The Western Light

by Susan Swan

  “The jam jar key sounds like a yarn to me,” my aunt replied without glancing at the railing. Sal’s jaws worked angrily; but, instead of arguing, she pushed open the old door of the lighthouse, and we peered inside. Its windows were shuttered, except for a small pane of glass above the front door; the baking sun that filtered through its portal exposed a mudroom stacked with rubber wading boots and oil slickers. Stepping carefully around broken beer bottles, we entered the cool dark living room. Halfway across the creaking plank floor, Sal made us peek behind a canvas curtain at a pair of army cots. Old socks and shirts lay on the floor where they’d been tossed and the sheets on the cots had been chewed as if rats had been at them.

  “This place needs a good going-over,” Sal said. “I’m sure glad I don’t have to clean it. See the clever way the shutters work, eh?” Sal pushed at some boards covering a window and the boards opened out, exposing sleeping bats that came to life and started climbing the glass with their tiny claws.

  “Mary, over here!” my aunt called. “Look at these old photos.” As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw framed pictures of women in long summer dresses carrying parasols and men in rolled-up trousers holding up strings of fish. I thought of the photographs in the Great House, the oilmen at their rigs or outside their field houses, their faces dark with grease. Here was proof that the Western Light possessed a past, too.

  I made my way over to a rotting sofa piled with faded orange life jackets and discarded fishing tackle. On a shelf above it were a Snakes-and-Ladders game and two old guidebooks that I’d never seen in Madoc’s Landing stores: All You Need to Know about Sports Fishing and How to Survive in the North. I pulled down one of the guides and flipped through its foxed pages. It said that pioneers sometimes suffocated after bugs flew up their noses; but, more often, they died from cold. Its account of hypothermia caught my eye:

  If you fall into water sixty degrees or below, all efforts should be put into getting out as fast as possible or death will result. Symptoms include shivering, slurred speech, apathy, unsteadiness, skin blue-grey to the touch. Treatment: cover the victim’s torso with hot cloths or place victim in hot bath, leaving out legs and arms to avoid After Drop, which occurs when the cold blood from the limbs is forced back into the torso, fatally lowering the body’s temperature.

  “Will you look at Lady Jane?” Sal laughed. “We’re out at the Light and she sticks her nose in a book!”

  I quickly put the book back and joined Sal and my aunt in the kitchen. “See that square?” Sal pointed at a faded outline on the oilcloth covering a shelf. “That’s where the ship-to-shore used to sit.”

  “How do you know?” Little Louie asked.

  “Mrs. Pilkie told me, that’s how. Here’s where Jim talked to Doc Bradford when John got his attack of appendix. And just look out there, eh? When the waves are high they hit the house.” We looked down at the water lapping at the rocks. “And that’s the table that John lay on. You can bet he was twitching.” Sal laughed as our eyebrows flew up our foreheads. I closed my eyes, picturing a boy about to be cut open on the kitchen table and from an immense distance my father’s voice booming instructions over the ship-to-shore radio ...

  Sal shook my arm. “Got your head in the clouds again, Mouse? Better come along. There’s more to see.”

  I followed Sal up the stairs, leaving my aunt to stare out the kitchen window. The Pilkies had lived in the old lighthouse as simply as some of the poorest families in Madoc’s Landing, except that they were self-sufficient and proud of it. And besides, as Morley said, the Bay was paradise in the summer.

  Upstairs, it was hotter and there were no hallways. One bedroom led to another as if the builder wanted to conserve space. There were no shutters on the windows; the August sun streamed through the ragged blinds. The room with the double bed was strewn with more dirty-looking clothes and newspapers. Sal said the room belonged to John’s parents. There wasn’t much furniture — just a chair and a few kerosene lamps with dusty glass mantles. As we walked into the second bedroom, Sal pointed at marks gouged in the wooden floor. “Their dog must have left these behind. Oh, oh.” Sal glanced out the window, blowing out her cheeks. “I guess the coast guard needed Doc Bradford.”

  Down by the boathouse, Sib stood on the dock waving. My father waved back from the bow of the coast guard boat as it reversed slowly out the harbour. Sal put her hand on my shoulder and together we went back downstairs. “I guess we won’t hear the story of John Pilkie’s appendix today,” I said sadly.

  “Not this time, Lady Jane,” Sal replied.

  Yet Another Warning from Hindrance

  Hindrance: Morley doesn’t have time for a pipsqueak like you, Mouse.

  Me: All fathers have time for their daughters, Hindrance. Hindrance: Tell me another one. Now you think a concussion made John Pilkie crazy?

  Me: Morley thinks it’s possible and so do I.

  Hindrance: Don’t be a fool. A leopard doesn’t change his spots. Mouse: Well, I’m a fool then because I believe my father. He thinks there’s a chance that John’s concussion affected his judgment. Maybe it did.

  Hindrance: Okay. I beg your pardon, I grant your grace. I hope the cat will scratch your face. Don’t say I didn’t warn you when the hockey killer carves you up like the Christmas turkey.

  22

  A MONTH LATER, AFTER I WAS BACK AT SCHOOL, I TOOK THE shortcut home. I heard the melancholy plink-plink of a harmonica drifting down from the maple trees. The harmonica was playing “Happy Trails to You.” I was wearing my Lone Ranger cowboy hat. Startled, I gazed up into the clouds of yellow leaves; and, from somewhere in the branches, a man’s voice called: “Howdy, cowgirl. Can’t you see me?”

  I craned my neck so far back my hat fell off. “Over here, eh?” When I looked in the direction of the voice, John Pilkie was grinning at me through the maple leaves. The frost had turned the trees a deep gold and the sunlight streaming through the yellow leaves seemed to be coming from him. The effect stopped my breath, and it struck me, staring up at him in the fall sunbeams, that human goodness was an emanation of light, and that Morley’s light was so big and bright it washed over all us in Madoc’s Landing. Like the sun, it shone on everybody, although it moved past me so fast it barely warmed my face. Of course, Morley’s light had a long way to go. It had to stretch south to Lake Ontario and north up the wild shores of Georgian Bay. There were no limits to Morley’s light except this physical limits of Morley himself. John’s light, like the pool of sunshine by my feet, was only big enough to light up one or two people. But weren’t most of us the same? We were kind to our family, and maybe a few others. Except that John had let his circle of light dwindle to almost nothing after he set his house ablaze.

  “What are you doing up there?” I called.

  Leaning over the branch, he pulled back his lips. Then he stuck his thumbs in his ears and waggled his tongue at me. “Guess I’m just being my crazy old self, eh?”

  I froze. Mouse Bradford, Hindrance hissed, You’re alone in the woods with a cold-blooded murderer.

  Above me, he coughed his low, hollow cough. “Look, Mary, you’re safe, eh? Sometimes I make bad jokes, okay?” When I dared to look at him again, his face was back to normal, and he pointed through the trees at a man standing by the hospital’s maple sugar shack. Jordie Coverdale saw us looking. Raising his beer can at us, he disappeared inside.

  “You remember Jordie? Well, Jordie treats me better than the other guards, so I play a tune or two to keep him happy. See if you know this one.” He blew three times on his harmonica and exclaimed in a loud, shrill voice: “A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty ‘Hi-yo, Silver!’ It’s the Lone Ranger! Hip-hip, Hooray!” There was an answering “hip-hip, hooray” from inside the sugar shack, and the sound of Jordie laughing. I couldn’t help laughing myself. When I stopped, John said: “I guess you’re wondering why I’m not in Maple Ridge. Well, this is our little secret. It doesn’t hurt anybody if Jordie lets me ge
t a little air. So listen, Mary. I want you to understand something. The day Peggy and my little girl left this world was the saddest day of my life.” He cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice sounded husky, as if he’d been crying, although the light filtering through the yellow maple leaves made it hard to read his expression. “Nobody believes me, but honest to God, if I’d been in my right mind, I wouldn’t have harmed a hair on Peggy’s head. My hockey injury made it hard for me to think straight, eh? I’m better now and I’m asking them to review my case. Maybe your daddy will put in a good word for me. He’s the only one who can talk sense into that fool running the Bug House.”

  “My father thinks your concussion made you punch-drunk.”

  “Well, your daddy’s right. But that’s enough of that. Take a look at this.”

  Something small and papery fluttered to the ground. “Pick it up, Mary. It won’t bite.” I wondered if he was toying with me, but I picked it up anyway. It was a photo of him gripping his stick and glaring at an unseen opponent. He wore his Detroit Red Wings sweater. “Gentleman Jack Pilkie” was written across the bottom of the picture in round, curling letters.

  “The photo was taken seventeen years ago — when I was nineteen. My assist won us the Stanley Cup that year. Sometimes an assist is better than a goal. You can’t score without teamwork, eh?”

  It sounded like something Sal would say: that it was better to help out behind the scenes than assume the vainglorious — and I knew I was using the adjective properly — the vainglorious role of winner.

  “Will you give Doc Bradford my photo and tell him I’ll play for the Muskrats if he gets me a review of my case?”

  I put the photo in my pocket, nodding.

  “Are you going to come up here with me? Or should I come down to you?” he asked.

  “You’d better stay in the tree, Mr. Pilkie.”

  “Okey-dokey. I’ll do what you say.” He held out an Oh Henry! chocolate bar. “Jordie gets these for me at the tuck shop. I like to give all my girls candy.”

  I took his chocolate bar without letting my fingers touch his hand.

  “I bet your boyfriend wouldn’t take candy from me.”

  “Ben’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Is that his name? Well, you’re braver than he is. Now I’m going to tell you the story of your daddy taking out my appendix. Where will I start? The Pilkies were nobodies, Mary. Your family is town royalty on account of Doc Bradford, but people didn’t notice when we left in the spring for the Light or when we came back after freeze-up. And we didn’t care, either. If winter came early, I played hockey on a patch of ice behind the breakwater. Daddy Pilkie would strap pillows to his knees and play goalie so I could practise my slapshots.”

  “Was it lonely at the Light?”

  “My folks used to call our island ‘Little Alcatraz’ so that gives you the general idea.”

  “What did you eat?”

  “If my daddy didn’t catch any bass, we ate seagull eggs, tinned vegetables, and bacon. Mother Pilkie had to clean the bacon with vinegar to rid it of mould. But no more questions until I finish my story.”

  The Tale of John Pilkie’s Appendix

  “The night in question I was seven years old and feeling poorly. Daddy Pilkie said I couldn’t go to bed. My daddy’s assistant, Ralphie Bowman, was taking a weekend off and my daddy wanted me to take Ralphie’s place. We still had the old coal-oil beacon, so every four hours we had to charge the engines and crank up the weights that turned the Light. Daddy Pilkie said the chores would make a man of me, but I was bound and determined to remain a boy.

  “That Friday in November, I woke up in the middle of the night. The wind was howling, and the waves were pounding my bedroom wall. Pretty soon, the west wall and the windows were iced up solid. The force from the waves hitting the house pushed my bed across the floor so it hit the opposite wall. This always happened in a high wind. You can still see the tracks my bed carved in the floor.”

  “I saw the marks,” I exclaimed. “Sal said the dog made them.”

  “Did she, now? Well, bless her heart. Sal’s wrong. My bed made those marks and Mother Pilkie was forever painting them over. But imagine how scared we were. Aside from the coal beacon burning inside the lantern gallery, you couldn’t see another light on the Bay. The government dock was taking a battering and the waves froze solid when they hit the wooden boards of our house. The sound was terrifying, eh? Like the noise of unset concrete hitting something solid. Ordinarily, a storm wouldn’t bother my old man. He’d say, ‘Let her rip. It can’t hurt us now.’ “But that night he wasn’t saying anything of the kind, because I was wailing like a banshee. I wouldn’t stop no matter how much he swore at me. So Mother Pilkie made Daddy Pilkie call Doc Bradford on the ship-to-shore radio. She knew something worse than the flu was going on. When my daddy tapped the right side of my belly button, I yelped, and Doc Bradford said it sounded like appendicitis. He told my daddy to bring me to town and my daddy told Doc Bradford there was no way he could bring me in, so Doc Bradford said that my daddy would have to operate on me at the Light. He promised to walk my daddy through it, step by step, and said everything would go like clockwork.

  “My daddy started sharpening the butcher knife on Mother Pilkie’s whetstone. I began to cry. I was just a little tyke, and I thought Daddy Pilkie meant to kill me. Mother Pilkie stroked my forehead and said she would take a teeny drop of Seagram’s Rye, if I would too. Mother Pilkie didn’t drink, so I knew this was serious and I drank so much whisky I was drunk as a skunk by the time Daddy Pilkie lay me down on the kitchen table. I can still see it — white Formica top with black trim, government-issue, that type of thing. I promised Doc Bradford I’d be brave, but when Daddy Pilkie yanked off my pyjama bottoms I shook all over. The next thing I knew my daddy stuffed a leather belt in my mouth and tried to tie me to the table. I broke free and ran outside. It was blowing so hard I nearly fell over. I had to hold on to the railing with one hand and my side with the other. Somehow I made it to the Light. Inside, I locked the door and started up the stairs to the gallery. I didn’t get very far because my stomach hurt like the dickens. I sat in the dark, listening to the weights hit the wall as if some giant was smacking the lighthouse. I always hated the thudding sound, and that night the thud-thud-thud was so loud, I didn’t hear Daddy Pilkie outside jigging the lock. But in walked my daddy waving a knife, and I passed out. Afterwards, Mother Pilkie said the kitchen floor looked like Daddy Pilkie had gutted a bass. Are you okay, Mary?”

  “Yes,” I said in a small voice. The idea of being cut open like a fish had me squeezing my legs together in case I wet my pants. “I woke up to the noise of a plane. The coast guard decided to come when Doc Bradford told them I was only seven. I guess they felt sorry for me, being so young and sick way out there. By that time, the waves had shrunk to rollers, so Daddy Pilkie rowed me out to the seaplane. I don’t remember flying to Madoc’s Landing or Doc Bradford waiting for me on the town dock. His operation saved my life, because I was doing poorly again. But you know what? It wasn’t my daddy who took out my appendix. Mother Pilkie did the job with her kitchen knife, because my daddy lost his nerve. Doc Bradford told Mother Pilkie it was up to her. You wouldn’t think Doc Bradford could talk her into it, but he did. He said the appendix lies right next to the skin so it would be easy to cut it out.

  “Afterwards, Mother Pilkie claimed that your daddy on the ship-to-shore radio was like the voice of God come to deliver us Pilkies from our troubles. So there! It was your daddy and Mother Pilkie who saved me. What do you think of that?”

  “Big Louie says nobody gives women credit for things.”

  John didn’t laugh. “Well, she’s right. Look, thanks for listening. One of these days, you’ll tell me how you got polio. Sharing our stories will make us friends for life. Oh-oh, do you see what I see?”

  Jordie Coverdale came out of the sugar shack and pointed up the trail. John jumped down from the tree and loped off into the sugar bush w
ithout saying goodbye. It was what you do, if you’re in a hurry; leave without saying goodbye. I expected it of Morley, but I didn’t expect it of John — although he had no choice. Jordie motioned for me to go. Without another word, I hurried away down the trail, dragging Hindrance behind me.

  23

  I WALKED THE REST OF THE WAY HOME, THINKING HARD. MOUSE Bradford, you have just had a heart-to-heart with the hockey killer. Have you no common sense? But wasn’t it the best story you ever heard? And doesn’t it make you jealous to think of John getting Morley’s attention for a whole night?

  Walking in our front door, I took a giddy, self-important breath. I don’t care what Hindrance says, I told myself. John chose you to be his messenger. I retrieved one of Morley’s medical textbooks and looked up the definition of appendicitis. It was called a lumen, a worm-like growth at the opening of the large intestine. (“Lumen” is definitely a Morley word.) If it wasn’t taken out lickety-split, an infected lumen could kill you. I hated thinking about worm-like growths in our bodies, waiting to hurt us, but if I had been at the Western Light instead of John, no one could have persuaded me to lie down on the table and let myself be cut open. I would have jumped out the window first.

  FROM MORLEY’S DRESSER, I BORROWED a snapshot of my father as a college hockey player and compared it with the photo of John standing by himself on a rink gripping his hockey stick. His smile was wide and reckless and his Red Wings sweater with the famous winged insignia appeared brand new, like his skates. His shiny black hair fell over his left eye, and he looked lonesome, and menacing. “I will score the next goal,” he seemed to be saying, “And may the Lord help and protect you, if you stand in my way.”