The Darkhouse Page 5

  In bed at night, its steady blinking reaches me through my bedroom window and I let myself get hypnotized by it. The rhythm is exactly the same as when you cry yourself to sleep: waa, breath, waa, breath.

  “This is where I found you,” I say to Marlie.

  “Yes, I know.” Her smile wavers. “Guess the view got the better of me,” she says. Then she turns abruptly to Jonah. “I was told you give tours?”

  Jonah starts. “Of the lighthouse?”

  “They told me in town it’s something you do. That I should take a tour.”

  “For your stories,” Jonah says, observing her. “Yes, I heard you’re a writer.”

  She doesn’t look up but eyes a crumpled blade of grass on the ground. I remember the diner and her uncomfortable squirming when Peg called her a writer. There’s also the proven fact that she invented a last name for us. Who is she? Aidie had asked. And why is she here?

  Jonah sets the wheelbarrow down and pulls off his gloves. “I’d be happy to give you a tour.”

  “You don’t have to,” Marlie says, flustered. “I just heard it’s something you do. It sounded interesting.”

  “You’re right. It’s very interesting.” Jonah searches for the key on his fob. In front of the tourists, Jonah always makes a big show of “unlocking” the door to the lighthouse. The truth is, he always keeps it open, but because it’s supposed to be locked, he pretends that it is. The only thing Jonah really cares about securing is his lab behind our house.

  He pushes open the door and starts his lecture — how the British overpowered the Mi’kmaq and Acadians three hundred years ago and brought in militia and built the lighthouse. How they abandoned the area later and left behind settlers. How the lighthouse is controlled now by the Canadian Coast Guard from far away and has an uncertain future because of lack of funding.

  Inside the lighthouse it’s dark and close, like being caught in a pipe. Jonah flips a switch and fluorescents flicker along the walls. It’s all very plain, walls painted white like the outside, rows of wooden ladders and platforms leading up to the top. On the ground floor, some shelves are loaded with flashlights, rain gear, old compasses, maps, and all the equipment for rock climbing: harnesses and ropes, rappel devices, quick draws, ascenders, and wonky hinged hooks called carabiners. Beside the shelves, there are a few framed copies of the original lighthouse designs. Marlie studies the drawings while Jonah lectures. Even though I know the drawings by heart, I study them too.

  When Jonah finishes his rehearsed speech, he leans back to look up the ladders. “Why don’t we go up?” he says.

  Marlie hesitates. “It’s so high.”

  “It’s very safe,” he says.

  “All right,” she says in a small voice. “Sure.”

  Jonah wipes his palms on his pants and leads us to the ladders. I invite Marlie to climb up between us. As we climb, my face is so close to her feet that I can watch the faded rubber of Jonah’s old galoshes split in skinny lines. I want to move my hand from the wooden rails of the ladder and touch one of her legs. Maybe the back of her knee. But I don’t.

  We climb in silence. At the top, the ladder disappears through a small opening. When we climb through it and out onto the landing, Marlie looks around the Watch Room. It’s surrounded on all sides by tall windows, and Jonah tells her that in the old days the Watch Room was for the keeper to check the condition of the seas or to watch for the approach of warships. Above the Watch Room, there’s one more ladder that ends at a trap door that leads outside. The Gallery and Lantern Room make up the platform and housing for the giant beam of light.

  At first when Jonah opens the door, the wind almost slaps it down on top of him. But he pushes his shoulder hard against it and forces it open. He climbs through to the top and secures the panel, then checks for ice. When he’s certain the surface is clear, he holds down his hand for Marlie to take. After a second’s hesitation, she does. I wonder what it feels like, their two hands touching.

  When I climb through, the hot eye of the lighthouse glares at me, then blinks away. Like Marlie, I gasp as the wind hits me in the mouth. The sea rolls green in the gloom far below, as odd as a different planet, and hazed clouds press close enough to almost swaddle us. The wind shoves me against the rails, and it starts to feel good. Like I could die but won’t.

  Jonah surprises me by leaning toward Marlie and asking, “So, where did you come from?”

  “Toronto,” she says, her curls tumbling around her head.

  “Yes,” Jonah says. His hands grip the rail in front of him, and I wonder at the whiteness of his knuckles. I take a step back so I can observe them from a better angle. Jonah says, “You have family there?”

  “Just my mother.” Marlie grips the rail too. “But she’s very sick,” she says. “I had to put her in facilitated care.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “MS,” she says. “She’s had it for years, but she keeps getting worse. I took care of her for a while, but it’s too much for one person now.”

  “That’s very hard.” Jonah shakes his head. “You have no one to help you? No husband, no partner?”

  “Not right now. Not anymore.”

  “I understand.” Jonah moves the hand closest to Marlie from the rail into the air behind her back. He stares closely at her. “So, why are you here?”

  Furtively, I lean in.

  “For my writing?” Marlie says, uncertain, unclear.

  The wind gusts in louder, and Jonah leans closer to Marlie. “But if the story is fiction, why the island?” His hand is hovering behind the small of her back, so close it almost touches her. “What’s so important about the island?”

  Marlie shivers. She searches for the starting point of the wind. “To be honest,” she says, and I lean even closer, “I was interested in the cliffs.”

  “You were interested in the cliffs?” Jonah’s hovering hand lands on her back. Something about it disturbs me. Jonah never touches people.

  “I think we should go,” I say.

  But they don’t hear me. Instead Jonah’s hand flexes as a slight amount of pressure is applied to Marlie’s back. “Why?”

  Marlie presses against the rail. “They’re so …” She seems to allow his push. Seems to want it. “High.”

  “Yes. They’re unusually high for this part of the country.” Jonah holds Marlie against the rails and watches her for five seconds, ten. But she doesn’t say another word, only grips the rails and trembles slightly.

  Jonah’s profile grabs my attention. It’s set in its usual way: brow pinched with observation, broody eyes peering out, jaw gritted tight. But the thing that startles me is that it’s such a nice face. Nicely shaped lips around even, white teeth, eyes that trick you into thinking they’re every color, wavy, dark hair. And he has a strong body too, tall and lean.

  He’s like the Russian nesting dolls that Peg collects. A matryoshka. Different for whoever he’s with and whatever is being discussed. And maybe that’s why people don’t understand him. But he’s a handsome man. And maybe that’s why people trust him.

  After a few minutes of no one talking or looking at each other, Jonah’s hand drops to his side and his face relaxes. “The Milky Way,” he says in a gentle voice, “has over two hundred billion stars in it. Did you know that?”

  Marlie seems surprised. “Sure, I guess.”

  “I’m being impertinent. Of course you do. But, in reality, we have no intuition for that kind of number. Evolution hasn’t equipped us to understand it.”

  Marlie looks at him.

  “If you take the finest pen,” he says, “and make the tiniest mark on a piece of paper to indicate a star location, the next tiny pen mark would have to be sixty kilometers away. That’s how far apart the stars are. And there are over two hundred billion of them.”

  I remind myself that Jonah doesn’t take note of the constellations or know any of the stories behind them.

  “The space, the numbers involved, people refuse to accept
that we can’t understand them. Because we feel very …” The wind lashes his hair around his face, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “We have tremendous egos with respect to one organ.” He taps his temple. “The brain. And the only reason I understand it is because I build a crutch — a prosthetic, if you will — by creating this model to help illustrate what it means.”

  For the first time, he truly looks at Marlie, and she smiles as if she recognizes him from a long time ago.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “We don’t get a lot of visitors up here. Small talk isn’t … well … it isn’t really my …”

  “No,” she says. “It’s fascinating.”

  A secret gaze connects them. It thrills and confuses me. Jonah smiles back at her and his face transforms. They look beautiful together.

  He says something else, but the wind roars up and drowns him out. Marlie mimes that she can’t hear, so he leans in so close that the tip of his nose disappears inside her curls.

  Jonah is lonely. He must be. I don’t know how I never noticed it before.

  When he pulls his face away from her ear, they both turn to leave. He must have decided that it’s too dangerous for us to stay.

  As soon as we get in the house, Jonah throws more logs onto the living room fire, rearranging and prodding them with the poker. Even though the house is colder than usual, it feels warm to come inside.

  Marlie pulls off the old coat and galoshes of Jonah’s and puts them where they belong. She helps me take off my coat and hangs it neatly on a hook.

  “Would it be okay,” she says cautiously, “if I took a bath?”

  Jonah keeps his face turned toward the fire, but I can see his ears flush red.

  Marlie steps toward him. “If I have to stay until morning, I should probably clean up.” She laughs a little. “Is that okay?”

  Jonah says to the fire as he stokes it, “Yes, of course.”

  “Great,” she says.

  Jonah closes the fireplace screen and turns to me, his color back to normal. “Gemma, go upstairs and run Miss Luellen a bath. And find some clean clothes for her to change into. Yours will be too small, so it’ll have to be something of mine.”

  Marlie says, “Thank you so much.”

  I blush for some unknown reason and run upstairs without looking at either of them.

  Marlie disappears inside the bathroom before the bathtub has even partly filled. I find Jonah in the kitchen setting the kettle on the stove and lighting the burner. He seems to be planning something — it’s clear in the way he starts and stops moving.

  I perch myself on the edge of a chair, hoping he’ll forget I’m there and talk out loud to himself. Something he often does. It’s one way I get to know what’s deeply on his mind. But he surprises me by turning and looking directly at me.

  “I think you should go to the FoodMart and get us something nice for dinner.”

  I reel at the unexpected proposal. “Like what?”

  “I think I’ll make a roast. With potatoes, yes. And boiled carrots.”

  The surprise of it is almost enough to make me sick. Jonah has never cooked a proper meal in my life. “Okay,” I say, as if a menu is something we plan every day. I pull money from the grocery jar and get myself ready to go out again.

  “And take your time coming home,” he says as I head to the door. I look back at him. “Yes,” he says, turning to grab the kettle that has just started to whistle. “I think Miss Luellen needs a proper rest.”

  Choosing the potatoes and carrots at the FoodMart is easy. The roast is not so clear. It’s the first time they’ve had fresh meat in stock since before the winter. Every piece looks bright and bloody. I’ve only ever known Randy at the diner to cook meat, and that’s usually hamburgers charred black. Despite my worry, I pick a wrapped hunk and take everything up to the cash. I pretend to be too busy counting money to properly answer Phyllis Ketchum about how everyone is doing up at the house.

  Outside, I gather my bike and ride it around the back of Peg’s Diner so none of the other islanders can stop me and ask questions. Safely out of sight, I straddle to a stop. Jonah said I should take my time. Riding into town and buying groceries went faster than it ever has before. Time always plays tricks on you when you least want it to.

  “Hey, kiddo,” a playful voice calls out to me.

  My head snaps in his direction like a bird heeding a call. Scotty O’Reardon is standing in his yard, Mr. O’Reardon’s binocular case in one hand, the other hand flopped on the head of Mr. O’Reardon’s dog, Biscuit. Scotty is even more dazzling than I remember, than I dreamed in my bed.

  Biscuit bounds up to me, his tail wagging his entire body. I can’t help smiling as he slobbers all over my hand and then rears back on his hind legs to slobber all over my face. I give him a hug and order him to settle down.

  “What’re you up to?” Scotty says, a heartbreakingly tilted grin on his face.

  I push the bag of groceries deep into my bike basket. “Nothing.”

  “Well, Mitch Follows just called. Says one of the buoys from the south side of Crescent Bay isn’t there anymore. I told my dad I’d check it out, set a new one. Want to come along?”

  I glance toward the road leading back to my house. If I could choose any way to take my time getting home, I would choose Scotty.

  “Yes,” I say, “I want to come.” I climb off my bike and push it along after him.

  Scotty reaches his hand out and helps me climb onto the boat. Some-thing I’ve never needed before, but take anyway. It’s such a handsome hand, not gnarled like the men on the island but strong and assured. Last night’s dream comes back to haunt me, that very hand touching me, and I have to hide my face from him. My skin is so hot, I wonder if he can feel it.

  After I stuff the grocery bag with the roast and vegetables into the hull, Scotty offers me a life jacket. I notice there’s a tiny ball of white thread caught in the stubble on his chin, and I have an overpowering urge to reach up and brush it off. But I know I can’t touch him. I busy myself putting on the life jacket instead.

  My heart thunders wildly. Boom-boom, boom-boom. Like a kid jumping on a floor.

  “You okay?” Scotty asks. He unmoors the boat and drops the rope at my feet.

  I swallow and nod. “Yup. Perfectly perfect.”

  “Good to hear.” And we float away from the dock.

  I wish so much that I could be my older self. Wear her clothes and speak with her voice. I want my hands to have her sure fingers and maybe nails painted red. I wish I could wear jewelry, maybe like Marlie, silver chains and transparent colored stones dangling into the dip between my collarbones. Could have hips that push back and forth when I walk. I’m still so miniature, baby nails at the ends of my fingers, ribs poking through my T-shirts. I want another me to be here in front of Scotty now. I want him to see her.

  Scotty starts the motor. The engine is very loud and makes it almost impossible for us to talk. I sit on the bench and bundle up, putting my gloves back on and pulling the hood of my parka over my tuque. Today the water is very flat and the boat makes the only waves. Sparks of light flare off each crest.

  Standing behind me like a protective wall, Scotty navigates the coast, avoiding the rocks on the shoal. Biscuit looks like he’s going to barf. I pat his head and he gives me his drooly paw to hold and I stroke the thin tendons around his nails.

  It doesn’t take long for us to take the boat from Keele’s Landing to Crescent Bay, maybe ten minutes. As we get closer, the lighthouse appears on the cliffs. It looks a bit like it’s getting ready to jump but can’t make up its mind.

  Scotty steers around the shoal and, sure enough, one buoy is gone while the other bobs lazily on the other side of the cove. Scotty cuts the engine and drops anchor. He pulls the binoculars from his bag and spreads his feet for balance. We rock gently as he scans the horizon, turning in a circle to inspect the ocean in every direction. He says to himself, “Strange. That buoy just up and disappeared.”

  I say, �
�Can I look?”

  “Sure thing. Let me know if you find anything.” He passes me the binoculars and bends over to grab the buoy he brought along to replace the missing one. He tethers and weights it and secures the lines.

  I aim the binoculars toward the shallows along the cliff under the lighthouse where most days the waves crash hard enough to break things, but today they lap and loll. If I find the missing buoy, it could be like a present from me to Scotty. I hear myself say, “Please please please,” out loud, and it’s so humiliating, I bite my tongue.

  Just as I’m about to give up, something flashes in the middle of the cliff. I aim the binoculars toward it. It takes a while before I track it, but then I do: on the sheer side of the rock face, several feet below the lighthouse and above the sea, a human head is pushing its way out of the rock.

  It’s so impossible, I shake myself and refocus the binocular lens and aim it carefully at the cliffside below the lighthouse. And there it is again: a whole person climbing out of a crevice in the rock.

  As I ease my breath so I can focus without trembling, it becomes clear — even though his features look as small as a doll’s — that the per-son pulling out of the crevice is Jonah. And that the crevice isn’t a natural phenomenon at all, but a perfectly square window. The kind of stone window you might see in a textbook about medieval castles.

  Jonah continues to pull himself out then up the face of the cliff, and then I realize he’s tethered in the climbing gear. When he passes higher, a large dead ball of weed flaps over the window and closes it off like a thick, wooly curtain.

  He inches himself up the cliffside until he arrives at the top, where he pulls himself over to the foot of the lighthouse. He catches his breath, then collects the rope and bundles it around his arm. He brings all the gear to the lighthouse and goes inside, then comes back out a moment later empty-handed.