A Sudden Light: A Novel (39 page)

“I’ve
seen
things, Mom,” I said with great force. “
I’ve seen things! Tell
me I didn’t see the
truth
.”

There was a long pause, in which I was convinced my mother was wondering if I’d completely lost it.

“I’m sure your father has told you some of this,” she said eventually, because she had to say something. “I’m sure you conjured an old memory. There’s a logical explanation. Did you eat something spicy before you went to bed?”

I sighed loudly and heavily, and I hoped it was heard by my mother, half a world away.

“So you still don’t believe in Ben?” I asked. “After all I’ve told you. You don’t believe he gives me dreams that let me see the past? You don’t believe I’ve seen
him
, do you?”

“I believe in Ben like I believe in Jesus Christ,” she replied. “He was a man. He lived some time ago. He was not the son of God.”

I was ready to cry. I had called my mother for support, because she told me she would always be there to support me. She wasn’t there.

“I have to go,” I said.

“Where are you going, Trevor? Are you all right?”

I hesitated before I replied.

“Are you and Dad getting divorced?” I asked.

She hesitated.

“There’s no easy answer to that question, I’m afraid,” she said finally.

“I need to know. And I need to know
now
.”

“I don’t know, Trevor. There’s a lot of work to be done. A
lot
.”

“But if you get the work done.”

“I believe, deep in my heart, that our love for each other is strong enough to survive this, yes. Dad has been very conciliatory of late. I believe the stress of losing everything took an awful toll on him, and, now that everything’s gone, he’s reassessing. I like to think that my forcing him to return to Riddell House with you is something that’s helped him a great deal.”

“You forced him?” I asked. “I thought he forced you to let him take
me
.”

She paused.

“There was no alternative. He had to go. He said he only would feel safe if he could take you. So in that sense, I suppose we agreed it was the only option available.”

“I need to know one more thing,” I said. “If Dad suddenly had money, would that change things?”

“No, Trevor,” she replied without hesitation. “It’s not about money. Really.”

“So if he was still poor, you would take him back?”

“There’s more work—”

“Assuming he does the work.”

“You’re growing up,” she said. “You should learn this now—don’t
worry, I’ll remind you again as needed: if money affects who you love, then it isn’t really love.”

“Thanks.”

“For what?”

“I don’t know,” I said after a moment. Because I really didn’t know. But I was thankful for something.

We hung up then. I retrieved the manila folder from under my mattress and brought it to the kitchen. There were some things I was in control of, and other things I wasn’t. This particular thing, I was.

I removed the notarized power of attorney from the folder and held it over a cast-iron frying pan on the stove. I took a match from the blue and red box, struck it, and held it under the center of the paper, but I blew out the match before the paper caught fire. Destroying it wouldn’t do anything; they would just get another somehow. No. I had to hide it. I had to keep it safe. If I could somehow turn my father, it might be a useful weapon to have; I still believed that I might be able to get my father to change his mind, stop the subdivision, and allow the property to return to wild forest. I believed my father could be redeemed. So I put the document in the one place I knew was safe from Serena’s prying eyes—Elijah’s secret room.

*  *  *

After I had hidden the envelope away in the secret room and descended the stairway to the dark vestibule above the linen closet, I heard something: a brush of fabric or something. Slight, but deliberate. In the dark chamber where I had first seen the specter of Ben, I pulled the ever-present box of matches from my pocket, took out a matchstick, and struck it. In the sudden burst of light, I saw someone. Two people, actually. A woman, and a boy nearly my age. They sat against the wall at the top of the stairs, whispering to each other.

They paid no attention to me at all, so I crept closer. The match burned down and I shook it out. I quickly lit another. They were still there. I crouched down before them.

She was not old. Not much older than Serena, probably, and she was so beautiful and kind looking. And the boy, with his dark eyes and his firm jaw. I knew immediately he was my father.

“I’m sick, Jonesy,” she whispered to him. “And one day I will die. But I promise I will come back to visit you, like our friend comes to visit us.”

“But then you’ll be a ghost,” my young father whispered to her in reply. “I don’t want you to be stuck.”

“I won’t be stuck, sweetness. Spirits can visit, too. Whenever they like. I’ll come back for you. I promise.”

My match burned out. I lit another, and Isobel, my grandmother, who was still there with my father, looked up at me as if she could see me. And maybe she could.

She reached out and touched my cheek, which felt like a feather brushing against my skin.

“Faith,” she said, and she blew out my match.

I
woke up with a start. Had I dreamed it? No.

It happened before I went to sleep. I had seen Isobel and my young father in the corridor above the linen closet. I’d felt dazed afterward, because seeing them brought everything into focus. My father
did
believe. He did have faith. Isobel had promised to visit him, but she never could because my father changed after he had been sent away by Grandpa Samuel. My father became dark and cynical, and then lost everything. He was forced to return to Riddell House having lost his faith.

But things were not as expected at Riddell House. Grandpa Samuel spoke of dancing footsteps, and my father heard them, too. So he went to the ballroom to look for his mother. He came back to Riddell House because he thought she might be here. Of course he did.

I felt sick to my stomach. Not the bad feeling I sometimes got when I knew I’d done something wrong, which would have made sense and
which I would have accepted. I felt an intense nausea, like I had been poisoned. I didn’t have to vomit, but I wished I did. I walked down the hall to the bathroom, almost staggering from my queasiness; I paused a couple of times to brace myself against the wall as I swooned with vertigo. Was it the leftover pizza I’d eaten for breakfast? Did I have food poisoning? Or was I being punished for having betrayed Ben?

I reached the bathroom and turned on the faucet. I splashed cold water on my face several times, then glanced in the mirror and was so startled I gasped: Ben stood behind me—only for a moment; then he was gone.

I whipped around, wrenching my neck and feeling a stabbing pain. No one was there. I turned back to the sink and felt my forehead. Did I have a fever? Was I seeing things?

Another wave of nausea swept over me, more intense than before. I closed the toilet seat and sat down until it passed. It must have been the pizza. I would never trust a sausage again. Another wave brought with it terrible cramping in my stomach. I doubled over and moaned. And that’s when the lights went out. Not metaphorically. The lights actually went out, plunging me into darkness in the bathroom. A cool breeze brushed the back of my neck.

I stood and opened the bathroom door. The hallway was dark as well. The entire house was dark. It wasn’t a blown fuse; it was a power outage. I laughed ruefully. People with their air conditioners; the power grid can only take so much. I made my way to the end of the hall and opened my father’s door. The room was empty. I listened carefully and heard talking from downstairs. I descended the front staircase, hoping Serena had an Alka-Seltzer or Pepto-Bismol. As I reached the foyer, I noticed flickering lights. My father and Serena must have lit candles because of the blackout.

But there were too many of them. They were everywhere. And they weren’t candles. I surveyed the room; the wall sconces—which I remembered as electric—were alit with flame. They had been transformed into
old-fashioned kerosene lamps. I looked up to the atrium. The chandelier in the foyer, a beautiful and intricate tangle of vines and crystal, with leaves and berries cast of bronze, was glowing a golden yellow; it, too, was burning kerosene, not electricity, as I remembered, making me think I was in an elaborate dream, or maybe a re-creation of Riddell House from long ago, or a wax museum, or— And the voices. Not just two. Not my father and Serena. But many. I peered into the ladies’ parlor; it was filled with women, at least a dozen of them, in long stylish dresses, sitting in clusters, holding cups of coffee or tea, and chatting, laughing, with several servants hovering at the ready. Who on earth were these people? The women were wearing elaborate jewels and their hair was piled high on their heads and they seemed so elegant. They were from a different time altogether.

I continued down the hallway and paused before the billiard room, inside of which I heard men’s voices. I looked in and saw eight or nine men in black tuxedos. Their ties were undone and their collars unclasped or removed entirely. They were holding snifters of brandy and smoking cigars, joking and laughing boisterously. They were mostly older and heavyset and unhealthy looking. I leaned in to see who these people were and was amazed to see Elijah Riddell sitting on the sofa talking to another man! My great-great-grandfather. Alive and well. I wanted to go in and talk to him. Introduce myself. Meet the others, whoever they were. But then one of the men walked over to me. I thought he would say something, but he didn’t. He simply closed the parlor doors in my face as if I weren’t there.

I worked my way down to the dining room, which was a mess. Food still on the table; dirty place settings and half-filled wineglasses and half-empty platters. A pig carcass sat on a cart next to the table, an apple wedged in its mouth, but most of its flesh having been carved away. Glasses and glasses and glasses. Remnants of every kind of food one could imagine smeared across plates in a decadent display of gastro-snobbery. It would have turned my stomach if my stomach hadn’t
already been turned, and then I realized my nausea had passed and I felt better. I continued to the kitchen, which was busy with servants cleaning up after the dinner party while a strict-looking man in a tuxedo supervised their work. The staff was quite large, and all in uniform, working so diligently.

I slipped through the work area unnoticed and out the back door. I walked around the house to the formal garden. It was dark in the night, for while there was a half moon and stars, puffy clouds blew across the sky, periodically obscuring the celestial light. The only other light came from torches lining the garden path. In the darkness, I noticed a man standing before the fountain—which was flowing and not stagnant. The man’s back was to me, but he seemed to sense my presence, for his shoulders relaxed as if he were expecting someone. The man was outfitted in a natty tuxedo, and he sipped a dark liquid from a snifter. But this man was obviously not one of them; he was young and trim and athletic. He turned to reveal his face. It was Ben.

“Did you introduce yourself to my father?” he asked me.

“I didn’t want to disturb him,” I replied, feeling more bewildered than afraid. “He was with company.”

“A pity. I’m sure he would have been charmed to meet you. I wonder what he would have said upon meeting his progeny, generations removed. I wonder if it would have made him feel nostalgic.”

“Who are those people inside?” I asked.

“Did you introduce yourself to Alice?”

“No—”

“I would have wagered you’d have taken the opportunity. She is an enchanting young woman, Alice Jordan.”

“Am I dreaming?” I asked. “Are you really Ben?”

“I am Ben. And as for those people? Among them you will find our good friend James Moore. C. D. Stimson is there as well, along with his wife, the two of them ushering high culture into this primitive land. And their architect-friend, a Mr. Kirtland Cutter hailing from Spokane,
who follows them around always clucking like a chicken. I’m sure the judge is still with them, drinking away; he never misses a free meal. And Mr. James Jerome Jordan himself. These are the
controllers
, Trevor. They don’t actually create anything themselves, but they control the people who create things, and so they control the dissemination of those things. One does not make money by
creating
things, you know. One only makes money by exploitation. You’ve heard these ideas before, I’m sure.

“The people you saw in the house are forming Seattle into something that suits their vision. For them, the city sits like a mound of wet clay, and they have their hands stuffed inside up to their elbows. Did you hear some of their conversation? You must have listened in. I’m sure there was talk of the regrade project. Always a source of controversy.
Let’s cut the trees and level the hills and call it progress!
And likely there was talk of water mains and sewers to carry their shit and piss into the sound. Pontifications on the merits of seawalls and infill. And Moore, gloating over that shell of a hotel which he fleeced from Denny after the Panic; Denny deserved better, for what he’s done for this town. I’ve heard their discussion a thousand times: tedious at best. But I suppose you agree, for you have left them to join me outside. Would you like a brandy? I’ll send for one straightaway; you look like you need a bracer. I’m afraid my glass is empty or I would offer it to you.”

I felt flustered by Ben’s rant, and I was sure I looked flustered as well.

“I’m dreaming this, right?” I asked again. “You’re here because I ate a piece of sausage pizza before I went to bed?”

Ben smiled patiently at me and set his glass down on the rim of the fountain.

“Do I look like indigestion, Trevor?”

“But you’re not real.”

“I’m not
substantial.
”