A Sudden Light: A Novel (25 page)

The more I considered those ideas that night, the more I was swayed by fatigue, and I felt my eyes needed to close. I turned off the lights and climbed into bed and pulled up my sheets. As I swooned into the depth
of sleep, I heard the door to my room open and then close. I heard footsteps across the floor, and then I heard someone settle his weight onto the desk chair. I tried to lift my head, but I couldn’t. I tried to open my eyes, but they wouldn’t open. So I relaxed. Because Ben was in the room with me, watching over me. And Ben would protect me.

I
awoke the next morning, feverish with a need to know more about Ben and Harry. I understood who they were and why they loved each other so much, but I needed to understand why The North Estate was so important to Ben. Why of all places did he want
this
place returned to the forest? Why not any of millions of other acres owned by his father? I understood the idealism. I understood that his gesture was symbolic, as Serena said. But symbolic of what? Simply of the destruction his father had wreaked on the environment? Or was there something deeper?

Before I even got out of bed, I picked up one of Harry’s journals . . .

April 21, 1904

Ben and I had been called to his father’s city house on Minor Avenue in Seattle, in a neighborhood where only the richest families lived. It was a grand mansion, with columns and flutes and decorative moldings in the Greek revival style so common among Seattle’s
transplanted wealthy citizens. The finer details of the house’s architecture were lost on me, I admit, since I have no education in such things; so while the scene was nearly overwhelming, I fixated on something else entirely. Like a child, I was most impressed by the fire: gaslights—seemingly everywhere—glowing so brightly that the house looked like it was aflame inside. I was mesmerized by the dancing flames.

We were three for dinner. Dish after dish was served, a bisque made with Dungeness crab, followed by salmon gravlax on toast points, followed by a chunky duck pâté, a salad, and then a loin of lamb with braised fiddlehead ferns and blackberry compote. The food was rich and decadent, and new bottles of wine were opened with each new flavor, so that I could barely look at the food when it came, wondering how much I would have to eat to seem convincing, while Ben pushed away a plate entirely untouched for every plate he scraped clean, and he drained every glass of its wine. In contrast, Elijah delicately sampled all food in moderation, sipped his wine, and dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin. And no one said a word; a silent tension lingered in the air. When the meal was finished, we adjourned to the gentlemen’s lounge for digestifs; Elijah lit a cigar and cleared his throat.

“I think Mr. Lindsey should get some experience at the mill,” Elijah announced, not looking at Ben or me. “He’s a bright boy and we should consider moving him into administration so as not to squander his natural intelligence. He’s learned enough in the field—God knows, the field can only teach so much! It’s time to bring him into the fold. Of course, his salary will be commensurate with that of our other managers, so he should do quite well for himself. And at such a young age, with no family to look after. Good for you, lad!”

He sipped his drink, a grappa imported from Italy, Mr. Thomas noted upon pouring.

“What do you think, Harry?” Ben asked sardonically, his leg looped
over the arm of a club chair, swilling a glass of rye in a tumbler. “The old man appears to have made you quite an offer.”

I stumbled, uncomfortable with the dynamic; the undercurrents were thick. But I said nothing.

“You need to know more in order to come to a well-informed decision, don’t you, Harry?” Ben suggested to me while smirking at his father. “There are pertinent details which need considering if you are to arrive at the naturally intelligent decision.”

“Yes, I think,” I agreed. “I’m not sure I’m suited to mill work.”

“Tell us more, then, Elijah Riddell!” Ben chirped. “Which mill are you thinking? Surely the Columbia City mill is too small to take on an inexperienced manager for this purpose. And I daresay, you would never tinker with Tacoma—O’Brien has that place running top-notch, the clever Mick! Same with Everett and Shelton, too. I suspect you’re thinking of putting Harry down in Oregon City! Tell me I’m wrong, old man!”

“You are not wrong, Ben,” Elijah admitted, looking irritated.

“And I suppose there’s a need for him immediately?” Ben asked.

“In fact, there is.”

“Because, if I’m not wrong, I believe our good friend Johnny McDermott retired quite suddenly last week.”

“You are well abreast of the workings of our companies, Ben,” Elijah said levelly. “I am impressed that you take such an interest.”

“I am my father’s son,” Ben observed, standing and refilling his glass.

“Indeed.” Elijah turned to me. “Here is my offer. You will be associate manager for six months, and made full manager after that. If you stay at the mill for two years, you will become elevated to general manager. After five years, we will bring you up to headquarters in Seattle for grooming as a regional manager, with Southeast Alaska in our sights. The financials are quite good, performance bonuses included, housing allowance, et cetera. You’ll make more money in your first six months than you’ve made in your previous . . . how old are you?”

“Twenty,” I said.

“Twenty,” Elijah echoed, shaking his head sadly. “That’s my offer. What will you do?”

I was chagrined by the proceeding. I realized immediately that Elijah Riddell was using me as a pawn, but I couldn’t foresee how the game would play out.

“Thank you for your generous offer,” I said after a moment. “I’m not sure how I should respond.”

Ben laughed and took a large swallow of whiskey.

“You should tell him to go to hell,” he said. “You should say, ‘Mr. Riddell, no disrespect intended, but please go to hell.’ And tomorrow, you should send him a thank-you note for your meal. (It’s only proper, as it was quite delicious.)”

“I’d rather continue working on Riddell House,” I said to Elijah, ignoring Ben’s caustic advice. “If it’s all the same.”

“It’s not all the same,” Elijah said sharply. “I will sack you; then you will have nothing. Where will you go then?”

“You won’t sack him,” Ben snapped, his temper rising. “He doesn’t want to go to Oregon City. He doesn’t want to be a manager or a general manager or a regional manager. He wants to stay here with me in Seattle.”

“I am thinking of his future,” Elijah said with a resigned sigh.

“No you aren’t. You aren’t thinking of Harry at all. You are thinking of you. You’re thinking of Alice, of whom you are so fond. You are thinking about the one hundred dollars you had to pay that poor sap carpenter—the one who opened a door he shouldn’t have opened and exposed himself to the ‘indecencies’ that take place at The North Estate—to keep his mouth shut, all the time wondering how low you could drive the bargain and still ensure his complicity. And where is he now? Somewhere in Minnesota, I suppose, tapping maples for syrup.”

“You do take an interest in the business when it concerns you,” Elijah said.

“I am in charge of The North Estate as part of our bargain,” Ben said. “I decide who works on the house and who doesn’t!” He paused, then added dramatically: “You gave me your word.”

“I did give you my word,” Elijah agreed. “And you gave me yours. But you don’t seem to be holding up your end quite so well.”

“I’ll go see her tonight. I’ll go see her right now!”

“Not that part. The part about ending this nonsense. The part about putting aside your youthful adventures and turning your attention to more adult things.”

“Adult things!” Ben scoffed. “What do you think of that, Harry? You must be quite honored to be so diminished by the great Elijah Riddell!”

“I think I don’t know why I’m here for this,” I said. “I haven’t said a word.”

“A very wise boy,” Elijah said. “Another reason to send him to Oregon City.”

“You won’t send him anywhere,” Ben warned. “I’ll make the decisions on this matter.”

“Your decisions are all wrong!” Elijah shouted. “You insist on having this boy of yours in full public view, even after you’ve become engaged to Alice. And you’ve conducted yourself with such indiscretion—I’ve spent how much time and money fixing this already? Your dalliances on the coast and in the woods and at the house. It must end, Ben. He must go to Oregon City, or he must disappear entirely. Those are the choices.”

“Who are you to make this demand about my life?”

“I am your patriarch!” Elijah commanded, summoning up some strange voice, some spirit that filled his voice with power and depth. “I am the creator of all things! Everything you have, your entire world, including your very life’s breath, has been created by me! I am your God, and I say he must go! He must leave the garden, Benjamin Riddell, and he must leave it now!”

The words of Elijah echoed through the house, and the power of his voice surprised me, for I felt as if he were God himself, banishing me from Eden. I had half a mind to slink out of the room and head eastward in shame. Ben felt the impact of Elijah’s words as well, for he did not speak immediately. Elijah said no more, but stood still, panting, his face red, his finger raised. And I realized that only my intervention would quell this argument.

“I don’t know what you were trying to prove when you carried on like that in front of workers in the house,” I said to Ben, because I followed Elijah’s reference to the carpenter who had walked in on Ben and me one afternoon, when we were engaged in activities of an indecent nature. “I already told you I was done with you.”

The words sounded so strange to me, even as I said them. But I had to say them because I knew that Ben was using me against his father, and I knew also that he was using me against himself. Rather than openly confess his homosexuality to his father, Ben used me as a painful splinter in his palm, something he could push on to remind himself that he was alive, that his passion was real. So he could feel the pain freshly. He was torn between two worlds, and I could see that our forbidden relationship and the antagonism it caused with Elijah was distracting Ben from his true mission. He shouldn’t have been fighting about me! He should have been fighting with his father about the forests, about conservation, about the working conditions of loggers—things he truly believed in, and things that mattered!

But what I understood, Ben did not. He turned toward me slowly and shook his head, dumbfounded.

“Do you stand behind that? Are you done with me?” he asked in such a way, with such a hurt tone that I felt something break between us.

“You have obligations,” I said, plunging ahead. “Commitments. You have a world to change, and it is not for me to interfere with your
work. There’s so much you want to accomplish, and I’m in your way. I’ll take the job in Oregon City.”

“But, Harry—”

He tried to embrace me, but I rebuffed him.

“Harry!” he cried in dismay, and I knew that he felt the breaking, too.

Elijah turned to me swiftly and said, “Ben’s only using you to bring me down, as all ungrateful sons do. He doesn’t care about you at all.”

“You bastard,” Ben spat, and in a flash of rage I saw him change. His entire body reconfigured. His shoulders, his arms, his haunches. He coiled, and then he sprang at Elijah, the old man. Ben had his claws out, his fingers ready to tear at the flesh and rip his father apart. Elijah cowered, held up his arms to defend himself; so quickly it was happening, and Ben was so large compared to his father, I feared for Elijah’s life, so I leapt forward to intervene.

I intercepted Ben midway to his target. I took him down with my shoulder under his ribs, because I knew he would have killed his father in that moment, he would have torn him to shreds. The two of us toppled to the ground as Ben raged and Elijah stood watching us.

Ben struggled to get up, to get at his father, but I held him. I had wrestled with Ben enough to know his tendencies, so I could thwart his attempts to rise each time he tried. And my moves frustrated him so, he raged harder and harder against me until, in one final effort, he slammed me to the floor, driving his elbow into my left shoulder with so much force a loud pop sounded and a white pain filled my vision and all my nerves cried out and my muscles went limp; my shoulder was dislocated.

Everything stopped in the wake of the grotesque sound, so loud and so obvious, the room itself cringed, as if it were alive. Ben sat back on his knees. Elijah lowered his arms. And I writhed on the floor in pain. But it was more than that. Something had gone terribly wrong.

“What have you done?” Elijah cried.

Ben put his hands on me, he touched my shoulder, but the pain was so brilliant I couldn’t keep still, I pushed with my feet and flailed on the floor, and when he touched me I cried out and swung at him with the fist of my good arm, connecting with his jaw. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mr. Thomas enter the room in haste. He stopped short.

“Oh my!” he said.

“Send for the doctor,” Elijah ordered, and Mr. Thomas quickly left. Ben had stopped trying to help me; he sat on his knees, hunched over, holding his jaw.

“What have you done?” Elijah repeated.

“I’ve broken him,” Ben said soberly. He stood up and swiftly left the room.

I don’t know how long it was before I settled into my pain, before I was able to breathe through it and coexist with it. Mr. Thomas returned. He and Elijah lifted me to my feet and led me into the kitchen and had me sit on a bench next to the stove.