The Lights at Baker's Island
Dorian Nolan enjoyed being a commercial artist. Young and unattached, she lived the nomadic life of a gypsy, traveling from place to place to paint the sights that appealed to her artistic nature. Starting in late April, she gradually worked her way up the East Coast from her family's home in Savannah, stopping in Charleston, South Carolina; Williamsburg, Virginia; Baltimore, Maryland; Cape May, New Jersey; and Newport, Rhode Island. By late September she made her way to northeastern Massachusetts, where she enjoyed long, leisurely walks on the streets of historic Salem.
One afternoon as she strolled along Washington Square, she passed a flea market being held on the common. Since Dorian spent most of her time traveling, she tried to keep her material possessions to a minimum. Occasionally, though, she liked to purchase inexpensive little gifts to send to her mother back in Georgia. The artist first haggled with a vendor over the price of a Sebastian Miniature of the Concord Minuteman, but the woman wanted more than she was willing to spend, so she moved on. She next examined the contents of a felt-lined box of costume jewelry. After a quick perusal of the necklaces, mostly New Age items such as Ankhs, pentacles and goddess pendants, Dorian walked away. Her fifty-three-year-old mother would much prefer strands of large, brightly colored glass beads.
Three tables later, she spotted several cartons of paperback and hardcover books. Perhaps she could find a good murder mystery that her mother had not already read. The first carton contained nothing but Harlequin romances, and the second had back issues of automotive magazines. The cartons of hardcover books looked more promising. As she sorted through cookbooks, bestsellers and used textbooks, Dorian spotted an old volume entitled Lighthouses of New England. While thumbing through the pages, she noticed that, although printed in 1922, the book contained many beautiful illustrations. It was something she, herself, would enjoy owning. She gave the woman a dollar for the book and then continued browsing, eventually finding a pewter candy dish for her mother.
In her rented room later that night, Dorian made herself a mug of hot cocoa and curled up under an afghan with her newly acquired book. She scanned the pages, admiring the many light stations in Maine, Connecticut and Massachusetts. One photograph, in particular, caught her attention: a picture of not one but two lighthouses. Her eyes dropped to the caption below the photo that read, "The second set of towers on Baker's Island was built in 1820. One was taller than the other, earning the lighthouses the nicknames Ma and Pa." Her curiosity whetted, Dorian sat back and began to read.
According to the author, fifty-five-acre Baker's Island was annexed to the town of Salem in 1630 and got its name from a seventeenth-century visitor who was killed on the island by a falling tree. The original Baker's Island lights were first lit on January 3, 1798, but in 1816 one of the twin lights was extinguished. Mariners claimed this made it difficult to distinguish the remaining single beacon from Boston Light, a fact proven by the growing number of shipwrecks in the vicinity. Consequently, in October 1820 two new towers were constructed: the Ma and Pa lighthouses shown in the photograph.
Not only was the tale of the Baker's Island lights one that appealed to Dorian's romantic nature, but Baker's Island was also located right off the coast of Salem, just a short boat ride away. As she closed the book and headed for bed, she decided that her last painting of the year, before she packed up her Toyota and headed home to Savannah for the winter, would be of the twin lights on Baker's Island.
* * *
"There are no motels on the island," the woman at the information center told her, "but there are a few summer rentals, and since it's off-season, nobody except the caretaker is there now."
"Well, then," Dorian reasoned, "it should be easy to find a small place for a few weeks."
Her optimism proved well-founded. She had little difficulty finding a place to stay on Baker's Island. Of course, she could have commuted from the mainland, rented a boat or even hired someone to ferry her back and forth each day. However, the idea of having an entire island at her disposal appealed to her. She could imagine herself as the Paul Gauguin of the twenty-first century—although Baker's Island was hardly Tahiti. After making arrangements with a local auto mechanic to store her car, Dorian packed up her belongings, her canvases and her paints, and headed for Baker's Island.
The warm, clear weather continued over the next several days, and Dorian made a good deal of progress on her painting. She woke at six every morning, and after a cup of coffee and a bowl of instant oatmeal, she gathered her easel, canvas and paints and walked the short distance to the twin lights. She had been staying on the island for almost a week and had yet to encounter the caretaker, although there was a brief phone message from him on the day she arrived. He told her that if she should need anything, she had only to call him.
It intrigued the young woman to think about what kind of a man would be content to live alone on an island for nine months out of the year, with little or no human companionship. The image of an axe-wielding Jack Nicholson from The Shining, breaking down a door, insanely announcing "Here's Johnny," convinced her to steer clear of the caretaker's cottage. Should she need something, she would call someone on the mainland.
In the evenings, when the sun went down, Dorian walked along the stretch of beach near the cottage. It occurred to her that if she were not so nomadic, she would choose to live in a house by the ocean, not some over-exploited tourist area like Miami Beach or the high-priced playgrounds of the rich such as the Hamptons but rather the more remote beaches of New England. Perhaps someday—should Mr. Right come along—the two of them might settle in eastern Massachusetts or Maine.
Two days later, Dorian awoke in the morning to a slate gray sky, a clear harbinger of an impending rainstorm.
It might blow over, she thought optimistically but did not want to take the chance of being caught in a storm and having to hike back through a downpour with her easel and canvas on her back.
She would therefore make the most of the situation. Since she was running low on food, she decided to go to the mainland and do some grocery shopping.
The rain did come, but it was a gentle shower rather than a drenching cloudburst. Dorian, dry and comfortable beneath her umbrella, decided to take yet another walking tour of Salem. It was rather sad, she thought, that to most people the name of the town conjured up visions of witches and the infamous trials of 1692. Few people knew of the great maritime heritage of the city or of its exquisite architecture. The beauty of the surroundings was not lost on the artist as she strolled past the meticulously maintained seventeenth-, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century homes on her way to the small market where she bought her groceries.
Mrs. Fitch, the owner, stood behind the counter.
"Well, hello, there. I haven't seen you all week. I thought perhaps you moved on, maybe north to Bar Harbor or Kennebunkport," the woman said in her thick Yankee accent.
"No, I'm still in Salem—technically, that is. I've taken a place out on Baker's Island for a couple of weeks."
"Baker's Island?" the woman echoed with disbelief. "No one goes there except during the summer."
"I'm out there to paint, not to bask in the sun or swim in the ocean."
"But you're too young to be out there alone, even if it is for only a short time. I'm sure there are plenty of young men who would like to show you a good time."
"If there are, they must have been in hiding for the past few weeks," Dorian laughed. "I'm afraid my love life has been in a coma all summer."
"You know, I have a single nephew about your age. He's in the Coast Guard. If you'd like I could invite the both of you to my house for dinner some evening."
"Thank you, Mrs. Fitch. I appreciate your offer, but I won't be in Salem too much longer. When I'm done with my current painting, I plan on heading south. I hope to be home in Savannah for the holidays."
"You make sure you come and say goodbye before you leave, you hear?"
"I promise."
Dorian put her groceries in her environmentally friendly reusable canvas bag and exited the shop. She did not see the man who left the market several minutes later, the one who had been listening intently to her conversation with Mrs. Fitch.
* * *
The sun was shining brightly, but there was a chill in the air that blew in from the open sea. It was the beginning of October, and the weather in New England was often unpredictable. The leaves on the trees were turning color but would not reach their peak for at least another week or more.
"By that time, I'll be finished," Dorian said, referring to her artwork.
She looked at the canvas and briefly considered painting a threatening sky and fierce waves breaking on the rocks, but as she looked up at the tall lighthouse and its smaller partner, she felt a comforting calmness and wanted to convey that peaceful serenity in her landscape.
With the sun lowering in the western sky and the breeze from the Atlantic growing in strength. Dorian buttoned her jacket and glanced at her watch. Since only about twenty minutes of daylight remained, she decided to call it a day and began to pack up her paints and brushes. All of a sudden, she heard a noise behind her. She turned and spied a man walking in her direction.
"Hello," she called without fear. "We finally meet."
He doesn't look a thing like a deranged Jack Nicholson, she thought with relief.
The man seemed temporarily confused.
"You were expecting me?" he asked.
"Aren't you the caretaker?" Dorian asked.
"What? Yes. Yes, I am," the man said, donning a false smile.
For the first time, Dorian felt nervous. Was this man really the caretaker of Baker's Island or had he come over from the mainland?
"I'm sorry I couldn't take you up on your offer of dinner the other night, but I had a splitting headache," she said sweetly, skillfully laying a trap for the stranger.
The man continued to smile.
"That's what brings me out here today. I want to renew my invitation."
Dorian's heartbeat raced with apprehension. There had never been an invitation to dinner from the caretaker.
"Calm down," she told herself. "Don't let this man know that you're on to him."
"Any night is good for me—except tonight. I already have plans," she lied, theatrically looking at her watch. "In fact, my boyfriend should be here any minute now. I'd better get going."
She quickly gathered up her supplies and started walking rapidly back toward the cottage.
The sound of the stranger's menacing laughter followed her.
"You haven't got a boyfriend."
"Yes, I do," she yelled back over her shoulder as she quickened her pace.
"Liar," he yelled. "I heard you tellin' that old lady in the store that your love life has been in a coma all summer. Lucky for you, sweet thing, it's about to undergo a miraculous recovery."
"Oh, God, no," Dorian groaned, yearning for the safety of her rented cottage.
Her only hope of outrunning the man was to leave her belongings behind, so she dropped her canvas, easel and paints and ran at full speed in the direction of the cottage. As she passed the smaller of the two lights, she saw the real caretaker standing on the lighthouse gallery, gazing out to sea.
"Help! Help me, please," she cried, racing toward the "Ma" lighthouse.
Dorian's would-be attacker continued to pursue her, apparently not put off in the least by the other man's presence. The frightened artist yanked open the heavy door of the smaller lighthouse and ran inside, with the stranger close on her heels. She ran up the spiral staircase, screaming for help. Her terror grew when she heard the clang of the man's boots on the metal stairs behind her. Unused to running, she felt as though her heart would burst in her chest, but she never slackened her pace.
At the top of the stairs, she ran past the Fresnel light and headed out to the gallery where she had seen the caretaker from below.
He was no longer there! Where could he have gone? She certainly had not passed him on the narrow staircase. She looked down over the railing, but he was not there either. Panic seized her. Had she only imagined him? It was too late to think about that now. The stranger burst through the door and was only a few feet away.
"No, please," she begged pitifully.
He drew nearer, his ugly face contorted into a malevolent smile. Dorian's eyes frantically searched the gallery, but there was nowhere for her to go—nowhere except down. As far as lighthouses went, the Ma light of Baker's Island was not that tall. If she jumped and survived the fall, however, she would doubtlessly injure herself, and then once again she would be at the mercy of this monster before her. Her only hope was to fight him.
"Why don't you make it easy on yourself?" the man said.
With two strides he closed the distance between them.
"Please don't hurt me," she whimpered, cowering against the glass of the light.
"If you're nice to me, I'll be nice to you."
The pursuer sneered lasciviously and leaned forward with his arms outstretched toward the frightened young woman.
Then, with one swift yet graceful movement, Dorian stood and pushed her would-be attacker with all her strength. The man, taken by surprise, momentarily teetered off balance against the rail. The artist leaned forward and pushed again. Thankfully, her youthful agility enabled her to evade his desperate grasp as he felt himself going over the edge of the gallery railing.
Relieved, Dorian slid limply to the floor beside the lantern. But the sound of footsteps on the metal stairs made her catch her breath in renewed fear.
"Oh, God, no," she sobbed. "He's coming back!"
"Are you all right, Miss?" a soft-spoken, concerned voice asked.
Dorian lifted her head and stared at the kindly face peering down at her. A bearded, white-haired man dressed in an unfamiliar uniform extended his hand toward her.
"Did that scoundrel hurt you?"
"No. I'm just frightened, that's all, Mr. ...."
"Chapman. George Chapman. Let's get you back to the mainland, anyway. You really shouldn't be out here by yourself."
The man's hand was old but strong, and it offered her the support she needed to make it back down the spiral stairs.
"Is he ...?"
Dorian was unable to say the word.
"Dead? Yes, he is," the elderly man answered gently. "Now, don't you worry about him. He'd have come to a bad end sooner or later."
As she passed the bleeding, twisted body lying on the ground beneath the lighthouse, Dorian collapsed against the comforting shoulder of the man who had come to her rescue.
* * *
Once Dorian came to, Gorge Chapman helped her into his boat, which was not a cabin cruiser or motorboat as she had expected but an old wooden rowboat. With his assistance, she climbed in, sat on the seat opposite him and wrapped a woolen blanket around her shoulders. As the old man pushed off and headed for the mainland, the artist looked back at the flashing beacons of the Ma and Pa lighthouses of Baker's Island. Soon the comfortable warmth of the blanket and the soothing sound of the oars dipping into the calm water lulled her to sleep. The next thing she knew she was being helped out of the row boat, which had run aground on nearby Winter Island, a small island connected to Salem by a causeway.
"Thank you for all your help, Mr. Chapman," she said dreamily and then realized it was a young man who was pulling her from the boat.
"If you don't mind my asking," the handsome stranger said, "what are you doing out on the water in the dark? There's no light on this boat."
Dorian quickly told him of her narrow escape on Baker's Island, of her attacker's fatal fall and her rescue by Mr. Chapman, the caretaker. The man stared at her as though she had just told him she had been abducted by aliens.
"I think I should take you over to the emergency room," he said. "After all, you might have been injured in your struggle," he added quickly.
"I wasn't hurt, just badly frightened. Mr. Chapman thought it would be best if I spent the night on the mainland, so he rowed me over from Baker's Island in his boat."
"Come on, Miss, the hospital isn't far."
"I told you, I'm perfectly all right," she repeated, impatiently pulling away from him. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got to find a room for the night."
"I can't let you just wander off in your condition."
"What condition?"
"I find you sound asleep in a boat on the water. When you wake up you proceed to tell me some bizarre story."
"I was attacked by a man who saw me in town."
"I don't doubt that. There have been two other attempted rapes in this area during the summer. But as for the rest of your story—perhaps you hit your head, or maybe the shock of the ordeal made you imagine things."
"Fine, don't believe me," Dorian said angrily. "Just ask the caretaker, he'll tell you."
"I can't do that."
"Why not?"
"Because I am the caretaker, Miss Nolan. My name is Gabriel Preston. I left a message on your voicemail the day you arrived on the island. I had to go to Boston today on business, so except for your attacker, you were alone on the island."
"All right, I was wrong. Mr. Chapman isn't the caretaker, but he was on the island, and he did bring me here in his boat after that horrible man fell from the smaller lighthouse."
Preston shook his head, still refusing to believe her tale.
"Miss Nolan, there's only one lighthouse on Baker's island. The smaller one was torn down in July of 1926."
"That's impossible! Not only did I see it with my own eyes, but I was also inside it."
"You're mistaken. You had to have been inside the tall lighthouse. It's the only one on the island."
"Then how do you explain that?" she asked, turning to point to the twin beacons on Baker's island, but there was now only a single light shining through the darkness. "I couldn't have imagined it," she stubbornly insisted.
The caretaker continued, "There's another thing that contradicts your account. You were alone in the boat when I found you."
"But Mr. Chapman was with me. We've got to find him."
"Miss Nolan, the only Chapman I'm familiar with is George Chapman."
"That's him. He told me his name was George."
"George Chapman was the first lighthouse keeper on Baker's Island. He served there from 1798 until 1815. He ...."
Dorian looked up at Gabriel Preston and saw the young man staring over her shoulder, his face pale. She followed his gaze to the pile of rotted driftwood that had only minutes before been a rowboat. The blanket, too, seemed to have aged a century or more since Dorian had thrown it off her shoulders. When she picked it up off the beach, it fell apart in her hands.
"What do you think happened?" she asked.
"As improbable as it sounds, I think George Chapman is still keeping watch over Baker's Island, even though he has been dead for almost two hundred years."
"If you can believe that, is it any more bizarre to suppose that I did see two lighthouses and that I was inside the smaller one today?"
"I suppose if a man can come back from the dead, then ...."
Gabriel stopped in mid-sentence, his attention drawn to Baker's Island where, for a brief moment, he saw not one but two alternating beacons shining out into the night.
The picture in the upper left corner of this page is of the two lighthouses on Baker's Island in Salem, Massachusetts, only one of which is now standing.
Salem and I often look for the lights on Baker's Island, Winter Island and Derby Wharf when we fly on foggy nights.
