The Lighthouse

Oh, there had been difficult times, but they were the kind that surfaced in most young marriages. When they’d been in such dire financial straits in Boston because funding had been cut back and Jan was on half salary and she could find no work. And later, when he’d been humiliated after discovering her father had finagled his position at Stanford for him. Her two miscarriages, and the realization they’d never have a child of their own. The formalized ordeal of his application for tenure.

But through it all there had been love to anchor them, love and Jan’s steadiness-a calm, often wryly humorous strength that had helped them weather the very worst of it. It was what Alix loved most about him, beyond his good looks, his quick intelligence, or his confident sexuality. It was a strength that came of self-knowing, an acceptance of what he was, his good points as well as his limitations. Other people whom Alix cared for and admired had the same quality-her father, her mother, her friend Kay-and she sensed that over the years she had developed a measure of it herself. She had even coined a term for it: character. A simple word that said much about an infinitely complex and desirable quality.

The strength was still there in Jan, but lately the ability to laugh at himself seemed to be vanishing. It hadn’t been long, only these past few months, when the depression had returned with such frequency and Jan had been subject to moody silences and brief rages. Only these past several months that he had begun a frantic work schedule, begun acting in other ways that puzzled and concerned her.

She consulted her watch again. Quarter of eleven. Where was he? Well, Hilliard was a place where everything but the taverns probably shut down with the setting sun, even on a Friday night, and taverns might not stock pipe tobacco; it wouldn’t be unlike him to have gone as far as Bandon, especially if he planned to start work early in the morning. Jan always worked better when he could smoke his pipe.

Restlessly, still fighting off the loneliness, she went upstairs to see what he’d accomplished tonight. She was eager to get on with her sketches, and if she read his pages now they might give her an idea for the next in the series of drawings. In his study she sat down and picked up the typescript that lay beside the old Underwood portable in a neat pile. But as she did, she noticed something on the desk next to Jan’s pipe rack: his oilskin tobacco pouch. Frowning, she reached out and felt it. Half full. Now why had he told her he was going out for tobacco when he still had plenty here?

Why had he lied to her?

Hod Barnett

Hod was shooting pool in the Sea Breeze with Adam Reese. Mitch was supposed to be there too-the three of them had taken to chalking up every Friday night-but he must have got hung up at home or something because he hadn’t come in yet. Didn’t look like he was going to, either. It was after ten o’clock.

They were playing Eight Ball, nickel a ball, dime on the eight, and Adam was winning. He kept hopping around the table, right foot, left foot, hippity-hop like a damn rabbit; he made Hod nervous. Little guy, not much meat on his bones, looked like a stiff wind would blow him halfway to Coos Bay-but Christ, he had more energy than anybody Hod had ever known. Never sat still a minute. Worked harder than two men, always off doing something, hippity goddamn hop.

Hod watched him move around the table, left foot, right foot, lining up a shot. “Three ball, side pocket,” Adam said, and stroked, and the three dropped clean. He hopped around on the other side of the table and stopped long enough to drink some of his beer. That was another thing about Adam: his capacity for suds. Hod had seen him put down close to a dozen bottles of Henry’s without getting a heat on and without having to piss. Little guy like that, it just wasn’t natural he could hold twelve bottles of Henry’s without having to take a leak at least once.

He came hopping over to where Hod was, lined up another shot, said, “Four ball, corner pocket, kiss off the six,” and stroked and made that one clean, too. Then he said, “So how about it, Hod?” in a low voice so the other three customers and Barney Nevers behind the plank couldn’t hear. “What do you say?”

Hod knew what he was talking about; they’d been talking about it the past hour, off and on. “Hell, I don’t know. It’s a hell of a fine if you get caught. I can’t afford a fine like that. And you can’t pay it, they put your ass in jail.”

“They got to catch you first,” Adam said. “Nobody’s caught me, have they?”

“First time for everything.”

“Shit, Hod, I’m trying to do you a favor here.”

“Sure, I know. I appreciate it, don’t think I don’t.”

“You got a family to feed. Wife and kids like venison, don’t they?”

“You know they do.”

“Well, then? We go out around two, maybe three o’clock, out on the cape. No game wardens around there at that hour.”

“Not so far, maybe.”

“I never saw one yet. Come on, Hod, what do you say?”