by Mike Heppner
They listened again for the sound to carry across the valley. There it was: people talking, laughing, shouting happily, a radio playing loud, jangly, sixties pop/rock. It sounded like a party.
Celia obstinately stuck out her chin. “What’s wrong with silence, Mr. Savage? They’re ruining a perfectly good summer afternoon. Are we so neurotic that we can’t enjoy a moment’s peace?”
How ’bout one right now, he thought as he squinted through his binoculars. “I’m not seeing a parking lot—more like a warehouse, or an airplane hangar. I’m not sure.”
He handed the binoculars to Celia, who had a look for herself. She scowled. “That prick. That little prick. Come on! Let’s go get ’em.”
Nathaniel Pike was sitting alone in his manager’s office, staring out a window at the Kmart’s giant, single-room sales floor. The smile lines that normally creased his face were gone, and his eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Now that the store was up and running, he felt like the Independence Project had finally exhausted itself. It just wasn’t interesting anymore. He missed his brownstone, and his favorite restaurants and having dinner with his high-rolling friends on Federal Hill. He wanted to go back to being good ol’ Nathaniel Pike, local eccentric.
Not that he wasn’t proud of what he’d accomplished here, because he was. His goal had been to create an utterly vacuous monument, an ode to nothing, and he’d done it. Even the Village Voice had little positive to say when they’d reviewed his “installation” piece (as they’d laughably called it) back in May. Most of the popular press had written him off as an incorrigible loony, right up there with Jim Jones and Charlie Manson. Entertainment Weekly had downgraded his report card to a C—, while the New York Times could only marvel at what had happened to the same artist whose Independence Project, Phase One, “had demonstrated all of the elements of simplicity and restraint that this new, super-sized version lacks.” Given his stated objective, the Independence Project was a success. It was time to move on.
But to what? The building would fall apart without him. Weeds would push through the floor, and mold would gather on the merchandise. Left in ruins, the store would inevitably take on a metaphoric dimension, as his parking lot once had. The only way to preserve its basic meaninglessness was to keep it running. It had to remain as it was—just a Kmart, just a Kmart, just a Kmart.
This is crazy, he thought. Look at yourself! You’ve been living in a dream for the past ten years. You’re sitting in a fucking Kmart in the middle of the fucking White Mountains and you’ve spent a fucking fortune on fucking nothing, and all those people out there—he got up from his desk and looked down at the sales floor—all think you’re a total wacko. And they’re right! They’re absolutely right. Someone should put you in straitjacket, man. You’re a fucking freak.
When Heath knocked on the door and let himself into the office, Pike brightened. His birthday surprise had been a hit, and it was good to know he could still make someone happy.
“Do you have a minute?” Heath asked.
“Of course.”
Pike waved at him to close the door. Heath did, and both men took a seat.
“I’ve been thinking about our video,” Heath began. He’d practiced this speech before, about fifteen minutes ago, but found it harder to say with Pike looking right at him. “I know that you were kind of hoping that I’d have it finished by now, and I’m sorry about that. Every time I get into the editing lab, the computer keeps crashing.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Pike said. “What’s important is that you’re learning something and having a good time.”
“Is it?” Heath asked, now skeptical, since Pike wasn’t always this accommodating.
“Come on, Heath, you know me better than that. It’s your show. Personally, I don’t care what you do with it. I won’t interfere.” As if one subject necessarily implied the other, Pike asked, “What do you really think about this place?”
Heath didn’t know what to say. “Gee, Mr. Pike, I love it up here. I feel like we’re doing something different, something worthwhile.”
Pike took this in. “Go on,” he urged him.
“That’s it, I guess. I’ve always been interested in things that most people think are just weird.”
“Do you think I’m weird?”
“No, I mean . . . maybe weird’s not the right word. Whatever. I get the same vibe from Brian. He says that you’re a really good drummer, by the way. Just like his brother.”
This answer still didn’t satisfy Pike. “You don’t think I’m, you know, crazy, like a mental case?”
“Oh, no! Not at all.”
“You’re not afraid of me, are you?”
Heath shook his head, and Pike let it go. Turning to the window that looked over the store, he asked, “Do you think those people think I’m crazy?”
Heath glanced behind him, out the window, then back at Pike. He lied. “No, they all think you’re really cool.”
The phone rang, and Heath retreated to give him some privacy. As he waited, he studied the backs of his hands, his palms, the bluish tangle of veins in his wrists. Brian’s hands were larger than Heath’s, stronger, more distinctive. His fingernails were sharp and almond shaped—more like Count Dracula’s than Frankenstein’s. By contrast, Heath’s fingernails were chewed to nubs, and he’d written someone’s e-mail address on his left palm.
Pike slammed down the phone and snarled, “That was your girlfriend. Thank God she had her cell phone on her. She just saw that Diego bitch coming up from White Ledge. Looks like Henry Savage is with her, and about twenty others.”
“I thought those guys didn’t like each other,” Heath said.
Pike shouted, “Damn it, Heath, don’t ask me questions when I don’t know the answers!” Shaking, he pulled his manager’s jacket off the back of his chair and thrust his arms through the sleeves. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
Heath followed him out of the office and across the sales floor to the front door. Several workers had also heard the news and were convening near the cash registers. One of them was naked, another down to her bra and panties. Thanks to Marlene, the Independence Project was turning into a nudist camp.
Once outside, they spotted Allison hurrying toward them.
“Where’s Marlene?” Heath asked.
“She’s hiding,” Allison said coldly. “Stuart’s here, too. She doesn’t want him to see her.”
“Wonderful,” Pike grumbled. “After all that I’ve done for that guy, now he’s working for that douche-bag Diego.” The more he thought about it, the more it pissed him off. “Terrible book, too,” he added. “Never got past page twenty.”
They could see no signs of either Henry’s party or Celia’s, which were either still some distance off or else waiting for a better moment to reveal themselves. Meanwhile, more and more employees had come out of the store, filling an entire section of the lot.
“I need to get back to Marlene,” Allison said, and before Heath could stop her, she ran back into the woods and scampered down a muddy incline. Her footing was poor, but she let her forward momentum carry her to the bottom of the hill, where she caught her breath.
Nothing of the surrounding vegetation looked familiar. She and Marlene had spent the morning exploring this area together, seeing how far they could go without getting lost. Marlene had been naked the entire time; it had bothered Allison at first, but she soon found herself admiring her for it.
Deeper into the woods, she spotted a fallen tree she recognized. “Marlene?” she called out softly.
Leaves rustled up ahead, and a pale arm waved to her from twenty feet away. Allison came a few steps closer, then stopped.
Marlene was standing ankle deep in mud and wet leaves. She looked frightened. “Where’s Stuart?” she asked. She’d been crying, and her eye shadow was running down her cheeks.
“You’re shivering,” Allison said. “Here, you can wear my jeans. I don’t mind going in my underwear.”
She started to
take off her pants, but Marlene shook her head and put her hand on Allison’s waist.
“Come on, Marlene. Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Marlene burrowed her wet nose into Allison’s shoulder. “I’m scared. I don’t want to go alone.”
“You won’t have to. We’ll go together.”
Neither spoke for some time; all they did was hold each other. Marlene went limp, giving all of her dead weight for Allison to support.
“Stuart hates me,” she blubbered. “He thinks I’m crazy. I’m no good for him. He’s good, and I’m not. He’s smart, and I’m not. I’m nothing.”
“No one thinks you’re crazy, especially not Stuart.”
Marlene wiped her nose. “What about you?”
“I don’t think you’re crazy, either.”
“Yeah, you do. I’m a crazy old witch. Don’t lie to me.”
Allison blushed. Honesty didn’t come naturally to her, a fault she’d picked up from her father. Spontaneity and candor weren’t Reese traits, but self-criticism was. “We’re all crazy up here,” she said. “You’re no more crazy than Pike or me or anyone else.”
Marlene was amazed. “You think you’re crazy?”
“Yeah, I can be,” Allison said, another lie. What wasn’t a lie? she wondered. Allison felt like her head had been spun around so many times that she no longer knew. Life was too ambiguous. Instead of “crazy,” she could’ve just as easily described herself as “serious,” “obnoxious,” “daring” or “conservative.” You could take your pick. Even her basic moral sense varied from day to day. There was nothing that she stood for that she couldn’t be talked out of by a five-hundred-word article in a magazine or a blurb on the Internet. She was exactly the kind of shallow, pseudo-enlightened kid of wealthy parents she’d always abhorred. Maybe “crazy” was the right word after all.
“How are you crazy?” Marlene asked.
“Oh, you know, being in my family can drive you kind of nuts.” Allison nearly made a joke at her parents’ expense but didn’t. “Actually, I’m not crazy at all, and neither are you. I think you’re wonderful.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes you are. I think you’re a strong, independent woman.”
Marlene stared down at her feet, which were submerged in muck. “You’re nice,” she said. With sheer effort, she kept her hands at her sides, leaving her body uncovered. “Please, Allison, I want you to look at me. I know that I’m ugly. I just want you to look . . . and not say anything.”
Allison glanced down at Marlene and made a quick survey of her body. Marlene could feel her skin tingle, a wave of sensation that started in the middle of her chest and spread outward to her armpits and the backs of her knees. She thought: Someone is looking at me. Someone is looking at my naked body. She hadn’t felt like this since the first time she’d undressed in front of Stuart—when he, too, was just a stranger to her.
Back at the store, all parties had spilled onto the parking lot: Pike, Heath, the cashiers and stockboys (clothed and otherwise), Henry and Celia, Cathy and Alice, Stuart, the two armed rangers, the AMC recruits, and the PIRG activists from Maine. Everyone was yelling, though Pike’s voice boomed above the rest.
“This is private property,” he screamed in Henry’s face. “All of you are trespassing. Go back to Washington.”
Cathy Diego fought her way to the head of the group and pushed Henry aside. “I’m warning you, Pike. I’ve been up since three-frickin’-thirty in the morning, I’m PMSing, and I’m maxed out on overtime this week. So don’t even.”
“Let’s all take turns,” Alice said.
Her suggestion went largely ignored as a new shouting match flared up between the stockboys and the AMC recruits. Stuart stood apart from the others, refusing to participate.
“Oh, boy, I’ve been waiting for this day,” Celia told Pike. “You could’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble if you’d just been honest with people.”
“Can it, bitch,” he said, and looked condescendingly at Henry. “What the hell is she talking about?”
Henry piped up over Cathy’s shoulder. “Sarah Cranberry. Your friend from North Conway.”
“Sarah’s not a friend,” Pike countered.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. She seemed a friend to me. Regardless, I’m offering you a deal. Pick up your stuff and go back to Providence. We’ll nullify your purchase of this land and forget that it ever happened.”
“Take the man’s advice, Nathaniel,” Alice said. “You’re a good person, just a little eccentric.”
Henry nodded in agreement, but Pike showed only more contempt. “I’m not eccentric, Henry—you’re boring. I’m not crazy— you’re afraid. You’re afraid of yourself. Not me, I know who I am. You can be as meek and cowardly, as humorless and puritanical and self-righteous as you fucking well want. Have a goddamn ball.”
Henry refused to let Pike mock him. “The choice is yours, Nate. Just say the word and I’ll have that pile of bones in Little Compton crawling with journalists.”
Pike sneered. “I don’t care what you do. Sarah and I are above it all. We’re above you, and the Reese Foundation and the whole goddamned state of Rhode Island.”
Henry looked from Celia to Alice, then back to Pike. “I don’t get it. Then why did you—”
“No, you don’t get it. And you want to know why? Because you don’t have a soul. You’re a bit part. You do what you’re told, and that’s it. You think you’re some kind of fucking detective— searching for clues, huh? There are no clues, Henry, because I’m not a criminal. I don’t have a motive. I’ve got no more reason to fear my past than you do.”
“Well, I’m sorry, I guess I’ll just have to—”
A commotion broke out on the other end of the parking lot, and those who’d been watching the argument ran over to investigate. Henry came last, just as the mob of cashiers and angry environmentalists parted down the center to make room for two women who’d emerged together from the forest. Both women were naked. Henry had already noticed a small handful of naked men and women on the premises, but they seemed like peripheral figures by comparison with these two. One of them had short dark hair, a pear-shaped figure and large, heavy breasts. As she stepped onto the blacktop, she kept her head down, her eyes on her feet. The other woman was tall and fair, with slender hips and a bony frame. She walked lightly on the balls of her feet and looked continuously around, as if searching for someone.
“Allison!” a male voice called out. The taller woman didn’t react, except to take the other woman’s hand and keep moving resolutely forward.
When they came to Henry, they stopped. He didn’t know what to do or where to rest his eyes. The sight of the naked women intimidated him, and he wondered why they’d singled him out, out of so many people.
The taller woman spoke. “This is my friend, Marlene,” she said. “She’s not hurting anyone. Please, just leave us alone.”
Henry tried to resist but found his eyes continually drawn to the taller woman’s body.
Marlene hid her face in Allison’s shoulder. “Where’s Stuart?” she asked.
The question traveled to the back of the crowd, where Stuart was standing by himself. Once he saw Marlene come out of the forest, he’d felt so detached that he found himself looking at her not from the perspective of a husband but as someone who’d never seen her before. Pushing his way through the crowd, he stopped in front of her and said, “Hi, Marlene.”
Marlene’s grip tightened around Allison’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, still not looking at him.
“It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t be sorry.”
When she finally raised her head, she said, “I’m so scared of myself, Stuart. Please don’t go away.”
“I won’t,” he said.
The activists and the cashiers were no longer fighting with one another, and even the rangers had put away their guns. All eyes were on Marlene and Stuart.
Marlene let go of Allison’s hand and
threw herself at Stuart, who had no choice but to catch her. “I’m sorry,” she said over and over again. I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry . . .
He cut her off. “Let’s go home, hon. We’ve both done enough for one day.” Catching Henry’s eye, he laughed apologetically, as if to say, So now you know what I’ve been dealing with all this time.
Henry didn’t laugh back. His throat had seized up, and he couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe. All he knew was that more than anything else, he, too, wanted to take off his clothes and run naked in the woods with these two. He was tired of always being on the side of lawfulness and decency. He wanted to be the pursued for a change, not the pursuer.
Turning away from Stuart, he announced to the shocked faces of Celia Shriver, Cathy Diego and Alice Shepperton, plus some two dozen others, “He’s right, people. We’ve all done enough for one day. Let’s just go home.”
Back in Providence, Gregg Reese had just received the news that his mother, Keeny, had died that morning in her sleep. He’d seen her the night before, when they’d spoken about an upcoming fund-raiser for a mayoral candidate the Reese Foundation was supporting in the fall. Their meeting had been businesslike but cordial. Keeny had looked better than she had in weeks, and Gregg left planning to visit her again in a few days. Now, along with his surprise, he felt oddly relieved. A cord had been severed that had once joined him to his ancestors. The last of the great Reeses was dead. Without Keeny, he was free to do as he pleased.
7
Of the many Indian girls that the Reeses kept on their property, one remarkable example distinguished herself by marrying into the family: Nummauchenem, who changed her name to Nancy when she wed Joseph Reese III in 1720. Under her guidance, the family increased its earnings by a hundredfold from 1720 to 1730. Rhode Island’s wealth in the first half of the eighteenth century derived from three principal sources: sugar, slaves and fishing. The Reeses had a hand in all three, but Nancy concentrated on the first two, which were closely related. Slaves were usually exported to the West Indies in exchange for sugar that was distilled into rum. Of the thirty-three distilleries in Rhode Island, twelve belonged to the Reeses.
