“Well, I feel bad about the eye,” he said, leaning over, moving the slab of meat from my eye, coming in close to take a peek, then quickly setting it back in position. “Keep it on there,” he said. “It’s definitely going to turn purple, I’m afraid. So what do you need to know?”
I gave him a blank stare.
“For the article?”
“Oh,” I said, suddenly flustered, fishing around in my handbag for a scrap of paper and a pencil, but I couldn’t seem to think of a single thing to say. “Well, um, I was wondering how long you’ve been a lighthouse keeper.” I felt like a fraud and a fool.
“Eighteen years.”
“Okay,” I said, scribbling it down, trying to keep the paper still and write with only one hand, the other still pressing the meat against my eye.
“Eleven years here in Montauk, though I took a year off, as you may know.…” He paused waiting for a reaction.
“Okay,” I said.
“I did about four years at Stratford Shoal, and another couple years at Race Rock,” he said. I frantically tried to think of what to ask next, but luckily he kept going.
“I got the job at Stratford Shoal as a favor, mostly; they liked to help out the vets right after the war.” He stretched and leaned back in his chair, putting his arms behind his head. He’d taken his jacket off and was wearing just a white T-shirt. His arms were strong and muscular when he sat like that, no wonder my face was throbbing so much. My mind started to drift to the day when Elizabeth and I had seen him climb down from the scaffolding.
“And then I moved around some from there,” he continued.
I held on to the meat, trying to keep it from dripping on my dress. “And what are your primary duties here at the Montauk lighthouse?” I asked, looking at my pencil and wondering if I could manage to balance the hunk of flesh on my face if I tilted it back slightly while taking notes with the other hand.
He followed my gaze to my notebook and pencil. “Um, this seems difficult for you; why don’t I show you around a bit?” he said, standing. “And then I’m really going to have to get back to work.”
He led me up the stairs to the ground floor of the house, then through the large white door into another passageway. It was a small space that connected the keeper’s house with two other rooms.
“This here is the oil room,” he said, “and this one”—he motioned to the left—“is the radio room.”
I peeked inside the first room and against the right wall there were large silver tanks with all kinds of pressure gauges, oil canisters and tools hanging on the wall. On the other side was another door.
“And that’s the entrance to the tower,” he said. I walked toward it so curious, wanting to ask to go inside, but he had already turned and was leading me back to the house. “We work in twelve-hour shifts, me and the assistant keeper and another assistant who lives away,” he said, leading me out the front door and standing once again on the porch. “We work the lights, the foghorn, cleaning, polishing the lens, painting, cutting the grass, general maintenance, you know.” He put his hands in his pockets and I sensed the interview was over. “How’s the eye?”
“Good, I think,” I said, lifting the now warm meat away from my skin and dangling it back toward him. “Maybe we could finish this another time when you’re not so busy,” I said.
He looked amused. It was the first time I’d seen anything resembling a smile since the night I talked to him at the Surf Club. “Maybe,” he said. “But generally free time is a bit of a luxury for me. And I’m surprised you’d want to set foot back up here again after getting knocked down like that.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I said, and walked down the pathway to wait for George.
17
The next morning was Sports Day on the village green. I’d tried to conceal the purplish-red half-moon under my right eye, but the cosmetics barely made a difference, so I put on a hat, pulled it down at an angle and wore my favorite sunglasses.
The children lined up excitedly wearing their name tags and numbers, each having signed up for his or her sport of choice: the relay, the wheelbarrow race, the egg-and-spoon race, the jumping sack. It was a frenzy of activity as nannies and mothers got every child in place, while the few men sat in deck chairs on the edge of the green sipping Pimm’s Cups.
I hadn’t expected to see Dolly there, but she was at a table set up near the finish line, looking fabulous as usual in a sporty jumpsuit and a white fedora with a green ribbon.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Oh, how wonderful to see you,” she said. “Come, sit.” She pulled up another chair to her table. “You can help me give out the rosettes to the winners.”
On the table in front of her was a large assortment of ribbons and rosettes in reds, greens, blues and yellows, decorated with jewels and feathers as well as more boyish options in navy and white stripes, adorned with twill and miniature anchors.
“These are so beautiful,” I said. “Where did they find them?”
“Oh, I put them together with old scraps from the factory,” she said, sorting through them. “I did it last year for the kids; this is one of my favorite events of the summer. This and the masquerade ball, of course.”
“Really?” Dolly was one of those people who, just when you thought you had her figured out, did something that surprised you, showed you another facet of her personality. She was the last person I would have imagined seeing at Sports Day giving out handmade rosettes.
I sat at the table and pulled out my compact, lowering my sunglasses on my nose to see how I looked in daylight. Though it was ugly, something about it fascinated me. I touched the skin and felt a smile waver on my lips.
“Good Lord, what on earth happened to you?” Dolly said, horrified, pulling my sunglasses completely off my face.
“Oh, I know; isn’t it terrible?” I said, reaching over and grabbing the glasses back from her. “I went for a walk yesterday by the bluffs and I tripped and fell. Thank goodness it was just below the eye.”
“You fell? And that’s how you got a black eye?”
“It’s just a bruise. I bruise easily, that pale skin of mine.”
“You should get that seen to,” she said with great concern, having another good look.
“It’s fine,” I said, sliding my sunglasses back up my nose and pulling my hat down a little more.
The children were making a ruckus and the mothers seemed to be having a whale of a time, too. Jeanie had actually climbed inside a sack and pulled it up to her waist and was hopping across the lawn attempting to teach her son how to do the race without falling flat on his face each time. Clarissa was racing with her two daughters back and forth down the racetrack with an egg balanced on a spoon and her girls were winning every time. When the whistle blew they all quieted down and were told to arrange themselves by sport and age.
“I love to see the children like this,” Dolly said. “All energized and allowed to be kids for a while. They are expected to act like little grown-ups half the time.”
“Why did you never want to have children, Dolly?”
“Oh, Clark and I were too old when we met and married. Well, I suppose if we’d gotten right down to business we could have had one child, but we just wanted to have fun. And we did have fun, lots of it; we still do.” She absently smoothed the ribbon tails of a rosette. “It’s far too late for us now, but it’s probably for the best.”
I nodded, watching the first set of children get in position for the relay race.
“What about you, darling?” she said. “Any improvements in the bedroom and the baby making?”
“Oh.” I tried to be upbeat, but it sounded false and tiresome. “Not really.”
“Honey, it’s so hard to make love if you’re not in love.” I tried to protest, but I ended up just shaking my head. “Unless, of course, he’s a dashing young thing.” She laughed. “Then it’s somehow easy as pie.”
The relay was in full swing and Dol
ly gathered up her first round of ribbons. “This is the fun part.”
* * *
That afternoon while the children took naps and played at the pool and the adults lounged at the beach or out on the boats, I sat on the green overlooking the Long Island Sound. It had been twenty-four hours since I had broken into the lighthouse and the embarrassing incident had been constantly on my mind. Without pausing to question why, I found myself devising ways to go back. I should apologize for barging into Thomas’s house; I wanted a chance to explain myself and not come off as some crazy intruder.
Not more than an hour later I borrowed a bicycle from the Manor and rode through town and along the Napeague Stretch almost all the way to Amagansett. I leaned it against a tall oak tree at the farm’s roadside stand, which I’d seen on my first drive into Montauk from the city. My legs burned from the bike ride and I still had to make the return journey, but I felt compelled to make this right. Thomas probably thought of me as just another one of the Manor folk and I felt an overwhelming need to prove him wrong. I don’t know why I cared what he thought of me, but I did. I’d drop off a peace offering, a basket of food perhaps, just to smooth things over.
The farm stand was spilling over with vegetables, red tomatoes on the vine, bunches of slim, green asparagus tied with twine, yellow and green zucchini, baskets of spinach and strings of herbs hanging from the slanted wooden roof. In a separate cart there were cheeses, and preserves and all sorts of baked goods. It would almost seem a shame to disturb anything, displayed so beautifully.
“Good mornin’.” An older woman’s cheery plump face peeked out from behind the vegetable cart.
“Hello there,” I said.
“What can I get you? The corn was picked this mornin’; the strawberries are ready to eat. I’ve got fresh-baked bread ’round here and pies, peach cobbler, berry pie.…”
“Thank you, I need to make up a basket,” I said.
“A picnic basket? Lovely,” she said. “It’s the perfect evening for it.”
“Oh n-n-o, it’s nothing like that,” I stammered.
“I know just what you need,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
The lady returned with a wicker picnic basket and placed it in the front carrier of my bicycle to make sure it fit; then she took her time selecting the ripest box of strawberries, then tomatoes, arranging them carefully, next looking about her for what else to add.
She wrapped a small Pullman loaf in brown paper and cut an assortment of cheeses from a tray that she had brought from the farmhouse.
“How about one of these?” I said, pointing to a small blackberry pie.
“Perfect.”
She finished off the basket with a small bunch of sunflowers, tied in place with string across the top.
As I opened my change purse, she placed a hand on mine. “What will you be drinkin’?”
I hesitated.
“My husband makes his own wine. We sell a few bottles.”
She turned before I could think what to say, and when she bustled back from the house she was grinning and carrying a small jug of something; two jelly jars tucked under her arm. After taking the payment from me, she followed me back to the tall oak, where she helped me place the basket and myself on the bicycle.
“Good luck,” she said.
“Oh really, it’s nothing like that. I don’t need luck.”
“I meant on the ride back.” She nodded toward the bike. “You’ve got some extra weight on there now, miss.”
“Right, right, I’ll be fine,” I called back as I rode away slightly unsteady, wobbling, but managing to straighten up and gain my balance after I pedaled a few times. When I eventually felt sturdy I raised one hand to wave.
* * *
I arrived at the foot of the pathway to the lighthouse a little after six o’clock in the evening.
“A peace offering?” I said, holding up the picnic basket when Thomas answered the door. “For breaking and entering.” I had rehearsed what to say blindly, not knowing if this visit was something I needed or instead a reckless mistake. Thomas looked startled by the sight of me and I had a sudden sinking feeling that it was a terrible idea and I should quickly turn around and leave.
“I should be waving the white flag,” he said. “I was the one who almost knocked you senseless. How’s the eye?”
I lifted the sunglasses, completely unnecessary at this time of day, but which I’d been hiding behind since morning. “Not too bad.” I smiled uncertainly.
“Not too good either,” he said, lifting my chin and touching the purple moon shape gently with his thumb. “Geez.…” After a moment’s pause he opened the door all the way and stepped back to let me in.
I walked in slowly and felt my stomach drop as I passed him; what was I even doing here? Yet I kept going down the hallway, hearing him close the door and follow behind me.
“Have you already eaten?”
“No.”
“Would you like to?”
“That’s very kind. I usually eat in the kitchen,” he said, “but it’s not often that I have company and it’s hot and muggy down there today.
“Follow me,” he said, taking the basket and leading me down the corridor that connected the house to the base of the lighthouse. I swallowed hard and rubbed my sweaty hands together feeling grateful for his warmth and kindness toward me. We kept going out a back door, down a grassy pathway, past the oil room and toward the bluffs. A lone wooden table and chairs sat a few feet from the edge of the cliff and we walked toward it. His hair was wet and brushed back from his face, his clean white undershirt tight against his body and now and then I got a hint of lemon-scented soap as if he’d just bathed. He looked rugged and outdoorsy, weathered, not polished and artificial like Harry sometimes looked in his freshly pressed suit, his hair slicked with brilliantine.
“This was kind of you,” he said when we reached the table.
“Well, I actually owe you a steak, since you wasted yours on my eye.”
“Oh, that?” he said. “I cooked that up.” He grinned and I couldn’t tell if he was joking.
We arranged everything on the table, I cut up the tomatoes and laid out the cheeses and bread. I set the strawberries and blackberry pie at the other end of the table for dessert. I was pleased with the selection. Thomas picked up the jug of wine and unstopped the cork.
“We don’t have to drink it, obviously,” I said.
“Why waste a good bottle of wine?” he said, pouring two servings into the jelly jars. He raised his to mine, then took a swig.
“So what’s all this about?”
“What I said earlier, a peace offering.”
“You want more information? For the article?”
The article. I hadn’t even thought about it since our conversation, nor had I thought about any further questions. I’d been so taken aback by the events the previous day that I’d almost forgotten about my claim to be a reporter.
“Well, you did say I should come back and climb the steps,” I said, suddenly remembering his suggestion.
“Yes, during visitor hours.” He laughed.
I shrugged. “I thought that was right now.”
“Persuasive. What else do you want to know?” he asked. “For the interview?”
“Oh, we don’t have to continue the interview now; we can finish it another time,” I said, trying to buy myself time. I couldn’t believe I was in this situation again, totally unprepared. He looked at me, waiting, and all I could think of were questions that I personally wanted to know the answer to. I wanted to ask what it was like to be alone up there at the lighthouse all the time. What had happened with his wife? I wanted to ask about the picture of the boy in the bedroom, how long he’d known Elizabeth and her husband, how it had been in the war, but nothing seemed appropriate or relevant to the supposed article.
I racked my brain for more predictable questions, but nothing suitable came to mind.
“Have you always lived here alone?” I ask
ed finally.
He seemed serious, as if he had seen more than most, and hardened somehow. Small creases formed in the corners of his eyes, and a single shallow line ran across his forehead, the brown-grey beginnings of a beard, and a mouth that intrigued me.
“I don’t really like to include personal information in these types of things,” he said. “I just work here.”
“Of course,” I said.
“I don’t mind talking to you; I just don’t want it in the news.”
“I understand completely,” I said. I wanted to tell him to forget about the article, nothing was going in the newspaper. I had probably horrified Mr. Rosen with that diaper explosion story and had no idea if he would want a story about life at the lighthouse. It was hardly fashion and gossip. I wanted to tell Thomas he could talk to me about anything and I wouldn’t tell a soul.
“How about you?” he asked.
“Me?” I realized I was holding my breath.
“Yeah, did you marry? Any family?”
I looked up at him and forced a smile, hoping he wouldn’t push me to explain. “It just hasn’t happened yet. My husband is…” I stopped myself; I didn’t want to talk about Harry.
“Injured?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. He’s just not around all that often.”
He nodded and took another swig of his wine.
“He’s busy, you know, with work and such.…”
“Is he good to you?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” I said; then, shrugging my shoulders, “In some ways ‘yes’ and some ways ‘no.’ But isn’t that how it is for married people?”
“Sure,” he said, “sometimes, but not always.”
We sat for a while and both looked out to the horizon. I felt him glance at me from time to time.
“Do you ever get used to it, the ocean? Do you ever stop hearing it?” I asked.
“There’s not one day that I don’t marvel at that sea, and admire her power. Those waves are a constant rhythm in my mind; they’re part of me. I left the sea once for about a year, thought I needed a change, a break from all this solitude.” He looked up at me as if to check if I was listening. “But I missed the ocean. I can’t imagine ever leaving her again.”
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