Pike's Folly

by Mike Heppner

  Ferdinand sighed as he leaned against Gregg, who reluctantly embraced him. “I would like to have a child one day,” he said. “I could sleep with a woman just once.”

  Gregg could tell Ferdinand still wanted to make love but did nothing to encourage him; instead, he maintained the formal posture and good manners that had protected him all his adult life. He wished he could be as carefree as the boy—no responsibilities, no shame, no secrets, nothing to do all day but lie naked in his lover’s arms. Even when Gregg was nineteen, he wasn’t like that. He’d never lived entirely without shame.

  Ferdinand turned and put his arms around Gregg’s neck. “How could you stay married to one woman for so long? Didn’t you cheat on her?”

  Gregg lowered his head. “No, I didn’t. My daughter means too much to me. I didn’t want to upset her. She doesn’t like people like us.”

  Ferdinand pressed his lips to Gregg’s and when their kiss was over said, “This has been a good one-night stand, yes?”

  Gregg nodded. “I think so,” he said and walked away to finish getting dressed.

  After a rushed farewell, Gregg sent the boy away in a cab and drove to his mother’s place, where she intercepted him at the side door and led him into the oppressive comfort of the living room. The whole house was stifling, and she’d set out a serving tray with cookies and crackers and petits fours, along with a carafe of hot coffee.

  “Did you see the Journal this morning?” she asked, brandishing a newspaper clipping headlined “Reese Calls Independence Project ‘A Shocking Waste.’ ” “I would’ve preferred better coverage, but this damn murder-suicide in Coventry has been stealing the spotlight.”

  Gregg averted his eyes from his mother, who looked hideous under her gleaming silver turban. Keeny’s health had further declined over the winter, and her weakened condition made it difficult for him to argue with her. “Please, Ma,” he said, “let’s just drop it. I did what you wanted, and it’s over. I haven’t spoken to Nate in over a week. Except for Allison’s still being up there, it’s been a clean break.”

  “Good. Let’s keep it that way.”

  He reached for a bottle of sambuca and poured a splash into his coffee. “Look, don’t rub my face in it, all right? I don’t see why you’re so dead set against him, anyway. Nate was a good ally. I’ll be damned if we’re going to get much support for the Allison Fund without some help from Siemens and McMasters.”

  “We don’t need anyone’s charity, Gregg, especially not his. People love you in this state. More important, they respect you. No one respects Nathaniel Pike.”

  “I do,” he objected. “Nate’s made something of himself. What have I done? Nothing.”

  “Oh, bosh.”

  “Name something, then—and don’t say the Friends of Walter Greevy Society, because that was Dad’s idea, and don’t say the Ocean State Arts Collaborative, because that was yours.”

  Keeny drew herself up until the top of her turban pressed against the wall behind her. Her patrician arrogance could be colossal. “There’s no sense in comparing yourself to Pike. He isn’t half the man you are,” she sniffed.

  No, Mom, he thought, you’re wrong. He’s twice, ten times, a hundred. Even Allison knows that.

  “When’s Allie coming back?” asked Keeny, who’d always had a knack for intruding on Gregg’s thoughts.

  He shrugged. “Why?”

  “Tell her to hurry home. She’s not going to want to be up there in a few days.”

  The spiked coffee turned to gall inside his mouth. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I received a call this morning from your favorite person, Celia Shriver. She’s been showing a man from the federal government around town. According to Celia, things are about to get pretty sticky for Nathaniel Pike, and for this Sarah Cranberry person too.”

  Gregg’s face became flushed at the mention of Sarah’s name. “What about Sarah?” he asked.

  Keeny told him what Henry Savage’s men had found in Little Compton: nearly three dozen skeletons, along with various munitions, chains and restraints, all of it dating back before the Revolutionary War. A mass grave, she said, on good old Cranberry soil.

  Gregg refused to listen. “This is an old country, Mom. I’m sure the Reeses have their fair share of secrets, too.”

  She considered this in passing, then dismissed it. “I found it quite interesting, actually. It explains a lot of pretty strange behavior.”

  “No, it doesn’t. It explains nothing. I don’t care what the Cranberrys did in the past, any more than I care about what my own family did. It’s totally irrelevant to the fact that Sarah Cranberry is a decent person and was incredibly nice to me in New Hampshire and treated me like a human being and didn’t fawn over me or hit me up for money or ask me to do anything other than sit back and enjoy the holidays.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that. How well do you know her?”

  “She and Nate are friends, that’s all. They might even be dating. What does it matter?”

  “It matters because this man from the federal government wants Nathaniel Pike out of the White Mountains just as much as the Reese Foundation does.”

  Gregg looked dubious. “And how does he propose to do that?”

  Henry’s plan was simple: convince Pike to relinquish his holdings in New Hampshire by threatening to make public the information about the remains he’d found in Little Compton— remains buried on land the Cranberrys had owned for generations.

  Gregg interrupted. “I’m sorry, Mom. You and Celia can do what you want, but leave me out of it.”

  She glared at him. “You have got some nerve, Gregg, to turn against your family at a time like this.”

  “I’m not turning against my family.”

  “Like hell you’re not! Regardless of your personal limitations, you still have a responsibility to the Reese Foundation, above everything else.”

  For once, Keeny’s usual taunt didn’t work. “Mom, as far as that goes, I’ve already blown it, haven’t I? I mean, I’ve been a pretty lousy benchwarmer—certainly compared to you and Dad.”

  “I didn’t say that. On the contrary, you’ve been a wonderful leader, maybe the best ever. You are the Reese Foundation, Gregg.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re the soul and spirit and conscience of the city of Providence and the state of Rhode Island, and no one can ever take that away from you.”

  Please, Ma, he thought, let’s stop kidding ourselves. We both know what I really am. I’m a dirty little fag. Don’t sit there and pretend like you’ve dealt with it and everything’s fine now. Get real, okay? I embarrass you. I’m not the soul and conscience of anything. All I am is a huge disappointment, to you, to Allison, to the whole family. The worst Reese ever.

  “Do you remember when your father died,” Keeny asked, “and I almost bought that house on the Cape? I would’ve bought it if you hadn’t talked me out of it.”

  “I didn’t talk you out of it. You talked yourself out of it.”

  “Ultimately, yes. But you were the one who made me realize what I was doing. I was running away. That’s what living in Rhode Island means to this family, Gregg. It’s a promise, a commitment. We’re special here. We’re not special anywhere else.”

  It was time for her lunch, so they went into the kitchen, where she heated up a can of condensed tomato soup. Gregg’s temper had cooled somewhat, and he apologized. “I’m sorry I got so upset, Mom. I just hope that nothing bad happens to Sarah.”

  She answered distractedly, “Mmm? Oh, the Cranberry woman. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call her by her first name.”

  His anger returned. “Why not? She’s got one, just like everyone else.” He stepped between her and the stove. “I’ll have you know something. That woman is one of the nicest, least stuck-up people I’ve ever met.”

  “I need to stir my soup.”

  “I don’t care. I want to talk about Sarah.”

  “Move, please.”


  He reluctantly stepped aside, marveling at her utter lack of concern for what might happen to Sarah. “I think that it’s terrible to use an innocent person to settle a score with Nathaniel Pike.”

  “There are worse things in the world, Gregg.”

  “Such as?”

  “Use your imagination. Or better yet, ask Renee.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re being ridiculous,” he said.

  She turned her soup down to simmer, then sat with him at the kitchen table. “I can be as ridiculous as the next person. You just haven’t seen that side of me. Allison has, which reminds me—I’ve been meaning to ask about her money situation. If you were smart, you’d find a place for her at the Reese Foundation. I think that she’d be a real natural at public relations.”

  Gregg slapped the table. “I’d rather have Allison work for McDonald’s than the Reese Foundation. I’d rather have her do nothing, just stay in the mountains with her boyfriend for the rest of her life. At least then I could talk to her about something other than this stage play we’ve built up around ourselves.”

  Keeny sat very low in her seat. “Don’t yell at me, Gregg.”

  He made an effort to control his voice but couldn’t. “I’m not yelling, I’m just saying maybe it’s time we put the Reese Foundation to bed. I’ll call Celia this afternoon.” He laughed. “She’ll probably have a stroke, but that’s her problem.”

  “Celia is a friend of mine,” Keeny said icily.

  “No, she’s not. We don’t have any friends, Mom. Celia Shriver, Walter Greevy . . . none of ’em. They’re all business associates. They may look like friends, but they’re not. Martha Friedkin—”

  “You’re not being fair to any of those people, Gregg. You’re certainly not being fair to me. Running the Reese Foundation is hard work. I’ve carried this family for thirty-eight years, when your father wouldn’t do it, when you wouldn’t do it.”

  “What would be the harm in letting go, huh? Instead of living in the past and constantly invoking the names of our forefathers—like anyone gives a damn about those people.”

  Keeny bustled out of her seat and went to turn off the stove. He could tell that he’d hurt her feelings, and in the quiet that followed she ladled the soup into a bowl and brought it to the table. The soup was so thin that he could see the bowl’s rose pattern clearly through the steaming red liquid. She had one spoonful, then said, “When I’m dead, this is the conversation you’ll remember—”

  “Ma—”

  “This is the conversation you’ll remember, and I hope that you’ll think very hard about what you said to me, because quite frankly, I’m extremely disgusted with you right now.”

  She picked her spoon back up and continued eating. What Gregg now perceived, in a flash that momentarily blinded him, was the thought of his mother’s absence in the years ahead. The time would come when he would want her forgiveness, and she wouldn’t be there to give it to him. Why not ask for it now? Mom, I’m sorry. You did your best with me. Let’s just leave it in the past, okay? That’s where it belongs. Buried.

  3

  Marlene and Stuart returned from Martha’s Vineyard feeling even more distant from each other than they had the week before. As soon as they got home, he marched upstairs, found their VHS copy of Heath’s video and smashed it to pieces. Marlene didn’t try to stop him; he was stronger than she was, physically, mentally, emotionally, in every way.

  They didn’t sleep together that night. After Stuart had gone to bed, Marlene took a bottle of Clos du Bois to the back porch and spent the next few hours drinking and feeling sorry for herself. With fatigue came a dismal sort of clarity. What she wanted wasn’t so particularly extravagant, after all—just to add one or two little sentences to the paragraph that ultimately described her life. She wondered what would’ve happened if she’d stayed in the theater, if she’d gone to the conservatory as her mother had suggested. Probably nothing. She wasn’t pretty enough to make it as an actress. Even those women who specialized in “ugly” roles were, when you saw them interviewed on TV, beautiful. Marlene’s kind of ordinary wasn’t permitted anywhere but here in the ordinary world.

  The next morning, she waited until Stuart left on his daily hour long walk, then took his car keys and drove out of Providence. With no particular destination in mind, she felt a strange pull leading her north into the mountains. Heath would be there and Nathaniel Pike, too. Maybe they would accept her, if no one else would.

  She wasn’t good at reading maps, so she pulled off the freeway and went into a Dunkin’ Donuts to ask for directions. The middle-aged woman behind the counter answered her pleasantly at first, then lost patience when Marlene kept repeating the same questions, causing the line of customers to back up.

  “It’s another twenty miles to New Hampshire,” the woman said for the third time. “Just keep on Ninety-three past Methuen. It’s impossible to miss.”

  “Ninety-three past Methuen.” Marlene tried committing the words to memory, but there was so much clutter inside her brain that nothing seemed to stick. “Ninety-three, Ninety-three, Ninety-three. I keep getting Ninety-three mixed up with Ninety-five.” She smiled apologetically. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  The woman remained silent behind her cash register, so Marlene looked up at the menu board and frowned at the selections. “I guess I’d better order something, now that I’ve wasted your time.”

  On the counter were various donuts and muffins, none of which looked especially appealing. In the end, she chose a blueberry muffin and gratefully put an extra buck in the woman’s tip cup. Back in the car, she set the bag with the muffin in it on the floor of the passenger seat and promptly forgot about it.

  True to the cashier’s word, Ninety-three led into New Hampshire, where it turned into a toll road just north of the state line. Three lanes fed into the toll booths, and she picked the one with the longest line. When it was her turn, she drove up, put her car in park and reached into the backseat for her purse. “How much is it?” she asked.

  The toll taker barely glanced at her. “Seventy-five cents, ma’am.”

  His tone was the same as the cashier’s back at the Dunkin’ Donuts—bored and contemptuous. She could sense his impatience as she rifled through her wallet for a small bill. “Is it the same amount driving the other way?” she asked, handing him a dollar.

  He said that it was. She’d hoped to pry a few more words of conversation out of him, but he just gave her her change and waved her through.

  By the time she’d arrived in the mountains, she was a basket case. Three hours of freeway driving had given her heart palpitations and a tension headache. The other motorists didn’t approve of her, apparently; they crowded her in the slow lane, then made a big, arrogant show of speeding ahead to cut her off. Whatever standards existed for the road, she didn’t measure up.

  At least the number of cars had dropped off, which allowed her to slow to a crawl in the breakdown lane as she looked for a trail marker. Finally she stopped at a roadside diner to ask for help.

  Inside, an elderly male patron said, “If you’re looking for that guy Pike, he’s about a mile south of the Kancamagus Pass. You can’t get to it by a trail. You’ve gotta wish for it.”

  A waitress, who was pouring his coffee, laughed. “He’s pulling your leg, dear. Nathaniel Pike’s the big joke around here.” She set her coffee carafe down on a hot plate, then took Marlene’s map and spread it across the breakfast counter. “You’re going to park here, at White Ledge, then follow the blue blazes for about two and a quarter miles until you come to a riverbed with a footbridge running across it. Go over the bridge, walk another ten, twenty paces, then head due east off the trail for another eighth of a mile. Don’t worry if you get lost. Just give a shout, and someone’ll come looking for you.”

  Marlene took the map back and folded it up. “Have you seen it? I mean—”

  “No, but my son’s been up there six times already. He just started working for
Pike last week.” She smiled aggressively. “Pays pretty good, too. Pays better than this dump.”

  Marlene thanked both the waitress and her customer and hurried back to her car. The afternoon was waning, and it soon would be too late to start up the trail. But she knew she had to do this today, while she still had it in her.

  After another ten minutes of driving, she spotted the trailhead and turned into a dirt lot just off the road, parking under the trees near a pickup with a camper on back. At the rear of the lot was a picnic table, a cast-iron cooking grill and a rusted-out garbage drum filled to the brim with beer cans and paper plates. Other than these few signs of life, the place looked abandoned.

  When she got out, she reflected on what had brought her here, not merely to New Hampshire but to this point in her life: the thrill of being seen naked by another person, that terrible, awesome, impossible-to-hold-on-to moment in time. Locked inside that moment was a reality she wished to commit herself to. She wanted to leave all the other realities behind and accept the fate that was predestined by her body.

  Do it/don’t make me.

  Like a woman undressing at home, she took off her shoes and socks, rolled the socks into a ball and stuffed them into the heel of one of her shoes, which she left in the car.

  Do it/don’t make me.

  Everything else followed—her bra, her jeans, her faded yellow panties. As a final casting-off, she threw the bundle of clothes into the backseat, left the keys in the ignition, locked the door and slammed it shut. She felt as though a quantity in the world she hadn’t noticed before—a sound, perhaps—had suddenly increased, and she could hear it all around her. Leaving her car, she tiptoed across the lot and started up the trail.

  Within a quarter-hour, her feet were cut and dirty, so she stopped to rest on a flat, shelflike outcropping of rock. The forest was still except for the shiver of the wind filling the Kancamagus. With her knees tucked, she picked the black mud from her feet. To her amazement, she found that the keen, hyper-real sense of being naked hadn’t worn off yet.