A Ring of Endless Light

by Madeleine L'engle

  "But if the boat hadn't capsized--"

  "The heart attack could have happened while he was weeding the garden," Daddy said. "Adam is right."

  I could see that Suzy was dying to ask Adam what his personal experience had been, and I knew that John, if not Mother and Daddy, would jump on her if she did. I guess she knew that, too, because she turned away without saying anything more.

  Grandfather pulled himself up from the couch, sliding Ned from his lap. "Excuse me a minute. I won't be long." He walked toward the kitchen, Ned following and rubbing against his legs. Mother's always been worried about Ned tripping him, but Grandfather says that he and Ned know each other's ways. "You all right, Father?" Mother's voice was calm, but there was anxiety under it. And I noticed that Grandfather was walking more slowly than he used to.

  "Just want to get something," he called back.

  "He wants to read us something from a book, I'll bet," I explained to Adam. "Whenever we have an argument about anything, Grandfather has something in a book that settles it, or at least makes us ask some new questions. And in spite of all his books, he knows exactly in which stall and on what shelf every single one is, and what's in it."

  "What'll it be this time?" Mother asked.

  "Shakespeare," Suzy said.

  "Einstein," John said.

  "Could be the Bible," Daddy added.

  Grandfather came out with a paperback book. "It's by Elie Wiesel." He riffled through the pages. "It's not quite as pertinent as I thought, but it will do. Adam thus bequeathed us his death, not his sin ... We do not inherit the sins of our fathers, even though we may be made to endure their punishment. Guilt cannot be transmitted. We are linked to Adam only by his memory, which becomes our own, and by his death, which foreshadows our own. Not by his sin."

  "Hey, I like that; that's interesting." Adam's face lit up. "What's the book, sir?" he asked.

  "Messengers of God, about some of the Old Testament characters, not only your--" He frowned slightly. "You're Adam's namesake. What's he to you? What's the opposite of namesake?" He rubbed the heel of his hand across his forehead. "I can't think, I can't think--"

  I saw Mother looking at him worriedly. "It'll probably come to you at two in the morning, Father."

  He nodded. "It's a fascinating book, though there are some sections I'd love to argue with him, especially when he writes about what Christians think, which by and large is far from what I think." He turned a few pages. "Here's something else in the Adam chapter that I like. Listen well, young Adam. He had the courage to get up and begin anew ... As long as he lived ... victory belonged not to death, but to him ... It is not given to man to begin; that privilege is God's alone. But it is given to man to begin again--and he does so every time he chooses to defy death and side with the living."

  A shadow seemed to move across Adam's face. Then: "I learned that the hard way, but I learned it. Hey, may I borrow that book?"

  "How'd you--" Suzy started.

  John shut her up by cutting across her words. "When I'm through with it."

  Unrepressed, Suzy said, "And all this stuff about man being privileged to start again is very sexist. What about women?"

  Mother laughed. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Father, but doesn't the Bible say, So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female?"

  "That's right," Grandfather corroborated.

  "So we females are half of mankind, Suzy, and don't let inverse sexism cheat you of your fair share."

  "Oh--okay." She did not sound convinced.

  "So," I ventured, "maybe Zachary can begin again?"

  "I doubt it," John muttered.

  "Give him a chance, John," Mother said.

  "Nancy Rodney's doing that, isn't she?" Grandfather said. "If she can give him a chance, I think the rest of us can, too."

  I looked at him gratefully. "She's giving Zachary a chance, and she's beginning again herself, in going back to nursing. It ought to be going forward to nursing, oughtn't it?"

  Grandfather had been turning the pages. "One more thing. This is for young Leo." He looked about, as though surprised at not finding Leo, then turned back to the book. "Suffering, in Jewish tradition, confers no privileges. It all depends on what one makes of that suffering. It is possible to suffer and despair an entire lifetime and still not give up the art of laughter."

  Adam was looking at Grandfather, his lips slightly parted. He seemed to be taking what Grandfather read very personally, and I was as curious as Suzy.

  "Wiesel knew what he was talking about," Grandfather said. "He survived the hell of Nazi concentration camps and the loss of almost everyone he loved, and yet he somehow or other kept the gift of laughter."

  "Oh, wow," Suzy said. "Jacky's going to do okay. We had a good time today in spite of--of everything. And we laughed some, too."

  "Leo and I--" I started, and didn't have to finish, because Suzy said, "I thought you didn't like Leo."

  "I didn't. Until today. He's not nearly as much of a slob as I thought. We had a good time. We really did. But we didn't do much laughing."

  "Tears need to come first," Grandfather said softly, just to me. How did he know? He went on, speaking to everybody, "Who was it who said, It was by the force of gravity that Satan fell?" Again he pushed the palm of his hand against his forehead. "I'm losing my memory ..."

  John spoke lightly. "Join the club."

  Grandfather dropped his hand to his knee. "Gravity and levity--wherever there's laughter, there is heaven. Real laughter, that is, not scornful or cynical laughter." He handed John the book. "Here. But I want it back when you're through."

  "I'm very reliable about returning books. And I'll vouch for Adam. That is, I'll see to it that he gives it back when he's through."

  "I'm pretty reliable about books, too," Adam assured him.

  "Look!" Suzy pointed, and there was Rob, curled up beside Rochester in the corner, sound asleep.

  Daddy laughed. "We can hardly blame him. That was pretty heavy conversation for a seven-year-old."

  "Or a thirteen-year-old," Suzy commented.

  "You held your own." Adam smiled at her.

  Maybe it was a pretty heavy conversation for a lot of people, but it didn't seem to bother Adam, and that made my heart lift.

  The buzzer in the kitchen rang, loud and shrill.

  "Come help me, Vicky," Mother said, and we went into the kitchen.

  When we gathered around the table, with the candles lit under the hurricane globes, we all held hands and sang grace. I wondered how Adam would feel, but I looked down at the table and not across at him. And then I heard his voice, and he was singing with John, in a good, strong baritone.

  I wondered if we were really as peculiar a family as Zachary thought. On the other hand, I didn't think Zachary and his family were that average, either. Our family is our family and I've always taken us completely for granted, and I was glad Adam seemed to take us for granted, too, us kids, and our parents, and our grandfather, who talked about gravity and levity and heaven and all the things Zachary said nobody talked about.

  I looked up and Adam was eating and Suzy was asking him something about his family.

  He reached for the Parmesan and spooned it liberally onto his spaghetti. "I'm an only, and since both my parents are academics, I've lived pretty exclusively in an adult world. I think I missed out on a lot." And he smiled on us all.

  "What are you working on this summer?" Daddy asked Adam.

  "Oh, I do have a project going, and like John, I'm a general bottle washer. This is my summer for no excitement whatsoever. And I hope those aren't famous last words."

  "I hope not, too," Mother said. "We've all had enough excitement to last us a long time."

  John explained, "Adam's much more than a bottle washer; that's me. He's into other bottles, the bottle-nosed dolphin."

  "I thought you were working on starfish," Daddy said. "Didn't you work with Dr. O'Keefe last summer?"

  "Yes, s
ir. But this summer I've asked if I can do a special project."

  Suzy asked, "Are the dolphins in pens?"

  "For a while. Jeb--Dr. Nutteley, my boss--never keeps them penned for more than six months. Then he lets them back out to sea."

  "You mean so they won't be corrupted?"

  "This is Suzy's year to be down on humanity," John said.

  "If humanity can club a thousand innocent porpoises to death, do you wonder I'm down on it?" Suzy demanded.

  I saw Adam wince and knew he felt as terrible about the porpoises as Suzy did.

  "Nature isn't all that pure and noble," John told her.

  "Isn't it?"

  "Nature is red in tooth and claw."

  "Who says?"

  "Alfred Lord Tennyson. And it's true."

  "That still doesn't excuse clubbing porpoises and being greedy about oil and wars and murder and pollution and everything people do."

  Adam looked at her thoughtfully. "There've been, and still are, some pretty good people, Suzy."

  "A few."

  "It's those few who make it all worthwhile. Like my boss this summer, for instance. The Marine Biology Station is loosely connected to the Coast Guard, but Jeb Nutteley isn't having anything to do with experiments which would manipulate dolphins, or use them in ways that are contrary to their nature."

  "Like what?" Suzy demanded.

  Adam paused, as though deciding what to say. "Well--not by the Coast Guard but other agencies, there've been experiments in training dolphins to detect submarines, which maybe is all right. But there've also been experiments in training dolphins to carry a bomb to an enemy submarine, to blow it up, a kamikaze act."

  Suzy let out a yelp of outrage.

  "It's vile," Adam agreed. "And Dr. Nutteley won't have anything to do with that kind of thing. Experiments in using dolphins to save life is something else again. If a dolphin can lead us to a ship in distress, or a lifeboat with people in it who need to be rescued, that's okay."

  "What about dolphin shows," Mother asked, "where they jump through hoops and play baseball and do tricks?"

  "It's not as bad as clubbing them," Suzy said. "But isn't it sort of ig--ig--"

  "Ignominious?" John suggested.

  "Yeah. Humiliating."

  "I'm not sure," Adam replied. "I've given it a good bit of thought--or at least Jeb Nutteley has, though we don't teach the dolphins any tricks. We're just trying to learn how to communicate with them. But do you think it's ignominious or humiliating for a ballet dancer to dance in public? Or an actor to perform? Or for a musician to give a concert? The dolphins do seem to enjoy being performers; according to Jeb, they really get a lot of fun out of it. Hey, if anybody urged me I'd have another helping of spaghetti. And some of that super salad."

  I was glad I'd made the salad.

  Mother filled his plate with spaghetti and sauce and passed him the salad, but Suzy wasn't about to be deflected. "Adam, could I come over and see the dolphins?"

  Adam hesitated.

  And Rob was asking, "Me, too?"

  Adam twirled spaghetti skillfully around the tines of his fork. "Maybe I'd better ask you one at a time. One of our dolphins is about to pup and Jeb doesn't encourage mobs of visitors."

  "Then could I come? Please?" Suzy looked all golden and fringed gentian eyes, and at thirteen she was (as Zachary had once pointed out) way ahead of me.

  So I wasn't prepared to have Adam say, calmly and firmly, "I think next week, Suzy. I'd already planned to ask Vicky to come over tomorrow." He looked across the table at me. "Okay?"

  "Sure. Yes. I'd love to. I'm not a scientist like Suzy and John--but I'd absolutely love to."

  Grandfather smiled on me. "You can write a new poem for me. I very much like the one you wrote this afternoon, Victoria."

  Grandfather never calls me Victoria. Victoria is Mother, and I'm Vicky, so there won't be any confusion. I looked at Mother and Mother was looking at Grandfather. And Grandfather's hand had gone up to his forehead again.

  But Adam asked with interest, "So you're a poet?"

  "Not yet. Maybe one day. I sometimes write verses."

  "You know what, that doesn't surprise me. When we get to know each other a little better, I'll ask to see some of your poems, okay?"

  Poems are private, and I appreciated his wanting to wait. That was nice, really nice.

  Daddy pushed back a little from the table. "If we all pitch in and do the dishes, we'll have time for some singing. Go get your guitar, Victoria, and the kids and I'll take the dishes out to the kitchen."

  It didn't take us all that long. Grandfather doesn't have a dishwasher, but the men brought everything out to the kitchen and I washed and John dried and Suzy and Daddy put things away and Rob and Adam wiped off the table and the counter.

  And then we were back on the porch, to catch whatever ocean breeze came across the water on this hot night. Rob's hair was damp with heat.

  "If it's like this at the ocean, what do you suppose it's like in the city?" Daddy asked the world at large. "Guitar tuned, Victoria?"

  "Adequately." Mother twiddled the little knob for one of the strings. "There. That's better. What'll we start with?"

  "You start," Daddy said. "How about Come unto these yellow sands?"

  When Mother had finished, nobody said anything. I was sitting on the floor by Grandfather's couch, leaning back against it. Daddy and Rob were on the swing. John and Adam had their chairs titled back, leaning against the porch rail. Suzy sat on the floor near Mother. The fan whirred slowly above us, stirring the sluggish air. A moth beat its pale wings against the screen. There was no need for words.

  Mother plucked a few chords, then sang another song from one of Shakespeare's plays, When that I was and a little tiny boy. She'd sung us those songs as lullabies, and we all loved them. They made me feel safe and comforted and secure.

  When she put down her guitar this time, Adam said, "Mrs. Austin, that's tremendous! You could have been a professional!"

  "She was," Suzy told him proudly. "She sang in a night club."

  "Very briefly." Mother smiled. "I met your father and that was the end of my career."

  "But it didn't have to be." Suzy was vehement. "You could have gone on if you'd wanted to. Daddy didn't make you stop."

  "Of course he didn't, Suzy. I stopped singing in public because I made other choices. And"--as though to answer Suzy's unspoken but almost audible arguments--"they were my own choices. Society didn't force them on me; neither did your father. It's inverse sexism again not to allow me the freedom to make the choice I did."

  Daddy laughed. "Victoria, I do love you when you get up on the soapbox."

  "And other times, too, I hope." Mother laughed back.

  Suzy continued her own train of thought. "Mrs. Rodney's going back to nursing."

  Mrs. Rodney was going back to nursing largely because her husband was dead and she needed the money. But Leo had said she'd been thinking about it anyhow ...

  Mother said calmly, "I've sometimes wondered what I'll do when you kids are all out of the nest. But it won't be to go back to singing. I can put over a song, but I don't have a real voice. We'll just have to wait and see." She looked at Rob, leaning sleepily against Daddy. "I still have a few years before I have to worry. Okay, now, let's all sing together." Her fingers moved over the guitar strings again, the merry strains of The Arkansas Traveler.

  So we all joined in.

  And while we sang I remembered that Adam was going to introduce me to his dolphins the next day.

  And I wondered where Zachary was and what he was doing.

  Four

  In the morning I biked over to the station with John, my bathing suit rolled in a towel and stuffed in my wicker bike basket, because Adam had said something about maybe going for a swim.

  For the first time I found myself wishing I'd paid more attention to science in school and less to composition and music and things like that. I didn't know anything at all about dolphins, not even the d
ifference between a dolphin and a porpoise, though I thought that porpoise was a generic name which included several kinds of dolphins. At breakfast I'd thought of asking and then decided against it. Anything I was going to learn about cetaceans (as John called them) was going to have to come from Adam. My excitement about going on a date with Adam was very different from the way I felt when I went out with Zachary. With Zachary I was excited and nervous and somehow playing a role, almost like when we used to go up to the attic in Thornhill to the costume trunks and put on plays. With Zachary I wore at least an imaginary costume, because I was trying to live up to his expectations of me, and maybe that was why I felt uncomfortable with him at the same time that I was thrilled. And going out with Adam was even more different than going out with Leo. Leo was turning out to be human, but I didn't think doing something with Leo was going on a date.

  Adam was different from anybody I'd ever known. He wasn't spectacularly gorgeous, like Zachary, but he had a kind of light within that drew me to him like a moth to a candle. At the funeral his light was doused, and I felt a deep hurt within him, beyond the hurt caused by Commander Rodney's death. And then, when he talked about dolphins, he was alight and alive and I wanted to know why. And I didn't think this was going to be easy, because there was something--reticent, I guess is what I mean--about him.

  He was living in a kind of barracks, a long, grey building up on stilts, which would make it cool in summer and cold in winter. He was sitting on the steps, waiting for us. He had on cut-off blue jeans, and his legs were long and tan. Old sneakers, with the ties broken and knotted. A faded blue T-shirt. He smiled, and the light came on inside him.

  He jumped down the steps and came over to show me where to park my bike in the long rack in front of the lab, which was a building like the one he lived in. Inside the lab was a smell of ocean and fish and Bunsen burners. There were lots of tanks with various species of fish, and what seemed as many starfish as Grandfather has books. Most of them were growing arms: fascinating.

  John went off to the other end of the lab to check on a tank of lizards. I could see his boss, Dr. Nora Zand, talking to him in an excited way, and John was peering into the tank. Adam and I stood by a big tank in which there were a dozen or more starfish, each with an arm partly regenerated.

  "Wouldn't it be terrific," I suggested, "if people could do that? Then surgeons wouldn't have to pull out their knives so quickly."