The Lighthouse

He stopped five feet from the door, holding his coat bunched shut at his throat. Still nothing moving. The only sound was the gentled-down coupling of surf and rocks at the base of the cliffs. After a moment he began walking again. There was an awareness in him that he made a perfect target out here in the moonlight, that if they were still nearby they could shoot him as easily as they had shot the car. He fought down an impulse to turn back, kept moving forward instead at a slow walk. Never show fear. Never let anyone see how afraid you might be.

When he reached the Ford he saw that the right headlight had been blown out. That explained the breaking glass. He moved around the front of the car to determine if there had been any other damage. Furrow along one fender where the one bullet had ricocheted; that was all.

He turned to look back at the lighthouse. He couldn’t see Alix’s face behind the kitchen window but he was sure she was there. He lifted his hands, gestured to her that everything was all right. And it was-for now. They were gone, long gone, like the cowards they were.

He walked back across the grass at the same slow, measured pace. Alix had the door open for him; he entered and shut it and threw the bolt.

“One flat tire and one broken headlight,” he said. “I’ll put the spare on in the morning. Get the damage fixed while I’m in Portland. ”

She gripped both his arms. “Jan, you shouldn’t have gone out there. Suppose-”

“They’re gone, don’t worry.”

“We’d better call the sheriff.”

“In the morning. There’s nothing anybody can do tonight.”

“But who were they? Who’d do a thing like that?”

“Kids,” he said. “Just kids.”

But he was thinking: Mitch Novotny, that’s who.

Mitch Novotny

After church on Sunday morning, Mitch went down to the boat slips to do some work on the Spindrift. It was a nice day, clear, ten degrees warmer now that the clouds had blown inland, and Marie had wanted to drive down the coast to Port Orford, where her sister lived. Sister knew somebody who had setter pups for sale, she said. But he wasn’t in the mood for a drive or looking at any damn setter pups. It was too soon; Red was still on his mind. Red, and that asshole out at the lighthouse. He’d snapped at her some, made her cry-Christ, you looked cross-eyed at a pregnant woman and she was like as not to bust out in tears. (Number three on the way, due in two months. He could barely provide for the five of them now; how the hell was he going to provide for a sixth? Should have had himself fixed, that was what he should have done. But Marie wouldn’t hear of it. Wasn’t natural, she said. Natural. Shit. She didn’t have to earn the money to pay the bills, did she?)

So then he’d left and come down here where it was quiet, where a man could have a little peace of a Sunday morning. Who could blame him? Marie bawling, her mother crooning to her and glaring at him like he was some kind of ogre-dried-up old bitch, he didn’t know why he let her keep on living with them; he should have sent her packing a long time ago-Tommy and Nita glued to the TV, sound up loud as hell so you couldn’t hear yourself think, some silly-ass cartoon show. Madhouse, that was what it was up there half the time. Damn madhouse.

He finished hosing down the worn decking, shut off the pump, and watched the last of the water run out through the scuppers. Thirty-two years old, the Spindrift, almost as old as him; his father had bought her new in Coos Bay. Good worker in her day, but out-of-date now and starting to rot. Outriggers too small, hydraulic winch too undependable. Old Jimmy diesel had developed problems, too; if it broke down so he couldn’t fix it, what would he do then? Bank in Bandon had already turned him down for a loan. Hang on, that was all he could do. Bust his ass hauling rockfish off the in-shore reefs-too many fishermen and not enough fish, except for perch and you couldn’t even make grocery money off perch. Yeah, and pray the goddamn salmon started running right again next season, a big run that fetched high prices from the cannery; then he could pay off enough of his debts to float a loan for an overhaul on the Spindrift, if not for a new boat altogether. New boat. Jesus, one of those fiberglass jobs with good refrigeration, an automatic depth-finder, maybe even a Loran navigation system and a hydraulic winch with an automatic trigger that pulled in a fish as soon as it hit the line-that was what he wanted, what he dreamed of owning. Never get it, though. All his life he’d had shitty luck, never got anything he really wanted. Born to lose, that was him. Just like the song.

He started to haul up the engine housing for a look at the Jimmy. What stopped him was somebody legging along the board float toward his slip. He straightened-and then he recognized who it was and he could feel his gut tighten up. Ryerson. Now what the hell? he thought. More crap about buying him a new dog?