Lighthouse Nights

lighthouse nights

jake vander ark

copyright 2012 by jake vander ark

smashwords edition

for richard.

dp. collaborator. friend.

http://www.jakevanderark.com

[email protected]

table of contents

prologue: spring, 2010

part one: summer, 2010

part two: summer, 2011

epilogue: autumn, 2011

acknowledgements

prologue: spring, 2010

* 1 *

it was unmatched life experience that bestowed in her eyes the sultry gleam that separates women from girls. although she viewed her life experience like bruises on a peach, men of all ages still found ways to see past the indications of damaged goods long enough to offer her a drink. hell, it was less than an hour ago that one such man called her gothic perfection and cried on her shoulder.

her boyfriend agreed that a crazy life can grow a girl up quick; it was only last november that she turned seventeen.

in public, her demeanor was trim, graceful and uninhibited. in the privacy of a jacksonville motel bathroom, she straddled the toilet seat backwards and used the tank’s lid as a desk. she signed the bottom of a handwritten note, miss you, dusty, creased the letter in thirds, and slipped it in the envelope.

fishnets pressed patterned diamonds into her thighs beneath a mesh skirt–flared and sagging like a sickly tutu–and boots with leather laces fell an inch short of the scar on her left knee. raven-black hair framed her cheeks. crimped lashes fluttered against heavy rings of liner. plastic pearls crowned her form-tight blouse with a single lacework sleeve while matching bracelets garnished the bare arm. a stud in her brow. a stud in her nose. six earrings and two open piercings.

the ensemble was black–always black–except the silver eyelets on the boots, blue painted nails, and brown irises in her sleepy eyes.

the bags were black too; garbage bags swelling with the life of a dead man, now like four tumors in the sterile bathroom. she already forgot his name, though his expression as he begged for death was crystalline in her memory. out of all five, he was the first to plead for the pills, nearly snatching them from her palm after demonstrating the difficulty of using a shotgun.

the butt sits on the ground like this. see, robin?

her name wasn’t robin.

but my arms are too short to reach the trigger. i tied floss from the trigger to my toe, but i wasn’t strong enough to go through with it. i bought a revolver last week. before i could use it, i found you.

he asked if they could do it with the shotgun–she would do him, then herself–but the pills were cleaner so she talked him out of the weapon.

jules–her name was jules again–untied the neon draw-string of the first trash bag. an invisible billow of cologne and tobacco puffed from the open tumor and the stench watered her eyes and clung to the bathroom walls. she inhaled through her mouth, rummaged through the bag, and placed the items in a row along the faux-marble countertop: a leaking bottle of old spice, ten balled neckties with gold tacks and cufflinks, a leather wallet containing twelve-hundred dollars, a cellphone, the revolver, a universal remote control, headphones, reading glasses, a wooden box of cigars, a polaroid camera–

julesie-baby! get the hell in here! trevor was in the bedroom, drunk and probably naked.

give me two minutes! she called back and transferred fifty dollars from the wallet into dusty’s envelope.

jules turned the camera over in her hands. her mother owned a similar model years ago. the old hag once spanked jules and her sister for wasting such expensive film on make-believe fashion shoots and pictures of their baby brother with a staged cigarette hanging from his lip.

jules held the camera two inches above her eye line, pursed her own charcoal lips, and snapped a picture. the device whirred and clicked and spat out a photo. she shook it and waited as the yellow milk became the image of a girl.

mom referred to her dad as hollywood on the few occasions jules got up the nerve to ask questions. she never met the douche, but knew from her own mysterious physique that his nickname held at least a dime-bag of truth. her skin was olive, not the paper-thin wonderbread skin of her cousins and friends; easy stretch marks, flat cheeks and beady eyes like a calling card for TRASH. where jules came from, even the skinny girls had stretch marks.

she refocused her attention to the photo, held it to the light, and narrowed her eyes. she rubbed her thumb on the girl’s face, then crumpled up the picture and threw it in the bag. she knuckled both hands on the counter amongst the dead man’s artifacts and studied herself in the mirror. she sighed.

the wig came off first. she unpinned the synthetic hair and dropped it in the sink. her real hair was the color of a railroad spike; about the same length too.

jules! get your trashy ass out of the bathroom!

trev, chill!

mascara left blotches and streaks on the folded washcloth like ink from a broken quill. she pressed the rag into her cheek and buffed away cream foundation to reveal the scattered freckles she loathed. she pulled the blouse up her body and over her head, draped it on the curtain rod, then readjusted her white tank-top.

again, she posed for the camera. when the picture emerged, she yanked it out and shoved it in the envelope without glancing at the result. she licked the glue and sealed the letter; money and photo inside the manilla sheath.

hey in there! trevor yelled again, are we gonna do this?

i’ll be right out! jules looked again at the black defiled cloth, then whispered to herself, i need to put on my makeup.

* 2 *

gabriel jones extended his brand-new, bright-orange converse tennis shoes to balance the folding chair on its hind legs. he admired the vast banquet hall of his dream college; wrought-iron chandeliers, decorative carpet with patterns of burgundy swirls, hints of greece in the molding and details, and twenty-foot ionic columns supporting the mezzanine rim.

gabe observed the other prospective students and couldn’t contain a silly grin.

they were just like him.

one guy sat in a cubical of his own paintings, eyes narrowed on his work, flickering over flaws and woulda-shoulda-couldas in constant scrutinization. another boy sat with his parents, coffee in hand, leg bouncing to the rhythm of his subconscious. a girl–cute–sketched on the paper tablecloth with a pencil stub she found on the floor.

gabe felt at home with these like-minded equals; all searching the depths of mid-america for salvation from the confines of institutions that labeled them as outcasts. at the school of the art institute of chicago, they would finally be free of the high-school masquerade.

every few minutes, a woman appeared at the top of the staircase to address the horde of hopeful artists with a name and number. today–only today–their work would be critiqued by one of the school’s professors who would decide if the blossoming young artist belonged with the creative elite as a member of the student body.

no application. no personal essay. no waiting required.

the boy with the bouncing leg was summoned next. gabe watched as he hugged his parents in their seats, grasped a nylon portfolio and ascended the opulent staircase to his personal day of judgement.

gabe’s own portfolio represented the culmination of three years huddled in the high-school art room, not unlike dr. frankenstein in demeanor, brilliance, and reputation. his final presentation contained fifteen photo-realistic renderings: a pencil drawing of the neighbor’s golden retriever catching a frisbee, a pastel sunset over lake michigan, a pen-and-ink portrait of his crush from sophomore year. each piece was executed with an exquisite level of detail and anyone who eyed gabe’s work would find themselves leaning forward to assure they weren’t looking at photographs.

gabriel jones? number four-three-one?

he dropped the chair to all fours and stood. his parents were off perusing the furniture stores on michigan avenue so there wasn’t anyone to hug. gabe snatched his portfolio and refrained from bounding up the stairs as appraising eyes needled the back of his neck.

the woman shook his hand and walked him around the mezzanine, between rows of tables covered in paintings, sculptures, photographs and more. a professor sat at one end of each table; a kid at the other.

gabe’s faculty critic was younger than he anticipated–african-american, sweater-vest, glasses pressing dents into his nose and cheekbones–welcome to the art institute were the only words he spoke while actually looking gabe in the eyes.

thanks, he said and took a seat.

the man opened gabe’s portfolio with casual ineptitude as if he was thumbing insurance forms instead of a boy’s lifeblood. tell me about yourself, he said.

this was it! well, i’m eighteen years old and dying to finish my senior year of high school. i live about three hours north, in grand harbor, michigan. before i could even talk, my parents found me doodling.

the man seemed to be fully engaged with the portfolio. go on, he said without looking up.

well, the art institute is my dream school. it’s the only college i applied to because, honestly, nothing else compares. i’m currently enrolled in a summer photography class–

tell me something real.

i’m sorry?

tell me something real, the professor repeated.

gabe’s brain became liquid and seeped from his forehead pores. his ribs trapped a dozen seagulls in his chest and their beating feathers tickled his heart.

breathe through your nose, gabe, he told himself. you’ve got this.

your technical proficiency is the best i’ve seen today.

thank you, gabe said.

but i don’t see anything new in your work.

i–

where do you stand politically, gabriel?

i don’t–

what are your thoughts on organized religion?

sir, i–

what excites you? what frightens you? what turns you on? what can you show me that i haven’t seen fifty times today, other than skilled use of a pen?

gabe’s throat swelled.

i think you’re a romantic, gabriel.

what does that mean?

do you feel prepared for daily critiques?

he nodded. i do.

then retort.

i’m sorry?

where’s your anger? why aren’t you throwing your hands in the air, telling me i’m full of shit for thinking a photorealistic drawing of a dog catching a frisbee belongs in a hospital waiting room?

gabe’s leg bounced. if he didn’t think of something fast–

the man flipped backward through the pages, then closed the portfolio altogether. he folded his hands, placed them on gabe’s work like a twisted headstone, and looked up for the first time. there’s nothing in here to disturb the soul in the slightest. i would recommend taking a few years to develop a unique worldview. run away from home, get stoned, lose your sentimental outlook... and we’ll reconsider your application next year.

shit.

part one: summer, 2010

* 3 *

the sun was always brighter on weekends in grand harbor. it performed its usual routine during the week, but from friday to sunday the rays worked overtime, searching the visible stretch of lake michigan for every facet of every ripple, glimmering across the water like a navy sequined dress.

from the sky, the pier looked like a twig stuck in the immaculate blue at the sandy crest of a beach town. from gabe’s point of view, it extended past the horizon to an infinite vanishing point with two crimson lighthouses dominating the afternoon sky.

he stood on his bike peddles and drifted to the corn-dog hut at the base of the pier; white wood, yellow trim, a mile-long line of candy-coated vacationers in an endless search of local flavor. a hand-written note was taped to the glass: the original corn dog: hotdog, breading, ketchup, mustard, napkin and a stick. fat-free option: napkin and a stick.

gabe unstrapped his orange backpack and waited in line until the heat made his t-shirt stick to his ribcage like a new layer of skin. he ordered three dogs with just mustard, hoisted his sack to his shoulders, and biked with one hand down the length of the pier.

his pier.

the catwalk flickered overhead as gabe weaved between its trail of black arches. a group of teens egged on a dare-devil comrade as he considered biking off the edge.

on gabe’s right, a photo of his mother greeted the pier’s guests with a photoshopped smile from a bench ad. welcome to your new home, her speech bubble declared; followed by a phone number, website and bethany jones realty in bold yellow print.

the first lighthouse was a cylinder, tapered at the top, with a craggy cement base big enough for kids to play tag. gabe peddled faster, rounding the massive obstruction and dodging a clump of old people fully engaged on a landmark tour of the city.

the second lighthouse was a cube mounted at the tip of the pier with a similar cement ledge around its base.

the ledge was gabe’s throne. he dismounted his bike, snapped the kick-stand, removed his backpack and placed it on the ground.

a covey of bikini-clad coeds nested on beach towels in front of him. the lineup created an eye-pleasing barrier of color between the concrete pier and lapping water, and gabe tried keep his eyes on his work instead of the oiled curves and crevices of GIRL splayed before him.

he brushed a strand of brown from his eye, a developing habit after three months of declined haircuts. from his bag he removed a twelve-megapixel slr camera and a leather companion-case with three additional lenses and a set of filters. it was the