by Mike Heppner
Gregg sensed his mother’s disapproval. “He invited us to New Hampshire next month,” he said.
“You’re not going, are you?” Keeny snapped.
“Yes, I am going, Mother. Just for a few days. A little rest. I think I deserve it. This is a hard job.”
“Oh, I know how hard it is. Believe me, I managed the Reese Foundation for thirty-eight years, even when your father was still alive. All that time, we always stuck to what we believed in. Not once did we compromise or lower ourselves by associating with gangsters.”
Gregg bristled. “Pike’s not a gangster. He’s just a guy who made a lot of cash when he was younger, and now he doesn’t know what to do with it all.”
“So he spends it on foolish indulgences—like a mountain, of all things—instead of following the Reese example, which we’ve upheld for more than three hundred years.”
“Maybe he doesn’t want to follow the Reese example.”
The blinders were up; she refused to be persuaded. “You be careful of that man, Gregg. You don’t know what he’s up to. It might be dangerous. It might be illegal.”
“Or it might be totally harmless. Give me a break.” Gregg hadn’t expected such a complete lack of sympathy from his own mother. He’d always believed that the Reeses were different from other families. Their loyalty to one another was old-fashioned, even romantic. They were the gangsters, not Nathaniel Pike.
Later that day, after Gregg and Allison had returned home, he sat alone in his study to recover some of the serenity that his mother had disrupted. Whenever he’d tried to assert himself, not just as a Reese but as his own person, Keeny would refute him with the usual guilt trip about his ancestors, who’d never once made a bad decision or failed to serve the public good. Were all families like this? he wondered. Gregg actually knew very little about his family history. The past half-dozen generations were fairly well documented: surgeons and CEOs, even a state senator. But before the late eighteenth century, those accounts became more vague, until all that was left was a name scrawled in a yellowed store ledger, like those of so many other old New England dynasties—names that revealed nothing but suggested a great deal. Wealth’s evil source.
7
The recorded history of the Reese family dates back to 1636, the year after Roger Williams left Massachusetts Bay to settle on the eastern banks of the Moshassuk River. Williams was exiled in late 1635, having been found guilty of espousing controversial views from his pulpit in Salem. He escaped before his sentence could be carried out and took shelter in present-day Bristol, Rhode Island, where he begged the help of the chief of the Wampanoag tribe, Ousamequin, whose winter headquarters were on Mount Hope.
Long a friend of the Wampanoags, Williams was the first white man to publish a linguistic study of Native American languages, Key into the Language of America. The Native Americans liked and respected him, and this mutual respect was the basis of their friendship. In the spring of 1636, Chief Ousamequin granted him a section of land ten miles north of Mount Hope, but the deed was challenged by the governor of Plymouth Colony, Edward Winslow, who claimed the land already belonged to him. Ousamequin provided Williams with a new deed, which stood up under scrutiny, and Providence was founded in May or June of 1636.
Two of the original settlers were Hugh Perry Reese and his wife, Ginny. They moved from Salem to Providence in 1636 and built a house next door to Williams. Ginny was a frequent presence at the church services Williams conducted from his private residence. Devout to the point of obsession, she spent her days and evenings attending his prayer sessions, until Hugh grew tired of her absences and asked her to stay at home. When she refused, he beat her. The couple’s dispute was brought before a town council meeting, where the majority decided that Hugh Reese had violated his wife’s rights. As a punishment, his voting privileges were rescinded until he offered a formal apology. He never did, and the Reeses left Providence the following month.
They were not heard from again until the next year, when their names appeared in a census document for Aquidneck Island, along with nineteen other families. The leader of the new settlement was Anne Hutchinson, an antinomian who’d run afoul of local authorities for preaching an unpopular form of Calvinism. Her quasi-mystical views were supported by a local magistrate in Boston named William Coddington, who followed her to Aquidneck in early 1638.
On balance, the settlers on Aquidneck were more worldly than their counterparts to the north. Though no less devout than Williams, Hutchinson and Coddington acknowledged the need for aggressive trade and commerce. As it was practiced, antinomianism (the name was pejorative, meaning “against law”) stressed individuality over communal living and material success over piety. Unlike Williams’s followers, who were each granted the same amount of land, the antinomians were awarded property on the basis of class and wealth. Such philosophies would have appealed to an ambitious merchant like Hugh Reese.
Relations between Reese and his wife seem to have improved after they moved to Aquidneck. The diary of one William Dyer records that on 3 March 1647, he “Saw Mr. & Mrs. Reece on Thames St., walking past the merchants house, holding hands in publick, and kissing on the mouth!”
II
The Independence Project
1
“Why are people always so quick to assume the worst of their government?” Henry Savage demanded. “We make mistakes, sure, but we’re not fundamentally bad people. That’s Hollywood.”
It was early in December, and the view outside his office was a study in two shades of gray—the overcast sky, and the sleet-covered buildings across the street from the Federal Reserve. He was on the phone with Cathy Diego of the Public Interest Research Group in Concord, New Hampshire. A Clinton-era Democrat, Cathy had begun her career in Washington but was too raw and unabashedly partisan to make it inside the Beltway, where nothing ever happened without compromise. As much as Henry disliked dealing with her, he sometimes wished he had her job, which was closer to the roots-level activism he’d envisioned when signing on with the Feds.
“Have you seen it yet?” he asked, meaning the seven and a half acres of New Hampshire woodlands he’d sold to Nathaniel Pike in June. Circumstances had changed since their last face-to-face meeting, and Pike’s subsequent behavior hadn’t done much to inspire the confidence of Henry’s department.
“No, he’s got it all roped off, like he owns the place,” Cathy said.
“He does own it.”
“Thanks to you.” Cathy’s voice sounded scratchy on the phone, and he could hear her chewing gum, a sound he particularly detested. “You know, I can name a half dozen nonprofit agencies here in New Hampshire who would’ve loved to buy that land if you’d given them a chance. You could’ve donated the whole acreage to the local protection society instead of selling it to Pike. Alice Shepperton would’ve been glad to help you out.”
Henry switched her over to speakerphone. He knew that his secretary, Rochelle, would be listening in from the outer office, and he wanted her to appreciate what he was up against. “You might not believe this,” he said, “but I had no idea what Pike’s intentions were when I sold that land to him. I hardly even knew him!”
“Everyone in Rhode Island knows all about Nathaniel Pike.”
“I’m not from Rhode Island.”
“That’s no excuse. You can still pick up the phone and get all of the information you need from Irene Jacobs at the RIPIRG. That’s how we keep tabs on these lunatics.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call Pike a lunatic.” Henry’d had to defend himself to his colleagues so many times over the past few weeks that he almost felt as if he and Pike were in this together.
“Oh, no? Answer me this: why would someone buy a house, tear it down, then start rebuilding it two weeks later? I’ll tell you why—because he’s a lunatic.”
“Maybe. At any rate, I’d really appreciate it if you’d just back off and let me handle this. You and Alice have a lot of sway with the college kids up there. I don’t want
every young person in this country thinking their government’s a drag.”
“You can’t blame kids for siding against you. You’re a bureaucrat.”
“We’re all bureaucrats! What’s wrong with that? This bureaucracy—where I’m sitting right now—is responsible for more good in the world than Nathaniel Pike. It’s thanks to us that we’ve managed to keep so many of our national forests in service. That’s the Big Brother bureaucracy in action. Every man and woman in this building is deeply committed to his or her job. Yes, they’re bureaucrats, and God bless them for it. These are people who love our parks, and our waterways, our national landmarks . . . including you, Cathy. I know I’ve been nasty to you in the past, but I’ve always respected you for doing your job.”
“Don’t even. I’ve got a migraine, my daughter has a dance recital in three weeks, and my husband forgot to pay the frickin’ cable bill this month.”
“Fine.” Henry sighed. “You’re probably right. Maybe I should do a little more research into what Pike’s been up to lately.”
“That’s easy. One quick call to the IRS should tell you everything you need to know.”
“Nah. If I’m gonna get through to him, I’ve got to do it honestly. This whole thing is about principles. Nathaniel Pike might not have any principles, but I do.”
“Sounds like a pipe dream, but go ahead. Celia Shriver might be able to help you out. She works for the Reese Foundation. The only person who hates Pike more than Celia is Reese’s mother, Keeny.”
“Good. The Reese Foundation’s in my Rolodex. I’ll give ’em a call. And thanks for the tip.”
“Don’t even.”
“Don’t even what?”
“Just don’t even.”
2
They rode in two cars—Pike, Stuart and Gregg in Pike’s hunter green SUV, Allison and Heath in her hatchback, which she’d picked up cheap right after college. Allison made a point of driving a modest vehicle, even though her father had offered to buy her something more expensive as a graduation gift. Instead she got a trip to Vail, which turned out to be a bummer; skiing season was long over and the Feds were out in swarms, busting crystal meth dealers or anyone who looked like a Deadhead. Allison spent the entire week by the pool, writing in her dream journal. There was a cute guy, she remembered; they made out one night but didn’t have sex. Other than that, nothing doing.
“This would be a really cool state to live in,” Allison said to Heath as they drove north into New Hampshire. They’d both packed light for the trip; Heath had taken along the digital video camera that Pike had given him for the purpose of following him around the mountains. “Maybe I’ll move up here. I don’t know what I’d do, though. Just hang out, I guess.”
“I’ll come with you,” he said, then wished he hadn’t. If they moved anywhere, it would be to Cranston, or North Providence, maybe Pawtucket. Equal rent, equal division of utilities. No help from Mr. Reese, either, unless Gregg wanted to pay her share.
Out of the blue, she said, “I think I’d like to join a writers’ colony someday. What’s a good one?”
Heath shrugged. “I dunno. Ask Stuart.”
“Yeah, right,” she laughed. Both of them were reading Stuart’s novel, My Private Apocalypse, though she was about fifty pages further into it than he was. Heath’s progress was slowed by his habit of flipping back to the author photo after nearly every paragraph, trying to find a connection between Stuart’s face and his rather chilly prose style.
Allison checked both side-view mirrors before pulling into the passing lane. She’d been tailgating the same station wagon for miles, and when they went by, the driver glared accusingly at Heath. “I can’t ask Stuart,” she said. “Stuart Breen is a real writer. Real writers don’t go to writers’ colonies.”
“Real writers go to colonies all the time.”
“Yeah, but not like Stuart.” She veered in front of the station wagon and slowed to her original speed. “Maybe he teaches at one, but I’m sure he doesn’t take classes.”
Another mile up the road, they stopped at a rest area just outside of Nashua, where they saw Gregg and the others coming out of the refreshment kiosk. A dusting of snow swirled gently around them, settling on windshields before swooping across the turnpike, where an identical rest area catered to the stream of traffic heading south.
Joining the others, Alison said, “Hey, Stuart, did Heath tell you? He wants to make a movie out of your book.”
Heath, who’d said no such thing, shrugged. “I still have to finish reading it.”
“Don’t bother,” Stuart muttered. His thin dark hair wavered in the breeze that made the prominent tips of his ears turn red. Watching him, Allison remembered nothing of his book, only the fact that he’d written one. His presence in the Pike camp continued to amaze her. How could a man with the sensitivity to write a novel waste his time with a sleazeball like Nathaniel Pike? It called into question the motivations of every creative person she’d ever met.
“Hurry and wash up, people,” Pike said. “I don’t want to keep Sarah waiting.”
“I thought this was some old friend of yours,” Allison said.
Pike looked annoyed. “That’s right. I don’t want to keep an old friend waiting.”
They used the bathrooms, then returned to their cars and forged ahead. The main road was a smoothly paved highway that skirted east around Lake Winnipesaukee, then plowed through a straight, deep crevice, rising occasionally to break along a curve or a steep drop-off filled with snowy pines. Stuart sat in the back of Pike’s SUV, directly behind Gregg, whose stiff, grayish-blondish hair he could see over the leather headrest. Riding in cars always made him nauseous, particularly at the speeds at which Pike liked to drive.
“I’m serious about your wife, Stuart,” Pike called over his shoulder. “I’ll fly her up for a few days. She deserves some time off. I can’t imagine working in a bank, all that mindless paperwork, having to . . . fucking MOVE!” He honked his horn, and a squat Festiva pulled over so the SUV could pass. “Anyway, just let me know.”
Stuart kept quiet—Pike wouldn’t have listened to him anyway—and instead focused on the shops of North Conway blurring by, one parking lot after another, three or four outlets grouped together in strip malls identical to those in Seekonk or West Warwick. Pike’s idea to pave over part of a foothill near Mount Independence, fifteen miles south of here, was, if anything, counterrevolutionary. The land was already spoiled, with parking lots as commonplace as anything else in the region, natural or man made. It occurred to Stuart how quaint his employer’s conceits were—how ordinary and dull and ultimately old-fashioned. Yet he had to admit there was something fun about it. “Fun” was a word he had trouble relating to, even in his own writing. It scared him. To have fun was to acknowledge that nothing one might accomplish would ever amount to anything important. It was the spiritual equivalent of committing suicide.
Lighten the fuck up, he told himself and pulled a Certs out of his coat pocket.
Leaving town, they passed a brown, wedge-shaped sign announcing the entrance to the White Mountains National Forest. Restricted, the sign said. Pike smiled. “What the hell’s that mean?” he asked.
“I think it’s to make sure that people don’t start forest fires,” Gregg suggested.
True enough, another sign farther along informed them: Fire Risk Low. “Oh, that’s a good idea,” Pike said sarcastically. He watched the sign in his rearview mirror, then shifted his eyes to Stuart. “We really need a sign to tell us that.”
Continuing on, they followed a gravel road that broke off from the highway. The sun was clouded over, and the shadows of bare branches crept across the hood of the SUV. Nathaniel drove past a clearing, where a steel lift cable rose out of view above them.
“Looks like we’ve got the place to ourselves,” said Gregg. Up ahead, the Echo Lake Ski Lodge belched smoke from a stone chimney jutting from the center of its steeply pitched roof. For thirteen years, Pike’s friend Sarah Cranberry h
ad owned and operated the lodge, where she also lived during the off-season. A truck was parked on the lawn out front, and a small thicket of pines separated the main building from a row of cabins. A dark forest surrounded the premises.
Peering into the forest, Gregg felt the strain of his life at home—where everything seemed so cloistered, so oppressive— easing away from him. Providence was small enough that, standing outside the train station, one could pivot and take in a three-hundred-sixty-degree panorama of the entire downtown: the glass prow of the Providence Place shopping center, the old colonial homes perched on College Hill, the red lights atop the Biltmore Hotel, the Foundry, the Westin, then back to Providence Place. But when Gregg stood in the same spot, he felt— perhaps unique to anyone in Rhode Island—confronted by the various buildings and landmarks. The Gregg Reese Unitarian Chapel. The Gregg Reese Community Theater. Not to mention the Keeny Esther Reese Shelter for Abused Women and Children, or the Salmon Samuel Reese Center for World Hunger Relief. Everywhere he looked, he saw the name Reese on libraries and hospitals and public parks. In Providence, his forebears were preserved not in the typical New England–gothic fashion, as ghosts, but as institutions.
The men unloaded their bags and carried them into the lodge, where a fireplace glowed in the middle of the large room. Board games for kids to play with were stacked by the hearth; above them, a topographic map showed the many trails leading up and down the mountains. Another wall at the back of the room consisted entirely of sliding glass doors that looked out onto the meadow behind the lodge. The building was quiet, except for the remote sound of someone doing the dishes in another room.
The water shut off, and a woman called out, “Nate, is that you?”
Nathaniel proceeded a few steps ahead of Gregg and Stuart. “Hey, girl!” he shouted back.
