Though I wasn’t sure when it happened, my feet had found the groove of Grandpa’s walking circle. My eyes never lifted from the chair. I was vaguely aware of the floorboard and tangled carpet passing beneath my feet. Staying on that track was as subconscious as walking itself. My eyes were transfixed to the center of the circle where a hobbled kitchen chair had once stood, to the place where the trunk of a massive tree now rose from the floor.
“An old oak,” I said. “An ancient oak that was cut down by the English settlers.”
“Very good,” the teacher said, sounding satisfied. “Very good indeed. Congratulations, Jake. I believe you have passed the test.”
But my feet were still moving.
“There’s more.”
“More?”
I was still circling and didn’t want to stop; couldn’t have stopped if I wanted to. “Yes, more. We’ve covered the past, now for the future.”
“Yes, of course. We mustn’t forget the future.”
“When the chair passes out of your hands, the new owner will keep the kitchen table and the rest of the chairs, but he won’t like this one.”
“It’s flawed.”
“It slants to one side. He’ll pitch it. It’ll end up …”
“In a junkyard,” the teacher said, beginning to walk the circle behind me. Or was he in front of me? We walked at the same thoughtful pace, our eyes never leaving the chair.
“Yes, a junkyard. Where a homeless man will see it one day and take it away.”
“In his shopping cart with wheels that wobble.”
“He’ll wheel it back and show it off to all his friends. He’ll sit on it in front of them …”
“Like a king of fools on his tottering throne.”
Round and round we went. Though I didn’t entirely understand it, we were pursuing something together. Was it the pursuit of each other? That endless pursuit of youth trailing behind wisdom, but losing something along the way, only realizing what was lost when the other had been obtained. Or was it the pursuit of creation? Whatever it was, there was no turning back, no turning around, no stopping or starting over. Round and round we went, like two orbiting planets contending the same star.
“But the chair won’t last long,” I said.
“It will get very cold one December night.”
“So cold that the homeless man and his friends won’t make it till morning.”
“Not without a fire.”
“So they break the chair up and set it ablaze.”
“And sit around it, holding up their gloved hands.”
“And they’ll tell stories about when they were young, when they had families and jobs.”
“And they will live to see the morning come …”
We stopped and looked across the circle at one another. Then I walked the remaining half-circle, coming up behind him. He smiled, looking me flush in the eye with an expression of fatherly pride.
“Jake,” he said, “I do believe you have a creative streak in you. We have created something from nothing … or at least, from not much at all. Electrifying, isn’t it? You never know quite where you’ll end up.”
I felt pleased, like I had stumbled upon some great discovery.
“So, what’s next?”
“Next? Let’s save that for another day, shall we? Your old grandpa can only do so much.”
I left shortly thereafter, already anticipating my next trip to Brickmore Lane.
CHAPTER 14: THE RASPBERRY PATCH
Aggressive Soviet impulses.
Those three words were all that came back to me as I took the stage and shook Mr. Hutcheson’s hand. Those three words, the heart of a foreign policy question, was why my name was announced as one of the winners of the debate contest.
The week before break, Chris had given each of us an envelope containing a typed paragraph on Waldorf-Astoria letterhead. Mine had read:
Governor, as a United States Senator, foreign affairs will play a much larger role in your responsibilities. In light of recent events, President Carter has been criticized for responding late to aggressive Soviet impulses, for insufficient build-up of our armed forces, and a paralysis in dealing with Afghanistan and Iran. If you were in the Senate, how would you use American military power to deal with foreign crises such as these?
“It’s your ticket to fifteen minutes of fame,” Chris had said. “With any luck, you’ll be asking the future Senator of Rhode Island that very question.”
Roland was also onstage, his dumbfounded expression matching my own. I had submitted the question out of courtesy to Chris, not because I thought it would amount to anything. Though I couldn’t find him in the crowded auditorium, I felt his eyes on me. His disgust over the upcoming debate led me to believe he was using me, but for what purpose I couldn’t tell.
Chris had managed to get into an alarming degree of trouble since returning to the island. Governor Forsythe was furious that his son had gone unsupervised for fall break. It was Wellington’s isolation, not its prestige, that had convinced him to enroll his troublesome son. Chris refused to name the other students who had been onboard the yacht. Even Mr. Lawson’s threat of expulsion failed to elicit a confession. With the debate only a week away, Chris was well aware of the bad press that would cross the headlines if Governor Forsythe debated at the school his son had been expelled from. So for the time being, Wellington was stuck with Chris, which was perhaps why Mr. Lawson resorted to one of the school’s more anachronistic punishments.
“Stumping” hadn’t occurred at Wellington in many years. A student sentenced to stumping was given an axe (typically one with a dull blade) and assigned to chop down a tree. The worse the offense, the thicker the tree. Back when wood was used for cooking, stumping was as practical as it was an effective punishment. Apparently Mr. Lawson was a firm believer in stumping, as he had a picture in his office (the room was otherwise bare of decoration) depicting a boy swinging an axe at the base of a tree while a stern-faced headmaster looked on.
Mr. Lawson’s excitement over reinstating this punishment, however, would be short-lived. When housemaster Henderson led Chris out of the dean’s office to assign a tree for Chris to “stump,” Chris charged down the hall—axe in hand—shouting like a lunatic. Ms. Cartwright, who was taking her lunchtime walk in the courtyard, screamed at the top of her lungs when she saw Chris bearing down on her. She continued to scream long after he had rushed past her into Oak Yard. By the time the heavyset Mr. Henderson caught up to him, Chris had chopped down three of the school’s sapling oaks. “And I would have gotten them all if that axe had a decent edge to it,” he would later tell me.
Wellington was becoming hard pressed not to expel Chris. But due to the current political environment, Chris remained at Wellington, though any pretense of him being a student was dropped. Until the time came when he could be expelled in a discrete fashion, Wellington’s purpose was to contain Chris, not to educate him. To cover up any sign of preferential treatment, Mr. Hearst sent Chris’ infractions to the faculty discipline committee, where it would conveniently be tied up until after the debate.
In the meantime, Chris was transferred to the faculty dorms in the room adjacent to the housemaster’s. The only time he was allowed to leave was to attend class. He wasn’t permitted to participate in sports, or even perform his daily chores. His meals were brought to him.
Chris must have known punishment was headed his way before break was over, which was why we came back a day early to try to reach the Anvil at low tide. There was an unspoken understanding that it would be our last trip to the beach.
* * * * *
We left before sunrise. The early hour and empty halls made the school feel abandoned. The only light was a faint glimmer atop the lighthouse—likely Max rousing himself for another day of work. Wellington hadn’t yet returned, and our footsteps echoing down the uncarpeted halls reminded me of home when Father was away.
We passed through the field behind the school and approached th
e dark forest. Night lingered beneath the trees. The only sound was brittle snaps of branches underfoot. The trees had begun to shed their leaves, revealing holes of blue-black sky overhead. The remaining foliage resembled leftover pieces of an unfinished jigsaw puzzle that trembled in the cool air.
Time off the island had warped my perspective. Greenwich was already a blur. A week of the Mayhew’s ostentatious hospitality left me feeling privileged and undeserving. Here at Wellington, there was only hard work and glimpses of the hotel’s deteriorating luxury, a reminder that even the most prominent families needed to succeed. It was an environment that made it possible to feel deprived. I wanted to sit by the ocean and listen to Chris; it didn’t matter about what: cynicism over his father, a previous school that had tried to keep him under their thumb.
When the trees began to thin, my eyes sought the ocean. Its surface was lit with a soft light—either the last reflection of the stars or the quick approaching dawn. Our destination lay along its edge, a black speck on the water. The darkness had taken the depth out of the landscape, leaving the beach a flat shadow wedged into the shoreline.
We scrambled down the cliffs. Without daylight, rappelling was similar to that first time in the fog. At the halfway point, I could only see the rope—moist with dew—extending in either direction. Even Derek and Chris descended with caution, but soon we were passing beneath the cedars, the sound of waves beckoning us down the final sandy slope.
The tide was lower. The Anvil looked taller, steeper too, the archway having grown to the mouth of a cave. Dark sea moss indicated where the water had previously risen, its upper fringes having dried into patches of green fur. The area beneath the moss-covered rock tapered in, making the Anvil look like a loose tooth that the sea was determined to remove. The succession of boulders protruding from the water appeared as a chain of steppingstones extending in a wide, semi-circular arc.
The air coming off the water was cold, and my feet made shallow prints in the hard-packed sand. The sea was calm, the waves curling over and foaming ashore. Though the sun hadn’t risen, narrow bands of pink and magenta sat atop the eastern horizon.
The boulders were an assortment of shapes and sizes, some flat as tables, others jagged and uneven. The largest was over twenty feet in length; the smallest just big enough to stand on. Though most were evenly spaced, a sizeable gap split the middle that would require a substantial jump to cross.
I expected Chris to charge into the water, but he dropped to a knee and studied the waves. It was difficult to tell if the tide was rising. Though no one said it, we were all thinking about what would happen if we got out there and couldn’t get back.
“Should have plenty of time,” Derek said without conviction.
“Feels colder than last time,” Roland said.
Chris rose from his crouch. “I didn’t come down here for the view,” he said, stepping into the surf.
We started across the rocks, gaining momentum as we went. What we hesitated to do in the beginning, we didn’t think twice about toward the end. The calm water was a reassurance. Even if the tide rose, we would only get our feet wet coming back. The midway point presented the only challenge, where a seven-foot gap had to be crossed. Behind us, the beach looked little more than a triangle of sand, and I could begin to make out the broad expanse of Raker’s shoreline.
The Anvil stood before us. I watched the others jump ashore, waiting for a lull in the waves before joining them. I landed at the base of a dead hickory, the Anvil’s only tree, and used its gnarled roots to pull myself to level ground.
The size of a large house, the Anvil didn’t take long to explore. The sides were steep but climbable. A narrow, crooked trail led to the water. A confused pile of loose stones covered in bird droppings protruded from the summit.
Derek studied the empty horizon through his binoculars as we congregated over the archway. Roland chucked rocks at driftwood floating in the water a dozen feet below. Chris sat with his back to a rock, eyes closed to the rising sun. Instead of his token cigarette, a blade of grass dangled between his teeth.
“Any sign of one of those waves?” he asked without opening his eyes.
“Flat as a board, captain,” Derek reported.
“That’d be awesome if one of those big ones came,” Roland said.
“It wouldn’t be awesome if you got wet.”
“They don’t get big enough to reach up here.”
“Wanna bet? Didn’t you see the one when Chris had his swim?”
“I saw it. I just don’t remember it being that big.”
“Trust me, it was big,” Derek said.
“I know it was big, but not, you know, big.”
A discussion on waves ensued, but soon sputtered out. Through it all, Chris remained quiet.
“Hey, what’s with you?” Derek asked him.
Chris opened an eye. “What?”
“You haven’t said a word.”
“I’m relaxing.”
“Normally we can’t shut you up,” Roland said.
“What is this, designated story time? What would you like to hear about today, ladies? How about something melodramatic, like when I was forced to live on an island for a year without any chicks and decided out of sheer boredom to kill myself.”
“That’s got a ring to it,” Roland said, smiling.
“Yeah, you could jump off right here,” said Derek.
“Too cold,” Chris said, his eyes still closed. “If I went, I’d make it messy. Here you get sucked under the rocks and your bloated corpse washes ashore three days later.” He readjusted himself. “It’s someone else’s turn. I’m taking the day off.”
“Hey, did I ever tell you about the time I got in this huge brawl with Zack?” Derek asked. “It was at this wrestling meet in Philadelphia—”
“No offense, Mayhew,” Chris interrupted, “but we just spent an entire week with your family. How about giving someone else a chance?”
Chris’ eyes were open now.
“It’s got to be about Jake.”
“Jake!” Derek called. “Let’s hear about Jake.”
“It’s Jake’s turn,” Roland said, cupping his hands to his mouth. “Let’s hear about Jake!”
“Me?” I said. “There’s not much to tell.”
“Oh I’m sure there’s something,” Chris said, sitting forward. “Everybody’s got something. For example, what made you visit your grandpa instead of your parents when you were less than an hour from home?”
“Chris,” Roland warned, shooting him a look. “Ignore him, Jake.”
“What? It’s an innocent question.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Sure it is. You know me, Jake. I get curious. I think about things that are none of my business.”
“It’s no secret, really,” I said. “What do you want to know?”
Chris settled back against the rock. “I want to hear about Judge Hawthorne. I want to know why he doesn’t call on Sunday night. I want to know why Derek’s phone was ringing off the hook for Roland, but you never once got a call from home.”
“When was the last time the Governor called?” Roland asked.
“That’s different. I avoid him whenever I can. Jake’s a nice guy. Even if he hated his father’s guts, he wouldn’t be that disrespectful.”
“You’re being an asshole.”
“I know I’m being an asshole. But whenever someone spends a lot of time with their grandparents, there’s always a problem at home. Every time.”
“Chris, seriously,” Roland said. “Drop it.”
“What? Why is it such a big deal? So what if Jake’s father is too busy to pick up the phone. The rest of us have issues. I mean, it can’t be any worse than what I go home to. Or you, Roland Van Belle the Third.”
Roland looked away in disgust.
Derek pretended to adjust his binoculars, looking regretful for coercing Chris into talking.
“You’re here for a reason, Jake,” Chris continued, ob
livious to how uncomfortable he was making everyone. “And like the rest of us, you’ve got stories. In fact, I’m willing to bet yours is the best story of all. You just haven’t told it to anyone.”
“We should be getting back,” Roland said, standing up. “I think the tide’s coming in.”
Despite being put on the spot, I found Chris’ curiosity appealing, even flattering. He treated me as an older brother would—with good intentions and little respect. He managed to be rude and sincere at the same time. It was this quality about him that had brought us together. Perhaps he needed to be reminded that he wasn’t the only one who suffered from an inadequate home life. Perhaps he needed us just as much as we needed him.
“No, it’s okay,” I told Roland. “He’s right. It’s no big deal, really.”
When Roland sat back down, I talked at length about something I hadn’t thought of for some time. I had forgotten most of it, or made up lies to deceive myself into believing something less hurtful than the truth. But as I spoke, it came back to me with unexpected clarity.
* * * * *
Though Mother had picked Raspberry out from a litter of yellow labs, David took credit for naming her. They were arguing over a name when a loud clatter arose from the kitchen. Upon investigating, they found the pup in a tipped over bucket of freshly picked raspberries, her fur stained berry-red. Raspberry got sick from eating too many berries, but she never lost the taste for them. From that day on, Raspberry’s life became a quest for her namesake. Hoover, our gardener, who considered the raspberry patch the jewel of the garden, was forced to construct a fence to keep the young lab out. Every summer when the berries came in, Hoover would keep a close eye on Raspberry, who spent a good part of the day sniffing the fence perimeter. More than once I caught Hoover slipping her a handful of berries when he thought no one was watching. But even when Hoover’s handouts went unobserved, Raspberry’s berry-red tongue was a dead giveaway.
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