The Lighthouse

But no, this was the first time-it had to be. It was all somehow connected to the atrophying of his optic nerves, his imminent blindness, even though Dave Sanderson had been carefully noncommital when he’d called Dave earlier and told him about the blackout (but not the details of it, not that he’d been out driving and killed a dog).

“Blackouts aren’t common with the type of eye disease you have,” Dave had said. “But that doesn’t mean they can’t happen or won’t happen again. Your condition is rare; we just don’t know enough about it. I think you ought to see another ophthalmologist, find out if the degenerative process has speeded up any, or if there are any new complications. There’s a good one in Portland; I’ll call him for you right away.”

Then Dave had paused. And then he’d asked, “Have you told Alix yet?”

“No.”

“When are you planning to?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Doesn’t she suspect you’re having vision problems?”

“Not yet, no.”

“She will before much longer. Jan, I really think you’re making a mistake by not confiding in her. She’s your wife, she has a right to know. Why do you insist on hiding the truth from her?”

Because I’m afraid, he’d thought. Damn you, I’m afraid!

He’d gotten in touch with the Portland ophthalmologist, Dr. Philip R. Meade, and made an appointment for early Tuesday afternoon. And he didn’t want to go, because he was afraid Meade might tell him the degeneration was accelerating and he would be blind sooner than the year or two the others had projected; afraid he wouldn’t be able to stay here the full term, wouldn’t be able to finish his book; afraid he would experience more blackouts. Afraid of everything these days, that was Professor Jan Ryerson, eminent authority on beacons in the night.

Abruptly he stood, went to the stove, added fresh lengths of cordwood to the blaze inside. His pipe had gone out again; he laid it in the ashtray alongside the telephone, reclaimed his chair. God, he thought then, that poor dog. But it’s not possible I deliberately ran it down last night, even in a blackout state. Novotny’s wrong. It had to have been a freak accident.

Try calling again, he told himself. Whoever had been occupying the Novotny line the past hour-he had called three times in those thirty minutes, busy signal each time-had to hang up sooner or later.

Sooner the line was clear this time. Three rings, four. And then a man’s voice said, “Hello?”

“Mitchell Novotny, please.”

“You’re talking to him. Who’s this?”

“Jan Ryerson. Out at the lighthouse.”

Silence for several seconds. Then, coldly and flatly, “What the hell do you want?”

“To tell you how sorry I am about your dog.”

“Yeah? Then what’d you run him down for?”

“I didn’t, not deliberately-”

“I seen you do it.”

“No, you’re mistaken. It was an accident. I don’t remember seeing the dog; I didn’t know until just a little while ago that I’d hit anything.”

“You trying to tell me you didn’t hear him scream?”

Jan winced. “I’m sorry, Mr. Novotny. Believe me, I-”

“Bullshit,” Novotny said. “You didn’t stop. You didn’t even slow down.”

“I had a headache, a bad headache. It’s a chronic condition-”

“That’s no damn excuse.”

“I know that. I know I shouldn’t have been out driving. I’m not trying to excuse myself, I’m only trying to tell you how badly I feel about the accident.”

“Sure you do.”

“Worse than you can imagine. I’d like to make it up to you somehow, if you’ll let me. Perhaps buy you another dog, any kind you-”

Novotny hung up on him.

Jan sat holding the receiver for a time before he cradled it. Then he got up again, went into the kitchen. Alix, wearing a pair of old jeans and one of his old shirts, her hair tied back with a scarf, was up on a stepladder scouring the smoke-grimed ceiling with abrasive cleaner and a sponge. Her face was flushed and shiny with perspiration.

“I talked to Mitch Novotny,” he said.

She stopped her scrubbing and looked down at him. “What did he say?”

“He doesn’t believe me that it was an accident. He hung up when I offered to buy him a new dog.”

“Maybe you should try talking to him in person.”

He nodded. “But not today. After he’s had a chance to cool down.”

“Whatever you think best.”

She returned to her cleaning, still with that vehement determination. He watched for half a minute, wondering if he should offer to help. No. Any other time she would have been pleased if he had, but not now. She needed to be alone a while longer, needed to finish regrouping.

He left her and climbed the stairs to the second floor. The idea of physical labor, the kind Alix was doing which didn’t require thinking, appealed to him too; perhaps it would help him regroup. He continued up to the lightroom. In one corner was the lighthouse’s diaphone, removed from its mounting halfway down the westernmost cliff wall when the Coast Guard abandoned the station in 1962. The air compressor that had operated it was also there, along with most of its four-inch air line.