"There are eighty-nine steps to the lantern room, and believe me, before long you'll get to know each one of them personally," the old light keeper said.
When they reached the seventy-ninth step, they entered a circular room with a control panel and workbench.
"This is called the Watch Room. This is where we keep all the tools of the trade. Anything you'll ever need to service the lamp and Fresnel lens can be found right here.
"Another ten steps and we'll be in the lamp room."
Most of the round lamp room was taken up by an enormous glass prism—the Fresnel lens.
"She's a first-order Fresnel, almost ten feet high and weighs about a ton," Ed said with pride. He waited for a reaction, but Peter seemed unimpressed. He was staring at the lens with the same disinterested gaze that seemed to be his standard look.
"She can be seen from twenty miles out," Ed continued. Then he added, "That is, if she's cared for properly.
"We'll get into that tomorrow. Let's head down and take the cliff path to the dock. I'll go over the basics of the skiff engine, and then I'll show you the generators and give you a tour of your new home."
As the two walked around the lighthouse property, Ed Boino became animated in his descriptions of all of the equipment. Except for an occasional "Uh huh," Peter appeared detached and uninspired, even bored.
The tour ended at the white clapboard house that was the light keeper's quarters. Built in 1800, the small house was older than the current lighthouse, which had been built in 1915 to replace the dilapidated original. Dwarfed by the adjacent tower, the two-story home appeared even smaller than its eight hundred square feet.
Ed and Peter crossed over the worn granite slab doorstep to the wide pine floorboards of the light keeper's quarters. Peter's eye was drawn to a spinet in the living room, and he grimaced. The piano was backed up against the common wall shared by the living room and kitchen.
"Not a whole heck of a lot to see," said Ed. "Just two up and two down. You got your kitchen and living area down here, and upstairs there are two small bedrooms and a bath. I've always used the second bedroom as an office and a storage space.
"The place is small all right, but you'll have everything you need. I'm leaving most of this stuff. Heck, most of it was here when I moved in thirty years ago."
"Uh huh," said Peter as he turned and walked back outside into the bright sunshine.
Ed took a deep breath in and blew it out. Then he followed Peter and caught up with him on the lawn as he neared his car. "Pete," Ed called.
Peter stopped and turned to face the old man.
"Pete, your father's been a good friend to me, otherwise you wouldn't be here. So I'm gonna give you a word of advice."
Noting Peter's reaction, the old light keeper continued. "You can roll that eye all you want, son, but if you never listen to another word I say, listen to this: I wasn't much older than you are now when I took this job. I came here to get away from a world I didn't much like for reasons I don't know you well enough to go into."
Peter pulled his aviator sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on.
"The point is this, Pete: If you think you're gonna escape something or someone by coming here, you'd better think again. Whatever your troubles are, they'll follow you here. They'll follow you wherever you go.
"So, my advice is this: Think of this as a time in your life, not the rest of your life. I'm going back to Gloucester now because my sister's got a cancer and she's all alone, and for the first time that I can remember, I'm needed.
"While you're here, do the job and do it well. But don't stay too long, son, or one day you'll wake up an old man and discover that life has passed you by."
Peter turned and walked toward his car. The old light keeper called after him. "Do you know I haven't been sick in over thirty years, not even so much as a cold?"
"Good for you," Peter tossed over his shoulder.
"That's what I used to think. I thought it was because I was such a hardy breed."
Peter had reached his car and was opening the door.
"But then I realized the real reason why," Ed said. Peter stood behind the open car door and faced him. The old man had his attention.
"The reason why I never get sick is that I'm never close enough to another living soul to catch anything."
After a moment, Peter Ahearn folded himself into his car seat. A few seconds later he was speeding down Rose Hip Point Lane.
PART THREE
The Keeper's Log
Chapter 22
Present Day
AFTER MARK HAD SIGNED documents confirming the guardianship, an administrative assistant in the Social Services department of Veterans' Affairs showed him to the room his uncle shared with a ninety-year-old World War II vet named Horace.
Mark studied Peter's left profile from the doorway of the room. A distant, unfocused memory emerged from his childhood. He and Uncle Pete sat together somewhere...at a piano that was it. Mark was looking up to him a child's view as his uncle sang some silly lyric. They both laughed, and then touched foreheads. The memory fluttered from Mark's mind and left him smiling for an instant.
Peter sat in a chair next to his bed while a black-and-white rerun of Bonanza played on a flat screen television that hung on the wall. Since Mark was standing to his uncle's left, and Peter's left eye was concealed beneath a black eye-patch, he couldn't tell whether the man was watching TV or sleeping.
When Mark walked around the back of the chair, he saw that Peter's right eye was wide open. He studied his uncle's rugged features for a moment. A thin scar ran from just beneath his right ear to almost the corner of his mouth. His longish, graying hair was combed back and the ends flipped up at the back of his neck.
"Uncle Pete," Mark said. "I'm your nephew, Mark—Marybeth's son? Do you recognize me?"
Peter turned his head and stared at him for a moment. Mark thought he saw a flash of recognition in the old man's eye. But then Peter brought his attention back to the television. Dumb question, Mark thought, he hasn't seen you since you were a toddler.
Mark sat on the edge of the bed, watched muted Hoss and Little Joe Cartwright, and made one-sided small-talk. He checked the time on his iPhone every few minutes. When he thought he'd stayed a polite amount of time, he stood, put his hand on Peter's shoulder, and said, "I've got to go now, Uncle Pete, but it was nice to see you. I'll come back and visit some more when I can."
Mark started for the door, but Peter blocked his way with the stump of his left arm. The older man rose from his chair, crossed the room and opened the closet door. He reached for something on the top shelf.
With his right and only hand, Peter Ahearn retrieved a thick, leather-bound book and pushed it into his nephew's hands. When he released his grasp, he let out an audible sigh, as if he'd been relieved of a heavier weight than that of the book alone.
Mark stared at his uncle and wondered how a man so young, just sixty, could be so broken. He turned the book over in his hands. Its rich brown leather cover was gold-embossed with the words Keeper's Log.
Mark was about to ask, "You want me to have this, Uncle Pete?" But he realized it would be another dumb question. Instead he nodded and repeated, "I'll come back," this time with more sincerity.
Chapter 23
MARK SAT ON HIS living room sofa and flipped through the mint green, maroon-lined pages of the Keeper's Log. A sealed, yellowing envelope marked For Renata dropped from the book and onto his lap. He picked it up, contemplated it for a moment, and then set it aside and began to read.
July 2, 1972
The therapist down at the V.A. said it would help if I wrote down my "feelings." Well, most of the time I don't feel anything, and the rest of the time I feel like shit. Oh yeah—that's much better.
July 3, 1972
Same shit, different day.
July 4, 1972
SSDD. Except that today I heard that Cindy got married to Chip O'Connell. Some friend he turned out to be. They didn
't wait very long. Marybeth thinks they might even have been fooling around while I was gone.
Peter Ahearn tossed the pen onto the Keeper's Log and flung down the roll top of the old oak desk before standing and staggering to the front door. As he crossed the living room, he passed the piano, and then swiveled around to glare at it. His face became contorted. He raised his only hand, made a tight fist, and hammered the keys with all of his might. The discordant sound still echoed through the room as he stepped out of the light keeper's living quarters and walked to the edge of the cliff at Rose Hip Point.
The corners of his mouth fell and his lower lip quivered. He whispered into the warm, humid evening air. "Oh, Tommy, I failed you, I didn't even kill a one of 'em. And when I came home, Ma and Dad and everyone in town pretended I was a hero. But I know the truth: I was just a scared fuck-up who got himself blown up."
Peter pictured his older brother as he had last seen him. Christmas of 1969. Peter had been seventeen and a high school senior. Twenty-two-year-old Tommy had been home on leave. The two spent a lot of time together that Christmas, passing a football back and forth, smoking pot, eating McDonalds, and cruising around Gloucester in Tommy's tan '63 Belair.
It seemed like just yesterday.
Peter's thoughts left the past and he found himself staring with one eye at the stump of his left arm, the stark reality of the present.
"You should see me now, Tommy. I'm broken and ugly, and kids are afraid of me. And I can't do the one thing I was really good at any more."
He looked across the water at Gloucester's inner harbor. In the distance, Independence Day revelers milled about the waterfront, and he wondered if Cindy and Chip were among them. He seethed as he pictured the two of them together, naked, doing the same things that he and Cindy had done to each other at every opportunity.
The first flashes of fireworks appeared at Stage Fort Park, followed quickly by the faint cracks of the explosions.
I hate this life.
Chapter 24
July 6, 1972
MET ONE OF MY NEIGHBORS today. Mr. Raposo is a fisherman who lives about half a mile down the point. Ed Boino warned me about him—said he's a fast-talking drunk who likes to borrow tools, but doesn't always remember to return them...
Inacio Raposo was not a tall man, but if the people who knew him were asked, they would have said that he was. It was the way he carried himself that caused the illusion. Thin and muscular, Inacio stood as erect as if he wore a back brace. When he walked, he strutted, rooster-like. His entire upper body, from narrow waist to puffed-out chest and rigid shoulders, appeared fused, and twisted a little left or right with each step he took.
Peter looked on impassively as Inacio, wearing jeans, work boots, and a faded navy-blue T-shirt, swaggered up the lane. When the fisherman came close enough for a handshake, Peter was surprised to discover that the man was a head shorter than he.
"I'm Raposo," he smiled, exposing a mouth full of perfectly straight teeth. He took Peter's hand in both of his and pumped it vigorously. "I live in the second house down on the right."
Peter made the connection with Ed Boino's caution and gave a simple answer. "Uh huh."
Inacio's smile dimmed only slightly. He reached back and pulled two brown bottles of beer, slippery with condensation, from his back pockets.
"Here you go," he offered, holding one out to Peter.
Peter eyed the fisherman warily. "No thanks."
After giving a quick suit yourself shrug, Inacio returned the bottle intended for Peter to his pocket. He dug deep into his front pocket and produced a switchblade, which he deftly opened with a flick of his wrist.
Peter's eye widened, and he took a half-step back.
In a few quick motions, Inacio flicked the bottle-cap off with the blade, closed the knife, and shoved it back in his pocket. He took a short swig of beer. "You gotta lighten up, man," he said with a smirk. "You're way too uptight."
Peter's body relaxed. He felt the blush of embarrassment, but his face maintained a stern expression. "How can I help you, sir?" he asked in an official tone.
"Help me? You think I want something? I just came by to say hello. We're neighbors, man.
"My wife wanted me to bring you a cake, but I said Fuck that. A man don't want a cake on a hot July day. He wants a beer.
"And don't call me sir. Call me Inacio or Raposo. I may be old enough to be your father, but that doesn't mean you have to remind me of it."
Peter's expression softened, but he didn't smile. "Sorry," he said, "I'm Pete... Pete Ahearn."
The other man's gleaming smile returned. "That's more like it. Now, how about that beer?"
Peter gave a slight smile. "Thanks, but no. I'm on duty."
"Man, you really do need to lighten up. I know what you need... You need to get laid. Maybe you think you can't because of...you know—" he gave a slight nod toward Peter's stump "—but there are girls that hang out down by the docks that would take good care of you.
"I could get one of them to come up here, if you want. They're whores, of course, so you'd have to pay her, but as long as you know how to handle her—no problem. You just gotta be the boss. They'll try to take advantage of you, but you just can't let that happen, that's all."
Peter nodded his head as if he understood. Clearly he wasn't convincing, though, because Inacio said, "You think I'm kidding, Pete? I'm not. I learned a long time ago how to handle a whore. Had my first one when I was fourteen. She was a fat Irish bitch who lived above the Sou'wester. She tried to give me some shit, and BAM." Inacio shook his fist as punctuation. "I laid her out right then and there. She never gave me shit again."
Inacio finished his beer, hurled the empty bottle and watched with satisfaction as it sailed over the edge of the cliff and out of sight. He reached behind himself and pulled the other bottle out.
"Last chance..." he said, holding it out to Peter once more.
"No, thanks," Peter said, "I gotta get back to work now."
The two men shook hands again and Inacio walked across the lawn. When he reached the dirt lane, he stopped and turned back.
"Hey, Pete," he called, "I'm doing some plumbing at my house. You got one of those big pipe wrenches I can borrow?"
Chapter 25
AT 10:00 A.M. MARK VALENTE stepped out of the chilly wind and into the calm, warm interior of Açores, a tiny Portuguese bakery and café in downtown Gloucester.
The smell of warm pastries and strong coffee rose and mingled with a soft instrumental sound of guitarra Portuguesa. Each confection in the lighted display case shone like an individual work of honey-glazed art.
Mark looked around and spotted his father at one of the round bistro tables in the back of the café. Chris Valente waved him over, and stood to give him a hug.
"My, how you've grown," Chris said.
"Good one, Dad. I'm forty-seven years old and I just saw you last Sunday."
"That's what old men do. We make silly jokes. It's all we have left," Chris folded his newspaper and set it down on the table.
"Thanks for coming downtown, Dad."
"I had to anyway. My tax return has to be postmarked by midnight. You get yours done?"
"I'm on extension. I just scan and email everything to the accountant, and she takes care of it for me."
"Oh, Mr. big-shot Ph.D. has people to do his taxes. Coffee's on you today, then."
"You got it."
"And pastries," Chris said, rubbing his hands together. He went up to the counter, and motioned to the woman behind it. "Two bica dupla, please, and one of your luscious sweet breads."
"Yes, sir, duas bica dupla e um pão doce," the woman answered.
"So," Chris returned to the table and sat across from his son, "tell me. What's going on?"
"Oh, I've been trying to deal with this business of the V.A. and Uncle Pete."
Chris nodded. "Yeah, I was afraid that might be what was eating you."
"You ever hear of a woman named Renata, Dad?"
"It's the weirdest thing. Uncle Pete kept a journal while he was at the lighthouse, and inside there is a sealed envelope marked "For Renata". I haven't opened it so I have no idea what's inside.
"But I read a little of the journal, and so far, it seems like Pete was pretty messed up.
"What the hell happened to him, Dad? Why didn't he ever contact any of us?"
"Who knows, Mark? I mean, he had some bad breaks for sure, but I think Pete was his own worst enemy in a lot of ways.
"Yes, he was wounded, and yes, that shallow girl jilted him, but you know what? A lot of guys were wounded and a lot of guys were jilted. The difference is that they didn't cut themselves off from everyone who cared about them, everyone who wanted to help. Pete did, and he made things worse for himself and everyone around him."
Chris looked around the café, and then leaned toward Mark, lowering his voice. "That was an awful night after the Memorial Day parade and picnic. You know what that self-absorbed ninny, Cindy, did to Pete? In front of a whole bunch of people, she just returned the ring and said I just can't deal. Can you even imagine anyone being that callous?"
Chris stirred raw sugar into his coffee and shook his head. "Pete just stood there like he was frozen and watched her walk away.
"And, then get this she hops into Pete's best friend's waiting car and drives off with him.
"Pete came to our house late that night. You were upstairs, fast asleep, thank God, and I was upstairs too, but I could hear Pete and your mom talking in the kitchen. I felt so bad for him. He was really hurting, I remember him asking your mom Am I that repulsive?
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