by Jules-Arden Bernard
I haven’t been to that beach in years, but I remember the first interaction I had with that old man. He had his hands clasped over the wooden railings of the old lighthouse, his shoes, leather and oddly taken care of, were covered in sand, and his eyes wrinkled with his smile, grinning against the sun reflecting off of the water. The paper I had was littered with as much pencil as my hands were, decorated with sketches of the rocks below us and the seagulls perched around the nearby rocks and piers. He seemed content, the ring on his finger mimicking the waves, catching the sun and shining back at it. I was half his height, still in school, and new to the area, and I remember sneaking off to the shore as the sun slunk into the ocean, mesmerized as I watched him switch on the light at the top of the tower from the top of the sand dunes. Never had someone seemed so cool to me.
The lighthouse keeper, whose name I later found out was Oscar, acted as a hero to me. A man I never spoke to but always saw at the top of that lighthouse, hands folded and happy. Before I grew up a bit more, I was convinced he was speaking to the ocean, the way he’d talk to himself, and almost pause for a response. He was strange yet content, a simple person who held the power to light up an entire tower, to save ships and people he’d never interact with. I found that incredible.
~~~
There’s a painting I saw once, “The Shipwreck,” by Joseph Mallard William Turner. It was a gloriously terrifying depiction of what being in a ship during a storm might feel like. That painting reminded me of the first time I ever saw Oscar cry. I never witnessed a hurricane until I had moved. I never witnessed trees being blown sideways, waves swallowing the rock formations surrounding the lighthouse even days after the storm, biking through streets lined with houses whose windows were boarded up and locked, or the battered husk of a boat that was discovered days after the ocean had calmed down. As far as I know, no bodies were ever found and in retrospect, I don’t know if that made it better or worse for the keeper. On my way to the balcony, I saw Oscar, hunched by the jetty with cut-up gloves and soaked trousers, retrieving as much debris as he could. I was old enough to walk through the rocks and offered an extra hand. When he declined the offer, his eyes were red and his face was dusted with sand. It was obvious his cheeks weren’t wet with seawater. I tried to strike up conversation regardless, though the air was thick with salt and a vague sense of grief that neither of us could shake.
“The waves are finally calmer, huh?” I had to shout as the waves crashed against the rock wall, misting the two of us as he continued to rip boards from between the boulders.
“Finally, yeah.” Oscar’s voice was raspy, but he had a certain softness in the way he spoke, the sort of comforting grit that a scratchy wool blanket from home has. Abrasive but warm, sharp but loving. “Nobody ‘at we know of in town was hurt. Jus’ some busted windows.”
“Were you alright?”
“We survived, that’s for sure. Got lucky.” I could only nod in agreeance, He ripped up another board.
~~~
I continued to hide out at that lighthouse as some of the years went on. My sketches grew sharper and I’d always pass by Oscar, who’d occasionally ask about how school was going, if I was selling my artwork yet, or why I never came up with other people. He only chuckled when I returned the question.
“Who in their right mind would climb these ‘ere stairs more than once if they didn’t have to?”
“My point exactly,” I teased. Of course, I never really needed to be there with people. As years passed, I started to understand why Oscar would talk to himself more often than not. There’s a comfortable disconnect when you’re the only one above sea level. It’s easy to get lost in the rhythm of the waves below you as they continue to attack the jetty– there’s a heartbeat in the high tide that becomes therapeutic after long enough.
As strange as it may seem, I also found a sense of comfort in Oscar, himself. He was a good man. His smile was carved into his cheeks and the corners of his eyes, his hair poorly concealing the sunburn that painted the top of his head. He never yelled, it seemed. He smiled at people who were smaller than him, people who were angrier than him. I’d bet that he didn’t have a violent bone in his body. It was a comforting change of pace I could only seem to find at the lighthouse; a good, kind old man.
~~~
There was this painting I studied once. “Paternal Love” by Étienne Aubry. I saw Oscar as a figure in that painting the first time he brought Siersha to the lighthouse, her small hand in his. She waved at me from across the balcony, her eyes matching the deep green that spanned across the horizon in front of the three of us. Siersha was bright– a human rocket with tangled hair. Whenever I’d see her, she was peering through the binoculars that were mounted along the railings or telling stories to Oscar, who would nod in agreement, amazed at the crab she saw for the fifth time. Occasionally, I’d let her scribble over my sketches, my work being complimented with smiley faces and fairies. They became my favorite pages.
~~~
Siersha grew quickly. Either that or the rest of my schooling went too fast for me to remember. I continued to relax by the beach, she continued to roam, and Oscar continued to operate the tower. There were nights that I would hear her and another person’s voice laughing off the balcony at night. By the rocks, I could make out two silhouettes pointing and yelling at ships passing a mile away from shore. And if we happened to cross paths, she’d fill me in on the latest issues at school, the new play she was in, or who she was smitten with.
As she grew, we remained friends, sometimes even drawing with one another.
“We could do another bird thing?” We were brainstorming a collage.
“Didn’t we do seagulls the other week?”
“Seagulls! What about other birds? You could mess with color or somethin’. Cardinals?”
“I love it!” We began sketching together; my lines delicate, hers bold; shaky, but confident nonetheless.
~~~
Her, Oscar, and I continued to cross paths for years. As she progressed through high school, Siersha began to visit the tower less, our catch-ups growing sparse, its script unchanging.
“How’s school been?”
“Okay. I graduate next year.” She often avoided eye contact.
“How’s your dad feel about it?”
“Probably fine.”
“And how’s he?”
“Probably fine.”
“And you?”
“Probably fine.” She started to avoid that question. Most conversations began to go like that: few, far between, and counterproductive.
That is, with the exception of the last conversation we shared. I found her alone, tossing shells as far as she could. A collage of oranges and reds began to overtake the gray painted onto the sky. Her voice sharpened in her response to the question this time, in a way that whispered “Please pry.” I made eye contact with her, eventually.
“Hey,” She looked up to meet me, her eyes swollen. I made my way to sit next to her. “Really. How’ve you been?”
“Ugh.” She tossed a shell over the edge.
“So, great?” She didn’t laugh. “What’s up? Haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Nothing new.”
“Sounds terrible.” She nodded.
“What’s going on?” My voice could hardly be heard from over the waves, the ocean’s heartbeat crashing against the beach.
“Why do you come here?” Silence. “Like, you’re up here alone and all?” I couldn’t tell if this was her way of avoiding the question.
“I guess it’s sorta-”
“You like it here?”
“I mean-”
“Or are you bored?”
“Siersha. Breathe.” A pause. “It’s quieter here than at home. Prettier too.”
“Even with the waves?”
“Yeah.”
“Interesting.”
“Why do you ask?”
“You like being up here with me?” Her voice quivered.
“Of course! I wouldn’t have sat down if I didn’t want to-” She threw a shell against the floor. I flinched.
“Max left yesterday, by the way.” Max was her partner. From what Oscar had told me, she was head over heels for them. “They said the same thing.” I could only put my hand on her shoulder.
“It happens, you know?”
“Is it me?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why do you stick around? With me? Or even Dad?” My chest tightened.
“You’re both like family to me, I guess?” When there was no response, I continued. “You’re the friend I wish I had at your age and your dad’s a good guy so it’s-”
“I’m worried I hurt him.”
“Your dad? How?”
“Just in general. Probably stress him out. I’m a lot. You know he talks about you? Thinks your art is good, said I should talk to you and all.”
“Is it, er, helping?”
“A little.” I’ll take just a little. With how things were going, I’d take anything. Siersha’s movements seemed tired, almost automatic. I could tell that the conversation was draining.
“That’s all I can ask for.” Siersha began to sit up. The sky had fallen to a dark blue and Oscar would come to turn the lighthouse on soon. “Want me to walk you down?”
“It’s fine.” She gave me a long hug, and made her way towards the stairs. “Thank you. For everything.”
Minutes later, Oscar appeared to turn the light on. He exchanged a thumbs up from the window with a smile. He seemed relieved.
~~~
There was this statue I saw, once. “Melancholy” by Albert Gyorgy. It was a bronze figure and, supposed to represent the void someone might feel after losing a loved one. I saw that statue in Oscar after Siersha jumped. Her body was found near broken shells on the rocks and buried the same week. The next time I saw Oscar he was donning all black, his hands clasped over the railing, talking to himself, pausing as if waiting for a response.
“Was it somethin’ I did?” He waited for a response. “Somethin’ I didn’t do?” He waited for a response. The high tide had Siersha’s heartbeat as it crashed against the shore. “I’m so sorry.” There was never a response. The air felt thinner that day at the top of the tower, and when the tide went out it seemed to last longer than it ever had.
Secretly, I wondered the same things as Oscar. I whispered the same apology to myself, and to him.
The lighthouse was dark at night for about a week.
~~~
There was this painting I sold, once. The Lighthouse. The painting depicted a small tower at the shore of an even smaller community. The rocks were obscured by the waves crashing around them, and the sunset behind the lighthouse was a stunning violet. There was a silhouette of a man on top of the building, his hands clasped over the railing, and a young girl still on the shore, collecting shells before the house. A ship, pristine and unharmed, was sketched into the background. Smiley faces were drawn into the sand. A kind old man and his daughter. A cardinal. A beautiful fantasy painting.
About the Contributor & Piece
Jules-Arden Bernard (they/them or he/him) is a Visual Arts Major with a concentration in Electronic Arts and Animation and a minor in Creative Writing. They are an animator and writer from South Jersey who loves to focus on interpersonal and introspective circumstances in their writing. Much of their work delves into how one’s identity, mental health, and corner of the world define someone’s story and the beauty (and grit) that may come with it. Outside of writing, Jules could be found sneaking off to the woods or trying to figure out how to befriend the local crow population.
“This piece was driven by an interest in attempting to narrate a story from a bystander’s point of view, as well as finding ways to incorporate visual arts into creative writing. As somebody who grew up along the shore up until coming to Ramapo, choosing a lighthouse as the setting acted as a setting I had personal ties to already, and an homage to my hometown.” – Jules-Arden Bernard