Chapter 1

The Administration Building of Mackenzie Academy is an impressive sight. Gray stone, two stories high with two faux bastions on the front corners, as you ascend the stone steps it would be easy to imagine a volley of musketry catching an unwelcome guest in a cross fire. A bronze plaque on the cornerstone proudly proclaims “HEADQUARTERS 1891”. The academy was originally a military school named in honor of Ranald Mackenzie, a lesser known hero of the Civil and Indian wars. In the nineteen twenties, the school had dropped the military theme, becoming an upscale prep school. The Admin Building is one of many reminders, however, of its past. On this day in the early dusk, the lights shining warmly through the windows were a stark contrast to the cold bleakness outside.

It was December twentieth, 1998, the end of the last day of classes at the Mackenzie Academy, the start of the Christmas break. John Drake had just finished dropping off some papers at the administration office and left the building. He was an American Literature professor at the small private prep school and was looking forward to two weeks of leisure over the holidays. He had nothing to do and was glad of it.

Once outside he inhaled deeply, he loved the feel of cold air in his lungs; it seemed to have a cleansing, invigorating effect on him. Walking down the steps of the Administration building, he crossed the narrow roadway, and began walking across the large open field known as the Common. Originally the Common was the Parade Ground, but soon after the school dropped the military theme and became a prep school the now superfluous Parade Ground was rechristened The Common. In better weather it served the students as a kind of park; a gathering place where touch football was played in the fall, snowballs were tossed around in the winter, baseballs in the spring, and pep rallies were held whenever they were warranted. All the older buildings on campus had been built surrounding it with castellated facades. It was all rather picturesque. Every brochure the school put out displayed at least one image of The Common.

On this night in the early darkness of December, the Common was bereft of both its military bearing and its park like atmosphere. Empty and quiet, with some light snow flurries falling, blown by the wind, melting as soon as they hit the grass, it had a lonely peaceful feel to it. John liked it this way. The same way the cold air seemed to refresh his lungs, this night time stroll home seemed to clear his mind.

He crossed the imaginary line between the campus and the town, two blocks away from his apartment. The houses along the street were decorated gaily for Christmas and the cheering secular lights were a stark contrast to the solemn spiritual darkness of the Common. He liked this too. Walking down the wet street he was already trying to decide what he was going to drink when he got there. Beer was good for a long haul drinking session, it was his usual choice, and wine seemed more holiday like, but tonight he was in the mood for a brandy or two. It seemed like that kind of a night.

Arriving at the house, he went up on the front porch, checked his mailbox and emptied it. Then he went inside, on the stairs leading up to his apartment he saw a package. His landlady must have placed it there earlier, it was too large for his box, the mailman must have left it on the porch floor and Mrs. Smiltrisky probably brought it in when she took in her mail. Picking it up, he saw the return address, it was from Rita. Suddenly he had a nervous feeling in his chest. He went up the stairs to his apartment and set it down on the kitchen table. He was actually reluctant to open it. He took a TV dinner out of the freezer and microwaved it. He ate his meal, ignoring the package. He wasn’t sure why, he just knew there was something about it that unsettled him; he wished it had never come.

Finishing his meal, he went to the closet where he kept his liquor on a top shelf. He paused for a moment before bringing down a bottle of applejack. He decided to drink an American innovation tonight. He sat sipping it in his living room watching the Christmas specials on TV. The alcohol had a steadying effect on him. When he finished the first he decided it was time to see what Rita had sent him. Even then, he thought to himself it’s a Christmas present; if it’s wrapped in Christmas paper, he shouldn’t open it until Christmas Eve at the earliest.

When he ripped off the brown paper outer wrapping he saw he was out of luck; No holiday paper, just a corrugated cardboard box. He opened the end and slid out its contents. Amid wadded up newspaper there was a framed picture. A homemade Christmas card was wedged into it; he removed it and read it. There was a frowning Santa Clause on the face of it and the heading, “Poor Santa, he only comes once a year”, then when he opened it, it stated “And that’s only down the chimney!” Below that in handwritten script, “I finished this about a month ago and I thought you should have it, Luv, Rita.”

He looked at the picture, it was Carol. Done with colored pencil, it was an almost perfect portrait of her. Rita had left nothing out. Though softened, the laugh lines and small crow’s feet on her face were clearly visible. Even the darker streaks in her blonde hair were included. Rita had captured her roommate’s beauty flawlessly, almost as if she understood that it was these very imperfections that had attracted him to Carol in the first place. He always felt it was easy for a young woman to be attractive, but the ones whose looks held into their forties, they were the honest beauties, character lines and all. Then, of course, there was the smile. It was the genuine one, not the one she presented to the world at large, but the one that said she was truly happy, the one he’d fallen in love with.

He poured himself another drink, took the portrait into the living room and set it on top of the television. As he sat there drinking he tried to watch the screen, but his eyes kept moving to the portrait. There was Carol, smiling at him, head slightly tipped, shoulder length hair down with the ever present bangs on her forehead, the way he’d seen her so many times in their brief time together. It was almost as if she were in the room with him. The picture was like a ghost haunting him.

After the third drink, he decided he had to do something about it. Rita had opened the door, welcoming him in; there could be no other reason for her to have sent him the portrait. He felt he had to walk through it. He thought about the possibility of driving to Manhattan that night, but rejected it. By the time he got there it would be late, he had nowhere to stay, plus he was tired, too tired to make the drive especially after drinking. It would have to wait until morning. He had one more drink, and finishing it, he picked up the picture and walked into his bedroom setting it on the dresser.

“Well, Carol honey, tomorrow’s going to be a big day and you don’t even know anything’s about to happen.” Then he added in a lower voice, “I hope I’m not going to be wasting both our time.”

He went to bed and slept fitfully that night, constantly waking up and thinking about what he had to do in the morning; what he should do. In the early pre-dawn he gave it up and got out of bed. Getting out his suitcase, he started to pack for a two day stay. He was pretty indecisive about what to take, placing clothes in, then replacing them.

He was equally uncertain about going at all. He and Carol had parted company on bad terms last August and he wasn’t sure what type of reception he would get. He hoped the months had softened her anger, hoped he could express himself properly, and, most importantly, hoped she would even listen to him. He also felt, however, that Rita had sent him the picture for a reason, that she knew or sensed something about her friend and the situation. He had to find out. If Carol slammed the door in his face, welcomed him with open arms, or was just indifferent to him didn’t matter, at least he would know.

Finally he finished packing. There was much to do, it had all seemed so simple last night. He made himself some breakfast, trying to figure out when would be a good time to call Curt. He hoped to impose on Curt and his family to let him sleep in the spare bedroom of their apartment for a couple of days. There was something fitting in that, it was Curt who had introduced him to Rita last summer; that was what had started this whole thing.

He called Curt, catching him before he left for his office. He quickly explained he was coming to town for a few days and needed a place to stay. Curt had unhesitatingly offered the spare room for as long as he needed it. Then he went downstairs to let Mrs. Smiltrisky know he would be gone to have her take in his mail and the morning newspaper. It was Christmas, he felt he couldn’t go empty handed. Curt was easy, he could grab a bottle of Drambuie from his closet and wrap it. He would have to stop at a mall to get something for Curt’s wife and daughter, and of course something for Rita and Carol. Hopefully, whatever mall he stopped at would have one of those kiosks where they did gift wrapping.

Later that morning, shopping done, he boarded the bus to the city. He’d decided against driving himself, he was simply too tired thanks to the restless night he’d had. Even driving to an Amtrak terminal might have been pressing him. The bus seemed like the best move. He could get some rest and be in the Port Authority building sometime that afternoon. Picking out a seat he settled in, hoping he wasn’t embarking on a fool’s errand. The bus pulled out, he relaxed, looking out the window as the town passed by and thought back to the previous summer, about Carol and what a strange time it had been.

It had all began when he’d decided to take a course at the New School, it hadn’t been all that important, but it was an excuse to spend a couple of months in Manhattan. He’d always been fond of the city, not fond enough to live there permanently but he wanted more than a weekend visit. So, the idea of picking up a few credits in literature and spending a couple of months there seemed to be a natural. It was Curt who arranged for him to sublet an apartment in his building for the summer. It was also Curt and his wife, Marion, who took him to the party.

It was actually more of a gathering than a party. Held in a small avant-garde gallery in the village, it was touted as a chance to meet undiscovered artists and fellow art fanciers.

“A chance to rub elbows with some of the real Bohemians,” Curt had kidded him, “the McCoys, the ones who live for their art; unlike the pseudo-nonconformists who hide out in upstate prep schools.”

“I’m still a free spirit, sometimes I wear a turtleneck to class instead of a shirt and tie. And, hey, I don’t even own a tweed coat with leather patches on the elbow. These thing get you talked about out at Mackenzie, I’ll have you know.”

“Real rugged individualist,” Curt laughed. “Twenty five years ago you’d have laughed at guys like us.”

“Still do,” he replied, “it’s just that now the laughter is directed inward.”

It was a nice affair. The gallery was filled with paintings by local artists, there was a small buffet table set up, filled with deli meats, cheese, and wine. There was a good crowd, patrons of the arts, so to speak, coming and going, constantly replenishing itself. Curt and Marion seemed to know a lot of them. At one point while they conversed with another couple, John wandered off on his own.

Looking at paintings, wine in hand, he paused in front of one of a small lighthouse. Steel girders rose behind the red structure. He smiled to himself; it was the “little red lighthouse” of children’s storybook fame. He stood trying to remember how the story went.

“Do you like it?”

He turned and looked. A woman was smiling back. Light brown eyes, chestnut hair below the shoulders, a short sleeved frilly blouse that accentuated her full bust, John couldn’t help being attracted to her.

“Yeah, it’s nice. It is THE little red lighthouse, isn’t it?”

“Yes it is. You really know your kiddie stories.” She paused, “Want to buy it.”

“No, I don’t really want to decorate my walls with childhood memories. I was never that much into the story, even as a kid.”

“Fair enough, what sort of thing do you like?”

“Guess I would have to say landscapes. Pictures of real things, real places, not that the lighthouse isn’t real, but a view of it from across the river would have been more to my liking.”

“I see,” she pointed to a picture on the nearby partition, “maybe something like that?”

He looked over at it; it was a snowscape of what he assumed was Central Park at dusk. It really was impressive, so was the price tag, however.”

“That really is good. I couldn’t afford it, but it’s great.”

“Thanks, that’s one of mine too.”

“You mean you did it or you own it?”

“Both, I guess.” She held out her hand, “Rita Bowers, starving artist, and you’re?”

“John Drake,” he shook her hand, “aging English teacher. I hope I didn’t say anything insulting about the lighthouse picture, I didn’t realize ... I thought you were a sales person.”

“No, no insult. I only brought it because Andre said it might sell with the tourist crowd, because of the story.”

“So, you make your living as a painter, that’s interesting.”

“No, I make a few bucks as a painter; I make my living as a stripper.” She saw the look of surprise on his face. “Look, don’t be so shocked. I’m an artist; I made a few extra dollars posing for other artists, often in the nude. It’s not that big a stretch from sitting motionless totally naked to shaking thing up in a pair of abbreviated underpants in front of a crowd. Are you going to go prudish on me?”

“No, not at all; it’s just that you kind of took me by surprise.”

“Well, I’m sorry about that. But tell me John Drake, aging English teacher, what’s your story? You don’t seem like some tourist who wondered in because you’re trying to soak up some local atmosphere.”