Читать книгу The Lighthouse - Mary Schramski - Страница 10

“What does it look like?” Dad asks.

I glance at the fake Christmas tree sitting on the table in front of the window. I don’t think I should tell him the tree, leaning too far to the left, resembles a drunken sailor. He might not think that’s as funny as I do. Huge red lights are looped precariously around the tree’s small, fake branches, and the Santa ornaments that Mom used to place on a big, fresh tree, look like they are hanging on for dear life.

I shake my head, study a scratch in the hardwood floor.

“Something wrong?” Dad asks.

Oh, God, now he knows I don’t like the tree.

“Did you put up the tree?” I ask then feel like an idiot because who else would have done it? “It’s really nice,” I lie.

“No it’s not. It looks like crap.”

“It’s cute. Really.”

“It’s fake.”

Like anyone couldn’t tell! I walk to where he’s sitting. He looks up, turns down the volume of the TV.

“Fake, real, it doesn’t matter. I’m flattered that you put up a tree. It’s a great tree.”

“You never could lie very well. It’s crappy. I got it at Wal-Mart, on sale. With you coming for Christmas—”

He stops, gets this weird look on his face, and the gray light from the TV accentuates his frown lines.

“What?” I turn and see my reflection in the window by the tree.

“Nothing. I thought…nothing.” His expression is pure confusion. “We’re missing the news.” Then he points to the tree. “So you like it? The decorations are too big. If you want, we can go get a real one tomorrow.”

“I wouldn’t change it for the world. Really, I’m impressed. I know you don’t like Christmas.”

“True.”

“Do you still think it’s a Communist plot against democracy?” Under the tree are two badly wrapped packages. Jesus, I completely forgot to shop! “I need to go Christmas shopping.”

“What?”

“I have to go Christmas shopping tomorrow.” I point to the presents. “I was so busy before I left Tucson, I didn’t even think of gifts.”

Dad looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “How do you know they’re for you?”

“Well, I…I don’t.”

He laughs. “They are, but they aren’t much. I don’t want anything. I still think it’s a Communist plot. The tree seemed to need presents, that’s all. You can open them now, if you want.”

“No, I’ll wait till—”

A commercial about Toyotas blares through the room and tramples the rest of my words. Dad turns down the volume again.

“I have to get you something. I wouldn’t feel right.”

“Okay. Fight the crowds to get me something I don’t want or need.”

I laugh at his familiar directness but feel a little hurt. I love Christmas, the presents and the fun. “But we’ve always exchanged presents.” An image surfaces—of my mother, a serious look on her face, wrapping boxes in pretty paper. My throat tightens and I look around the living room. The over-stuffed couch, the different shades of blue in the Oriental rug that covers most of the hardwood floor, the large picture window with no curtains so early morning sunlight will rush in—all the same, and all seem to be waiting for my mother to return.

I close my eyes, want her here. Then I brush back this futile wish.

“Remember how Mom used to sing, ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ every evening, right before dinner, starting on the fifteenth?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Dad stares straight ahead.

Brian Williams talks about sextuplets born yesterday in Virginia.

Dad gets up, walks over and hands me the remote. “You know, I think I’ll go for a walk. Watch anything you want, honey.”

“But the news isn’t over.” I stand, motion to Peter Jennings.

“It’s all the same.”

He heads toward the hallway leading to the bedrooms. I get up, follow him, stand in their bedroom doorway. The room looks the same—blue and white everywhere, a woman’s room shared with her husband. Except now there are clothes piled in corners, and the bed isn’t made. I can’t take my eyes off the mess.

“I didn’t have time to pick up,” Dad says.

He’s looking at me. I shrug. “Oh. So you’re going for a walk now?”

“Yeah.” He finds his Nikes under some clothes, sits on the edge of the bed, kicks off his loafers, then jams his feet with the black socks into tennis shoes and ties the laces in double knots.

“It’s kinda late, isn’t it?”

“The fresh air does me good, helps me sleep.”

“But you used to run, always in the morning. You aren’t doing that anymore?”

He shakes his head.

“Are you having trouble sleeping?”

He looks at me as if he’s trying to think of what to say. “A little. Things have changed. I walk now, at night. It seems to help.”

“Help what? The not sleeping?”

“Sometimes.”

The weird feeling I have in the pit of my stomach grows. I breathe in, remind myself, yes, things change, but some things don’t—like not being able to talk to your father or to feel completely relaxed around him.

“Excuse me,” he says, trying to pass through the door.

“Want me to go with you?”

“Only if you want to. I stay out a long time, so if you’re tired that’s not such a good idea.”

I step back into the hallway, knowing he wants me to stay home.

He moves past me. “Don’t wait up if you’re tired, honey.”

A moment later I hear the back door close. In the living room the tree blinks on. I turn off the TV, go to my old room and shut the door. The white daisy bedspread I’m so used to is still on the bed. The oak dresser and highboy from Lou’s Antiques in Palos Verdes stand opposite each other.

I pull back the curtain, try to look out to the front, but the window mirrors my reflection. I click off the lamp on the dresser and I disappear. Then I see my father, highlighted in the blinking red light from the fake tree. He’s standing in the middle of the front yard, staring at the house.

I wonder what he’s thinking. Is he happy I’m here? It sure doesn’t seem like it. But he did put up the tree. Maybe he just doesn’t want company. The sad part of all this is that I really don’t know.

Jake McGuire looked at the house his wife Dorothy had insisted on buying thirty-eight years ago. Christine’s bedroom light clicked off. He hoped his only child was going to bed. The red patch of light from the Christmas tree snapped off then on again. He crossed his arms and felt calmer than he had when he was in the house.

A few minutes ago, when he was sitting in his chair, he’d again seen an image of his wife. Jake shook his head.

Maybe all the talk about Christmas had brought it about. Then again, it could have been Christine’s reflection.

No, that wasn’t it.

He’d seen Dorothy standing in the middle of the living room. It was for just a split second, but he couldn’t deny it.

Jake took a deep breath. Many times this past eight months, he’d wished his wife were sitting next to him or in another room. He’d even closed his eyes and pictured her standing in front of him smiling. But tonight? What he saw felt real. And seeing her made him feel comforted.

The Christmas tree lights blinked off then on, and Jake remembered why he’d bought the stupid tree. He’d gone to pick up a case of Pennz-oil on sale at Wal-Mart, and he’d heard Dorothy’s favorite Christmas song, “I’ll Be Home for Christmas,” as he was standing in the middle of the auto supplies, for Christ’s sake. That’s when he realized he needed to get a tree because Christine would be home. The next thing he knew, he was shoving the artificial one in the trunk.

Jake walked away from the house, then stopped a little ways down the sidewalk. He was glad he’d come outside. He wasn’t used to talking about Dorothy. Since she’d been gone, his evenings were silent, except for the TV. And he’d never been responsible for Christmas. When his wife was alive, she took care of all the holidays. Most of the time, he was flying. Lay-over hotels were quiet, and he got the best assignments for those days. Dorothy said she didn’t mind, even after they got older, as long as Christine could make it home.

Deep grief invaded his body as he walked down the street. To distract himself, he looked up. The tall streetlights dabbed every fourth lawn with glassy white light. He hoped the cool night air and being out of the house, away from the memories—all the regrets—would make him feel better.

Tonight, seeing Christine for the first time since Dorothy’s funeral had made him sad. She looked so much like her mother, with her dark hair, slim build and blue eyes.

Maybe all the fresh memories had made him think he saw Dorothy. Jake stopped in the middle of the street. Yeah, that was it. The same thing had happened three weeks ago, right after the evening news reported a car wreck. That’s the first time he thought he saw Dorothy standing in front of him. It was for just a moment, yet he felt elated.

And later that night, loneliness covered him like a blanket, suffocating him. So he’d walked to the center of town, away from the house, the memories, the uncertainty. He stayed out for an hour, then right after he’d walked in the kitchen, Christine called, told him she’d booked a flight to come home. He’d been so depressed, he couldn’t think or talk. It took him a few minutes to get it together, call her back and ask what time she was coming in.

This morning, he’d thought, with Christine home, he’d be busy and the grief would subside. Tonight, at least, he managed to talk, act normal. He certainly didn’t want his daughter to worry about him.

Jake walked faster, told himself he’d keep it together while Christine was here. At Dorothy’s funeral, he’d come to grips with the fact he was never going to see his wife again, despite what some people said.

You’ll be together again someday.

A lot of people said that to him. He thought people spouted that bull to make themselves feel better and not so afraid of death. He believed that the spirit everlasting was pretty much crap. He stuffed his grief, held his feelings back and told himself to face reality.

Jake crossed the deserted street. There was no heaven or hell or anything in between. When he was eight, he’d announced to his mother he didn’t believe in heaven. She slapped the crap out of him, and that pretty much convinced him. The woman had tried to shove her faith down his throat for years, until he joined the service and moved away from Des Moines.

He stopped at the corner. He had too much time on his hands. After Christmas, he’d paint the house, keep himself busy.

He turned west, pumped his arms, walked faster. For the first time he noticed the fog, up from the ocean and veiling everything. He thought about the pilots being vectored into LAX tonight, relying on instruments, believing in what they couldn’t see, working and not thinking about anything else but getting on the ground in one piece. He envied them and wished he could still fly—look out the front left window of an airplane.

He used to love flying in the mornings. Getting up early, taking off toward the sun as it inched up the blue sky—that was his personal heaven. And he liked jogging in the mornings, too. He always got back to the house before Dorothy woke. He’d step into their cathedral-like bedroom, watch her sleep, his fingers aching to touch her dark hair streaming against her pillow.

Jake stopped at the edge of Point Fermin Park. Even though the park was only four blocks from the house, he hadn’t come down here in years. The area was still thick with eucalyptus and oaks. Dorothy liked this park, and was fascinated with the abandoned lighthouse at the cliff’s edge. He’d told her once she was obsessed with the lighthouse. She laughed, but he saw the hurt in her expression.

He closed his eyes—God, what a fool he’d been.

Jake took the curb too fast, staggered, then fell to his knees, palms flat against the asphalt.

“Damn!” The low grunt knifed the air.

Stunned, he got up and dusted bits of tarred gravel from his hands. He tested his legs. His knees throbbed.

Slowly he walked into the park. The last time he could remember being here was with Dorothy and Christine. Dorothy had managed to talk him into going with them. The kid was little and she romped through the thick grass. Dorothy laughed, leaned against him.

The white clapboard lighthouse tower, forty feet away, stood between the eucalyptus trees. For the past few years, on days when the weather was good, Dorothy brought her lunch to the bench in front of the lighthouse and spent twenty minutes relaxing. At times, he’d actually been jealous of the building.

When the San Pedro City Council and the Coast Guard abandoned the place, Dorothy latched on to the hope someone would save the lighthouse. He’d told her a million times it wouldn’t happen, that nobody gave a crap about a useless building and she shouldn’t, either. Then he’d turned up the volume on the TV.

Jake winced, closed his eyes and wanted to go back, have one more night to listen and to talk to her. A foghorn from the Los Angeles harbor sounded, reaching out its long, thick fingers. His knees hurt and his hands burned. He needed to go home and rest. Maybe a hot shower would help him ease the pain in his knees, his chest.

He turned toward the exit to leave then stopped.

His heart began to pound. Her dark hair swayed, and the red dress with the white buttons that fitted her so well and enhanced her breasts reminded him of years ago, and how young they’d been.

Jake’s throat tightened. He closed his eyes, then opened them.

But Dorothy was gone.