A Ring of Endless Light: The Austin Family Chronicles, Book 4

by L'Engle, Madeleine;

  “I wish Grandfather could have come.”

  “He hasn’t been up to climbing down to the beach for quite a while, Suze.”

  “As a matter of fact,” Mother added, “he’s always hated picnics. Why get all eaten up with bugs, he asks, when we can have a beautiful view of the ocean right from the porch.”

  John helped himself to potato salad. “Come to think of it, he probably had plenty of roughing it in Africa and Alaska.”

  When we’d finished eating, and burned the paper plates and cups, Mother and Daddy and Rob went back to the stable.

  Suzy wanted to chitter-chatter, but both John and I wanted to be quiet and watch the stars come out, and after a while she stood up. “You two are boring. I’m going up to the stable and call Jacky and have some conversation.”

  John and I sat on in silence.

  The stars came out, one by one.

  When we were little, in Thornhill, when anything big happened, Mother would pile us into the station wagon, and we’d drive up to the summit of Hawk Mountain and look at the stars and talk. So stars have always helped me to get things into perspective. My confusion over Adam and Zachary wouldn’t ease up, so I turned my mind away from them and tried to let the starlight heal something deep in me that hurt.

  “Penny,” John said after a while.

  My mind had certainly wandered. “I’ve been reading physics to Grandfather in the morning. He says the physicists and cellular biologists and people like that are the modern mystics. Do you know about singularities, John?” That was a silly question. Of course John knows about singularities.

  “Yup,” John replied amiably. “How about the Schwarzschild radius?”

  “Is that the circle you have to stay out of if you don’t want to get sucked into the black hole?”

  “Correct. And I think Grandfather’s right—as always—about the mystics. And maybe poets, too. There’s a kind of white dwarf star that’s known as a degenerate white dwarf. I’ve always thought that would be a good title for a science-fiction story.”

  “Or a fairy tale. Maybe I’ll make one up for Rob.”

  “If you do, give me a look. Also, Vic, listen to this one: a giant star with a helium-burning core turns into what the astrophysicists call a ‘red giant sitting on the horizontal branch.’ And do you know what a tachyon is?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest idea. But I love the thought of a red giant sitting on a horizontal branch. What’s a tachyon?”

  “They’re particles that always travel faster than light.”

  “I thought nothing could. I thought the speed of light was the ultimate speed.”

  “It looks as if maybe it isn’t, if tachyons exist. According to Einstein, nothing can cross the speed-of-light barrier, but it looks as though there may be tachyons on the other side of it.”

  “And tachyons can’t travel slower than light?”

  “That’s the theory. You’re not so unscientific after all, Vic.”

  “If it was all things like singularities and tachyons and dolphins …” I started.

  And John took me by surprise. “Vic, have you and Adam had a falling out or something?”

  “What made you ask that?”

  “He trumped up a pretty flimsy excuse not to come to the picnic tonight.”

  “I thought he was going somewhere else.”

  “I indicated that for Suzy’s benefit. He said he needed to write up his research notes. And the food’s even worse on Sunday evenings than any other time.”

  “I don’t think we had a falling out. But—”

  “But what?”

  “Last time I went out to the station he was suddenly completely different with me.”

  “Different how?” John asked gently.

  “Well—when he called to ask me to come over, he sounded all enthusiastic, and friendly, and then all of a sudden bang he was being a grownup condescending to a child. And you know how he lights up? Well, the light sort of went out.”

  “Do you know why?” John asked.

  “Well—the only thing I can think, is—well, did he tell you about my calling Basil and Norberta and Njord, and my riding Basil, and all?”

  “Yes. He let me see the report he wrote up for Jeb. That’s one reason I know he wasn’t behind on his research notes.”

  “Do you think maybe he minded? Minded that they came for me, and Basil let me ride him, and all?”

  “Not really,” John said slowly. “Adam’s got a pretty strong sense of his own center, so I don’t think all that would throw him, even if it wouldn’t exactly send him on an ego trip. You really do seem to have a very special thing going with dolphins.”

  “Yes. I know I do. I don’t have a strong sense of my own center, but when I’m with the dolphins, I do. It’s so wonderful that I hate to think Adam minds. But I can’t think why else he turned me off the way he did.”

  “I can,” John said. “He was putting the brakes on.”

  “Why? I thought we were really getting on okay.”

  “You were. That’s the problem.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  “He had a bad experience with a girl last summer while he was working with Dr. O’Keefe in Portugal. I mean really bad.”

  “Do I remind him of her or something?”

  “I doubt it. She was evidently an absolutely gorgeous blonde.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I don’t want you to be a gorgeous blonde. I like you the way you are.”

  “Well, since I’m not a gorgeous blonde, why did Adam turn me off, then?”

  “Vicky, you’re not even sixteen.”

  “I’ll be sixteen in November. What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Adam’s got three more years of college, and then grad school for probably half a dozen more years before he can begin to think about being serious with anybody.”

  “Who said anything about being serious? Why can’t we just be friends?”

  “Maybe things between you were getting more than just friendship?”

  I didn’t answer for a while. Then: “Maybe. But can’t things get a little more than just friendship without …”

  “I don’t know,” John replied. “That’s something you and Adam will have to work out.”

  “We can’t work it out if we don’t see each other.”

  “You’ll have to see each other. He needs you for his project.”

  “It’s nice to feel useful.” I didn’t try to keep the bitterness and hurt out of my voice.

  John reached over and patted my shoulder. “Growing up isn’t easy, is it, Vic? I worry about you more than I do about Suzy. Suzy’s still my kid sister, and it’s a funny feeling to know that you aren’t, any more. I mean, suddenly you’re my contemporary.”

  That was nice of him. “Thanks. Thanks, John. And that’s what I’d like to be with Adam. His contemporary. His colleague.”

  John didn’t comment on that. Instead, he asked, “How are things with you and Leo?”

  I sighed. “He’s a really nice guy, after all.”

  “And what about Zachary?” John asked. “You’re seeing a lot of him.”

  “Well, I don’t think he’s poison, the way the rest of you do.”

  “We don’t think he’s poison. We just don’t want you getting hurt.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Can you?” John asked. “Zachary’s been around. How much does he—is he—”

  I giggled.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Thanks for worrying about me, John, but isn’t it sort of old-fashioned?”

  “I probably am old-fashioned. So what? Anyhow, is he?”

  “Sure he is. That’s Zachary. But it isn’t me, John, so don’t fret.”

  “Maybe you’re old-fashioned, too?”

  “I’m not sure what being old-fashioned is.”

  “Not falling for things just because they’re trendy. Not doing things just because everybody else is doing them. Not substitut
ing what’s real with what’s phony.”

  In my mind’s eye there flashed an image of one of my most unfavorite TV commercials. “You mean like that commercial for a fruit drink where the guy says with great pride that it’s got ten percent real fruit juice?”

  John laughed. “Precisely.”

  “Okay. I don’t like substitutes for reality, either, so I’ll go along with you in being old-fashioned. John—” I hesitated. “What about you and girls?”

  “Like Adam, I have a lot of education ahead of me.”

  “Is marriage part of your plan?”

  “Ultimately, yes. Mother and Dad have given us a pretty good picture of what marriage can be. I’d like to have a wife and kids. When I’m in a position to support them.”

  “That is old-fashioned,” I commented. “Lots of women have careers right along with their husbands. What about your own boss this summer? And you don’t think Suzy’s going to give up being a doctor or a vet when she marries, do you?”

  “Okay, you got me. Maybe I’m just not ready yet.”

  “Have you been dating anybody?” I looked up at the stars and hoped John wouldn’t be offended.

  He replied calmly, “There’re a couple of girls I like in Boston. And Izzy and I’ve been corresponding. I’m not sure how I’ll feel about her when we get back to Thornhill and I see her again. Okay, so maybe I am old-fashioned, but I don’t want just a relationship. Relationships aren’t real unless they end in bed, and they don’t have to go any further than that. What I want is the real thing, and I’m not ready for it yet.”

  John, I thought, not only looked like Grandfather, he was like him. “Oh, John—thanks for talking to me as though I’m real. Zachary thinks our whole family’s nuts.”

  “Everybody’s nuts except thee and me,” John said lightly. “And I’m not at all sure about thee. Maybe we’d better get back up to the stable.”

  “It’s so nice out here …” I continued to look up at the sky sprinkled with stars. Galaxies. Singularities. Red giants sitting on horizontal branches.

  The ocean sang sleepily. The breeze stirred the bushes. Then a star flashed across the sky and appeared to fall into the sea.

  “That was a big one,” John said, and stood up. “Let’s go.”

  The best thing about this talk with John was that it made me feel grownup without adding to my confusion. And if Adam was putting on the brakes, it meant, it had to mean, that there was something between us big enough to make him do it.

  John was right. I woke to a slow and steady rain, and I wasn’t quite warm enough.

  There went Leo’s plan for a day at the beach.

  I got up and dressed, without waking the others, and went down to the kitchen, and just as I got there the phone rang and I picked it up on the first ring.

  It was Adam. “John said you’re usually the first up, so I risked calling. How about coming over?”

  I looked at my watch. “I could come for a while. I want to be home in time to read to Grandfather at nine, and then Leo’s picking me up.”

  “Okay. Why don’t we just meet on the beach?”

  I went to the shed for my bike. It was barely six, so Adam and I’d have plenty of time.

  He was waiting. He greeted me in a normal, friendly sort of way, and I went behind the big rock and changed to my bathing suit. We swam out, and then I lay on my back in the soft swells, feeling the rain falling gently on my face and making small dents in the water. Basil, I called silently. Basil, my friend, my friend who makes me feel real, Basil, come.

  He came. He greeted us both exuberantly, and then he dove down and I was on his back, riding him. This time he didn’t just swim with me, he rose from the water and we were flying, and it was glorious.

  Then he went to Adam, and they had one of their rough games, with Basil winning as usual, throwing Adam up into the air so that he belly-flopped into the water. Basil thought this was enormously funny.

  Adam righted himself, sputtering. He swam over to me. “Ask Basil something. Not out loud. Something simple.”

  Can you do a cartwheel?

  Basil butted me, and then he flashed out of the water and made three big circular flips, as close to a cartwheel as can be managed on water.

  “What did you ask him?”

  “To do a cartwheel.”

  “Get him to ask you something.”

  “He is, right now. He wants me to scratch his chest.” Which I did, and Basil wriggled and beamed pleasure.

  “Are you sure he was asking you?”

  “Adam,” I said desperately, “I’m practically never entirely sure about anything.”

  “Okay, okay, relax, sweetie.”

  Sweetie. He called me ‘sweetie.’ Did he mean it? Or was it just the way some people call everybody ‘darling’ or ‘dear’ and it doesn’t mean anything?

  No, Adam didn’t do or say things that meant nothing, which was maybe why Suzy thought he was a square.

  “Maybe another cartwheel?” Adam suggested. “Just to be sure it wasn’t coincidence?”

  I turned to Basil, and almost before I had time to think, he did a backward cartwheel.

  “Oh, terrif, terrif,” Adam applauded. “Once more.”

  Once more, I urged Basil. For Adam. Don’t be cross. Just once more.

  A forward cartwheel. A backward cartwheel. One more forward, and then he took off, flashing his way into the horizon.

  He reminded me of Mother saying, when we were little, “Too much is enough.”

  We swam in. Dressed. Adam strapped on his watch. “Not seven-thirty yet. You’re in plenty of time.”

  “Adam—I wouldn’t have missed that, with Basil.”

  “I know.” He delighted me by standing on his head.

  I bent down. “It’s sort of beyond words. I mean, it’s beyond anything that’s ever happened to me.”

  He flipped onto his feet again.

  There was a funny sort of embarrassment between us.

  “I guess you’d better hurry now …”

  “I guess I had …”

  “I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks.”

  When I got home I went in to Grandfather.

  He had the back of his hospital bed raised, but his eyes were closed.

  “Can I bring you some coffee, Grandfather?”

  He shook his head slightly. “Nancy Rodney is convinced that her coffee carries special benefits. Perhaps it does.”

  I looked at him and thought that he needed any special benefits she or anybody else could give him. It struck me how much weaker he had grown in a short time. I thought of the big four-poster bed where Mother and Daddy were sleeping now, with its view of sea and sky, and realized that it was so high that Grandfather couldn’t have managed, any more, to get in and out of it by himself. The hospital bed was easier for him because he could push the controls and get it just the right level for getting in and out.

  “Did I interrupt you?” I asked. “Were you meditating?”

  He smiled at me, his welcoming smile, so I pulled up the chair and sat down. “I was meditating. But I’m glad to see you.” His eyes twinkled. He looked relaxed and very much himself.

  “What is meditation, Grandfather? How do you do it?”

  “It isn’t exactly something you do.”

  “What, then?”

  He was silent a long time, and I thought he wasn’t going to answer. I was beginning to get used to his removing himself as completely as though he had left the room; suddenly he just wasn’t there. Sometimes he seemed to retreat deep within himself; sometimes he would mumble as though he didn’t quite know where he was, as though he was trapped in a bad dream. But now he said to me, and I wasn’t sure whether or not he was answering me, or if he was changing the subject, “You like to go down to the cove by yourself, don’t you, Vicky? And sit on the rock and look out to sea?”

  “Yes, and usually at the wrong moment, when Mother or Daddy needs me to do something else.”

  “But y
ou need to go to the rock and look out to sea, don’t you?”

  “Yes, and sometimes I think you’re the only one who understands why.”

  “What do you do when you go to the rock?”

  “I don’t do anything. I sit.”

  “Do you think?”

  “Sometimes. But those aren’t the best times.”

  “What are the best times?”

  “When I sit on the rock—and I feel—somehow—part of the rock and part of the sky and part of the sea.”

  “And you’re very aware of the rock and the sky and the sea?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And sometimes?”

  “Sometimes it seems to go beyond that.”

  “And then what is it like?”

  I thought for a moment. “It’s hard to explain because it’s beyond words. It’s as though I’m out on the other side of myself.” I thought of what Adam and I had talked about the other night. I tried to tell Grandfather some of what we had said, and ended, “And it’s being part of everything, part of the rock and the sky and the sea and the wind and the rain and the sun and the stars …”

  “And you, Vicky? Are you still there?”

  No. Yes. How do you explain no and yes at the same time?

  “I’m there—but it’s as though I’m out on the other side of myself—I’m not in the way.”

  “There’s your answer,” Grandfather said. “That’s meditation.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was thinking.

  He went on, “People like me spend years learning the techniques of meditation. But you’re a poet, and poets are born knowing the language of angels.”

  That sounded nice, almost too nice. “I didn’t even begin really to write poetry till last year …” I started.

  But Grandfather said, “Get your father.” Blood was pouring down his face.

  I ran out of the stall, yelling, “Daddy!”

  And Daddy came running and so did everybody else.

  “Out,” Daddy said to us all, including Mother. As we left, I saw Grandfather, streaming with blood.

  My heart was pounding and I was shaking and my hands were wet and cold. No wonder Rob had been terrified.

  Mother, walking as though in her sleep, went to the kitchen and began wringing out towels with cold water.