The Keeper of Dawn

by Hickman, J. B.

  A small yacht passed through the ferry’s wake to pull along our starboard side. There they were—Chris, Roland and Derek—hardly recognizable in their street clothes and dark sunglasses. A girl wearing a blue bandana manned the wheel, and a second girl with dirty blond hair—probably Holly, Derek’s girl—sat beside her. The sight of them was proof that their plan had worked. Holly and her older sister had picked them up at the beach. I was stuck boarding the ferry since one of us had to forge their signatures. My reward was the privilege of riding shotgun all the way to Greenwich.

  When Holly looked over and waved, it was like an electric charge had been set off aboard the ferry. Suddenly there was a crowd around me with everyone pushing to get a better look. There were shouts and whistles; even the ferry sounded its horn. The girls’ jackets concealed all but their smiles and long hair, but it was enough to reawaken a thrill that left me clinging to the railing. It had been so long since I had seen a girl my own age, and they were somehow better than I remembered.

  I was watching Chris. He was shouting something to Roland and Derek. Then they stood up, turned from the ferry, and in one quick motion, bent over and pulled down their pants. Holly screamed and covered her face; the girl driving looked back and smiled. Everyone onboard the ferry was laughing.

  After they had pulled their pants up, Roland turned and bowed graciously. Then Chris made a forward motion with his arm and the yacht sped ahead. With the incident over, the area around me cleared out. Still smiling, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to find a short, pudgy boy looking up at me through thick glasses.

  “Thought I might find you here,” Benjamin said.

  “Just enjoying the weather,” I said, stuffing my hands in my leather jacket.

  “It never takes long for the cold to find Rhode Island,” he said, squinting into the wind. “You going back to Long Island?”

  “I’m spending the week at Derek’s, in Greenwich.”

  He nodded, his eyes watching the horizon.

  “I’m sure your parents are happy to get you back,” I said.

  “Yeah, I guess,” came the sullen reply. And as if it required a tremendous effort, he looked back at Raker Island. Though we shared little other than circumstance, it had been enough to form a bond, strengthened by rejection, forged by tears in the dark. Benjamin might have distanced himself, but he couldn’t hide what was in his eyes.

  “I won’t be coming back, Jacob,” he said, still looking across the water. “My grandma’s in a nursing home now, so Mother has time to teach again.” He made a valiant attempt at smiling. “I was going to tell you earlier, when I was packing, but …”

  Not sure what to say, we fell into an uncomfortable silence, content to watch Miskapaug’s slow approach. The town had changed since I had last seen it. The tourist shops had closed with the change of seasons. A stillness inhabited the seaside streets like the town had gone into hibernation. The pier was the only exception, where a crowd of parents awaited the return of their wayward sons.

  We said a hurried goodbye that left me feeling unworthy of his friendship. Didn’t we have something more to say? I watched as Benjamin descended the stairs, skirted the edge of the crowd, and retrieved his bag from the attendant. I hung at the back of the crowd, doing my best to avoid the parent-son reunion. I thought of Father’s simple handshake and quiet words, and was grateful my parents hadn’t come.

  Ms. Cartwright stood on the pier between two men in dark suits, nervously flipping through the signature list. She shook her head and showed them the clipboard, very likely pointing at Chris’ signature that I had forged. Chris had feared his father would send “a few of his goons” to escort him home, and with good reason. He had tried to run before.

  I shouldered through the crowd and walked the three blocks to the Bayside Theater, our agreed upon rendezvous. I didn’t have to wait long before a cherry red Mustang pulled up and the four of us rode out of town.

  CHAPTER 12: WHITHER MUST I WANDER?

  We reached the Mayhew Estate by way of a narrow lane on the outskirts of town. Elm trees, placed at such regular intervals that we never entirely left their shade, flanked the road, the dull yellows and browns of early autumn mottling their leaves. By the time we reached the three-story Gothic Revival mansion that crowned the hilltop, the length of the drive and cover of foliage made it feel like we had left Greenwich far behind.

  The home had been built by an Austrian count of Hapsburg lineage. After fleeing his homeland during the First World War, the count oversaw much of the estate’s construction, including planting the Avenue of Elms and shipping the home’s stately furniture from Europe. The estate stayed in the family until 1975, the year Anna-Magdalena, the count’s widow and a woman greatly admired throughout the community, died peacefully in her sleep.

  The ground floor was occupied by a succession of dazzling chambers, each as enormous and ornate as the last. Built for European nobility, the rooms were as beautiful as they were unlivable. The furniture—all of it dark, heavy wood that looked like it had been pulled out of a cathedral—were the original pieces brought over from Austria. Being much too large for all but the most magnificent homes, and too monstrously heavy to move, the furniture had remained in the house when the Mayhews moved in.

  We were introduced to Derek’s three older brothers—Zack, Todd and Travis—on the second floor where the furniture was considerably smaller and more modern. Handshakes, slaps on the back, and even a bear hug took place as they welcomed Derek home.

  Todd was loud, authoritative, always talking on the phone, his Adam’s apple protruding from his broad neck like a chiseled arrowhead. Travis was jovial and laid-back, shouting a string of profanities at the Michigan-Notre Dame game on TV. The only time he got up was to jump on Derek’s back, which started a wrestling match that ended in Derek pinning his older brother to the floor. This would be the first of many wrestling bouts between the brothers, who were constantly testing their strength against one another. Later that night, an inebriated Travis would grab Roland from behind and hoist him in the air. Startled, Roland hung there like a lifeless doll until Travis got bored and set him back down.

  Zack, Derek’s oldest brother, happened into the room with a .22 caliber rifle slung over his shoulder. “Hey, aren’t you the son of that governor?” he asked Chris, taking a bite out of an apple.

  “That depends,” Chris said.

  “On what?”

  “On if you’re a left-wing Commie bastard who plans on shooting me with that .22,” Chris replied.

  “Quite the opposite,” Zack said, his broad grin revealing a sliver of apple peel. “I always vote Republican.”

  “You wouldn’t if you knew the dirt I had on the Governor.”

  “Everybody’s got dirt on their old man.”

  “Ain’t that the truth. What’cha hunting?”

  “This? Oh, it’s just for shits and giggles. Here, let me show ya.”

  Zack led us over to the French windows that overlooked a crescent-shaped swimming pool in the rear of the house. Surrounding its perimeter were stone statues of the Greek deities.

  “Popped one right after the other,” he said, pointing to a pair of dead sparrows by the pool. “The second one was too stupid to fly away.” He laughed and took a loud bite out of his apple.

  Roland looked stunned, but Derek just shrugged and said, “Zack’s a sniper.”

  “You partial to birds?” Chris asked.

  “Anything that moves,” Zack said.

  “So squirrels are free game?”

  “Absolutely. I’ve been hunting one all morning.”

  “Then this is your shining moment, Ace,” Chris said, positioning himself behind Zack. “Your next victim just so happens to be sitting on Artemis’ shoulder.”

  “Who?” Zack asked, gripping the gun with both hands.

  Chris pointed over Zack’s shoulder to a statue of a woman aiming a bow skyward. A small squirrel sat on her right shoulder, both paws held to its mouth as if
in prayer.

  Zack slowly raised the gun, bringing the barrel level with Chris’ arm. But then the squirrel scurried behind Artemis’ head, leaving its bushy tail curled around the statue’s throat like a necklace of grey fur.

  “Patience,” Chris whispered.

  Zack remained motionless, his eye pressed to the gun’s scope.

  Everyone in the room crowded around the window, eyes transfixed on the statue. The only noise was the football game playing in the background. Then, proceeding with caution, the squirrel scurried to the top of Artemis’ helmeted head.

  CRACK!

  Everyone flinched. The squirrel dropped to the ground, nearly falling into the pool, and I realized Zack had missed his mark only when it doubled-back and shot into the bushes.

  “DAMN!” Zack shouted, knocking over the chair. “Damn! He was mine. All mine!”

  Everyone groaned their disappointment.

  “Dumbass,” Todd said. “You shot the statue’s nose off. Mom is gonna kill you when she finds out.”

  “Well she’s not gonna find out,” Zack said. “She never even goes out there.”

  “Then maybe I’ll tell her.”

  “Then maybe I’ll shoot your nose off.”

  This led to yet another wrestling match, during which Derek took us down to the pool. “She needed a nose job anyway,” Chris said, examining Artemis’ face. Zeus and Hades stood nearby; Hercules and Dionysus faced off from the other side; at the far end, Poseidon rose from the water, brandishing his trident. Derek looked at the mutilated statue with a knowing smile, as if to say, “Zack’s done it again.” Roland kept his eye on the second-story window, perhaps fearing that the barrel of a gun was bearing down on him. Before we left, he scooted the dead sparrows under a bush with his foot.

  Derek led us on a brief tour of the estate. There were flower gardens, formal gardens, an orchard, a greenhouse no longer in use, a stable and adjoining pastures, two spring-fed ponds, and a reflecting pool. A black lab named Shadow accompanied us, at ease in her regal surroundings.

  The tour ended with an introduction to Wolfgang and Strauss. Derek led us back to the library, talking like the famous conductors were still alive and performing for the Mayhews. Two hyacinth macaws were perched in separate cages, their bright tails standing out in the drab library. Wolfgang and Strauss had belonged to the previous owners. No one knew their exact age, but they were rumored to have been alive before the estate was built. Derek told us that in the final year of her life, Anna-Magdalena, suspecting that her beloved pets would outlive her, had it written in her will that whoever purchased the estate would care for the birds. The Mayhews were more than happy to oblige, though it wasn’t until after they had moved in that they learned how ill-tempered the macaws had become in their old age. But what they lacked in congeniality, they made up for with an extensive vocabulary. Over the years, Anna-Magdalena had read many of the books in her extensive collection to her children. These readings had always taken place in the library, with Wolfgang and Strauss repeating bits and pieces of what they overheard. Anna-Magdalena’s favorite author had been Charles Dickens, and she had continued reading his novels aloud even after her children had died, partly out of habit, but also because it kept the English language fresh in her mind.

  Much to Derek’s disappointment, the birds were fast asleep. The only time they moved was to crack open an eye when we approached their tall cages. This changed, however, the moment Zack entered the room.

  “Hey, Todd is looking for you,” he told Derek. He had a beer in one hand and the .22 in the other.

  Both birds immediately became alert. Strauss began pacing back and forth; Wolfgang fluttered his wings.

  “What about?” Derek asked.

  “Didn’t say,” Zack said, taking a drink. “You showing ‘em Tweedledee and Tweedledum?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t get them to talk.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem.”

  As soon as Zack approached Wolfgang’s cage, the agitated bird let out two piercing chirps that echoed from the vaulted ceiling. “He’s sick to me!” the bird shrieked. “Two legs, two legs! REEEE! REEEE!”

  “Man, I forgot how much they hate you,” Derek said, laughing.

  “The feeling is mutual,” Zack said. He finished his beer and tossed the empty can into the fireplace. Then he reached forward and gave Wolfgang’s cage a good shake. The bird reared his wings back and lunged his beak at Zack’s fingers, but Zack moved his hand just in time.

  “Starting talk!” Strauss chirped. “His talk come again! Wolfgang teaching talk! REEEE! REEEE!”

  “Not so fast, are ya?” Zack continued to tease Wolfgang, repositioning his hands and giving the cage another shake.

  “I’m surprised you still have all your fingers,” Chris said, looking amused.

  “They’re too slow. And stupid. Aren’t ya? Aren’t ya, stupid?” Zack shook the cage again.

  “More! I want some more!” shrieked Wolfgang, his talons scurrying over his perch. “Please sir, replied Oliver, I want some more!”

  “I’ll give ya some more, featherhead!” Zack taunted. “They go on and on like this. Who knows what the hell they’re talking about.” Then he shook his gun at the caged animals. “I’d shoot ‘em both if I could.”

  Out of friendship toward Derek, I had silenced my mother’s criticisms that so quickly came to mind. I had never been to Greenwich before, but thanks to Mother, I already knew what the neighbors were thinking. If the sporadic gunfire hadn’t kept them away, the unspoken rules of established families surely had. Even the two opinionated macaws seemed to be aware that something was out of sorts.

  “Come again! Come again!” shrieked Wolfgang.

  “Yeah!” Zack shouted. “Let’s get this party started!”

  People started to arrive after dinner, filling the cavernous rooms with a college-aged crowd. We sat in the over-sized furniture of the formal room, content to watch the guests arrive. Girl after girl swung open the walnut-paneled doors and crossed the Italian marble entryway to the rear of the house as if magnetically pulled by the reverberating bass of the music.

  As much as Chris and Derek bragged about sex, it seemed uncharacteristic for them not to socialize. Perhaps all the dry, sexless weeks at Wellington had rendered them numb. It was enough to sit and watch; we needed something to push us back into the social norm. Alcohol seemed the perfect solution. Drinks were served poolside from a swan-shaped, crystal punchbowl. We lingered by the stereo before migrating downstairs to a mahogany bar to watch Derek’s cousins shoot pool.

  “A Cuban?” Roland asked when Chris pulled out a cigar.

  “No idea.” He smiled devilishly. “Lifted it from a guy outside.” He closed his eyes and ran the cigar beneath his nose. “You want half?”

  “You know I can’t,” Roland said.

  “Not a smoker?” Derek asked.

  “I promised my father I’d smoke my first with him if I get accepted into West Point.”

  “What do you mean if?” Chris asked. “The day General Van Belle’s only son doesn’t get into West Point is the day this country renounces its red, white and blue.”

  “My father doesn’t believe in favoritism. If I get in, it’s by my own merit,” Roland said, his eyes watery from the punch.

  “I can’t picture Roland at the Point,” Derek said after Roland had left for the bathroom.

  “You heard the deal about sealing letters with blood, right?” Chris said, slicing the tip off his cigar. “All true. His father’s a born soldier. It wouldn’t surprise me if he slept in his uniform. The man’s a legend at West Point. They say the men in his platoon didn’t mind dying for him one bit.”

  “I’ve heard horror stories about that place,” Derek said, shaking his head.

  “Boys go in, and men come out ready to die for their country,” Chris said, lighting his cigar. “And then there’s Roland. Last year his old man enrolled him in a military school in upstate New York. He lasted three weeks befo
re his mother pulled him out. And you have to know Mrs. Van Belle to appreciate that. She doesn’t even speak unless given permission. No one disobeys orders in that family. Roland never talked about what happened. Not even to me, and he tells me everything.”

  It baffled me that Roland was the product of such a strict military family. He had witnessed the far-flung, inflamed corners of the globe—military camps of West Berlin, soldiers marching at dawn in South Korea, weary veterans returning home from Southeast Asia. But if these experiences had left their mark, it was only on the surface. Instead of telling Mr. O’Leary’s class of Vietnam or the Blood of Kings, Roland talked of his friendship with a Jesuit priest from South Africa, which had left the classroom too confused to form an opinion. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t see an ounce of soldier in him. Roland Van Belle III was tragically incompetent, and I admired him greatly for it.

  When he returned, Derek wisely changed the subject by asking if we had seen Samantha.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Samantha,” Derek said, sounding insulted. “You know, the girl next door.”

  How could I forget? He had talked about her for nearly the entire ride to Greenwich.

  “Have I showed you this?” he asked, unfolding a picture. It depicted a model in a camisole and metallic skirt walking down a runway. “It was taken in Milan.”

  Chris whistled. “Damn. You don’t fool around.”

  “This girl is going to be here?” Roland asked. “Tonight?”

  “Yep,” Derek said.

  “She shouldn’t be too hard to spot,” I said.

  “All right, back off. I don’t want any drool on it. Just tell me if you see her.”

  “You better hope I don’t. You won’t stand a chance,” Chris said, which earned him a slug in the shoulder.

  While Chris and Derek went to look for Samantha, Roland and I played an embarrassingly long game of pool. It finally ended when I scratched on the 8-ball. By then our drinks were empty and the room had cleared out, so we headed up for a refill.