For Renata

by B Robert Sharry

  "He lived with your grandparents for about a year after that. He didn't leave the house much, except to take an occasional walk to the liquor store after dark. Mostly he sat and watched television while he drank himself numb and felt sorry for himself.

  "Grandma and Grandpa repeatedly tried to convince Pete to do something with his life. Grandpa suggested job after job that could be done with one arm and one eye, and Grandma pushed for him to go to college. No matter what their approach, Pete would just hiss Leave me alone, and tune them out.

  "You know, I shouldn't say this, but sometimes I think it might have been better if Pete hadn't made it home at all. Seems to me he died anyway."

  §

  Later that night Mark Valente lifted the Keeper's Log from his coffee table, leaned back on the sofa, and started reading where he had left off the night before.

  While the other inhabitants of Cape Ann slept, he read through the night. Shortly before dawn broke, as the fishermen and lobstermen rose from their beds, Mark read the final journal entry, dated May 4, 1975. He sat bolt upright in astonishment and whispered, "My God, Pete, what did you do?"

  Chapter 26

  July 8, 1972

  MET MY CLOSEST NEIGHBOR today, Mrs. Gallagher is a busybody who lives a quarter-mile down the point and looks like she's a hundred...

  It was 6:00 a.m. The sun had been up for forty-five minutes and Peter had darkened the Fresnel lens for the day. He was pouring his second cup of coffee when he heard a gentle knock on the front door. He peered out the kitchen window and took in the profile of the old woman on the stoop. Her long, grey hair was piled on top of her head in thick braids. She had a short, upturned nose and thin lips that were curled into a slight, friendly smile. Her navy, floral dress had a lace collar and half-sleeves, and its hem fell below her knees, revealing stockings and maple loafers with thick heels. She was apple shaped and slightly plump, with no discernible contrast between her waistline and her torso and hips.

  Figuring that she was either peddling religion or soliciting for a charity, Peter decided not to answer the door. Then he changed his mind. He thought it might be amusing to see the look on the old lady's face when a freak with an eye-patch opened the door. He grinned to himself, opened his good eye as wide as he could, and flung the door open.

  But it was Peter who was startled. The old woman didn't even flinch. In fact, as if joining in his game, she opened her eyes wide to mimic Peter's expression and broadened her smile. Peter was struck by the surprising warmth and depth of her pale blue eyes.

  "Good Morning, Peter."

  Peter cleared his throat. "Hi," he answered, red-faced.

  "I'm Mrs. Gallagher."

  Peter's confusion was obvious.

  "I'm your neighbor, dear," she said, and held up a small basket covered by a white linen napkin.

  "Mr. Boino told me you were taking his place. I brought you a small housewarming token to say Welcome to the neighborhood." She breezed past the young man and led him into his own kitchen.

  "These scones are just out of the oven," she said, unveiling the basket. "Smell," she said, and lifted the treats to Peter's nose.

  Peter felt the warmth rise to his face as he took in the pleasant aroma. "Mmm," he said, because he thought it was the polite thing to do. It had been a while since he'd done anything out of politeness.

  Mrs. Gallagher lowered the basket onto the kitchen table, retrieved a jar that was nestled among the scones, and then re-covered them so as to preserve their heat. She held up the jar and pointed to its amber contents. "And this is my homemade rose hip jelly. Hopefully you have butter and tea, dear?"

  Peter hadn't yet issued an invitation. "Um, butter, yeah," he said, flustered. "But I don't think I have any tea."

  "Oh," Mrs. Gallagher sounded dubious. "Have you checked the top shelf of the cabinet to the left of the sink?"

  Peter regarded her with suspicion.

  "Edward always kept a box of Bigelow up there."

  "Edward?"

  "Mr. Boino, dear."

  Peter opened the cabinet door and, sure enough, there was a box of Bigelow "Constant Comment" tea on the top shelf.

  Mrs. Gallagher beamed with the satisfaction of one who's been proved correct. She took the old copper kettle from the stovetop, added water from the kitchen faucet, and put it on the burner to boil. "Why don't you get the butter out of the fridge, Peter? We'll place it near the kettle so that it softens a bit."

  While Mrs. Gallagher's tea steeped she broke open a still-warm scone, slathered the halves with butter, and spread them with a thin layer of rose hip jelly. She handed one to Peter and watched with obvious anticipation as he took the first bite.

  "Mmm," he repeated, meaning it this time. Peter had been eating cornflakes every morning, and sometimes cornflakes served as lunch and dinner too. The blend of the warm, crumbly scone, the creamy butter, and the cool sweet jelly was a welcome change for his palate.

  "Really good," Peter declared as he took another, larger bite.

  The old woman's face lit up with pride. "I'm so happy you approve, Peter," she said, and took a dainty bite of her own.

  "What kind of jelly did you say this is?"

  "Rose hip, dear, just like the name here. Rose Hip Point is riddled with wild rose bushes. And the hips, you see, are the seed pods."

  "Oh." Peter nodded his head while he subdued a yawn.

  "I collect them every year after the first frost, usually at the beginning of November. The frost helps sweeten them a bit. Perhaps you'd like to help me gather them this fall?"

  Not in a million years. "Maybe."

  "Oh, that'll be lovely, Peter."

  "Ah...Of course it'll depend on how busy I am."

  "You won't be busy then, dear. Spring and summer are your busiest times, Edward told me. You may even have time to help me make the jelly."

  "Oh, I couldn't. I don't know anything about..."

  "It's simple, really. We clean out the seeds, cook the hips, and then strain them for the juice. Then we just add a little pectin, a little butter and lemon juice, lots of sugar, and voila.

  "Ooo, and we can make a little jam while we're at it. I like to add lemon zest to the jam, it makes it sort of marmalade-y. I wish it was fall right now—I'm so excited, I can hardly wait."

  Peter nodded his head but didn't speak. There was a brief but uncomfortable period of silence that was broken by Mrs. Gallagher.

  "Tell me about yourself, dear."

  Peter rose from his seat at the kitchen table. As he strode across the kitchen and opened the door that led outside, he said, "I'd love to, Mrs. Gallagher. Like you said, though, this is my busy time of year. Thanks so much for stopping by, and for the scones and jelly."

  Mrs. Gallagher was nonplussed, but she stood and followed him.

  "Of course, dear. I understand."

  When the old woman left, it felt like all the air in the room went out with her. Peter was happy she was gone, but he felt more alone than ever.

  Chapter 27

  July 15, 1972

  MARYBETH AND MA KEEP calling, wanting to come over. I tell them no. I don't feel like having company...

  Katherine Ahearn, at the wheel of her husband's 1970 Stratomist Blue Buick Riviera, arrived at Rose Hip Point at 10:00 a.m. The temperature had already risen to 85 degrees and was predicted to be near 100 by 3:00 p.m.

  She got out of the car and pulled at her yellow and white sundress where perspiration had sealed it to her body. She smoothed the front as best as she could with the palms of her hands. The kitchen door of the house swung open and Peter appeared. Katherine was shocked by the gaunt and disheveled soul standing before her.

  "Oh, dear God," she said, tears welling in her eyes. She hurried to him and took his face in her hands. "My dear boy," she whimpered, "what are you doing to yourself?"

  Peter backed away from his mother. "Ma, what are you doing here?" It came out as a statement of irritation rather than a question.

  Katherine looked wou
nded. "Can't a mother bring a few things to her son?" she asked, defensively. She opened the car trunk and pointed to a cardboard box.

  Peter riffled through the box. "These are my old ski clothes, Ma."

  "And some summer things too."

  "Ma, I told you I don't want anybody coming here."

  Katherine Ahearn stood very erect. "Well, I. Am. Not. Any. Body," she said, enunciating each syllable.

  Peter looked like a little boy who had just been scolded. "That's not the point. I just need some time alone right now," he said, his eye darting every which way except at his mother.

  "No, you need to be around the people who love you."

  "What do you know?"

  "I know you better than you know yourself, Peter Ahearn. I know why you came up here, and I know it's not good for you."

  "You and Dad are the ones who kept telling me to get a job."

  "Or go to school," Katherine said.

  Peter began to pace. "Oh, right, Ma, maybe I should have gone to Berklee just like I planned. How many one-armed musicians do you know?"

  "You don't have to study music, Peter. You have many talents, and there are any number of careers for you to choose from. But if your heart's still set on music, well, you could study composition. You've always liked writing songs..."

  "Oh, please," said Peter.

  "Peter, you need to be around people. I understand that you might not want to confide in your father and me about...things, but surely you have friends you could talk to."

  "Who, Ma, Chip O'Connell?"

  "I know how that must have hurt you, and I'm truly sorry for it. But Peter, you're just twenty. You have your whole life ahead of you. Don't let this setback ruin your entire life."

  Katherine sighed and began to tear up. "You know what I've always said about you? When Peter has a problem, he solves it. You may not always like the way he solves it, but he solves it.

  "Now, I'm worried because you're not yourself, and you're not solving your problems, you're making them worse.

  "You're mad at the world, and I don't blame you. Lord knows you've had more than your share of tragedy and disappointment, and at such a tender age. I don't know how to make you understand that there's much more to life than you think there is right now."

  The anger on Peter's face faded and was replaced by concern. "Don't cry, Ma, I'll be all right."

  "You don't have to confide in me, but please promise me you'll find somebody to talk to."

  "I will, Ma..."

  "And that you'll eat more."

  "I will, Ma, but I have to get back to work right now."

  Katherine smiled through her tears. She cupped Peter's face in her hands once more. "I wonder: How are you going to solve this one, Peter?"

  Chapter 28

  July 17, 1972

  I'M TIRED. THERE'S MORE to this lighthouse gig than I thought there would be, and I never get enough sleep. Even little things piss me off...

  Peter awoke at 4:00 a.m., his body and bed sheets drenched with sweat. As usual, Cindy was on his mind. She was there every morning when he awoke, and she was there every night when he closed his book, switched off the bedside lamp, and shut his eyes.

  The air had been still and thick with humidity for three days. The temperature had reached 97 the day before and hadn't dropped below 78 throughout the night.

  At 4:30 a.m. Peter sat at the picnic table near the cliff's edge, and clutched a ceramic mug with his only hand. The pre-dawn blackness was all that cloaked his naked body.

  He stared eastward over the ocean, and could scarcely distinguish the horizon. Faint birdsong became lost in the thunderous battle-cry of a bullying sea as it pummeled the cliff's already battered face. Then waves hissed in retreat and gathered strength for the next assault.

  The black of a moonless night faded, and the horizon revealed itself, a line of demarcation between a charcoal sea and a slate sky—a pale opening act for the rising sun.

  The sky above the water was clear, but a narrow band of low clouds hung over the land. An oily drop of rain splattered upon Peter's shoulder. A few seconds later, he felt another, followed by several more. The raindrops felt oddly warm to him, but when enough had fallen that his body was covered completely, Peter's skin cooled, and he shivered.

  The very tip of the sun peeked above the border between sea and sky and everything changed. The sky above the Atlantic turned light blue and was streaked with a few wispy, brushstroke clouds. The ocean a few moments before had been dark, now it shimmered as though coated with gold leaf. The sun rose to three-quarters and sat on the edge of the world like a terracotta dome on a glass cathedral.

  And still rain fell on Peter.

  A distant memory surfaced in his mind: His beloved maternal grandfather, who had come to live with the family shortly before Peter was born, had succumbed to a heart attack at the breakfast table when Peter was eight.

  At Grandpa's wake Peter was overcome with sorrow and began to sob uncontrollably. Tommy, then thirteen, had flung his arm over Peter's shoulder and pulled him close. Peter buried his face in Tommy's chest, his small body convulsing with grief, his tears wetting Tommy's white dress shirt. Marybeth joined the huddle and rubbed Peter's back. When young Peter at last stopped trembling, Tommy leaned down and said, "It can't be sunshine and birds singing every day, you know, Pete."

  "Tommy," Peter said softly, and then shook himself from the memory and turned his attention back to the sunrise.

  It began to rain harder on him. Peter stood with arms and legs spread wide, like a Vitruvian Man missing half a spoke.

  After a time, the shower became a sprinkle, and then stopped. Peter picked up his mug, drained the last of the rain-thinned whiskey it held, and walked back to the lighthouse to begin his workday. Today, as every day, he would trudge through, zombie-like, waiting only for the moment he would find the courage to do what he knew he must. And each night when that courage eluded him again, he would crawl back into bed and read until sleep came and brought with it a transitory escape. Sleep was seldom restful and often fraught with nightmares. But in dreams, he could at least touch the horror with two hands and see it with two eyes.

  Chapter 29

  August 1, 1972

  ED BOINO HAS BEEN TEACHING me how to maintain the generators and the Fresnel lens. He's kind of a stickler for doing things by the book. I like it better when he's not looking over my shoulder. The tower is sixty feet tall and has exactly eighty-nine spiral steps (take my word for it). By the time I raise the flag at 8:00 a.m., I've already been working for a couple of hours. And by the time I turn the tower light on for the night, I'm dead tired.

  October 29, 1972

  Old Lady Gallagher came over this morning and tried to get me to pick her rose hips for her. I told her I wasn't feeling well. It wasn't really a lie.

  October 31, 1972

  I feel like a one-armed, one-eyed circus freak. No more shopping. I'll have Vasconcelos's Market deliver everything from now on...

  Peter exited the A&P through its newly installed Horton automatic sliding door. He carried a brown paper bag brimming with groceries. He walked to the passenger side of his car and hoisted the grocery bag onto the roof. Using the stump of his left arm to hold the bag in place, he opened the passenger door with his right hand. He was reaching for the bag when he heard the taunting refrain: "He's a one-eyed, one-armed, flying purple lighthouse keeper."

  Peter spun around in time to see three boys—he guessed they were about twelve or thirteen years old from their size and the pitch of their laughter. They sprinted toward the safety of the opposite side of the A&P.

  He could run after them, but what would that accomplish? And what would he do if he caught them? Besides, when he'd swung around to look at the boys, he had knocked the grocery bag to the ground. Half of its contents were strewn around the pavement, and a couple of the canned goods had rolled under the car.

  Peter fell to one knee, righted the half-empty bag, and refilled it one item at
a time before hefting it onto the passenger seat. Then he slammed the passenger door shut with enough force to make the entire car rock side to side for a moment.

  Peter rounded the car, hopped into the driver's seat, and sped away. The tires seemed to shriek in anger and frustration. Two cans were left on the ground where the car had been parked. A teenage girl with long, black hair and a sad expression picked them up.

  The next morning Peter found the cans on his granite doorstep.

  Chapter 30

  November 15, 1972

  TODAY THE SEA IS LIKE ME: dark, cold, and restless, like it's pacing back and forth outside my door. And I am tempted. I'd like to stand on the edge of the cliff and just let myself fall forward. Maybe the icy seawater would freeze my brain and stop the endless stream of thoughts that races through it. I wouldn't shiver. I'd just fall asleep in the sea and never wake up. And all of this pain would be gone.

  Christmas, 1972

  Ma, Dad, Marybeth, and her husband and kid came over this morning. Ma and Dad said they didn't know what to get me so they just gave me cash. Marybeth gave me a new album—The Concert for Bangla Desh—and she told me it was sad that I didn't have any Christmas decorations. Give me a break...

  On Christmas Eve, Peter was watching the local six o'clock news on the couch when he heard a soft knock at the door. Cindy. He rose, crossed the room, and turned off the television. He had fantasized about the day when she would show up to tell him what a terrible mistake she'd made by marrying Chip.

  Peter opened the door. His smiled faded when he saw Mrs. Gallagher standing on the stoop.

  "I hope you haven't eaten yet, dear. I brought some chicken pot pie and Apple Betty."

  Peter made no attempt to hide his disappointment. "This really isn't a good time, Mrs. Gallagher."