Lightfall by Paul Monette Page A

meaning till Joey told him. But the fourth and final thing drew him up short: a monogrammed silver box, about the right size for cigarettes. The name it bore was Edward Dale , with a ship above and a motto below: To the end of the world. Instinctively, Michael put a hand to his jacket pocket, but there was nothing there.
    â€œYour papers,” Joey explained with a gesture toward the silver box. Not a fleck of tarnish anywhere. But when Michael moved to flick the catch, the boy leaped forward to stop him. “Not now,” he said. “We have to go down to the light so I can show you something.”
    â€œCan’t we just be alone?”
    â€œSoon—very soon. Hurry.”
    When they got outside they discovered that Iris had gone. Joey locked the door and held the key out to Michael, who begged off shyly. His hands were full. He didn’t want it anyway—wished Joey would take charge of the keeping of symbols. Michael had no use for them. He made no protest, even so, when Joey slipped a hand in his pocket and left the key like a secret. They walked through the one paved street of the village, immune as before from curious stares. The townsmen who just an hour before had fawned on Michael and greeted him now busied themselves with close work, leaving them both alone.
    If Joey had been some other sort than what he was, he might have gloated here, to think they now held him in awe. He had been the object of ridicule for as long as anyone in the village could remember. But he seemed too busy being Michael’s guide to waste his time returning their contempt. On the contrary: as they strolled along he pointed out who lived where, with a warm and affectionate thumbnail sketch that brought each one alive. He might have been welcoming Michael into a family. Perhaps, thought the prophet, they didn’t need to run away to the lonely valley after all. The people of Pitt’s Landing might accept them just the way they were.
    By the time they reached the lighthouse, Michael had managed to distribute his possessions in his pockets, so he clinked and sagged like a wandering tradesman. The park was noisy with villagers out to take the winter sun at its height. For one hour now, it was sweet as spring. A gang of rangers lounged on the lawn and picnicked, half an ear cocked to the radio calls that crackled in the Jeep they’d tumbled out of. Two mothers strolled their toddlers. Somebody flew a russet kite. Michael floated through, overflowing with the certainty that he’d stumbled into paradise. Just then he would have done anything to keep them safe. For all the hate he harbored toward the world at large, it had purified his heart, somehow, and made him ripe for love.
    Right about now, he thought it could stay like this forever.
    They came around the cylindrical tower and went up a short flight of steps to a kind of balcony. They stood at a fluted balustrade, with the drop sheer to the rocks below, a hundred and thirty feet. They stood together with the land behind them—a whole continent’s worth—and took in the roaming ocean, roughshod with the sun. It did not matter to Michael what was past. He laid no claim on it. Far too much attention seemed to be on him. Wasn’t it time to hear Joey’s side? How long had he been waiting?
    They stood like heroes—captain and mate. Michael gave no credence to the cost. He had never lived the life of a moralist, making choices left and right. Wanting nothing, he’d never wanted two things both at once, and thus had no experience of having second thoughts. Except for certain small gold objects sifted from the day’s collection, he hardly knew what it meant to acquire and keep. But he wanted to possess this boy forever. So much so, it seemed to him that everything else would have to realign itself, to accommodate his first desire. “We ought to have a ship,” he said.
    â€œNow listen, Michael,” the boy replied,