themselves on fire!” I said,
which got us both laughing.

“I’ve always enjoyed bird watching,” Grandfather said, still
looking at the maple. “But in all my years, I’ve never seen anything like
this.”

When I turned from the window, Grandfather studied me from
the corner of his eye.

“I used to tell my students a joke before an exam to loosen
them up. It helps relieve the tension. You’re too serious, Jacob. You’re much
too young to be that serious. Now, let’s go in the other room, shall we?”

He led me back into the entryway and through an archway that
was so low I had to duck my head. Grandfather performed the movement automatically,
calling back just in time, “Watch your cap. Apparently the builders were
little
people.”

The entryway’s red carpeting flowed into a spacious living
room crowded with plants. A hibiscus sat on a stack of
National Geographics
,
a spindly fern peeked from behind the curtains; in the corner, a nest of ivy
shot tendrils in every direction, tangling about the legs of the coffee table,
stretching the length of the couch, writhing through the shaggy carpet like
green snakes searching to warm their cool blood in the sun.

“I let them have the run of the place,” Grandfather said. “They’re
the lungs of the house. They help clear the air and bring the room to life,
don’t you think?”

He stood at the center of the room. The carpeting looked particularly
threadbare along the edges, with entire sections worn thin from heavy usage
such that spots of floorboard shone through. This faded perimeter consisted of
a foot-wide swath in the shape of a perfect circle, one that could not have
been drawn more precisely with a compass.

“Please, sit,” Grandfather said, motioning to the couch.

He went to the picture window that overlooked the porch. A
television was positioned in the corner; it was an ancient thing, sagging
heavily on four legs, stacked with books, the thick screen bulging outward,
covered in a layer of dust that indicated it had accepted its purpose as that
of another bookshelf.

“So I’m the one who drove David away, am I? Made him quit
his job and run away from home. Is that what they told you?” He glanced over
his shoulder as if expecting an answer, and perhaps he got one from my
expression, for he turned back around before I could reply. “No, I highly doubt
a retired schoolteacher is capable of such things. But there was a time when I
tried doing just that. I was much younger, of course. I was intent on steering
a young man down what I believed to be the proper path. And sure enough, the
only thing I accomplished was to drive him away. But that young man wasn’t your
brother, Jacob.”

He turned from the window. “It was your father. And believe
me, I’ve had many years to dwell on my mistake. So I wasn’t about to do the
same with David. Your brother needed someone to talk to, and I was willing to
listen. He came to me one day, complaining of a family who was taking over his
life: which, of course, I was all too familiar with. As he got older, your
father became more and more insistent that David follow in his footsteps.” He
sighed. “The burdensome influence fathers have over their sons … Call it human
instinct, call it hubris of man, call it whatever you like. The truth is, I’m
guilty of it, and so is your father.

“The first time David came to me, he was a senior at
Princeton. His path to becoming a lawyer was falling into place. He’d stop over
when he was home on break.” Grandfather smiled at the memory. “We’d talk for
hours. As a matter of fact, he’d sit in that exact same spot.”

“But you couldn’t talk him out of going to law school?”

“I didn’t want to. If he asked for my advice, I gave it. Most
of the time we talked of other things. I’m not sure if he put much stock in his
grandpa’s advice or not, but we developed a friendship. And that’s a rare
thing—friendship bridging three generations. I barely knew my grandparents, let
alone became friends with them.”

Grandfather walked as he spoke, pacing the edges of the
room. He performed this motion slowly, thoughtfully, his slippered-feet
shuffling along. Watching him, it occurred to me that his path matched the
circular pattern in the carpeting. Never once did he look down to see where he
was going; instead, he looked at me or the space in front of him, his feet
never leaving the worn circle in the floor. Grandfather didn’t walk the
circle’s perimeter; rather, he was pulled along it as if led by some unseen
guide.

“But yes, in the end, David chose to go to law school. Though
law wasn’t his true calling, he felt he was too far along to change direction. Now
he’s off exploring the world. What your parents had hoped was an overdue trip
to Europe has become something else entirely. Last I checked, Santiago is
nowhere near Europe. Can’t even keep track of what continent he’s on, let alone
country. And your parents think I’m to blame for putting such crazy notions in
his head. I guess it’s my reputation of always sticking my nose in other
people’s business. But let them think what they wish. I have no regrets. How
can I regret the very thing that brought me closer to one of my grandchildren?”

Suddenly he stopped. “What? What is it?”

“Nothing.”

“It’s something, because you’re clearly not paying attention
to a single word I’m saying. So let’s get this resolved before I waste any more
time on you. Now, out with it!” he said, jabbing a finger in my direction.

“It’s your … your circle there.”

“My
circle
?”

“The circle you walk around. The worn carpeting there in the
floor.”

“Circle?” He looked about the floor. “I don’t see a circle.”

“You don’t see
that
circle?” I stood up and pointed
out what was obviously right in front of him.

“No, as a matter of fact I do not. Can’t see much without my
specs these days.” He went to the recliner, put on his glasses, and reexamined
the floor. “All I see is the carpeting.”

“You don’t see the circle? That pattern there in the
carpeting?”

“Absolutely not. If you must know, the human mind thinks
best when a person walks.” Grandfather pointed to his temple for emphasis. “Modest
exercise gets the blood flowing to stimulate the brain. Some of the world’s
most brilliant ideas have been conceived while walking, or when performing some
trivial task. I think best when I’m up and about. Besides, it’s good exercise.”

He resumed his slow pace around the circle, though his
stride was a bit defensive, and he kept glancing at me to make sure I was
paying attention.