The Keeper of Dawn (18 page)

* * * * *

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.

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.

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 faceless 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.

“You guys shouldn’t have come,” Roland was saying.

“And miss out on a beautiful sunrise?” Chris said.

“You didn’t have to come. I’m fine, really.”

But Roland looked anything but fine. Always impeccably
dressed, the front of his Oxford shirt was covered in sand. One pant leg was
ripped open from the knee down, and his eyes were red and swollen.

“Wanna talk about it?” Chris said.

Roland’s look conveyed that he wished to do no such thing.

“So you’re on a waiting list,” Chris said. “Big deal. It
happens. Have you even stopped to think about why you didn’t get accepted? Have
you? Was it because you got an A-minus instead of an A in biology? Or no, wait,
I know. You were only co-captain on the debate team. That’s what it was. Come
on, man. That’s exactly the kind of shit admission boards look at. What
difference does it make? There’s no way they can tell who you are by looking at
some test scores and a few sheets of paper.”

Roland, getting red in the face, turned toward the ocean.

“You remember Pastaki?” Chris asked. “He had to wait almost
a year before he got into the Point. You just gotta be patient. You’ll get in.”

“You’re right,” Roland said, turning to Chris. “You’re
exactly right. I
will
get in. And do you know why? Do you? Because once
my father hears about this, he’ll make a few calls, and just like that,” Roland
shook the flashlight, “I’ll get accepted.”

“So? What’s wrong with that?”

“Everything! Everything is wrong with that. Is it too much
to ask that for once in my life, I do something on my own? I wanted … no, I
have
to get in on my own merit, or I’m not going at all. It’s
always
been
because of him. Everything in my life has been
because of him
!”

“You’re preaching to the choir. You think I’d be here if it
wasn’t for the Governor?”

“It’s different for you, Chris. You don’t want to be here. But
it’s a privilege … no, it’s an
honor
for me. And none of it would have
happened without him. Well, I’m through playing by his rules. I didn’t get
accepted, so I’m not going.” He turned and shouted at the sea: “You hear me? I’m
not going!”

As if words were not enough, Roland threw the flashlight. My
gaze followed its trajectory, dragged down to where it vanished in the water. The
waves had increased, pushed by the strong wind coming off the water. Not far
away, a watery voice murmured from the archway.

“You’re only fooling yourself,” Chris said. “You’ve been
reading about the military since you were a kid. You’re always talking about
some battle no one’s ever heard of. Face it, Van Belle, you were born to be a
soldier!”

“Don’t you dare tell me what I was born to be!” Roland
shouted. “I’ve been hearing that my entire life. No one’s ever bothered asking
me what I want to be. Not ever. You think you know me so well, but you don’t. You
have no idea …” Roland hesitated, casting a wary look at the three of us. “You
have no idea how close I came to not rappelling that first time.”

“I had trouble, too.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Chris Forsythe. You didn’t think
twice about it. I came this close to going back. How’s that for a soldier,
huh?”

Roland moved to the center of the archway. His hand was
curled into a fist; between the knuckles I caught a glimpse of a small, white
object.

“I’m through with it. You hear me? Through with every last
one of you! Starting with you, Prince Thomas Van Belle, cousin of King Charles
I, who rode in the cavalry with Prince Rupert in the Battle of Naseby, June
fourteenth, 1645. And Oliver Van Belle, First Lieutenant in the Royal Navy, who
died fighting the Dutch in the Battle of Solebay, June sixth, 1672. Robert Van
Belle, Lieutenant Colonel, who fought at Louisbourg under Wolfe, summer of
1758. William Van Belle, Corporal, who lost his arm at Princeton, January
second, 1776.”

Roland recited these names and dates the way a congregation
chants the Lord’s Prayer—mechanical, thoughtless, done so many times it had
become ingrained in memory. It was one thing to witness Chris go down a path of
self-destruction, but quite another to watch Roland wage his own lonely
rebellion. Roland’s rashness stemmed from a weakness, not a passion, and it
extinguished any trace of anarchy in me that, in the preceding weeks, Chris had
managed to ignite.

To the east, red streaks of dawn hung over the ocean,
revealing the approaching waves. They were now much larger than whitecaps
foaming in the darkness. The seascape had awakened. Chris and Derek also
noticed the change, and they both looked to be on the verge of pulling Roland
back to safety.

“Nathaniel Van Belle, gunner in the artillery—fought in the
Capture of Fort George, May twenty-seventh, 1813. Arthur Van Belle,
Major—fought at Petersburg. Died with his boots on, July second, 1864. Richard
Van Belle, Captain—spent five months as a prisoner of war in 1916. Roland Van
Belle the First, Lieutenant Colonel who led the 106
^th
Artillery in
the Battle of the Bulge, winter of forty-five.”

Even from a distance it was bigger than any I had seen. It
towered over a row of smaller waves, slowly pushing its way toward us. A deep
trench formed before it as its peak curled over in a white, foaming forelock.

All three of us shouted at Roland. But he didn’t hear us. His
attention was fixed on the small object in the palm of his hand.

“And you, Roland Van Belle the Second. Led the last
offensive in Vietnam, March twenty-ninth, 1973.”

The outer fringe of the wave—waves in their own
right—swelled and broke over the Anvil. From the archway came a loud sucking
sound.

We shouted and waved our arms. It was too late to run out to
him. Roland’s mouth was open, his words reaching me as if his voice alone
filled my ears.

“I’m through with you, Father!”

Roland pulled his arm back and flung it forward with all his
strength. The tiny form of the Van Belle insignia, passed from generation to
generation, glinted in the sun in a long descending arc before falling into the
ocean.

Roland looked up just as the wave crashed ashore. The surge
of water took everything with it—our unheeded shouts, the narrow archway, the
image of Roland standing helpless before it. Water swept over my feet and up my
leg, pelting me with ice-cold ocean spray. I crouched low to the ground and
covered my head with my arms. A waterfall roared over me, and for that instant
it contained more strength than the rock beneath my feet. I fell to my knees,
afraid what I would find when I looked up. Chris and Derek stood beside me, and
between them, lying in a heap, was Roland.