Montauk

by Nicola Harrison

  “I doubt that.” I turned and made my way to my room.

  * * *

  I sat down at the bureau, took my journal out of the top drawer and flung it open. I stared at the page for a moment and then closed it. I placed it back in the drawer and instead took out a piece of stationery and began to write.

  There was an explosion at Penn Station on Monday, July 11th, involving a postal worker and a train attendant working in the last carriage from Montauk to New York City. Thankfully no one was seriously hurt, but the cause of the explosion is of unlikely means. The culprit was a cylinder packed to the brim with dirty diapers that New York City families, staying in Montauk for the summer, send back to their housekeepers in the city for cleaning and disinfecting, to be returned to them via the postal service.

  As you can imagine, the stench and filth as a result of the explosion was quite unpleasant for all involved and it caused angry commuters to ask the question: Why do these wealthy families not take care of their own children’s feces?

  The women involved have reported that they simply do not have the facilities or the wherewithal to clean such things and the postal service and train is the best option available.

  That’s bad news for the postal train workers.

  I signed it with my pen name, Jonathon Hubert, and slipped it into an envelope, attached a stamp and addressed it to Mr. Rosen. I then walked it down to the front desk and asked that it be sent out with the next mail collection.

  16

  The next morning I went down to breakfast as usual, but as I descended the stairs I heard the noise of children and chatter, clinking glasses and plates. It was funny how during the week the children ate in a different room accompanied by the nannies with the doors closed separating the ladies from the children, but on the weekends, as if for show, some performance of how a family should look and behave, they sat together with their mothers and fathers in their Saturday and Sunday best.

  I approached the buffet and picked up a plate, but nothing looked appealing, so I sat down at a small table by the window and picked up the morning papers from the table next to me. Nothing jumped out at me on the front page of The Wall Street Journal, so I glanced at The New York Times. “Construction Still Booming in Manhattan Despite Financial Hardship.” “Winston Churchill Stays at the Waldorf–Astoria.” “Howard Hughes Sets New Record in Flight Around the World.” “Mayor Vows to Shut Down Hardlucksville on East 10th Street.” I turned to the international pages: “European Countries Refuse Jewish Refugees at Evian Conference; US Accepts 30,000.” “British Steam Locomotive 4468 Mallard Sets New Speed Record.” I sighed. I didn’t want real life.

  Soon the nannies would start getting the children ready for a day at the beach or at the pool and the mothers would be preparing for their day’s activities: tennis, golf, lounging in the cabanas. I couldn’t face another day at the Beach Club.

  I’d actually been excited to show Harry some of the Montauk that Elizabeth had shown me, a different side of the village he hadn’t seen before. I thought he’d be impressed that I knew about some nature walks and trails that hugged the bluffs and took you all the way down to the water’s edge at the very tip of Montauk Point. I felt rejected. And foolish. Harry had been so convincing. I’d almost believed him when he said he wanted to try harder, with our relationship and to have a baby, but I could already sense he was back to his old ways. It hurt to know that something else, someone else, was more compelling than I, more interesting, more worthy of his time and his affection.

  I thought about the lighthouse keeper, how he’d stared at me with such interest, how that unnerved me. I wasn’t used to being looked at that way, as if he wanted to know my innermost thoughts. It had made me uncomfortable at first, but now I craved it; I needed to feel that my company was worth something. I’d ask Elizabeth to take me with her again. But I couldn’t, not really; I needed to be more careful for her sake. If people saw her spending too much time with me she could lose her job. I needed to respect her privacy and not jeopardize her livelihood.

  I wavered back and forth, but in the end decided I’d go up there alone. I collected the lunch basket that the Manor kitchen staff had prepared for Harry and me, took out the wine and a sandwich and flagged down the driver.

  George peppered me with questions, not content to let me go wandering off alone.

  “Is there a gathering up there, ma’am?” he asked.

  “No, I’m just exploring,” I said.

  “Will anyone be accompanying you?”

  “No, just me,” I said.

  “Up at the lighthouse?” he asked, finally opening the door.

  “In that general direction, yes,” I said, exasperated, handing him a nickel as I climbed into the back seat.

  “I’m sorry to badger you about your choice, ma’am,” George said as he drove toward Montauk Road. “I just want you to be safe, and, well, I thought you’d want to be involved in all the commotion at the Manor, that’s all.”

  “It’s funny, George, but when the place is heaving with life and energy and families, that’s when I feel lonely.” I was finding it incredibly hard to forgive Harry, to forget what he’d done to us, especially when he didn’t even bother to show up. It was what I didn’t have that I yearned for. George caught my eye in the rearview mirror. “Harry was supposed to come out early for a few days this week, but now he has to stay in the city to work. And he’ll miss the big golf tournament this weekend.”

  George nodded. “Ah yes, that’s a real shame.”

  George stopped the car at the base of the pathway leading to the lighthouse. He climbed out of the driver’s seat and opened my door.

  “Should I come back in an hour?” he asked. “I’d wait, but I’m needed back at the Manor.”

  I stepped out and took a deep breath. The air felt cooler up here, fresher and cleaner; it immediately settled me.

  “I might be a while,” I said. “I need the fresh air. Can you pick me up at one?”

  “But it’s just past ten o’clock, ma’am,” George said.

  “I need some time; one o’clock would be wonderful.”

  “What should I say if anyone is looking for you?” he said, as if I were doing something wrong by not joining the group en masse and following along like a sheep to whatever activity might be planned for the day.

  “George, really, tell them whatever you want; tell them I wanted to go for a walk. Believe me, no one will notice that I’m gone.”

  From the top of the cliffs I saw the white sailboats leaning with the wind, fishing boats and their guides taking the tourists to try their hand at catching striped bass, fluke and bluefish—the serious fishermen would have left hours ago and would be well out to sea or on their way back by now. The view from up there was clear and crisp and expansive. This wasn’t the side of Montauk that the newspaperman had originally thought about capturing, but this was the part that took my breath away. All the chiffon and the headpieces and the small talk could be found in the city on any day of the week, but this place was alive.

  I walked across the bluffs quite a way and followed a narrow pathway that had been cleared through the long grass and led down to the pebbled beach. There were boulders peeking out of the ocean not too far from shore, and on top of one lay a large, fat seal posed on its side, one flipper reaching up to the sky, letting the sun warm its enormous round belly. Another grey head bobbed in the ocean and that seal launched itself up onto a neighboring boulder. It let out a bark and the fat seal barked back.

  I took out the half bottle of wine that I’d taken from the picnic basket and took a swig right from the bottle. I hadn’t even bothered to bring glasses. It felt good going down—clean and crisp and cold. I took another gulp.

  When you remove yourself from the chatter and the clutter of life, I thought, you can actually hear yourself think. The seagulls were talking in squawks overhead, the seals were barking, the ocean waves were rolling onto the pebbles and they were responding with a melodic crac
kling as the waves pulled back. I lay back on the beach and let the sun warm my skin.

  It was still quite early when I made my way toward the lighthouse and when I stood and started walking I felt woozy from the swigs of wine. George wouldn’t be back to pick me up for two more hours and I began to get a sickly feeling in my stomach that I’d made a mistake in asking him to leave me there for so long. I looked down the hill just to check that he hadn’t changed his mind and decided to stay, but the car was out of sight.

  There was no sign indicating when the grounds opened for visitors and I didn’t want to seem like someone who showed up in places I wasn’t supposed to be. Perhaps it’s best to announce myself, I thought. If I’m here I should at least pop in and say hello to the keeper, I justified to myself; after all, I’d met him twice and he might be pleased to see a familiar face. I wanted to see him, think of a reason to talk to him. Momentarily I felt brave and adventurous, or defiant and tipsy. I gathered the nerve to go up to his door.

  I looked around and didn’t see anyone outside, so I knocked on the door to the right where Thomas lived. There was no answer. I tried it again, but no one came, so I stepped over and tried Mr. and Mrs. Milton’s door on the left as Elizabeth had done. Still no answer.

  I circled halfway around the tower past a small white shed, an engine room or storage space perhaps, but the doors were closed and there was no sign of anyone working, so I kept going around the base of the tower until I was in the very back, on the water side, close to the edge of the tall cliffs. Turning back toward the lighthouse, magnificent and tall, I saw a single seagull soaring high overhead. Green grass surrounded the lighthouse, and from where I stood, looking out at the hills rolling away from the tower, I felt strangely empowered, as if I had just discovered the most beautiful place on earth and it was all mine. I breathed it in, the fresh ocean air, the bright sunlight, the sound of seagulls, and I looked up to the top of the light, elegantly rising into the cloudless blue sky.

  After a while I walked back to the front of the house and knocked again; then I placed my hand on the brass doorknob and turned. It clicked open. I stepped back, the door slightly ajar—I hadn’t really expected it to open—then I looked around and stepped inside into a narrow corridor.

  I shouldn’t have been there, in that house. I was astonished at my own behavior, but something compelled me to stay, getting further and further away from all sense of familiarity. The walls, the floors, the shutters on the windows, everything was made of wood and either painted white or varnished. There were two small doorways, one opened to a living room with several pieces of wicker furniture, a rocking chair, an upright piano and a small center table with an oil lamp and a radio. A second led to a dining room with a few boxes stacked in the corner and a desk against one wall. It was neat and tidy but sparse.

  “Hello!” I called out quietly.

  There was a large door at the end of the corridor with a stained-glass depiction of the lighthouse in the center, but it was closed, so I turned and took a few steps up a wooden staircase. They creaked and I froze, my heart racing, waiting for someone to appear.

  I climbed the stairs and stood on the landing. Another smaller, steeper staircase wound around and went into what looked like the attic of the house. On the floor where I stood there were two small bedrooms. A damp, musky smell filled the space and everything about the house, the colors, navy and white, and the textures, polished wood and wicker, seemed masculine, as if a woman hadn’t lived there for a long time.

  I stepped into the first bedroom. All I could see out of the window was the green grass that dropped off at the cliffs and beyond that the surf breaking against the rocks in the ocean. I could spend hours admiring that view. The bed was made up with crisp white sheets, clothes folded neatly at the foot of the bed and a picture of a young boy, age seven maybe, in a picture frame on a small desk across the other side of the room. I picked it up and looked into his eyes—he looked just like Thomas. Growing up in a lighthouse would be strange and lonely, I thought, and I was suddenly back in Pennsylvania, holding my mother’s hand, walking the long walk to school, down the gravel pathway, alongside the lavender fields. My socks and sandals and halfway up my legs covered with dust by the time I got to school.

  I placed the picture frame back on the desk and ran my hand across a large, well-worn leather book with the cream pages curled at the edges. I opened the front page and saw black neat handwriting, Property of Thomas M. Brown. Suddenly I heard the front door open, then close, and I gasped, slamming the book shut. Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs and I looked around for a place to go. There was nowhere; the only way out was the staircase. I looked around quickly, nothing was out of place, then I rushed out of the bedroom with a start, running straight into him as he was taking the final step onto the landing. He started to fall backwards, grabbed the handrail with one hand, and the other hand shot forward to balance him, whacking me right below my right eye.

  I fell back against the wall and put my hand to my eye, feeling the blood rush to my skin.

  “Oh my God,” he said. “Are you okay? You almost knocked me down the staircase. What the hell are you doing up here?”

  The back of my head began to pound where it had made contact with the wall. I suddenly felt dizzy as if I might pass out and closed my eyes, leaning back.

  “Sorry,” I said in a whisper. “I was … I just wanted to say hello.” Even in my state of shock I realized how ridiculous that sounded. I opened my eyes and saw a look of confusion cross his face. I giggled. It was the wine. He was wearing a navy-blue uniform with brass buttons. “I like your outfit,” I said.

  “Are you okay?” he asked again. “I think you’re going to have a shiner. I was just trying to … I swear, I didn’t mean to…”

  “I know.” The dizziness was subsiding a little and my words were coming back to me.

  “We’d better get you some ice,” he said. “Can you stand?”

  “I think so.”

  “Come on then.” He steadied me. “Come down to the kitchen.”

  He took me by the hand and led me down two flights of stairs to a dark, dingy basement, which, when he lit a kerosene lamp, I realized was the kitchen. Even with the lamp it was damp and dark and dismal down there.

  “Sit down,” Thomas instructed, pulling out a chair from a kitchen table. As it scraped across the tiled floor it made a horrible screeching sound that hurt my head.

  He pumped water into a glass from a black iron faucet and set it down in front of me, standing over me as I took a long sip.

  “Listen, sorry about the eye,” he said. “You could have gotten yourself shot, you know. We take intruders very seriously around here.”

  I nodded feeling terribly embarrassed.

  He lifted my chin and examined the spot under my right eye where I could feel the blood throbbing violently. He looked so serious I thought I might start laughing again. He let go gently and walked into another dimly lit room. I took the opportunity to fix my hair, straighten out my yellow day dress and untangle the gold necklace that Harry bought me when we first began keeping company.

  “Here,” Thomas said, returning to the room with a hunk of cold red meat in his hand. I scooted my chair away from him, but he walked right up to me, lifted my chin again and placed the meat on my skin, covering half my face. “This will make the swelling go down faster than ice and if we’re lucky it might not go black.” He took my other hand and placed it on the meat. “Hold this in place,” he said.

  I cringed at the smell and the drop of blood I saw on the floor where he’d walked over to me. “But I…”

  “Don’t worry; I’ll fix something else for dinner.”

  “I need a napkin or something; it’s going to drip blood all over my dress.”

  “Oh,” he said, going to the kitchen cabinet and returning with a kitchen rag.

  I felt a trickle of blood running down my hand and then my arm. He wiped it for me, then pulled up a seat opposite me at the kit
chen table.

  “Anything else I can get for you?” he asked.

  I shook my head, though I was quite enjoying being taken care of.

  “So what in God’s name were you doing sneaking around the house anyway?” he asked. “I kid you not, this house is property of the United States Coast Guard and trespassers are taken pretty seriously. You could have gotten yourself arrested if you’d been breaking and entering in the other house.” He nodded toward the wall of the adjoining house. “And thank your lucky stars I didn’t have a shotgun in my hand; you could have wound up dead!”

  “I know, sorry for all this commotion, I just…” I couldn’t possibly say I was just popping in for a chat after I’d caused all this fuss. My head started to spin about how I would have explained any of this to Harry if I had been arrested and returned to the Manor in a police car, or if Harry had received a phone call at work that I was being held at the station. I looked up at him and realized he was waiting for an answer. “Well, it’s just that I’m, I’m a journalist, actually,” I said, feeling myself blush even more. “I write a column for The New York City Reader and I was thinking perhaps I could interview you about life at the lighthouse.”

  He looked confused. “You’re a journalist?”

  “Undercover,” I said, and realized that sounded wrong. “I mean anonymous really; I use a pen name. You know how it is; people prefer to think they are reading from a man’s mind rather than a lady’s.”

  He nodded but looked unsure. I couldn’t tell if he was buying it.

  “I wrote about the greasy pig contest,” I said, suddenly remembering we had that in common and I had published proof. “I could show it to you. But please don’t tell anyone it was me; I’d be in a lot of trouble.”

  He looked very confused.

  “So anyway, if it’s not too much trouble I could certainly come back another time, or skip the interview altogether if it’s not convenient.”