A Sudden Light: A Novel (12 page)

There was no irony to his comment—just self-pity—so I wasn’t moved.

“Thanks,” I said.

A strange look swept over Grandpa Samuel’s face, and he sat upright quickly, cocking his head from side to side.

“What’s that smell?” he asked loudly.

“It’s nothing, Daddy,” Serena said.

“It’s a bad smell,” Grandpa Samuel said. “What is it?”

“Brother Jones was in a bar,” Serena says. “He smells of cigarettes. The man next to him must have been smoking. Isn’t that right, Brother?”

“
I
was smoking,” my father said.

“Isobel hated cigarettes,” Grandpa Samuel declared.

“You were
with
someone who was smoking,” Serena said deliberately. “You picked up the smell in your clothing. You detest cigarette smoking, Brother Jones, you know that. You would never do anything against Mother’s wishes.”

“That must have been it,” my father grumbled, rising from the table. “I’ll go change.”

He walked out of the room.

“You can use your new fountain pen to sign books at your readings,” Serena suggested after he had gone. “Perhaps you will move to Seattle and become inspired by the rain and darkness that typify our oppressive winters.”

I shrugged.

“Daddy and I got you a present, too,” she said, handing me a small, thin, book-like package.

I jokingly held it to my ear and gave it a shake.

“A book?”

“Open it,” she said. “Gently.”

I tore back the tissue paper wrapping.

“We don’t have the kind of money to buy you designer fountain pens, I’m afraid. This is a book from our library. But I had it appraised by a seller of rare books in Pioneer Square, and he confirmed that it is quite valuable.”

I held a thin booklet that looked fragile.
Daisy Miller: A Study
, written by Henry James.

“It was first published in 1878 in England. Later, James revised it for the American market, but, you know, it’s always best to read the original text of an author—before the forces of marketing and social acceptability gain sway. What you are holding is a first edition, first printing of the original novella.”

I looked down at the small booklet, which seemed to have grown heavier with this history.

“It must be worth a lot,” I said.

“It is,” Serena confirmed. “Elijah was not a big reader, as far as we know. But he liked to collect things. And since cost was not an issue for him—before he began to disassemble his empire—he collected many treasures such as this. You may peruse the library for these gems. And
when I say ‘peruse,’ I use it in the true sense of ‘study thoroughly,’ not the common misuse, which is to confuse it with ‘browse.’ ”

“What will I find?” I asked, piqued.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to spoil the discovery process, but I’m happy to tease you with the idea that a first edition of a famous book about a white whale and the captain who pursued him graces the shelves of Elijah’s library.”

I stared at her for a very long time, while she smiled at me smugly. I had never read
Moby-Dick
, but my mother had, and she’d told me about it, and she revered it. In that moment, I missed my mother terribly. Her love of books. The way her face relaxed into a smile when she stumbled upon me unexpectedly as I read a book on the living room couch or on the porch or standing in the kitchen, book in hand, because I was so compelled by what I was reading that I couldn’t stop even to pour a glass of juice.

“My mother would love to be here,” I said.

“Yes,” Serena agreed. “But she isn’t. And so this book is merely a symbol of our gift to you, Trevor. To
you
. Not to your mother. Your grandfather and I are giving you the collection of Elijah Riddell. The books are yours so you can use them in the way they were meant to be used: to be read. After all, an unread book is nothing more than a colorful doorstop, isn’t it? All of Elijah’s books are now yours. Isn’t that right, Daddy?”

Grandpa Samuel, who had slouched into his chair during the whole conversation, raised his eyebrows.

“All of them,” he muttered.

“You’re giving a valuable collection to your only grandson!” Serena chirped loudly. “I think more enthusiasm is in order.”

“All of them!” Grandpa Samuel shouted, raising his hands above his head in triumph.

I was stunned by the gift. Who knew what else might be in the library? Famous books. Rare books. Books of great value.

And yet my mind buzzed with a question: Why wouldn’t Serena have
sold this stuff off over the years? She always complained about money, yet there were incredibly valuable things in the house. It didn’t make sense.

“Thank you, Aunt Serena,” I said.

“No kiss?” she asked.

I hesitated, wondering how serious Serena was about a kiss; I found her very difficult to read sometimes. After a moment, I got up and gave her a kiss on her cheek, and she grabbed me and hugged me tightly for a few seconds before releasing me.

“You’re practically a man, and I missed all of your childhood,” she said. “I should have been there when you were a baby to give you a bath, to change your diaper, to hold you when you were afraid or upset. Touch is so terribly important to relationships.”

“Simply Serena!” Grandpa Samuel howled.

And my opinion of Grandpa Samuel was again influenced by his behavior. Before, I thought he was forgetful but otherwise coherent. Now he seemed difficult and unpredictable. Erratic. Possibly unstable.

“Yes, Daddy. Simply Serena wanted to hug Clever Trevor because touch is so important to the human experience. Touch heals. Touch conveys love. Without touch, babies would never be made. Why do they call some shamans hands-on healers? Because the connection between one person and another is so important. It can breathe life into the dead.”

She turned and spoke directly to me.

“When Mother was dying, your father sat with her for hours, holding her hands or stroking her hair. He wanted her to feel his healing touch.”

“I remember—” Grandpa Samuel started.

“You don’t remember anything, Daddy,” Serena cut him off. “You were too drunk. You were a drunkard back then, and you remember nothing of the horrors we were forced to endure.”

He looked at Serena sadly. He furrowed his brow like he really did remember, like he wanted to tell us what he remembered, but Serena’s
glare was cold, so cold, that his attempt was thwarted. He nodded his head.

“I don’t remember,” he said compliantly.

“You were too drunk and you forced Brother Jones to take care of Mother and me and you, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Brother Jones gave up everything he had. All of his plans. The track team, and his acting. He dropped classes so he could take care of us. We owe him a debt of gratitude. We need to show him that we remember the sacrifices he made for the family. And we need to acknowledge that what you did to him in return was wrong. Don’t forget it, Daddy.”

“I won’t.”

“He used to run,” she said rapturously. “His legs were so long and he was so powerful, and he would glide. I would watch him at his track practices after school; I would sit in the bleachers and watch. And I would see the other boys. They plodded and they clumped on the cinders. They were football players and wrestlers looking for something to do in the off-season. They had bunchy muscles and no grace about them at all. But Jones! Long and lean. When he ran, he
ran
!”

“I remember,” Grandpa Samuel said.

“But then Mother got sick. And you kept drinking. You drank even more, so you wouldn’t remember.”

“I remember.”

“Not all of it, Daddy. You don’t remember all of it.”

She stopped talking and we fell into a coma of silence, Grandpa Samuel and I staring dumbly at our plates. She had put us into a trance.

“Touch is a powerful thing,” she said.

My father returned to the kitchen wearing clean, odorless clothes. He took his seat.

“What were you talking about?” he asked.

“We were remembering Mother,” Serena replied.

“She’s here,” Grandpa Samuel added. “She dances for me.”

Everyone froze in place until Serena pointedly put down her fork. My father squinted at Grandpa Samuel.

“Is she here?” my father asked. “Is she
really
here?”

“She’s here,” Grandpa Samuel repeated.

“Nonsense,” Serena interjected.

“Is she
really
here, Dad?”

“I’ve heard her, too,” I offered.

Serena looked incredulously at us all.

“It’s the rain,” she said. “He only hears the rain. That’s all.”

“The rain,” Grandpa Samuel echoed.

But my father was caught up in the emotion. The idea of his dead mother dancing in the ballroom. I could see it on his face. He hadn’t lost his faith, he had just pushed it down and hidden it from view. I saw the glimmer in his eye. He
wanted
his mother’s ghost to be in Riddell House.

Serena got up and went to him. She sat next to him on the bench and put her arms around his shoulders, and he folded into her, his head tipped against hers, and she held him and rocked him back and forth, and I saw that my father was crying. She rocked him and stroked his hair and he was sobbing.

“Shh,” she said, soothing him. “Let me heal you.”

I saw it all clearly. How my father desperately wanted to see his mother. How Grandpa Samuel held his belief so strongly. How Serena controlled the narrative of the family. Telling Grandpa Samuel what he should remember and what he shouldn’t.

I saw how she controlled my father, too. How she picked at the scab just enough to get her nail under the edge, enough to lift until she felt it tear and saw a drop of blood form underneath, but then how she pushed down so it didn’t bleed more. I used to do that when I was a kid and I skinned my knee or my elbow. Pick just enough to feel some pain, but then apply pressure. Because my mother used to tell me that if you tear off the scab entirely, you get a scar.

I thought briefly of telling my father about my mother’s phone call, but I held myself back. I had come to Riddell House with a mission to reunite my parents. My strategy was to fix my father by helping him to fix his broken life. It was a simple plan, because I thought his problems were just about money. But then I saw that it wasn’t as simple as that. Watching Serena hold my father made me realize that my father was a lot more damaged than I’d thought. And until I could get him repaired, it was probably best that he not talk to my mother at all.

W
hat did we do before Google? Before Wi-Fi? Before cable modems? Before cell phone towers on every building?

Before that?

We did what we had to do because we were resourceful. We had initiative. And we understood that the process is fundamental to the result: a poor process produces a poor product.

And now? Now we let someone else worry about the messy details. We delegate that responsibility.

And so we delegate our privacy. And so we delegate our liberty. And so we forsake the control of our own destinies.

Well, we can’t complain, can we? We checked the box. We accepted the Terms and Conditions without reading them, didn’t we? So we have only ourselves to blame.

But I was a child of a different era. Remember, in 1990, there were
places called libraries, and they had people called librarians, who could help us with our research, if we chose to take advantage of such.

I figured it out. The next day—Day Four of our Adventure—I had my father drive me up to Greenwood Avenue so I could take the number 5 Phinney bus downtown. From the abandoned JCPenney’s on Second Avenue and Pike, I walked the few blocks to the Seattle Public Library. I found a helpful librarian. I asked questions. The librarian sent me in various directions, and I did my research.

“Roosevelt and his man Pinchot,” as Ben had written in his letter. Oh! It’s all about national parks and forestry and conservation. Teddy Roosevelt was the president who started the whole national parks concept, taking millions of acres and setting them aside for the common man, land that would normally fall into the hands of the rich timber barons, like Elijah Riddell, my great-great-grandfather. Gifford Pinchot, whose timber-baron family made their fortune clear-cutting nearly the entire Adirondack Mountains, was the first chief of the United States Forest Service. Together, Roosevelt and Pinchot worked as crusaders to preserve the beauty of a world which had existed long before them and yet which was being rapidly destroyed in the name of progress. Both men came from terribly rich families, but they took a position of advocating for all people, not just the rich. They believed that some things were too good for one person to own.

Gifford Pinchot was an interesting fellow. He married a dead girl. His fiancée, Laura Houghteling, died before they wed, so he went ahead and married her after she was dead, and then they lived together for a long time like that, one of them dead and one alive. You think I’m joking. I’m not. It was the heyday of Spiritualism. Everyone accepted the presence of ghosts and spirits as a normal part of their experiences. So no one thought it was all that strange for their friend Giff to take long walks with the ghost of his wife. Or set a plate for her at the dinner table. Or consult with her on issues of great importance. And, anyway, he was fabulously wealthy, so he didn’t care what people thought. And his best
friend was the president of the United States, and, together, they went Robin Hood on the trusts and syndicates and took all the land and gave it to the people.

The other fabulously wealthy people (my great-great-grandfather included) couldn’t do anything but get mad and stomp around and try to figure out ways to get them thrown out of office. Which happened, eventually. But the damage to the concerns of timber barons—the creation of National Parks!—had already been done.

Once I felt I had an understanding of the context, I went to work on the specifics, which took me to the microfiche readers and newspaper archives. I quickly learned that early daily newspapers in Seattle were different than modern papers. They didn’t have a lot of photos, first of all, just column after column of poorly written reportage. And they had biases which were not well disguised.
The Seattle Republican
made fun of politicians they didn’t like, calling one of them an “oaf” and a “walrus.”
The Seattle Star
was a little goofy and spent a lot of time on the police blotter, which was filled with reports of drunken people stabbing each other.
The Seattle Daily Times
tried to act serious and responsible, but I wasn’t sure they pulled it off very well.