The Lighthouse

In the wall to the right of the altar was another door that also stood ajar. After a moment she started down the center aisle, thinking the minister might be in the sacristy at the rear. But her steps were hesitant now; she was beginning to feel uncomfortable about being there. After all, she wasn’t one of the congregation, barely knew Harvey Olsen. And she was in no way accustomed to airing her troubles to strangers. Still, she told herself again, ministers were trained to listen to other people’s problems. Olsen would see nothing odd in her coming to him.

She was halfway down the aisle when she heard footfalls behind her. She turned. Harvey Olsen had come in the front way and was approaching her, clad in a bright red jogging suit and the same knitted cap he’d had on the first time she’d seen him. His face was shiny with sweat and his wire-rimmed glasses were fogged. As he neared her he took the glasses off, wiped their lenses on the baggy sleeve of his suit.

“Mrs. Ryerson, isn’t it?” he said. “I wondered who was here when I saw your car.”

For a moment she was at a loss for words. And even more uncomfortable. She’d expected to find Harvey Olsen in vestments, and here he was in a jogging suit and all sweaty from his morning run.

As if he sensed her discomfort, Olsen patted his midriff, smiled, and said, “Have to keep the old weight down. I like pasta too much, and after forty… ”

She nodded, answered his smile with a faint one of her own.

Olsen put his glasses back on and peered intently at her. “Did you just come to see the church? Or is there some problem?”

Something about the way he said it-not the phrasing, but the inflection-told her he knew all about what the villagers were saying about Jan. For a paranoid instant she wondered if he might even know about their trouble at the lighthouse and who was responsible for it. Mitch Novotny was probably one of his parishioners…

Harvey Olsen was waiting for her to speak, his head cocked to one side like a bird’s. The eyes behind his glasses held a gleam of intelligence softened by compassion. But there was something else there too, she thought, something she couldn’t quite identify in the weak light.

She cleared her throat and said, “You know about the murder, of course-the young girl who was found out on the cape.”

He nodded sadly. “A tragic thing.”

“And I suppose you’ve also heard what some of the villagers are saying about who might be responsible. Lillian Hilliard, for one. Adam Reese, for another.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I have.” Olsen took off his knitted cap and scrubbed his fingers through pale, thinning hair. “It’s disturbing, and very unfair. But it’s just talk, you must remember that. The idle pursuit of idle minds.”

The platitude made her impatient. “The only reason they’re saying these things about my husband is the accident with Mitch Novotny’s dog-”

“Yes, I know about that too.”

“Well, it was an accident. My husband apologized to him, offered to buy him another dog, but he wouldn’t listen. He wants revenge.”

“Revenge?” Olsen looked more alert.

“He’s been harassing us,” she said. “At least, we think it’s Novotny. There might be others involved, too.”

“What sort of harassment, Mrs. Ryerson?”

“Someone shot at our car, did quite a bit of damage to it. There have been threatening telephone calls.” She wasn’t certain of this, but it was the obvious explanation for Jan’s behavior with the phone this morning. “And sometime last night, our well was fouled with manure.”

“Good heavens.” Olsen sucked in his breath with a soft whistling sound and stood up straighter. But his eyes moved from her face to a point over her right shoulder.

She started to tell him the rest of it-Jan’s headaches, her own doubts and fears-and then stopped abruptly when she realized that Harvey Olsen was no longer listening to her. He stood very still, his eyes focused on the distance. It was only when he became aware that she had stopped speaking that he blinked, seemed to shake himself out of it, and looked at her again.

“Just what is it you want from me, Mrs. Ryerson?” he said.

The question surprised her; she was still caught up in her emotions. Frowning, she said, “Understanding. Advice. A sympathetic ear.”

“I can listen, but I can’t give you advice. Only you can know your own conscience, your own marriage-the dynamic that operates there.”

“That’s the trouble-I don’t. The ‘dynamic,’ as you call it, seems to have changed in the last year.”

But Olsen didn’t seem to want to listen to that, either. He sat on one of the benches, crossed one leg over the other, examined the toe of one well-worn sneaker. Finally, he said in a reflective voice, “As for the men in the village… you must remember that most of them are fishermen and that they are under a severe strain. You do know their situation?”

“I know the fishing has been bad, yes… ”