The Keeper of Dawn

by Hickman, J. B.

  Raspberry’s age finally caught up to her the year David graduated from Harvard. Her back legs had stiffened with arthritis and it was all she could do to limp around the house. She spent much of the day sleeping on the cool floor in the solarium. When Mother was away in Chicago visiting a cousin, Father was given the responsibility of telling me that Raspberry had to be put to sleep. Though he said all the right things, it made little sense to a nine year old boy.

  I slept little that night. I kept telling myself that if I didn’t fall asleep, the morning would never come and Raspberry wouldn’t have to go away. I woke before dawn and crept into my parents’ room to find the bed empty. The sound of Father shaving came from the bathroom. Suddenly I was racing through the house in search of Raspberry. I found her asleep in the kitchen, her motionless form awakening an unspeakable dread within me. I shook her awake, put her leash on, and led her outside.

  The sun had not yet risen. The yard was full of shadows. Lights flickered on as Father made his way through the house.

  “It’s all right, Raspberry,” I said, stroking her soft hair. “It’s all right, girl.”

  I started leading her toward the back of the house in search of a place to hide, when suddenly it was Raspberry leading me. She started across the back lawn with her head held high, not stopping until we reached the raspberry patch.

  Yes, I thought, this place would be as good as any. I swung the gate open and followed her in. It was the first time the old dog had ever been in the raspberry patch, and she sat wagging her tail in the dirt. I dropped down among the chest-high bushes and began to feed her berries.

  Outside in the garden, the day was beginning to make itself known. The surrounding bushes emerged from dawn’s shadow. Swallows chirped from close by, busying themselves beyond the berry patch with the flutter of wings. Beads of dew glistened on grass, the caught water wavering delicately before slipping out of sight.

  When Father called for me, I rolled on my stomach and peered through the branches. Dressed for work, he stood by the swimming pool. If Father hated anything, it was being late. Rolling back over, I rubbed Raspberry’s belly and reached for more berries.

  I heard Hoover whistling from the garage shortly before the lawnmower started. The sound gradually got louder until Raspberry, who was oblivious to all but the loudest noises, perked her ears up and whined in remembrance of her long-lost sense. I spotted Hoover through the branches, seated atop the mower with a straw hat shading his face from the sun. The sound became deafening as the mower circled the fence. I felt a gust of hot air on the back of my neck, and a jet of cut grass shot over my shoulder, landing in a green mound atop my hand. The moist grass emitted a vibrant smell throughout the berry patch that was full of life.

  By the time Hoover finished mowing, sunlight penetrated the surrounding branches. Raspberry panted from the heat, and I tried not to think about my growing thirst. I hadn’t moved in over an hour, and my back was stiff. Exposed in the sun, the pile of cut grass looked no greener than the faded grass stains on my shoes. I fed Raspberry another handful of berries, which she toothed over and swallowed. She had long since grown full, but was incapable of denying herself the sweet taste of berry, her one remaining sense that hadn’t diminished with age.

  “Mr. Jacob, sir?”

  I jumped at the sound. Raspberry’s tail thudded in the dirt when I wrapped my arms around her.

  “Mr. Jacob? It’s me, Hoover.”

  With one hand gripping the fence, Hoover was bent over scraping mud off his boot.

  “Relax, lad,” he said without taking his eyes from his work. “Mr. Hawthorne’s been askin’ if I’ve seen you, which of course I haven’t. So what if I’ve seen sneakers and what looks to be a pair of blue jeans in the berry patch. Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s you, does it?

  “Is he upset?” I asked.

  “Oh he’s plenty hot under the collar. Course he doesn’t let it show none. He’s been searching all over that house.” Hoover chuckled. “Even had to cancel his big meeting on account of you. Now just how long you intenden’ on camping out in there?”

  I shrugged. “Don’t know. As long as it takes, I guess.”

  Hoover smiled. “Stubborn, just like your daddy.”

  When he had finished with his boots, he angled his tanned face toward the sun as if glancing at his watch to tell the time. Then he drew two water bottles and a sandwich from the various pockets of his workpants. “Then I reckon you could use these,” he said, dropping the water and sandwich over the fence. “One is for you, the other for Razburry.”

  “Thanks, Hoover. I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me nothin’. It’ll be worth it if Razburry gets a little more time.” He removed his straw hat and wiped sweat from his brow with a red handkerchief he kept for just such occasions. When he spoke again, his words had a heaviness to them that I had never heard from the gardener. “She’s a good dog, Mr. Jacob. Best I’ve ever had the privilege of knowin’. You be sure to say goodbye to her for me, ya hear?”

  After Hoover left, I gave Raspberry a long drink. Afterwards she laid her head in my lap and fell asleep. I drank from the other bottle and nibbled on the sandwich, though the heat had taken away my hunger. The swallows continued to chatter in my ear. Nearly all the color had drained from the cut grass, making it look as lifeless as the surrounding dirt. At the urging of the summer’s breeze, the blades of grass dispersed, and an errant leaf leapt from its hiding place to somersault across the clearing. When it drifted out of sight, I lifted my eyes from the ground.

  Father stood outside the fence. He peered down at me, refusing to blink from the sun. He didn’t speak. His face was empty of expression. He remained like that—poised, perfectly still—like a snake coiled to strike. His posture was stiff, like a scarecrow, with one hand plunged into the pocket of his three-piece suit. Unable to hold his gaze, I looked at his hand gripping the fence—the knuckles were white, the skin stretched tightly across the palm; his wedding ring sat atop it all, gleaming in the sun.

  “I’m sorry, Father,” I said, my voice trembling. “I know you’re upset, but I can’t let you take Raspberry away. I know she’s old, but with my help she can still get around. Maybe we can—”

  “We will do no such thing.”

  I sat cross-legged with Raspberry’s head in my lap. She still slept soundly. Her nose rested on my leg, each exhalation sending dried grass off the end of my shoe.

  “You have greatly disappointed me, Jacob,” Father said. “Greatly disappointed me.” Then he added in a commanding voice, “Wake the dog. We’re leaving.”

  “No,” I said, not daring to look up. “I won’t let you take her away.”

  When Father spoke again, his voice was uninflected, a pause standing between each of his words that made me flinch like he had shouted.

  “Jacob … don’t … make me … come … in … there.”

  In the silence that followed, Raspberry exhaled sharply, like air released from a basketball.

  “Raspberry? Raspberry? Hey girl.”

  I gave her a shake, but she didn’t respond.

  “Jacob, stop fooling around.”

  “I’m not. I’m not fooling around. Honest.” I shook her again, more forcefully than before, but she still didn’t move.

  “Get her out of there!”

  But I couldn’t move. I tried to stand up, but I couldn’t get her out of my lap. She was so heavy. My arms felt so weak. Tears streaked my cheeks. I heard the gate open and slam shut with such force that the fence shook. Then a man whom I did not recognize was standing over me. His face was horrible. His hands were two fists, clenching then releasing, clenching then releasing, stuck in that repetitive motion.

  “GET UP! GET UP! GET UP!!!!!!”

  I rolled over and tried to crawl away, but Raspberry weighed down my legs. My fingers dug into the dirt, and I pulled with all my strength. Then my legs were free and I scurried beneath a bush.

  “GET UP YOU MUTT! GET UP!!!”


  I watched as the man dragged her limp form through the dirt. Holding only the collar, he lifted the dead animal from the ground and shook it with all his strength. But realizing that the very task he had burdened himself with the entire morning had happened on its own, the man dropped Raspberry to the ground.

  I closed my eyes, afraid what would happen next. Several minutes went by, the man’s labored breathing filling the clearing. Then the branches were pushed back and I felt hot breath on my cheek.

  “Jacob. Jacob! Look at me!”

  I squeezed my eyes tighter.

  “Jacob! Very well.”

  He stepped back and when he spoke again, it was with a different voice. It was my father beside me again.

  “I’m sorry, Jacob. It was wrong of me to do that. Do you hear me? It was wrong of me to yell like that. I wish … I wish you hadn’t seen that. Can you please look at me?”

  But I couldn’t open my eyes. I wanted to forget that any of this had happened.

  He left me there, alone in the berry patch, with Raspberry lying in the dirt. I was still standing over her when Hoover arrived. His hand on my shoulder was accompanied by a few comforting words. He left momentarily, returning with two shovels. Together we dug Raspberry’s grave right there in her berry patch where she had always wanted to be, where she had breathed her final breath.

  * * * * *

  We left the Anvil in silence. The sun stood over the horizon, a telltale sign that the tide had risen. But there was no panic in this, only an insistence that it was time to go. The surrounding water had become choppy, and as we prepared to head back, the first large wave approached. The water whispered in the archway, and the driftwood was sucked underwater. The first wave struck, slapping hard against the Anvil’s side. White water surged beneath our feet before falling back into the sea. When the wave settled, the driftwood—or what was left of it—had broken into pieces.

  The chain of rocks was still visible. We kept our shoes on for traction, the cold ocean water rising to our ankles. The only difficulty was the middle rock, but we made the jump without incident.

  Back at the beach, we watched the rocks sink one by one. In a matter of minutes the Anvil was out of reach once more. My thoughts kept returning to Raspberry during the hike back. It had been so long since I had thought about that day it was as if it had happened to someone else. But retelling the story forced me to reclaim the memory as my own. Until that moment, I had refused to admit the identity of that man so full of rage. Denial can lie very thick in a child’s heart.

  CHAPTER 15: RENOUNCEMENT

  When a noise woke me, I assumed it was Benjamin shifting his weight in the bottom bunk. He frequently tossed and turned in the final hours of the night, as if his subconscious woke before him to fret over the upcoming day. Only when the noise—a soft, wooden tapping—repeated itself did I remember that Benjamin was no longer at Wellington. Someone was knocking at the door. I rolled over and looked at the clock, confirming the early hour.

  “Just a minute,” I said, my voice cracking with sleep. I climbed out of bed, padded across the cold floor, and opened the door.

  Derek stood in the hallway, bleary-eyed, wearing a wrinkled sweatshirt inside-out. “Hate to do this to you, Jake. But it’s kind of an emergency.”

  Not wanting to blind myself with the overhead, I fumbled for the desk lamp. Derek stood at the edge of the lamplight, looking longingly at my bed.

  “Chris paid me the same wake-up call,” he explained. “We’re supposed to meet in Roland’s room.”

  “How’d he get out?”

  Derek shrugged. “Don’t know. From what I hear, Henderson watches him like a hawk. He said he’ll explain everything once we get there. Oh, be sure to bring a sweatshirt or something.”

  My mind, still moving sluggishly, jumped to life. “What! It’s five in the morning.”

  “I know, I know. I had the same reaction, but I think it’s pretty serious. He’s acting … weird.”

  “What do you mean, weird?”

  “I don’t know.” Derek paused, searching for an explanation. Finally he threw up his hands. “He looked worried.”

  “Chris?”

  “First time for everything, I guess.” Derek looked at his sweatshirt as if only now realizing it was inside-out.

  “All right,” I said, stepping into a pair of jeans. “Lead the way.”

  When we reached Kirkland Hall, we found Roland’s door ajar.

  “What took you so long?” Chris asked, regarding us with bloodshot eyes.

  Roland’s bed was empty, the covers tucked neatly beneath the pillow.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  Chris didn’t reply. He was staring at a sheet of paper on the desk the way someone hopelessly lost studies a map. He cleared his throat and read aloud:

  “After the utmost consideration, it is with deepest regret that we are unable to offer you admission into West Point. After reviewing your unique achievements, I am confident in your ability to be successful in the years ahead. Your name has been placed on our waiting list … blah, blah, blah …”

  “He didn’t get in,” I said.

  “Shit,” Derek said.

  “Where is he?” I asked, peering around the room as if I might find him hiding beneath the bed.

  “AWOL,” Chris said.

  “What do you mean? What’s that mean, AWOL?”

  “It means he just found out his future has been flushed down the toilet.”

  “It’s not fair,” Derek said.

  “Not fair! It couldn’t be any more fair. We know he doesn’t belong at West Point. He knows it too, though he probably hasn’t admitted it to himself. But try telling that to the General. This condescending, impersonal … piece of shit letter”—Chris wadded the letter up and threw it on the floor—“is the best thing that could have ever happened to him.”

  “Hey, I agree,” Derek said. “But let’s not jump to conclusions. Maybe there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “If there was nothing to worry about, he’d be right there where he should be!” Chris said, pointing at the bed. Then he started to pace, forcing Derek and me to the corner of the room.

  “I knew something was up when he didn’t show for French. It figures this happens after they separate us. If I’d been here, I could’ve talked him down.” Chris shook his head. “Had to wait until Henderson went to bed. That asshole hears everything. The walls are so thin he probably knows how many times I fart in my sleep. Took me two hours to jimmy the lock.”

  “So … what do we do?” Derek asked.

  “We go find him, that’s what we do.”

  “But he could be anywhere.”

  “He went to the beach, didn’t he?” I said.

  Chris didn’t reply. His eyes were alert, dilated like a cat’s in the dark.

  “You think he went down there by himself?” Derek asked. “At night?”

  “I only hope that’s as far as he’s gone,” Chris said.

  A look of realization crossed Derek’s face. “The tide …”

  Chris nodded. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Okay, let’s … let’s just hold on a sec. I need to think this through.” But Derek looked more afraid than confused, as if his thoughts had raced ahead of him and reached an undesirable conclusion. “Okay, let’s say he went down there. Maybe he just wants to be alone, you know? I mean, maybe things aren’t as serious as you think.”

  Chris quietly considered Derek’s words. Then he went to the window and pulled back the curtain. The shattered remains of a glass vial lay on the floor. Seeing it brought to mind the Van Belle insignia. Just below the window, a streak of dried blood covered the wall.

  “I’d say it’s plenty serious.”

  * * * * *

  With dawn a full hour away, we passed through the remnants of the night. The sky was loaded with stars, but the cold light they cast did little to illuminate our way. The landscape that teemed with color in the daylight was face
less in the dark, the adventurous feeling that accompanied the open field and cluttered woods giving way to a sense of urgency. It felt like we were in a strange place, and the farther we went, the more haunted I became by my imagination.

  A stitch in my side forced me to stop at the cliffs to catch my breath. The horizon consisted of varying degrees of darkness, as if the night had bled out of the sky to collect in a place the stars couldn’t penetrate. The sound of the breakers carried up the gorge, bringing with it the image of a great wave crashing over the rocks.

  “He’s not responding,” Chris said, signaling down the cliff with his flashlight.

  “Maybe he hasn’t seen us,” Derek said, his breath steaming the air.

  Just then, a light flashed erratically from the Anvil with the same muted intensity as the multitude of stars overhead. Seeing it was both a worry and a relief.

  “You gonna make it?” Derek asked me when Chris started down the cliff.

  “Go,” I said, still short of breath, but not wanting to slow them down. “I’m right behind you.”

  I did my best to keep up. Forced to climb with both hands, I clamped the flashlight between my teeth. Clusters of mica flashed dully along the path. By the time I reached the rope, Derek and Chris had already rappelled down. I had just pulled up the gloves when a light flashed from high above. It appeared so briefly that I couldn’t determine its source. I waited for it to flash again, but when it didn’t reappear, I grabbed the rope and started down.

  A cold wind swept off the water. The darkness had started to lift, the first tinge of color entering the eastern sky. Three sets of footprints marked the sand: two went straight for the chain of rocks; the third meandered along the water’s edge. Chris and Derek were two silhouettes leaping from rock to rock. The flashlight still shone from the Anvil, swaying back and forth through the sky.

  The tide was the lowest I had seen it, and I crossed the steppingstones without difficulty. The choppy water was filled with whitecaps. Overhead the stars were winking out, and the water had lightened to a murky blue. I waited for the waves to drop before jumping ashore and scrambling up the path. I found Roland at the archway, with Chris and Derek standing a short distance away.