The Keeper of Dawn (27 page)

“Well don’t look at me,” Sal said. “You’ll be seeing plenty
of my fat face. Go on, look while you can. Just remember to blink.”

“Maybe she’ll stay for breakfast,” I said, my eyes returning
to the girl. A waitress had retrieved a box of doughnuts, and the girl was
reaching into her petite purse (also bright yellow) to pay for it.

“Sure. Sure she will,” Sal said, laughing lightheartedly. “She’ll
probably sit down right beside you.”

“I’d settle for being able to watch her eat breakfast.”

“Son, let me give you a piece of advice,” Sal said, pulling
the napkin out of his shirt. “A beautiful woman never stays in one place for
long. They’re like hummingbirds. You ever see a hummingbird? Beautiful little
creatures. Fit right in the palm of your hand. You get all worked up over
seeing one, but before you can catch more than a glimpse, they’re off flying
somewhere else, their wings beating so fast you can barely see ‘em.” Sal cast
another glance back at the girl. “Enjoy her. She’ll be gone soon.”

“Where do you think she’s going?”

“Somewhere, anywhere. To see and be seen. She’ll stay long
enough to get you worked up, to get you feeling real good about yourself.”

As Sal said this, the girl scooped up the box of doughnuts
from the counter and, throwing one end of the yellow scarf over her shoulder,
walked out of the diner.

“And there she goes,” Sal said, not bothering to turn
around. “And all that’s left is that flat out empty feelin’ we’re both feelin’
right now. That’s how it goes. I’ve been getting peeks of ‘em all my life.”

“You have?”

“Sure I have. See ‘em from up in the cab. One of the perks
of my line of work. A couple seconds here, a couple seconds there. Sometimes
you’re passing them, but most times they’re passing you. In the convertible
with the music on, their hair blowing in the wind. Riding next to their
boyfriend, their pretty legs stretched out on the dash. Always on the go. Always
tryin’ to be someplace they’re not, their wings beatin’ a million miles a
minute.” He threw up his hands. “That’s life on the road. Seeing people,
sometimes even meeting them, but never knowing them. You’ll see what I’m
talking about soon enough. Speaking of which, it’s time to scoot.”

Before leaving, Sal leaned over and whispered, “Not to be
nosy about your finances or nothing, but were you able to leave much for a
tip?”

I admitted having spent the last of my money on the meal.

“Not a problem,” he said, placing two dollars on my table. “Given
your circumstances, I’ve got you covered.”

It was still night, or at least still dark when we left the
diner, a damp chill lingering in the air. Streaks of dew ran down the windows
of the parked cabs, and the sound of traffic foretold the coming day. Sal
worked the clutch and eased us onto the open road. We drove west into darkness.
The town of New London rolled by the window, two banks of yellow lights divided
by a broad river. Sal was silent behind the wheel. He took sips from a thermos,
the white glimmer of his eyes never straying from the road.

I didn’t want the sun to rise. I had been awake too long,
and the thought of a new day made me want to close my eyes and listen to my
dreams. I watched the highway with heavy eyes. When I closed them, images of
the girl with the yellow scarf rose before me …

I was jarred awake when the steady rumble of the engine
stopped.

“You always mumble in your sleep?” Sal asked.

“What?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“You were talking in your sleep,” Sal said, swinging the
door open and easing himself out of the cab. “Something about snow melting. Let’s
hope we got a ways before that happens. Get out and stretch your legs if you
like.”

The night had finally ended. The sky was flushed with light,
the sun cresting the horizon. We were parked amidst a neighborhood of
warehouses—brick, windowless buildings separated by the stitches of a railroad
track. Semis were lined up in either direction, their trailers backed to
loading docks.

I was fumbling through my backpack for another candy bar
when I came across one of Mother’s letter. Though I had already read it, I
couldn’t remember a single thing she had written.

Dearest Jacob,

I’ll apologize in advance for the brevity of this letter. These
past few days have been hectic, yet rewarding. But do tell—I want to hear about
your week in Greenwich! I want all the details! Do you remember Heidi Gilford? Probably
not, you were so young. Heidi was one of my roommates at Wellesley. She lives
in Greenwich and has been hectoring me for years about paying her a visit. Such
fond memories.

I inform you (with more than a little regret) that our work
here is coming to a close. The fledgling ospreys have grown stronger than I
ever thought possible. I have read countless articles and watched dozens of
videos, but witnessing this miracle of nature firsthand has been an experience
I shall never forget. We will be releasing them to the wild this weekend. It’s
such a thrill knowing what a difference we’ve made, but so incredibly difficult
to let go. I have fallen in love with these innocent, majestic creatures. How I
wish your father could be here to see them.

I look forward to hearing from you. How I enjoy finding one
of your letters in the mail. Thanksgiving can’t come soon enough, and our happy
little family will be reunited once more.

All my love, Mother.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. While she obsessed
over her precious birds, I was hitchhiking across three states because she
hadn’t bothered to tell me of the death of my last surviving grandparent. I
started to read the letter a second time, but stopped halfway through and
pitched it out the window.

I dozed in and out of consciousness, half-listening to the
muffled sounds from the back of the trailer. I didn’t come fully awake until
Sal climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Ten minutes behind,” he said, adjusting the brim of his
hat. “Not to worry. Nothing we can’t make up on the road.”

The daylight brought out a cold grayness in Sal’s eyes and
highlighted the creases in his skin, making him look older than he had in the
diner. I sensed that this was the least enjoyable part of his day. He was in
his element on the open road and in the diner before dawn, but he disliked this
necessary interruption in New Haven.

The hour of sleep had revived me, and I watched the mile
markers to New York dwindle. The only time Sal moved was to change his grip on
the wheel. He passed the time by talking about life as a truck driver, ending
each story with his own homespun, broad-shouldered advice.

“It’s my first time hitchhiking,” I admitted.

Sal nodded. “Nothing to be ashamed of. People used to do it
all the time.”

When I told him the unusual circumstances that had brought
me to Dolly’s Diner at four o’clock that morning, he didn’t ask a single
question. But his silence had a way of pulling the story out of me.

“Would your grandpa want you to be there?” he asked when I
told him that I was attending the funeral against my father’s wishes.

“Absolutely.”

“Then you’re doing the right thing. But it’s never easy going
head-to-head with your old man. I hated my dad growing up. Couldn’t stand the
sight of him. He was as strict as they come, and in his eyes, I could do no
right.”

Sal smiled at his misfortune.

“Do you get along now?” I asked.

“He’s been dead for years. Died when I was about your age. Lung
cancer. Smoked like a chimney. Hit him hard and fast. Dead as a doornail three
weeks after he was diagnosed. That was just like him though. Nothing halfway,
not my dad. He had too much pride to let some disease whittle away at him. He
was never weaker than me. Strong and full of the devil. Then he was six feet
under.”

“That had to be tough,” I said, surprised at the ease with
which Sal spoke of his father’s death.

“It was, no doubt about it. Though I was glad when it happened,
if you can believe it. It’s a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. I hated him
that much. But when I saw him lying in the casket, I cried my eyes out. And
that
surprised me more than anything. Couldn’t figure it out for the longest time. If
I hated him so much, then why was I crying? But you see, that was just it. My
childhood was no pleasure cruise, and who better to blame than my old man? And
then, just like that, he was gone. I actually came to miss hating him. I needed
him more than I thought. My sister once told me that I needed that touch of
evil in my life. Nothing made sense without it.”

It felt like we had just left New Haven when the sign for
Greenwich flashed by.

“With time to spare,” Sal said as he pulled up near the
train station. “How you getting back?”

“I’ve kind of been taking it one step at a time.”

“There’s a sub shop by the name of Gianella’s right off the
interstate. I’ve been known to stop there around twelve-thirty for lunch on my
way back. I’ll probably be there tomorrow … if you’re interested, that is.”

I thanked Sal for the ride, not to mention the money he lent
me for the train. I got out of the truck, slung my backpack over my shoulder,
and walked alone into the crowded train station.

The image of the men standing beside the three headstones
stayed with me long after they had driven away in the dark sedan. I saw them
bend over to measure the newly dug grave, their movements businesslike,
methodical, no different than a carpenter measuring lumber, or a mechanic
peering beneath the hood. Before leaving, the one in the sleeveless T-shirt
spoke in an animated fashion, causing the other man to laugh, the cruel sound
carrying to where I watched them from the neighboring hillside.

I had arrived at Pine Crest Presbyterian Cemetery a full
hour before the graveside service was to begin. The dangerous flight across the
ocean, the frantic rush across three states—now I sat and waited. Tired from
the long walk from the train station, I rested beneath a pine tree. I untied my
shoe to examine the ruptured blister on my heel, but the blood-stained sock
prevented me from looking further. Plagued with thoughts of Father, I sat in an
agitated state of wakefulness.

What would his reaction be upon seeing me? What is it that I
would see when I looked him in the eye? I remembered our last encounter like it
was yesterday. He had stood watching me for some time, believing that I was
asleep. I thought little of it at the time, but that face in the doorway had
been one of affection, even frailty—not like Father at all. And there had been
such an intense sadness in his eyes, like he wanted to rush over and shake me
awake.

It was unseasonably warm for late October. The rigor and
hardship of the road had felt right, but the sunlight and blue sky intruded
upon my grief. I wanted it overcast and dreary, with a strong wind to make the
cold more bitter. I wanted to see my breath in the air. Precipitation, perhaps
even sleet, would have been welcome.

But it was the beginning of a beautiful day. Sparrows and
finches chirped overhead, filling the quiet hills with their song. Clusters of
artificial flowers marked the graves; miniature American flags drooped in the
windless air. The cemetery was peaceful. Nothing out of the ordinary had
happened. It was just another day.

Grandparents die. Grow up, kid.

But this wasn’t just another day. Not for me, anyway.

Something kept me from the gravesite. Perhaps it was denial,
for when the train of vehicles approached the neighboring hillside, I was
certain that they would keep driving. Of all the gravesites, why would they
choose this one? But when they stopped and the pallbearers gathered at the rear
of the hearse to extract the casket, I no longer felt the sun’s warmth; nor did
I hear the birds in the trees. The blue sky stood overhead, forgotten.

My eyes focused on Perry as he eased out of the driver’s
seat. He was something familiar, something real in this unbelievable day. He
looked proud and somber in his dark suit, but this was how Perry always looked,
regardless of the occasion. He limped to the rear of the limo, opened the door,
and extended a gloved hand to Mother. She wore a long, dark coat over a black
dress, as if prepared for the inclement weather I so hoped for. With her head
held high, she looked determined, even regal, ready to face whatever the world
chose to deliver. I rose to my feet, the mere sight of her giving me strength.

Behind her came a tall man with a full head of gray hair
whom I had never seen before. I stared at him without breathing. Who was he? Why
was he here?

Where was Father?

Perry shut the door behind them, and the man escorted Mother
up the hill.

My eyes searched every face in the crowd. There was Uncle
Larry and his wife, Susan, followed by their three children. I vaguely
recognized Aunt Mildred, Grandpa’s sister from New Jersey, who had told such
distasteful jokes at David’s graduation that Mother had pulled me out of
earshot. There was my overweight Aunt Carolyn, laboring up the hill to the
graveside canopy. My cousins, Bradley and Catherine, trailed behind her like
two reluctant shadows.

But Father wasn’t there. The rift between him and Grandpa
had been deep, especially after David left, but missing his father’s funeral
was unthinkable. The longer I stood there, the more his absence became a kind
of spectral presence, as if he had chosen not to come to avoid our inevitable
confrontation. All the risk and sacrifice to leave Wellington had been for
nothing. I felt the rage that had gotten me there rekindle, an empty, useless
emotion that would inevitably sputter out, as the target it was directed toward
was nowhere in sight.

I limped toward the gravesite, looking everywhere but at the
casket. The words of the pastor carried across the hill.

“Lord of Heaven and Earth, grant us by the mercy of Your
Holy Spirit that we might comprehend together the height, the depth, and the
vast breadth of Your love for us in Christ Jesus, Your only Son, our Lord.”

The immediate family was seated in the front row. Uncle
Larry and Aunt Susan were the first to see me, their startled expressions
confirming my disheveled appearance. I had tried to clean myself up in the
train station, but there was only so much to be done with a wrinkled shirt and
muddied pants.

“For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither
angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any … any … any
powers in creation will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in
Christ Jesus, our Lord.”

Even the pastor seemed taken back by my arrival. Mother
hadn’t seen me yet, but the gray-haired man seated beside her was watching me
like a hawk. When he leaned over and whispered in her ear, she looked up and
gasped.

“Let us pray. O God, our Heavenly Father and the Father of
our Lord Jesus Christ, to whom could we go in this hour but to Thee? For with
Thee are the words of eternal life, and we are those who believe in the
resurrection of the body and the life everlasting through our blessed Redeemer,
Lord and Savior, Christ, the King.”

Everyone bowed their head in prayer. Except Mother. Her eyes
never left me. Unable to meet her stare, I fixed my vision on Uncle Larry and
Aunt Susan. I hadn’t seen them in years. I thought back to all the times Mother
had spoken poorly of their now full-grown children, surprised at how normal
they looked seated between their parents. These were the same children, who,
according to Mother, had gone through a “turbulent adolescence,” who were
“menaces to society.” But now, it seemed, it was my turn to play that role. What
would they say about me? What would the family say about David who had run away
from home, or about Father who hadn’t bothered to show up? I didn’t have to
look at Mother to feel her embarrassment.

“May we go from here today remembering that through Him,
life is eternal, love is immortal, and death is only a shadow beyond the
horizon, which we cannot see with these tear-rimmed eyes. Amen.”

As the service concluded, a funeral home attendant handed
each family member a rose. Mother spoke a few words to the pastor before
approaching me. Her eyes were piercing blue in the sunlight. She looked over
every inch of me, every scuff and scrape, taking note of all that was out of
place. But instead of disapproval, her face was lined with sorrow. She took a
deep breath and collected herself.

“Hello, Jacob. I don’t believe you have met Dr. Weber.” She
motioned to the gray-haired man behind her. “He’s been a great help to us in
New Hampshire.”

It was sad, really. Even in this unexpected meeting of
heightened emotions, her formalities and good manners shone through.

I looked at the casket.

“You didn’t tell me.”

The grim smile fell from her face. “I was going to. Of
course I was going to. I just thought it would be best … that it would be best
if I told you in person. I didn’t want this to be another phone call.” She
shook her head. “You’ve been through so much, dear, with what happened at
school, and … well, everything. It hasn’t been an easy time for any of us. I
was planning on going to Wellington, tomorrow in fact, and telling you then.”

“Would it have made it easier, telling me then?”

She looked down at her feet in what I took to be embarrassment.
But this unbecoming expression quickly passed, and when she looked back up, her
resolve had returned.

“Jacob, how ever did you
get
here?”

When I didn’t answer, she remained quiet. It was her old
tactic—by saying nothing, she expected me to talk. Mother possessed the talent
of harnessing silence, building it up around her like a thunderhead and
unleashing it on anyone she chose. But I ignored her. I kept my eyes on Dr.
Weber, who was pretending to examine one of the nearby graves.

Then, still watching Dr. Weber, I leaned toward Mother and
whispered so as not to be overheard.

“Where’s Father?”

“Jacob!” she exclaimed, her eyes widening. “Oh my dear, dear
Jacob.” Her voice was filled with such pity that I regretted having asked the
question. Dr. Weber stepped forward and placed a hand beneath her elbow.

“Oh, this was all a mistake,” she said. “A terrible,
terrible mistake. I thought it would help to send you there. You would have
what you couldn’t at home.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Wellington. It was a mistake sending you there.”

“No, no, it wasn’t.”
Why was she saying this
? “I
actually like it there. And you’re dodging the question. It’s so like you to
defend him.”

“I’m not defending him. I’m not defending anyone. Jacob,
darling, certainly you know that it’s not possible for him to be here. You must
know that. This has gone on for much too long. You mustn’t go back to that
school. It’s quite clear that it has only made things worse.” She grabbed me by
the shoulders. “You mustn’t go back. Do you hear me? You can’t go back there. You
can come home … with me.”

“But I want to go back,” I said, pulling away. “I
am
going back.”

“Jacob, it was a mistake. Do you hear me? You can come home
and go to your old school. You can see all your friends again. Wouldn’t you
like that?”

“It
wasn’t
a mistake. Look, I haven’t seen you in
months. You can’t just … just barge into my life and pull me out of school. I
came back for the funeral. That’s all.”

“Oh, I sent you away, and now …” She looked at me in
anguish. “Now look at you!”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” I said, self-consciously running a hand
through my hair. “Sorry for … well, for everything. But I can’t come home. Not
yet.”

She looked at me then like she would never see me again. When
she finally nodded, a single tear ran down her cheek.

“Everyone is coming back to our place,” she said. “Some of
your grandfather’s old students will be there. Will you at least come back for
that?”

I looked down the hill to where Perry waited by the limo,
and suddenly I knew that if I went home now and caught so much as a glimpse of
my old life, I would never go back to Wellington. But that wasn’t all. Father
would be home. And I didn’t have the strength to face him yet.

“No. I’m sorry. I have to go back.” I looked at the
gravesite. “For what it’s worth, I … I forgive him.”

“That’s … that’s good, Jacob. That’s an important first step
in the grieving process. And you know it would mean a lot to him. Perhaps … perhaps
you could tell him that yourself?”

She motioned for me to follow her up the hill.

I took a step back, my eyes returning to the limo. “I’m
sorry. I … I can’t. I have to go back … right away.”

Mother nodded reluctantly, like she had been caught asking
too much.

“How are you planning on getting there?” Dr. Weber asked.

“I got here, didn’t I?” I said, our eyes meeting for the
first time.

“Well, at least take this,” he said, handing me a folded
slip of paper. “It’s the obituary. They had them at the visitation last night.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled. Dr. Weber had a kind face, and I hated
him for it. It wasn’t until later that I would discover close to a hundred
dollars tucked inside.

Mother looked frozen in place, but when I put my arms around
her and said goodbye, she shook with a thousand tiny vibrations. As reluctant
as it was, I had her blessing.

I cast a final look at the casket before leaving the
cemetery. Though I never once looked back, I felt Mother’s eyes upon me every
step of the way.

* * * * *

Everything was as I remembered it: the slumped porch, the
crumbling trellis, the maple tree spreading its branches over the rooftop. I
stood before 1608 Brickmore Lane, unable to discard my memories, unable to
believe that a retired schoolteacher was no longer inside, amusing himself over
bonsai trees and robins’ nests, avidly reading in the dim lamplight, cursing
whenever the phone dared to ring.

Memories of Monday afternoons led me off the sidewalk and
onto the porch. I stepped over four days of unread newspapers, retrieved the
house key from beneath the flower pot, and swung the screen door open. Inside,
the musty odor fell over me like a warm, familiar blanket. The entryway was how
I had last seen it—overflowing with books and old newspapers, littered with
various odds and ends. I passed my hand over a stack of magazines, over the
telephone and antique radio I had never once heard turned on. I let my fingers
trail through the dust on the end table. It wasn’t enough to see everything; I
had to touch it. Out of habit I caught myself listening for footsteps from an
adjoining room, or perhaps the soft turning of a page, but all was quiet.

I had left the cemetery feeling selfish and unworthy,
ashamed that Father had crowded my thoughts. Someone had once told me that
funerals were more for the living than the departed, and it had certainly been
this way for me. The crowd, the ornate casket, even the bright sunny day was
the antithesis of Grandpa’s life. But here, within these walls, with the
peeling paint and the tattered carpeting, he felt nearby. It was here that I
could convince myself he had only stepped out to run an errand.