The Lighthouse Road

onboard.

They still hadn’t spoken as they entered their brownstone half an hour later. Odd would normally have taken her coat off, hung it up, and asked her if she’d like a drink or for him to draw her a bath. Instead he kicked his boots into the small foyer closet and walked to the sitting room window. He heard Rebekah remove her own boots and walk slowly to the davenport. Odd kept his back to her, kept his eyes fixed on the darkness.

“All those prayers and talk of the Bible,” she said. It was as though she expected Odd’s complicity, as though she hadn’t embarrassed him.

“I guess their decency undid you,” Odd said.

“Decency? Ha!”

“Because they believe in something bigger than themselves you write them off? I suppose all the lies you’ve lived, all the shit you ate, that’s better?”

“Don’t forget, darling, you’re right here with me, living the biggest lie of them all.”

He thought to say, But I want to change. I see our chance. Instead he only set his jaw.

Some time passed before Rebekah said, “I can’t understand how it’s come to this. For all my life I can’t.”

Odd said nothing. Since Christmas he’d said all there was to say. He’d said it all twice.

Some more time passed before she continued, “I thought of getting an abortion. I went all the way to his office before I lost my nerve. Now it’s too late.”

An automobile rounded the corner outside, its headlamps sweeping past their window, filling the room for a moment before leaving it in darkness again. He heard a match strike the box and Rebekah light a cigarette. He heard her exhale.

“I wrote letters to Hosea.”

“The hell you say?” Odd said, spinning around.

“I told him about us. About being pregnant.”

“Goddamnit, Rebekah.”

She took a long drag from her cigarette. “I asked him if I could ever come back.”

He turned his good eye toward her, flashed a gaze so fierce it made her shudder.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said.

Now he spoke with his teeth clenched, “Does he know where we are?”

“No.”

“When did you last write him?”

“A month ago. Maybe.”

He ran his hands through his hair. He felt dizzy with rage. He looked at her without blinking until she stood and started for the bedroom. He spoke to her back: “I forbid you to ever write him again. This is our new life here. Do you understand? This is our life and it has nothing to do with what we left behind.”

She stopped and turned and looked at him, thought to say more, but turned again without saying a word.

XXIV.

(April 1907)

There were secrets cankering at Grimm’s.

One of Hosea’s strictest rules was that no one — not Odd, not Rebekah, not any visitor — enter his offices on the second floor of the apothecary without his accompanying them. He kept the doors locked and carried the keys on a chain that hung from his belt loop. As a young boy Odd had been given the strap for merely testing the glass doorknob. He’d never been much curious about what was in those rooms, but something had gotten hold of him that spring. So Odd played sleuth.

Late one Saturday night, after he figured Hosea had left for the Shivering Timber, Odd crept out of his bedroom and went down to the second floor. He felt pure of heart but still his pulse quickened. At the bottom of the staircase he paused, tried to stay his quivering sight, and realized that one of the office doors was open. A swath of bright light fell on the hallway floor. Odd could hear voices.

He sat on the bottom step and looked again down the hallway. On his hands and knees he crawled halfway to the light.

“Good, now,” he heard Hosea say. “Yes. Very good.”

“As if there’s a good or a bad,” Rebekah said.

A flash of light came from the doorway, followed by the chemical smell of magnesium and potassium chlorate.

“Why are you such a contrary girl?” Hosea said.

“Why, indeed.”

They were silent for a moment. Odd pushed himself against the wall, the light from the open door not ten feet down the hallway.

“Will you remind me to order more castor oil tomorrow? The Johnsons have near run us dry of it,” Hosea said.

“Of course.”

“Pull the peignoir off your shoulder. There, good.”

“The Johnson kids have been near to death all winter long. Are they going to be all right?”

“The Missus Johnson prefers quackery to doctoring. I’ve given up on her.”

There was another pause in their conversation. More flashing came through the doorway. Odd inched closer to the light on the floor.

“If you’re going to keep me awake all night, you might consider uncorking a bottle of champagne. Anything to hurry this along.”

“You’re difficult enough sober. Inebriated you’d be impossible.”

“Nonsense. If you gave me something bubbly to drink you might actually get a smile out of me.”

There was another flash, then the sound of a match being lit, then a moment later Odd could smell Hosea’s pipe smoke.

Now Odd was only an arm’s length from the doorway. He felt unnaturally calm given the intrigue, but still he was not quite ready to show his face. He knew instinctively that the goings-on in that bright room were none of his business.

“Odd sure is turning wise, isn’t he?” This was Rebekah speaking, and whatever edge had gotten hold of her voice was gone when she spoke of Odd.

“He’s a fine boy.”

“Do you want me to take this off?”

“Yes, take it off. And put the boa around your neck. Straddle the arm of the divan.”

Now there was more quiet, only the faint sound of Rebekah moving around the room. Odd slid so that his left shoulder was only a few inches from the doorjamb. If he’d extended his leg, his foot would have rested on the edge of the light on the floor.

Two or three full minutes passed without a word from either of them. All of the powers of his imagination failed Odd now. He’d never heard the word peignoir nor boa. He could not dream up what was happening in all that flashing light. He had always supposed that Hosea’s medical equipment was stored in the rooms along this hallway, knew that one of the rooms two doors down was his surgery, the room in which Odd himself had been born. But even to his ten-year-old mind there was no logic that might explain a medical procedure of any sort that needed be conducted now, some hours after midnight.

“That’ll get a rise from the perverts,” Hosea said. He clucked his tongue, then added, “Hold your bubs. Push them together.”

“Are we almost finished?”