References.
“It asks for references . . .” I said. My voice sounded loud in
there.
* 57 *
Deb Caletti
“Is it a problem?” She shoved her hands down into her jean
pockets and looked at me in challenge.
“I worked at a bookstore every summer for three years.”
“Put it down on the paper,” she said.
“You can’t call them,” I said. I didn’t know why I was telling
her this. I should have just gotten out of there. I should have told
Dad his mistake, made a new plan. I could read through the clas-
sics. Write some journal. Whatever.
She was back behind the counter. She held a pen in her
hand. She was tapping the end just like Dad always did. “I can’t
call them.”
“No.”
“And why not I can’t call them?”
“My old boyfriend got a job there,” I said. “He can’t know
where I am.”
She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were a deep black,
but suddenly kind. “Yes,” she said. She thought. “I see. You need
to be away from him. They will speak to him, you think.”
“He finds out things,” I said.
“You cannot trust anyone,” she said.
“That’s how it feels.”
She nodded as if we suddenly understood each other.
“Come tomorrow,” she said. “I will teach you what you need to
know. The people who come—they like a small tour sometimes.
I will tell you exactly how do you do. They ask questions. I will
give you a history book.” She bent under the counter. “Damn
it, where is it? No. Shit. One moment. Here it is.” She straight-
ened. Handed me a thin book. It looked well used. Water had
* 58 *
Stay
spilled on it once—the pages were bunched and wavy. Bishop
Rock: History or Legend? “Read the chapter on Pigeon Head.
Head of a pigeon?” She made her eyes wide at the ridiculous-
ness, held her hands out as if there was nothing to be done
about it. “It is crazy.”
“I know,” I said. It was hard to believe. “Anyway, thank you.
I’ll read it.” I knelt down and petted Roger. He was sitting so
nicely and staring up at me. “He’s so sweet.”
“A little fiend,” she said. But you could tell he was her baby.
“True, he has some fine qualities, yes. He does not bore you with
his religion beliefs. He does not speak on and on about the pain
of his childhood.”
I looked down at Roger. He looked so simple. He stood and
wagged, as if he knew he was being discussed. He made me
smile.
“Thank you,” I said again. I wasn’t completely sure I should
be grateful. I started to head out. Something occurred to me.
“Does it work? Is it a working lighthouse?”
“Of course,” she said. “Standing there looking so pretty is not
enough.”
“And do you run it?” I was thinking of Mr. Genovese, I guess.
“Well, I am the keeper, yes?” she said. “I am the one here to
make certain that the boats do not crash into the rocks.”
I went back to the car. I got in and shut the door, but then I
realized how early it still was. Dad wouldn’t be out of his trance
until later in the afternoon. I got back out of the car again, hoping
she wasn’t watching me. In and out—Sylvie Genovese wasn’t the
kind of person to be indecisive. I walked over to the lighthouse
* 59 *
Deb Caletti
and looked up at it. The fog had moved on, and now it stood in
all its glory. It couldn’t just stand there and look pretty, but it was
pretty. Beautiful and protective.
I walked to the edge of the bluff where my father and I had
stood the day before. I noticed a trail I hadn’t seen then, which
wound down to the beach. It was steep, and I had on crappy
sandals for steep, but I decided to go down there anyway. I did
that embarrassing edging walk you do down slippery slopes, that
sideways maneuver that involves clutching at clumps of grass,
and then finally I was down. The beach curved left for miles,
but to my right it ended not long after the lighthouse. The rocks
gathered and then gathered more until passing would be
“It asks for references . . .” I said. My voice sounded loud in
there.
* 57 *
Deb Caletti
“Is it a problem?” She shoved her hands down into her jean
pockets and looked at me in challenge.
“I worked at a bookstore every summer for three years.”
“Put it down on the paper,” she said.
“You can’t call them,” I said. I didn’t know why I was telling
her this. I should have just gotten out of there. I should have told
Dad his mistake, made a new plan. I could read through the clas-
sics. Write some journal. Whatever.
She was back behind the counter. She held a pen in her
hand. She was tapping the end just like Dad always did. “I can’t
call them.”
“No.”
“And why not I can’t call them?”
“My old boyfriend got a job there,” I said. “He can’t know
where I am.”
She looked at me for a long time. Her eyes were a deep black,
but suddenly kind. “Yes,” she said. She thought. “I see. You need
to be away from him. They will speak to him, you think.”
“He finds out things,” I said.
“You cannot trust anyone,” she said.
“That’s how it feels.”
She nodded as if we suddenly understood each other.
“Come tomorrow,” she said. “I will teach you what you need to
know. The people who come—they like a small tour sometimes.
I will tell you exactly how do you do. They ask questions. I will
give you a history book.” She bent under the counter. “Damn
it, where is it? No. Shit. One moment. Here it is.” She straight-
ened. Handed me a thin book. It looked well used. Water had
* 58 *
Stay
spilled on it once—the pages were bunched and wavy. Bishop
Rock: History or Legend? “Read the chapter on Pigeon Head.
Head of a pigeon?” She made her eyes wide at the ridiculous-
ness, held her hands out as if there was nothing to be done
about it. “It is crazy.”
“I know,” I said. It was hard to believe. “Anyway, thank you.
I’ll read it.” I knelt down and petted Roger. He was sitting so
nicely and staring up at me. “He’s so sweet.”
“A little fiend,” she said. But you could tell he was her baby.
“True, he has some fine qualities, yes. He does not bore you with
his religion beliefs. He does not speak on and on about the pain
of his childhood.”
I looked down at Roger. He looked so simple. He stood and
wagged, as if he knew he was being discussed. He made me
smile.
“Thank you,” I said again. I wasn’t completely sure I should
be grateful. I started to head out. Something occurred to me.
“Does it work? Is it a working lighthouse?”
“Of course,” she said. “Standing there looking so pretty is not
enough.”
“And do you run it?” I was thinking of Mr. Genovese, I guess.
“Well, I am the keeper, yes?” she said. “I am the one here to
make certain that the boats do not crash into the rocks.”
I went back to the car. I got in and shut the door, but then I
realized how early it still was. Dad wouldn’t be out of his trance
until later in the afternoon. I got back out of the car again, hoping
she wasn’t watching me. In and out—Sylvie Genovese wasn’t the
kind of person to be indecisive. I walked over to the lighthouse
* 59 *
Deb Caletti
and looked up at it. The fog had moved on, and now it stood in
all its glory. It couldn’t just stand there and look pretty, but it was
pretty. Beautiful and protective.
I walked to the edge of the bluff where my father and I had
stood the day before. I noticed a trail I hadn’t seen then, which
wound down to the beach. It was steep, and I had on crappy
sandals for steep, but I decided to go down there anyway. I did
that embarrassing edging walk you do down slippery slopes, that
sideways maneuver that involves clutching at clumps of grass,
and then finally I was down. The beach curved left for miles,
but to my right it ended not long after the lighthouse. The rocks
gathered and then gathered more until passing would be
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