Bill Pronzini - The Lighthouse

He didn’t hear her knock and he didn’t hear her drive away; he heard nothing. He worked in a kind of vacuum, watching his hands manipulate the diaphone and compressor parts as if the fingers were the steel extremities of a machine, listening only to the random ebb and flow of his thoughts. He might have been one of the old-time lightkeepers-the last lightkeeper on the West Coast. There are 450 lighthouses still operating in the continental United States; of that number, only thirty-four are manned. None of these is on the West Coast. It will not be long before all 450 U.S. lighthouses are fully automated under the long-range Lighthouse Automation and Modernization Project (LAMP), introduced by the Coast Guard in 1968.

The last wickie. A man alone against the dark…

He had finished reassembling both the diaphone and the compressor when Alix called his name from downstairs. It startled him: he hadn’t heard the car (odd, when he’d heard the other woman’s), nor had he heard her enter the house. She was just there, calling him in a voice that echoed and re-echoed in the brick hollow of the tower.

“I’m in the lightroom. Stay there; I’ll come down.”

He did not hurry this time either-especially not this time. Wiped his hands carefully, put some of his tools away first. Steeled himself on the way downstairs, because he expected this to be the beginning of the end. Expected to see her sitting on the couch, knees together, hands folded-her I-Have-Something-Very-Important-to-Say pose. Expected her to give him an ultimatum, and then, when he rejected it, to tell him good-bye.

But he was wrong-so wrong that a few minutes later, in a sudden release of tension, he burst out laughing.

She wasn’t sitting on the couch; she was standing in front of the wood-burner, her hair wind-blown, her cheeks ruddy from the wind, smiling at him. And she didn’t give him an ultimatum. And she didn’t tell him good-bye.

All she wanted was to invite him out for dinner!

She turned the car left off Highway 1 and drove into the parking lot of a seafood restaurant called the Seaside Inn, two miles south of Bandon. “Look okay to you?” she asked Jan.

At first he didn’t respond; he was slouched against the passenger door, apparently lost in thought. He’d been that way for much of the drive up the coast. She had monitored his silence, trying to gauge if he were suffering a headache or merely feeling introspective. Introspective, she’d decided. And not the brooding or depressed kind of introspection; the reflective kind. The cold, controlled anger of the morning was gone, and that was all for the good. Jan was a reasonable man, provided his mood was an equable one.

She asked the question again-“This place look okay to you?”-and this time her words penetrated. He roused himself, took note of their surroundings.

“Fine,” he said. “You said you wanted fish, and judging from that sign, fish is what they have.”

The sign was a pink neon fish standing upright on its tail fins, a jaunty smile on its face. It reminded Alix of the TV ads featuring Charlie Tuna-except that Charlie, vain as he was, would never have consented to wear the Afro-style toupee that was inexplicably perched on this fellow’s head.

“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.