A Sudden Light: A Novel (10 page)

I went downstairs. The house was empty. The phone rang with a relentless tempo, and the ringer was so loud that the space between rings was filled entirely with the echo of those rings. I found the black phone on the telephone table in the kitchen. I lifted the receiver midring and held the device to my ear. I heard a click and hissing, and I forgot to say anything.

“Is anyone there?” I heard through the earpiece. It was a tiny voice. A woman. “Hello? Is anyone there?” I heard sounds of confusion and rustling, and then, dimly, perhaps words said to someone else in the room: “The ringing has stopped. Maybe I’ve been disconnected.”

It was my mother. Through a magic portal, she had found me. She
had reached halfway around the world—or maybe she went
through
it. Maybe the telephone cable linked us directly through the center of the earth; like with a tin-can phone, we were connected by a taut umbilical cord.

“Mom?” I croaked in my morning voice.

“Trevor!” she exclaimed. “Trevor, is it you?”

“It’s me,” I said, feeling my melancholy lift so quickly I was almost giddy.

“Can you hear me? You’re very dim; be sure to speak up.”

“I can hear you.”

“It’s your birthday!” she shouted. “My baby! Fourteen years old! How does it feel?”

“The same.”

“Not at all different?”

“No different,” I said. “But I’m glad you called.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I wish I could be there with you to help you celebrate, but I’m afraid this phone call will have to do.”

She told me about her world in a flurry: her father had a cold; her mother’s fish and chips were too greasy; her sisters still resented her; her brother pulled her hair when he passed behind her chair. I tried to think of something I could offer her, but nothing seemed appropriate. I wanted to be upbeat and match her enthusiasm, but all I could think of to tell her about were my misgivings, my concerns, my lingering questions about Riddell House. And I definitely didn’t want to tell her about my fear that I would be forced to spend the rest of my life with her in Penzance while my father handed out mosquito nets in Africa.

“What about your aunt and your grandfather?” she asked. “I’ve never met them. What are they like?”

“Well, Serena. She’s . . . weird.”

“Can you be more specific?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Not really. It’s just a feeling.”

She laughed. “Okay. How about Samuel?”

“He’s weird, too. But in a different way.”

“I see.”

“Say, what do you think of this?” I asked, struck by a thought: my mother was an expert at crossword puzzles. “Grandpa scribbles things down all the time. Ideas that come to him or something. Serena says they’re gibberish; she says he does it because he has Alzheimer’s. But he wrote this Post-it note at dinner. It said, ‘muir.’ M-U-I-R, and then M-T-N-S space C-A. I can’t figure it out. What does it mean?”

“John Muir,” she said immediately. “M-U-I-R?”

“Yes.”

“Right. John Muir was a famous Scotsman. He did great work in the field of environmentalism; he essentially began the conservation movement.
The Mountains of California
was one of his books. M-T-N-S space C-A. Maybe your grandfather read it years ago and thought of something he wanted to look at again so he jotted down a note to himself.”

“Maybe,” I said, wheels spinning in my head. “How did you do that? How did you just know?”

“Well, I haven’t read
much
John Muir, but I’ve read
about
him. It’s one of those facts that sticks in your head.”

“Sticks in
your
head.”

“Yes, well. And how’s Dad?”

I didn’t know what to say. How’s Dad? How should I answer? It occurred to me that my mother wasn’t only calling with birthday wishes. That was her gambit, of course. But she was also calling to check up on my father. I saw an opening.

“Dad’s doing really well,” I said, in a brazen attempt to sound cheerful. “I mean, despite missing you.”

“He misses me?”

“Are you kidding?” I boasted. I felt the need to create a myth. Get her hooked, then get my father hooked. A parent trap. “It’s crazy; he talks about you all the time. And he shaved his beard.”

“Did he?”

“He’s got a face, you know,” I said, and I was pleased to hear my mother’s laugh. “And it’s pretty thin. I guess I can see why you were attracted to him. You know, a long time ago. Back in the beginning.”

“He was very charming as well as being good looking,” she said.

“Overall, he seems healthier,” I assured her. “I think it’s the air or something. And he seems happy, too. I mean, as happy as he could be under the circumstances. You know, because of his business and all, and you not being around.”

“That’s terrific, Trevor. Thanks for telling me. I was worried that going back to Riddell House would dredge up some pretty painful things that might push him in the opposite direction.”

“No way,” I said, getting carried away. “He and Serena get along great. And he and Grandpa Samuel are like best friends. I practically expect them to go outside and toss a baseball back and forth. You know, like it was thirty years ago.”

There was a long pause, and I realized I might have overplayed my hand. Toss a baseball? What was I thinking?

“Your father never had a good relationship with Grandpa Samuel,” she said. “Even thirty years ago.”

Crap. Just because my father hadn’t told me about the animosity between Grandpa Samuel and him didn’t mean he hadn’t told my mother.

“I mean, they
seem
happy together,” I offered.

“Is that so?” my mother wondered after a moment. “I’m glad to hear it, if it’s true. Is Dad around? I’d like to check in, if he has a moment.”

I panicked. Of course she would like to check in. But where was my father? Where was
anybody
?

“Um. Let me see if I can find him.”

“It’s all right—”

I set down the phone and quickly ran down the hallway to the front door, looking in the rooms I passed. I ran up the stairs and checked my father’s bedroom. Nothing.

“Dad?” I called out down the hallway. Desperate, I ran up to the
ballroom. Empty. Back down the stairs to the first floor, I hurried along the corridor to the south wing, calling out for my father. But my father was nowhere to be found. I returned to the phone, breathless.

“I don’t think he’s in the house,” I said to my mother, panting.

“I’ll call another time, then—”

“Maybe he’s in the barn. Hold on.”

I ran out of the kitchen and noticed that the car was gone, which did not bode well. I cut the corner of the meadow and sprinted down the hill to the barn. I threw open the door.

“Dad!”

Grandpa Samuel looked up from his workbench. “Son!”

“No, Grandpa. It’s me, Trevor. Do you know where Dad is?”

He stared at me blankly.

“Never mind.”

I ran back up the hill, angry with my father. This was his chance. She had called. She was showing an interest. She wanted to talk to her husband. She
cared
. But he wasn’t there. An opportunity missed.

I picked up the phone from the table.

“I can’t find him,” I told her, dejected.

The only response I got was a dial tone. She had hung up. My eyes burned with tears as I placed the handset in the cradle.

*  *  *

The library was impressive. Dark mahogany everywhere, and a ladder that climbed about ten feet to a catwalk for the second tier of books. A giant table stood in the middle of the room, rooted and oaken, surrounded by heavy chairs with brass studs affixing the leather upholstery to the wood, and adorned with beautiful brass lamps with green glass shades.

I could smell the must of a million decaying pages, books that had been unopened for years. Decades. So many books pushed so tightly together. They just wanted to be opened and read! I walked the perimeter
and looked at the spines. Anderson, Andrews, Andreyev. Burroughs, Burton, Butler. They were alphabetized, separated by fiction and nonfiction. In fact, the nonfiction titles were grouped in such a way . . . The Dewey decimal system, but without the decimals. This library had been carefully curated and cared for at one time.

It was not hard to find the natural sciences. It was easy to find Muir, John, in the natural sciences.

Everyone knew who John Muir was. Even my mother, who was from England. He was the founder of the Sierra Club. The creator of the national park movement. The guy who ruled Yosemite in the name of white Europeans everywhere. He wrote a lot of books. They were lined up right there on the shelf.
Travels in Alaska, The Yosemite, Our National Parks.
And a slender edition entitled
The Mountains of California
.

I slipped the book from the shelf. It was clothbound with gilded edges and an image of leaves embossed in gold on the cover. I blew the dust off and cracked the cover. First edition, first printing, 1894. It was signed on the title page: “To Harry Lindsey, a great lover of the mountains, John Muir.” I flipped to the overleaf and found an additional inscription: “Harry, I hope this keeps you warm this winter, when I cannot be there to warm you myself. I hold you in my heart, though I cannot hold you in my arms. You are forever mine as I am forever yours. Love, Ben.”

A ribbon trailed from the binding to use as a bookmark, like they had in old books. I flipped to the marked page. I found an essay entitled “A Wind-storm in the Forests.” It began, “The mountain winds, like the dew and rain, sunshine and snow, are measured and bestowed with love on the forests to develop their strength and beauty. . . .” I wanted to read it. As I settled back in a club chair and flicked on a reading light, a yellowed envelope slipped out of the back cover of the book. It was addressed in black handwriting, curly script in India ink that had been ghosted where the ink had shrunk away from the paper fibers: “Harry Lindsey, Esq., in the care of Riddell Timber Mill, Aberdeen, Washington.” The
“from” address simply read, “B. Riddell, Seattle.” I opened the envelope and removed the enclosed letter. The creases were so crisp and the letter so unblemished, it seemed as if it had never been read at all. Or maybe just once.

January 17, 1902

My dear Harry,

I can only assume my letters and packages are getting to you, or will get to you eventually when you check in with the mill, so I am not worried. I had a chance to meet Muir last month and so cajoled him into inscribing this volume to you. He’s quite a quirky fellow and objected strenuously, but I prevailed. When pledging money for his cause didn’t work, I pledged him my father’s senators, which was more than agreeable to him. So we have turned old Elijah to the cause of conservation! Bully on him!

The essay on the windstorm—which I have marked for you—is quite remarkable. He knows of which he writes, this Muir. You can’t bluff that, can you, Harry? I’m sure those stunted little firs in Yosemite are nothing compared to what you and I have climbed together on the coast. But perhaps I say that only because I am feeling trapped by this earth. Alice is always around, and I am constantly forced into the stiffest clothes and made to sit like a Turkish bear, not allowed to doze at a dinner party when the conversation is so tedious I have to pinch myself to stay awake. Oh, Harry. Harry! Simply writing your name makes me feel better and allows me to feel comfort in knowing you are there for me. How I long for a journey with you into the mountains and to set a camp by a river, just the two of us. A trout to roast, or a rabbit we have snared. A hot fire and a bottle of whiskey and the night around us.

The season will begin in April. I have already told my father I will return to the coast to supervise the harvest, and then we will see each other again. I have been making great progress with our plan.
My father has desecrated this land so; I will make amends for him. You and I, together, will work to restore this land to its pristine state, not from a position of weakness and protest, but from a position of power. The deal is moving forward, and as long as I am able to stand a bow tie tight around my neck, I will prevail. I will be meeting Roosevelt in two weeks, and his man Pinchot. They will expect to meet someone who is like the others they have met: terrible, avaricious men. When they shake my hand, they will know the truth of it. They will know they have an ally who is richer than all the rest of them.

I will not be able to return before April, however; as much as I had hoped to ride down to see you for a few days, I’m afraid things are too busy here, and I must stand by Alice’s side always to ensure her complicity. But know, Harry—always know!—when I dream at night, I dream of you.

Until we meet again, I am,

Faithfully yours, Ben

I folded the letter and placed it back into the volume. Was it the letter that Grandpa Samuel remembered? Did he want to remind himself to read it again? (And yet it looked practically unread—as if it hadn’t been touched for decades.)

I’d heard of Ben. Serena said he was Elijah’s first son, who died tragically young. The only other time I’d heard his name was when Grandpa Samuel jumped up from the table at dinner on our first night and wrote the note: MUIR MTNS CA. “Ben is nervous,” Grandpa Samuel had said. And his note led me to this discovery.

Alice and Roosevelt and “his man Pinchot.” And Harry Lindsey, the subject of Ben’s dreams.

People didn’t really talk much about homosexuality when I was fourteen. At least not in Connecticut, where I had grown up. Except for the kids at school, of course, when they wanted to pick on someone. I remember being embarrassed and confused by what I had read: Did this
letter mean my great-granduncle was gay? And what was it even like to be gay in the early 1900s?

I closed the book with the letter still inside and replaced it on the shelf.

I headed up to my room, but, as I passed the front parlor, I stopped. I hesitated, then went inside. I stood before the giant portrait of Elijah and gazed into his powerful eyes and at his hand that reached out into the room as if it might pull me into another dimension. Next to the big portrait of Elijah was another oil painting, much smaller but large enough, with a small plate on the frame that read:
BENJAMIN RIDDELL
. It was a portrait of a young man with wavy black hair and nearly black eyes, smiling out of one side of his mouth as if he knew a secret.