The Lighthouse

“Nice toup,” Jan said, indicating the fish as he got out of the car. He seemed, at least in this moment, almost cheerfut-his old self again.

Inside they found the standard seaside tourist-trap decor: gamefish trophies on the walls; suspended nets full of shells and glass bobbers; booths with cracked vinyl covering, checked plastic tablecloths, vases with imitation flowers. Jan ordered a half-carafe of the house white wine; when it came, Alix found it surprisingly good. They sipped it while considering the menu, and finally opted for buckets of steamed clams.

While they waited for the food to arrive, Alix kept up a running commentary on the other patrons-the fat tourist couple with large plates of fried seafood who had just sent the bread basket back for a third filling; the man in freshly pressed work clothes and woman in bright flowered polyester, obviously locals out for a night on the town; a pair of lovers, so intent on holding hands they didn’t notice that the tip of his tie kept dunking itself in his untouched chowder.

“I don’t think we were ever so in love that we forgot about our food,” she said.

Jan looked up from the fork he was toying with. “What?”

“Nothing.” He probably hadn’t heard a word she’d said. “Just chattering.”

He looked grateful that she didn’t berate him for his inattentiveness-not that she ever did, much; he could be the stereotypical absentminded professor at times-and went back to fooling with his fork.

Alix lapsed into silence herself, sipping wine. She was about to refill her glass when she caught herself. Better watch that, Ryerson. You’re the full-time family chauffeur now, remember?

Their waiter arrived with the clams-huge steaming buckets accompanied by a loaf of French bread. Alix hadn’t eaten all day, hadn’t wanted anything until now, but the smell of the clams made her ravenous. She ate with gusto, soaking up the clam broth with the bread, filling the side bowl with empty shells. Jan ate less than he usually did, but at least he didn’t pick. And he smiled when she finished her own bucket and started in on his.

Over coffee he said, “Are you feeling better now?”

“Yes. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy going out.”

“Me too.” His lips quirked when he said it; he didn’t appear to be having a very good time.

“I think it’s good for us to get out. The atmosphere at the light is so… I don’t know, charged with tension.”

Jan frowned.

“What I mean is, we’ve been under such a strain. Novotny and his harassment. And that murder. All of it together is bound to take its toll.”

“I suppose so.” His voice and his expression were both noncommital.

“That’s why I’ve been pushing for a trip to Seattle,” she said. “It really would do us good-”

“I know that. But I’ve told you and told you, Alix, I won’t be driven out by circumstances, no matter what they are.”

It was starting out as a repeat of all their previous conversations; his tone was reasonable and calm, but unyielding. She tried another tack. “What about your book?”

“What about it?”

“How much have you really accomplished on it since all of this started?”

His gaze flicked away from hers. He didn’t answer.

She said, “How much did you write today, for instance?”

“Nothing. But… ”

“But what?”

“I had other things to do.” Defensively.

“Like what?”

“Housekeeping chores.”

She was treading on thin ice here. Years ago, when they’d realized they would frequently be working at home, they had worked out a series of informal but rigid rules. Rule number one was: Don’t criticize the other person’s work habits. Don’t complain if he works late, don’t nag if she takes the afternoon off and sits in the sun. Because you simply don’t know what difficulties a person might be experiencing at a given time, what internal pressures make it necessary for a night-long binge or a day-long breather.

Ordinarily she wouldn’t have questioned what Jan had been doing all day. But this was no ordinary situation. She said. “Housekeeping chores. Jan, you came up here to write a book, not be a lightkeeper!”

He frowned at her. “Now look-”

“I’m not criticizing you,” she went on hurriedly, “I’m making a comment on what this situation is doing to us. I’m having the same problem; it’s all I can do to grind the beans for coffee in the morning. I can’t work, I’m not sleeping well, I’m moody and depressed half the time. It’s affecting us physically and psychologically and creatively… ” She realized her voice had risen and begun to wobble, and clamped her mouth shut to stem the flow of words. Steady, Ryerson, she thought.

Jan was still frowning, but it was a different kind of frown now-one of consternation rather than annoyance. He reached for a spoon and stirred his coffee, in spite of the fact he didn’t take milk or sugar. At length he said quietly, “I didn’t realize it was bothering you that much.”

“I try not to show it, just as you do.”

Again he was silent.