He stepped up onto his gallows chair and slipped the noose over his head. This is for you, Cindy. Am I that repulsive?
Taking several deep breaths, Peter Ahearn closed his eyes and counted to himself, one...two...three...
He was startled by a loud pounding on the exterior door. Distraught and disoriented, he made to step from the gallows chair and was jerked back by the noose at his throat.
"Just a minute," he croaked as he loosened the knot and removed the rope from his neck.
He pulled the rope from the beam and stuffed it behind the couch.
The pounding continued.
He carried the gallows chair back to the kitchen.
Still the pounding came.
"Coming," he cried.
Peter stopped short of the door and took a moment to compose himself before unlocking the deadbolt and reaching for the doorknob. He had turned the knob only a fraction when the door opened inward with force enough to push him back.
Mrs. Gallagher and the freezing air that accompanied her blew past him. The old woman carried a pie and a box of tea, and immediately headed for the kitchen.
"Hello, dear, I hope I haven't come at a bad time. Oh, for crying out loud...it's so frigid out that the pie's gone cold. No matter, I'll pop it in the oven and it'll be nice and warm in a jiffy.
"Are you all right, Peter? You look a little peaked. You just have a seat in this chair while I put the kettle on. We'll have warm apple pie and some nice hot tea in no time at all. Won't that be nice? That'll take the chill off, I can tell you.
"Sit down, dear, sit."
A dumbfounded Peter sank down onto the chair that had almost served a very different purpose. He put his elbows on the table, rested his forehead on his only hand, and fought the urge to sob.
Mrs. Gallagher didn't seem to notice.
"Now where do you keep your cups and sauc...? Never mind, I remember from when I used to visit Mr. Boino. He's such a dear man, have you heard from him at all, Peter? I do hope he's well. And I wonder how his poor sister is coming along with her treatments.
"And I hope you won't think I've put too much cinnamon in the pie. My dear husband, Henry, would always say: You went a little heavy on the cinnamon this time, didn't you lamby-kins? That's what he called me, lamby-kins. Isn't that sweet?
"And I would call him 'Hanky' because, you know, Hank is a nickname for Henry. And it was my little joke that I was the girl who was never without a Hanky.
"I remember the very first time I made my apple pie for Henry, it was autumn and we had driven upstate to pick our own apples—McIntosh, I think. Yes, I'm certain they were McIntosh. They're the very best for pie, if you ask my opinion.
"Peter, be a dear and grab a knife and some forks, and some dessert plates for the pie, won't you?"
Peter stood up, lumbered to the kitchen counter and pulled open a drawer. Mrs. Gallagher continued to drone on, but her words had become just a buzz in the background to the young light keeper.
He looked through the doorway into the living room, and stared at the bitter end, still knotted around the foot of the desk. After a moment, he returned to the table carrying a knife and two forks in his hand.
Mrs. Gallagher placed teabags in the cups. "...and I said, You don't mean it. But she swore it was true and...Oh, Peter, you forgot the plates, dear.
"Well, you can just imagine my consternation..."
§
February 15, 1973
I almost did it. I was ready. I was standing on the chair and counting to three and I was ready. Then Old Lady Gallagher showed up. She brought apple pie and her own tea this time. She made me try the pie and I couldn't swallow. She talked and talked about nothing for hours. By the time she finally left, I had lost my nerve.
Chapter 33
March 7, 1973
I SAVED TWO LIVES TODAY...
It was one o'clock in the afternoon and unusually warm for early March. Peter was performing routine maintenance and testing the foghorn when he heard what sounded like a scream. He looked out over the ocean, squinted, and shaded his eye from the sun's glare with his hand.
He scoured the seascape in the direction from which the sound had come. Then the scream came a second time, and he zeroed in on what was hardly more than a speck in the ocean, far off the point.
He marked the position in his mind and ran down the cliff path to the floating dock, untied the skiff and jumped on board. After four or five sturdy yanks on the pull cord, the outboard engine sputtered to life, and Peter headed out to sea at full throttle.
The engine's whine made it impossible for Peter to hear anything else, let alone the screams of a person in peril. He headed toward the place he had spotted from the tower. As he got closer, the speck grew larger. Eventually, he could make out a small, capsized rowboat, and when he was within fifty feet of the boat, he could see two people in the water, a man in his sixties and a boy of about ten. They wore life jackets and clung to the overturned boat.
Peter pulled in close and set his engine to idle. The old man cried out, "Get my grandson first. Please, hurry!"
Peter's eye met the boy's. The kid's teeth stopped chattering and his clear, grey eyes grew even wider as he took in the sight of the tall man with an eye patch and one arm.
Peter crouched and extended his hand. "Come on, kid. You want to freeze to death?"
The old man shouted, "Go, Billy, go!"
Billy hesitated a moment. Then he closed his eyes tight and lunged for Peter's outstretched hand. Peter hoisted the boy into the skiff with ease. The heftier grandfather proved more difficult but Peter still managed to get him on board quickly.
Peter shifted the boat back into full throttle and raced to the lighthouse. Carrying the boy, he prodded the old man up the cliff path and into the light keeper's living quarters, and then called for an ambulance. He turned the thermostat to its highest setting. He hurried upstairs and got blankets while the boy and the old man stripped out of their wet clothing. Peter lit a fire in the stone fireplace for good measure.
By the time the paramedics arrived, grandfather and grandson sat wrapped in blankets before a roaring fire, sipping hot cocoa from steaming mugs.
One of the volunteer paramedics had been Peter's football teammate in high school. "You done good, man," he said after pulling Peter aside. "In water that cold, every second counts. You saved two lives today, Pete."
March 8, 1973
I worked on the skiff's engine today. I had a little trouble starting it yesterday and the paramedic said that even seconds can make the difference between life and death in cold water. It starts on the first try now, every time.
Chapter 34
May 15, 1973
MRS. GALLAGHER DROVE UP with a station wagon full of plants today. Some are vegetables and herbs, some are just flowers. She showed me where to plant them and how to take care of them.
And, of course, she brought a dessert. She's really a pretty nice lady. I kind of feel sorry for her because she's all alone.
June 8, 1973
Another surprise inspection by the Coast Guard today. This time was different though. It was the same Chief Warrant Officer (CWO) who royally chewed my ass out last time. But this time the Fresnel was spotless, the brass shiny, and everything shipshape. I know now that he was right: People's lives are at stake, and I'm responsible. I got an "outstanding" on the inspection.
June 9, 1973
The CWO came back today and brought some people with him...
At 11:00 a.m. the prickly sensation on Peter's back warned him that the sun was burning his skin. He dropped the thick whitewash brush into one of the pails hanging from his wood and chain-link boson's chair, and he reminded himself to add Noxzema to his shopping list.
He pulled a worn canvas work glove from the back right pocket of his jeans, and slipped his fingers into the opening. When he gripped the ancient glove in his teeth to pull it onto his hand, Peter caught its scent: a blend of sawdust, earth, motor oil, and sweat—the sme
ll of hard work.
He grabbed the thick, hemp pulley rope with his gloved hand and slowly, carefully lowered himself down the exterior lighthouse wall, thirty feet to the ground.
He stepped out of the harnessed boson's chair, grabbed the tip of the glove's middle finger with his teeth, removed it, and stuffed it back into his pocket.
He walked toward the light keeper's living quarters, and stretched his back and shoulders in an attempt to determine just how bad the sunburn was. He swept the lawn with his eyes and decided that the grass would need to be mowed soon, and that the forsythia should be trimmed.
Peter decided to wash off before heading inside. He turned the outside faucet on. Well water rushed from its underground prison like a captured animal whose cage door had sprung open. The rubber garden hose puffed out as water gushed through its coiled, fifty-foot length, and it coughed and sputtered as the last pockets of air were expelled from its mouth. Peter doused his neck and shoulders for a moment before taking several large, satisfying gulps of the cool liquid.
Two station wagons approaching the lighthouse caught his attention. Based on its color and markings, one of them belonged to the Coast Guard motor pool, the other was a light green 1969 Chevelle. The cars kicked up small dust clouds from the parched dirt of Rose Hip Point Lane.
Peter noticed that the Chief Warrant Officer who had conducted the inspection of the lighthouse the previous day drove the Coast Guard vehicle. He became nervous, and developed scenarios in his mind to explain why the CWO would be back so soon and why a civilian would be following him. Perhaps someone had lodged a complaint.
He knew he had been less than cordial with a few of the tourists who had peppered him with annoying questions while he tried to work. And he also knew that tradition dictated that a light keeper be courteous and accommodating to visitors. In fact, written instructions issued by the United States Light-House Board (USLHB) more than a century before hung on the wall of the tower watch room:
Keepers must be courteous and polite
to all visitors and show them everything
of interest about the station at
such times as will not interfere with
Light-house duties...
Peter slowly turned the faucet off, grabbed his long-sleeve T-shirt and pulled it on over his head. He stared impassively at the two station wagons as they parked on the grass.
The crusty CWO, Kelly, was the first one out. Though he was middle-aged, he seemed to bounce from the car like a much younger man. Next, Kelly's passenger emerged—a commissioned officer, an Ensign who didn't look much older than a teenager. Both grinned at Peter, and then trained their gazes on the green Chevelle.
Peter's eye followed. A young couple that Peter did not recognize emerged from the front seat of the Chevelle and smiled and waved at him like he was an old friend. Peter shot CWO Kelly a puzzled look. Kelly just grinned enigmatically and held up an index finger in a just-a-moment gesture. Then he pointed that same finger at the Chevelle.
Peter watched as the rear car doors opened. An old man and young boy emerged. Peter immediately recognized them as the pair he had saved from certain death in the icy Atlantic.
The group approached. The young Ensign held what looked like a diploma in his left hand. He extended his right hand to shake Peter's.
"Keeper Ahearn, I'm Ensign LaChapelle. It's an honor to meet you, sir. I'm here on behalf of Admiral Bender to present you with this Letter of Commendation and the Silver Lifesaving Medal. The Admiral wishes to thank you and recognize your diligence and courage in saving the lives of Mr. Fowler and his grandson, Billy."
"I just did my job," said Peter, still looking somewhat bewildered.
CWO Kelly stepped forward to shake Peter's hand.
"Well done, Pete. I'm proud of you." He leaned in and said in a chuckling whisper, "I came to inspect the place yesterday because I knew what was coming today. I wanted to make sure you weren't still living in a pigsty."
Next, Mr. Fowler stepped forward and shook Peter's hand. "Thank you, son, thanks for everything.
"Billy, can you say thank you to Mr. Ahearn?"
The reluctant boy took one tiny step forward. "Thank you, Mr. Ahearn."
Peter smiled and said, "Anytime, buddy."
The young woman whom Peter now understood to be Billy's mother rushed toward him in a flood of emotion. She stood on tiptoes and threw her arms around his neck. For a moment she examined his face through watery eyes, and then she kissed him on the lips and buried her face in his shoulder. She held him so tightly that he found it hard to breathe.
She wept as she whispered in his ear, "You saved my baby...and my daddy. I keep thinking about what would have happened if you hadn't been there. Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Peter felt her hot tears on his cheekbone, so close to his eye that they might have been his own. He felt the softness of her cheek against his, and smelled the sweetness of her breath and the citrusy fragrance of her hair. When her soft breasts compressed against his lower ribs, a sorrowful pang overtook him and caused a lump to form in his throat. He hadn't felt the warmth and touch of another human being for so, so long. And he was tired of being alone.
Chapter 35
November 3, 1973
I HELPED MRS. GALLAGHER gather rose hips today, and then we made jelly and jam. I eat so much of it, I figured it was the least I could do.
Christmas, 1973
Ma, Dad, and Marybeth came to visit this morning. They're having Christmas dinner at Marybeth's today. She said it's time for her to start her own family traditions. She invited me, of course, but I begged off. Marybeth and I walked around outside for a long time and talked about Tommy. Seems like he's been gone forever.
Mrs. Gallagher came by last night. She gave me a scrimshaw pipe that belonged to her father. It's carved in the shape of a schooner and the stem looks like ebony or mahogany. She said it's not for smoking—just looking. This morning I found myself wishing that she had brought some scones and rose hip jelly.
December 31, 1973
Guess who has a date for New Year's Eve? God, if anyone ever finds out. A few days ago I asked my old high school friend, Jimmy Vasconcelos, to put some fancy tea in with the regular grocery delivery. The other day I walked down to Mrs. Gallagher's to give her the tea as a thank you for the scrimshaw. She was so happy you'd think it was a pot of gold. She insisted on making some for us right then and served it with a gingerbread still warm from the oven. Then out of nowhere she said, "Do you have plans for New Year's Eve, dear?" I almost choked. What could I say? I said I would come if she'd have some scones and rose hip jelly for me to take home after. I will NOT stay until midnight—what if she tries to kiss me? Speaking of a pot of gold—I have to remember to have Jimmy bring me some more weed next week...
At 6:15 p.m. New Year's Eve, 1973, Peter Ahearn stepped from the warmth of the light keeper's quarters to the granite doorstep. It had been snowing steadily since midday. Absent even a trace of wind to make them change course, the flakes fell plumb from cloud to earth and formed a veil of insulation so dense that even breaking ocean waves were rendered mute.
Peter raised the collar of his navy blue, double-breasted pea coat. He wore no hat. His long hair and beard would keep his ears and face warm enough for the few minutes that he would be outside. He lit a joint, and began the quarter mile walk along Rose Hip Point Lane to Mrs. Gallagher's house. His own muffled footfalls were the only sound he could hear.
He remembered the last time he'd gone out on a New Year's Eve: He'd been a senior in high school, with two arms and two eyes. He'd spent the night with Cindy. That thought made him wonder what Cindy and Chip were doing this evening.
He pictured them fancily dressed, leaning toward each other from across a candlelit table, whispering and smiling their way through a romantic dinner at an elegant restaurant. Then he imagined them dressed casually, hosting a large house party attended by their once-mutual friends, and all of them eating, drinking, dancing,
and laughing into the new year.
He became so lost in thought that he had overshot Mrs. Gallagher's by a hundred yards before he realized it. He dropped the roach into the snow and backtracked to the beige Victorian cottage with the gingerbread filigree and dark-green shutters. Soft yellow light spilled from the front windows and bathed the snow-capped shrubs below. Through the window, Peter could see Mrs. Gallagher scurrying about the outdated kitchen at the rear of the house.
He studied the Christmas wreath that hung on the oak front door for a moment, and then knocked. He brushed snow from his hair and stomped it from his chukka boots.
The heavy door swung open and Mrs. Gallagher greeted him. "Hello, Peter, and welcome," she said cheerily. "It's so nice of you to come and I'm so glad to see you, dear."
"Thanks for inviting me, Mrs. Gallagher," Peter said as he closed the door behind him.
"Now, Peter, it's past time for us to dispense with this 'Mrs. Gallagher' nonsense. Won't you please call me 'Bridey'? It's a nickname for my given name, Brigid. All my family and dear friends call me Bridey."
"All right," said Peter. "If that's what you'd like."
"Good. Now, let me take your coat, dear."
Bridey had worn a crisp, white linen apron when Peter spied her from outside. She must have removed it before she answered the door, and he could see her outfit now— a 3/4 sleeve, high-necked, black velvet cocktail dress that was cinched at the waist with a wide black satin ribbon. The dress hung loosely on her, making her look as if she'd borrowed it from a heavier woman. Her grey hair was pulled back tightly into a bun, and she wore a single strand of slightly pinkish pearls around her neck.
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