"Oh? Do you have company, Peter?"
"Well, no, but..."
"No one should be alone on Christmas Eve, dear," she said as she started to enter the living room.
You mean you shouldn't be alone on Christmas Eve. Some people want to be left alone.
Peter blocked her entrance by putting the stump of his left arm on the door frame.
"I'm really not in the mood for company, Mrs. Gallagher. I'm sorry."
The woman looked stung for a moment, but then a smile returned to her face as she held out the food. "Of course, dear, I understand."
Peter felt a sharp and unfamiliar twinge of shame as he accepted the homemade dinner.
Mrs. Gallagher added a cheerful "Merry Christmas, dear" before turning and stepping off the granite slab doorstep of the light keeper's quarters.
Peter watched the old lady trudge through the snow. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Gallagher, and thanks for the food," he called out meekly.
He closed the door and carried the food to the kitchen.
§
Bridey Gallagher leaned against the wall of the mud room and slipped out of her winter boots before entering her kitchen. She shuffled across the linoleum floor in her stocking feet. "Brigid McCarthy, you pick up your feet this instant," she said aloud, mimicking her mother's admonition of a lifetime ago.
She picked up a cookbook, balanced it on top of her head, and glided gracefully toward the cabinets. "Very good, Bridey," she said when she reached them. She bowed her head slightly and caught the book in her hands as it fell from her head, just as she'd done when she was a girl.
Her stomach growled. She had thought she would share the chicken pot pie and Apple Betty with Peter, but now she'd have to come up with something else to eat. Thoughts of Mother had given her an idea: She opened a cupboard door and spied them, the egg cup and timer Mother had bought for her at a church rummage sale in 1905. The egg cup was delft blue and decorated with the outline of a plump blue hen on the front. On the back, a fresh-laid blue egg rolled down a blue chute to a blue bed of straw.
"I'll have breakfast for supper," she said.
She put the teakettle and a small saucepan on to boil, then set a place for herself at the kitchen table. She brought out cinnamon bread for toast, butter, and rose hip jam. When the water around the egg came to a boil, she flipped the timer over and watched with childlike fascination as the sand drifted to the bottom. She scooped the egg up with a teaspoon and gently transferred it to the egg cup. With one good practiced tap of the spoon she broke through the shell and peeled off the dome. The egg was done perfectly, as all her eggs had been for nearly seventy-odd years.
But the egg was different from those of her youth. She had grown up on a small farm in upstate New York, so she was used to fresh eggs, which came in shells of different sizes and colors. Some shells were even light blue or light green. She remembered the day her older brother, Jim, had told her that those were "lucky eggs." To eat one would bring good fortune. She smiled and shook her head.
"And the yolks were different too in those days," she said aloud, "not this pallid, sickly yellow you see now, but a deep carroty-orange."
She buttered her toast, wagged the knife, and said, "And the toast was different too. We had thick slices from Mother's homemade bread, bread that I helped her make, no less. My word, there was no such thing as pre-sliced bread back then." The truth was, though, that she dearly loved this sliced cinnamon bread.
She remembered buying her first loaf of sliced Wonder Bread. She had been almost thirty years old. Henry had acted indignant, saying that it was a sign of the laziness of modern society and the beginning of the end of the American work ethic. But the twinkle in his eye had told her that he was speaking tongue in cheek.
But she wouldn't have cared even if he had been serious. She hadn't bought it for the convenience, she'd bought it because little Jack had pestered her to buy some after a visit to a friend's house.
Jack.
She wondered for the millionth time if she had done everything she could have. Perhaps Jack would still be here if only... Maybe he'd be married. Maybe he'd have a little boy and a little girl who called her "Grammy."
They have made our world dirty, Jack's note had said. And I am weary of feeling unclean.
Thoughts of Jack led to thoughts of the young light keeper, and her appetite deserted her. Bridey cleared the dishes. She poured a warm-up in her tea and placed the cup and saucer on her nightstand, next to Agatha Christie's Murder at the Vicarage.
She made the rounds of the house and shut off the Christmas lights before preparing for bed. Then she disrobed, washed her face, and put on a full-length, soft flannel nightgown. She brushed her hair one hundred times, re-braided it, and got into bed. The sheets were cold and her feet were frigid. She turned onto her left side, brought her knees up, and shivered.
Henry moved over from his side of the bed to the middle and pressed up against her. He smelled of hair tonic and pipe tobacco. The warmth of his body passed through his pajamas and her nightgown to her back. He flopped his heavy, flannel-covered arm over her shoulder and interlaced the fingers of his right hand with hers. She snuggled back into the nest of his embrace and brought the bottoms of her cold feet to rest against his warm shins.
"I'm so afraid for this young light keeper," Bridey said. "He's a walking wounded and I don't know how to help him. It's our darling Jack all over again. Tell me what to do, Henry."
But Henry had vanished from the realm of the living as suddenly as he had appeared, and Bridey trembled once again with chill.
"You'd think that, after all this time, I wouldn't still miss you so much it hurts," she whispered. Then Bridey Gallagher did something she hadn't done in ages: She cried herself to sleep.
Chapter 31
MARK VALENTE FELT BURDENED by his uncle's confession. A trip to the archives of the local newspaper had revealed that the cause of death had been determined "accidental". And records of the Hollistown Harbor tax assessor's office had shown property on Rose Hip Point Lane under the name "Raposo".
But even if the girl his uncle had written about did still live on Rose Hip Point, what could Mark do? He could go see her, certainly, but how would he tell her what he knew or how he knew it?
Six weeks after reading his uncle's Keeper's Log, Mark had finally made his decision. Now it was time for him to see it through. After a fifteen-minute drive, he sat fidgeting in his truck in front of the house on Rose Hip Point Lane. It was a quintessential New England seaside cottage complete with weathered, grey cedar siding, white trim, dark green shutters, and a white, wooden screen door that framed a scarlet front door. The name on the mailbox, Raposo, told him he had the right house. But was it the right time? Could it ever be the right time?
Mark was about to share his Uncle Pete's confession with the person whom it would affect the most. He gripped the Keeper's Log tightly under his arm and slowly approached the door. His eyes searched for a doorbell but found none. He slid behind the screen door, and lifted the small brass knocker, bringing it down three times—rap, rap, rap. After what seemed like an eternity but might, in fact, have been no more than ten seconds, he abandoned the decorative knocker in favor of the heel of his hand—thump, thump, thump.
Several more seconds passed before the door swung open. And there she stood. Mark knew her instantly. There was no mistaking her after reading the Keeper's Log. Her complexion was a flawless olive, her hair was coal black, and her eyes were the color of caramel. She would be in her fifties now, but looked at least a decade younger. And her beauty was striking.
"Oh, hello," she smiled. "I thought I heard the door. Can I help you?"
"Renata?"
She looked at Mark quizzically. "Do we know each other?"
"Not exactly. My name is Mark Valente. I think you knew my uncle, Peter Ahearn? He was the lighthouse keeper at Rose Hip Point during the early seventies."
"Oh, of course." With recognition came the sad smile that had
been described in the Keeper's Log. "How is he? Where is he? We always wondered what became of him, he left so suddenly."
Mark hesitated. A strange feeling came over him: Guilt. He had never seen such a beautiful woman. He understood now why Pete had fallen so hopelessly and completely in love. Though he had just met her, Mark felt like a schoolboy. He was mesmerized by her dusky, sparkling eyes and coral lips. She was the great love of his uncle's life and Mark couldn't take his eyes off of her. He felt himself blush.
"I'm sorry, what?" Mark asked.
"I was asking where Pete is now."
"Right. Sorry. Pete lives at the Soldiers' Home near Boston. I'm afraid he has a form of dementia, and he's really not able to live on his own anymore."
"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. And so young for dementia, he couldn't be more than sixty."
"Sixty, exactly. The doctors think it could be related to exposure to Agent Orange while he was in Vietnam," Mark said.
"My God, he was just a boy. But then, most of them were. You say Pete's your uncle?"
"Yes, he's my mother's brother. I'm his closest living relative, and the court has appointed me his guardian.
"I wanted to speak with you because, well, I think he was very...I think you were very important to him."
"Me? That's sweet, but it's been so many years. I mean, I remember him, of course. He was very kind to me at a difficult time in my life. I was in high school then, and...well, come in, come in," she said.
She led Mark through the living room, where several seascapes and landscapes—some sketches, some oils, some watercolors—hung on the walls. He noticed an oil painting of the Rose Hip Point Lighthouse in which a tall, slim man with an eye patch leaned against the lighthouse door. Uncle Pete.
They entered the kitchen where she offered refreshment. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"
"Well, if it's no trouble, I wouldn't mind a cup of coffee."
"No trouble at all. In fact, I could go for some too," she scooped ground coffee into the filter of a drip coffee maker. When she spoke again, she kept her eyes on the coffeepot. "Um, please don't misunderstand me. I'm very sorry to hear about Pete's condition, but...what is it that makes you think I was so important to him?"
Mark hesitated, then let out a sigh. "He kept a journal of sorts called a Keeper's Log during the three years he was at the lighthouse."
"Oh?"
"Yes, and he wrote quite a bit about you."
"About me? What did he write?"
"Ms. Raposo..."
"Actually, it's Bennett, at least for the time being. I've been living in the Berkshires, but I'm starting over, you might say. I'm staying here at my mother's house until I get resettled. And please call me Renie. Everyone does."
Mark noticed that she was wearing a wedding ring. He wanted to say What kind of fool would ever let you go? but he only managed a soft-spoken, "Sorry."
"You were saying?"
"Right, I was about to say that you might want to read the Keeper's Log, that you should read it."
"This is all very mysterious, Mr. Valente."
"Call me Mark, please. I know how strange this must sound, but it would be very difficult for me to explain everything if you don't read Pete's journal for context."
"Where's he been all this time?"
"I don't know. He just vanished thirty-seven years ago. I was pretty young at the time, and there's been no contact, even with family, since he left Rose Hip Point."
"Is that it?" Renie asked, nodding her head toward the book.
"Yes, but I should probably tell you a few things about Pete before you take a look at it."
"You mean, for context? My God, what does he say about me?"
"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be so cryptic, I just need you to understand how Pete got...the way he was."
"You mean physically, his arm and his eye?"
"Well, that, yes. But also his frame of mind when he became light keeper."
"I already know that he was injured in Vietnam."
"Right, his older brother, my Uncle Tommy, had gone there before him and was killed in action."
"I'm sorry."
"Thanks. Anyway, Pete enlisted as soon as he heard about Tommy. I think a lot of younger brothers are apt to do that.
"Pete wasn't over there very long before he was badly wounded in a booby trap, he lost part of his left arm and the sight in his left eye.
"Before he left for basic training he'd gotten engaged to his high school sweetheart, a girl named Cindy. But when he returned, Cindy broke off their engagement. Pete moped around his parents'—my grandparents'—house for about a year and nearly drove them crazy. He drank a lot, and acted sullen, nasty, and withdrawn. My mother described him as 'broken'.
"Anyway, one day a friend of my grandfather's, Ed Boino..."
"I remember Mr. Boino, he was the light keeper before Pete," Renie said.
"Exactly. Mr. Boino told my grandfather that he was retiring and that he could arrange for Pete to take his place at the lighthouse. I guess the thought of being in isolation appealed to Pete. I don't know, I think he was mad at the whole world, and he saw Rose Hip Point as a sort of refuge."
"But how do I fit into all of this?" Renie asked.
"Here," Mark answered by offering the Keeper's Log. "A lot of the entries have to do with weather and maintenance, but you can just skip over those."
Once the coffee was brewed and poured, they settled into chairs around the kitchen table. Renie opened the Keeper's Log with a certain reverence. She smiled anxiously at Mark and began to read.
Chapter 32
January 15, 1973
I SHOULD NEVER HAVE COME here. It wasn't so bad in the warm weather. Then, at least, there was plenty of work to keep me busy. But now I just check the generators, clean the lens, and turn the light on and off. There's too much time to think. I wish I could turn my brain off as easily as I do the tower light. Ironically, for a "light" house, it's so fucking dark in here all the time. I leave the TV on day and night.
February ?, 1973
Don't know what day it is, don't care. Oh wait, I know. It's the day the Coast Guard decided to make a bullshit surprise inspection. The Chief Warrant Officer said that the brass and the Fresnel lens weren't clean enough, and the house smelled like a ship's head. He told me, "If you wanna live like a pig, that's your business." I said, "What's the problem, then?" He said, "The problem is, if the light's not maintained, peoples' lives are at risk, so you better shape up."
Fuck you. So you can only see the light from fifteen miles instead of twenty—big fucking hairy deal. Fire me—you'd be doing me a favor, asshole.
February 14, 1973
The nighttime is the worst and nighttime starts at around four o'clock now. As evening falls, so do my spirits...
Peter Ahearn entered the tower at its base and began to climb. He reached out with his right and only hand, grabbed the iron railing, and lugged his gaunt body up the spiral of concrete steps with the weariness of a man four times his age.
He had carried an awful heaviness in his chest, day-in and day-out, for almost two years now. Like an insidious parasite, the weight had lodged itself in his heart and fed on his spirit. It had sapped his energy, made his head bow and shoulders droop, and infected his mind. And tonight it would become unbearable.
At the eighty-ninth step he reached the Lantern Room. Two thousand pounds of thick, rippled glass left scarcely enough room for the narrow catwalk that surrounded it. Peter opened the door to the balcony and shivered as he stepped into the frigid February air. He looked out over the angry Atlantic and then stared straight down, a hundred and twenty feet, to where the sea threw powerful punches at the cliff's face. It would be dark soon. His thought was the same every evening: Just let yourself fall and all this pain will be gone.
Peter closed his eyes, stretched his one and a half arms out wide, and fell forward. After a few moments, he pushed his body up from its leaning position against the chest-high railing,
walked back inside, and shut the door. He turned his face away from the glass behemoth and threw the switch that brought it to life. The light equivalent of half a million candles was concentrated into a pulsing beam that shot out twenty miles over the dimming ocean to guide the seafaring, as it had for more than two hundred years.
The young man started his second descent of the day. Each morning, shortly after dawn, he would trudge the same eighty-nine steps and throw the switch in the opposite direction, dousing the light for the day.
At step seventy-nine he stopped. From the corner of his good eye, among the tools in the Watch Room, something caught his attention, a twelve-foot length of thick rope that lay coiled on a bottom shelf.
He took the rope, looped it under the stump of his left arm and over his shoulder, and continued down the spiral staircase. At the base of the tower he followed a short passageway to the light keeper's quarters. He passed through the kitchen and settled himself on the living room couch.
It took considerably longer for Peter to make a noose than it would have for a man with two hands. Everything took longer. He looped the rope with his hand and used his teeth to pull the working end through, forming the knot that would rest against the back of his neck. By the time he had finished, another hour had gone by and darkness had enveloped the landscape of Rose Hip Point.
Peter went to the kitchen and fetched a straight-backed, wooden chair. He threw the working end of the rope up and over an exposed oak beam that ran the length of the small house. Standing on the pale-yellow, distressed chair that would be his gallows, he checked the length of the rope.
Satisfied that his feet would not reach the floor once he had kicked the chair out from under himself, he got down and scouted for a place to tie off the other end of the rope, known to sailors as the "bitter end". He needed to find something that would hold his body weight, something that weighed more than he did.
He chose the old, enormous roll top desk and tied the bitter end to its right front foot. He went back to the kitchen and returned a few moments later with a bottle of whiskey. He sat down at the desk and lit a cigarette. Alternately, Peter swigged from the bottle and drew on Marlboros as he stared up at the instrument of death he had fashioned. After a time, the bottle was empty and the ashtray, full.
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