Out of the Wild Night

by Blue Balliett

  “When I’m with some of these ghost kids, it’s like I suddenly have to do what they want me to do. In Lydia Lyon’s house, they moved me into a corner and showed me all those scenes from the past. In this one, they want more. I wasn’t doing any pinching, but I was running. Those kids are ready to fight, like they know what’s happening to their home. They’re rough. I think it’s obvious I’m useful and on their side, but you guys should stay clear. You okay, Phee? And … this creeps me out a bit …” Gabe pauses. “There are older ghosts around, and they seem to be guarding the kids. Peering out of doorways and in windows. Watching and waiting.”

  “You mean they were out here with us while you were inside?” Paul asks.

  “Think so. Some of them.”

  Phee remembers Sal’s stories of family ghosts who look out for kids and glances at the other members of the Gang.

  “Who do you think threw all those other stones?” she asks, sounding braver than she feels. “It’s a good thing they did. If we hadn’t shown up and Gabe had gone inside with the ghost kids, all those stones might not have been thrown, Eddy Nold might not have been scared off, and the crew might have done a whole lot of damage today.”

  “I’m the baitfish that draws in the bigger fishes,” Gabe announces, puffing his chest out. “The ones that really bite.”

  No one disagrees. Phee pats her friend’s shoulder. “You okay with that, Mr. Pufferfish?”

  He shrugs and grins. “Why not?”

  Despite his bold words, the Gang speed up, each imagining the whoosh of something big slipping along in the deepwater shadows behind them.

  November 17.

  The day after the Pine Street visit, Gabe wakes with a headache and sore throat.

  “You’re staying home today, son,” his mom announces, handing him a mug of tea with lemon and honey.

  Gabe nods happily and wriggles deeper under the covers. Although he was fired up yesterday, he’s relieved to have a quiet day in his pajamas.

  Eddy Nold feels unwell and his bruises hurt. He stays on the couch. Town is a quieter place.

  At the Folger house, the mysterious pile of old boards has become a mountain, spilling clear across the back porch and covering parts of windows.

  Sal snaps his suspenders and scratches his chin.

  He peers closely at the muddy ground. Yep, there are footprints all right, and they aren’t his or Phee’s.

  “But how?” he murmurs aloud.

  “I think it’s the boards wanting to be here with us,” Phee says cheerfully, as if that explains everything.

  After his granddaughter leaves for school that morning, Sal sets off to visit each of the construction sites around town. He wants to chat with the workers, at least those who speak English, but can’t seem to find anyone with time to talk.

  Every site has a large dumpster. Sal peers inside one after another. “Wasteful,” he mutters to himself. “Sinful,” he adds, noting hand-turned balusters and the swirl of a newel-post.

  One of Sal’s relatives, a real estate agent, was recently overheard saying to a friend, “White sells. Real old is old, it pulls things down. The more like Palm Beach you can be, the bigger the sale price. Put in a white kitchen and foyer, add a coupla marble bathrooms, open up those cramped little rooms, turn up the lights, haul everything to the dump but a wall joist or two, put up a quarter board with the original date of the building, and you’ll be a rich man. People pay top dollar for historic that isn’t.”

  Never one to pick fights with family, Sal only grunted when he’d heard this. Everyone knows that kitchens and bathrooms need to be replaced over time, but not the entire interior of an old Nantucket house.

  At site after site, he sees workers using mostly unseasoned wood and drywall. When Sal peers in windows, he finds little true restoration. Sometimes the new interior construction mimics a part of the traditional Quaker design or layout, but it does not feel the same.

  Sal now asks why they’ve ripped out old lumber that’s still good, wanting to hear the reply. He is answered with a cold shoulder.

  Rudely, the workers act as though he hasn’t said a thing.

  Straightening his sock hat, Sal picks up a handmade nail lying in the dirt and turns it over in his hand. Made a couple of centuries ago by an island blacksmith, it is one of a kind and still strong.

  If only the old wood and iron could rise up and defend itself, he thinks with a wry smile.

  The people who built these houses would like that. Most worked hard to make ends meet, and when they built a house to live in, rarely refused an uneven board. They used decking from old whaling ships and even the pickled planks salvaged from shipwrecks, patching them in at the turn of a stairwell or the edge of a room. They hated waste.

  Waste, waste. As he turns away, the word circles around and around. But what if … Sal stops midstride, almost colliding with a worker who stares at him, or rather, at the hand holding the nail.

  Startled, Sal shrugs and drops it. Did the man think Sal was stealing? The worker watches the nail fall, eyes wide as if there were something dangerous about that little piece of iron.

  “Handmade. Long time ago,” Sal says to the man, but there is no response.

  Really! Sal thinks to himself as he trudges away. Odd.

  Looking back, he sees the man pick up the rusty nail as if it might attack him.

  When Phee comes home that afternoon, the kitchen table is covered with tattered maps of the island and Sal looks excited.

  “There’s the Southeast Quarter, out Tom Nevers way. This chunk by the shore was taken over by the government during the Cold War years, became a navy base, and is now back under town ownership. Used only for overflow sports and that county fair each year, got a few old buildings and lots of weeds. Trouble with erosion on the south, along the ocean, but on the north …” Sal’s voice trails off. “A few empty acres there. The question is, will anyone object?”

  “Sal?” Phee is lost.

  Her grandfather rubs his hands together. “You know the wood that keeps appearing out back. Well, Nantucket Hands can build with what they’ve left. We need a piece of forgotten land, and guess what: This is one.”

  “Excellent!” Phee gives Sal a quick hug and bounces from one foot to the other, causing the floorboards to creak.

  “Quit flopping around like a fish out of water unless you want to get your great-grandmother mad.” Sal looks anything but angry. “She hated when your mother crashed around inside, and once threw a wooden soup ladle at her. Flew right across the kitchen on its own and whacked her on the bottom.” He leans back and laces his fingers behind his head.

  Like it! I can see Phee thinking to herself. Family. People who never leave each other.

  At that moment, Phee feels a kind of whoosh, as if she were on a swing. She takes a step toward the kitchen door.

  That’s it! She can hardly wait to get going.

  Sal is looking at the map now and doesn’t see her face. He straightens his sock hat, and wiry white hair spouts like steam from a hole on the side. “We could encourage a few working people to take this pile of ours and just start building.”

  “Terrific.” Phee nods. “Be right back.”

  She and her grandfather are so close that she rarely hides anything, but suddenly she needs a moment alone.

  Sal raises an absentminded hand.

  As Phee hurries down one street and up another, she thinks about the old Nantucket names that have been floating into kids’ minds, the wood drifting invisibly across the Folger yard, and now Sal’s idea about land.

  What was it that pushed her away from home just now, as if to give her a chance to sort things out?

  Suddenly she’s filled with thoughts of her mom. She and Sal had written to her about the Nantucket Hands idea, but haven’t heard back. Is she as fierce as Flossie? What would her mom make of the Old North Gang’s adventures? And what about that strange word that popped into her mind the other day?

  Heartless.

&nbs
p; Phee shivers and glances around. Is something or someone trying to reach her? Is her mom or Sal in danger?

  Realizing how alone she is at that moment, she gulps. I gulp, too.

  I’m tempted to ring my bell, but when you call out danger, it’s best to know what the danger is.

  Dusk comes early in November. As the shadows of rooftops and trees lace fingers across the road, Phee wonders what her life would be like if her mom had never left.

  A longing sends her rocketing back toward home, comforted by the sudden thought that Flossie might be on the steps to the kitchen right now, back from all those years away. Maybe that was the hope that sent her off on her own, the dream of finding her mom waiting when she returned.

  Flossie, back with a full heart! Ready to help her daughter and father. The thought makes Phee bold as her feet pound through the empty streets of town.

  Heartless, the ice-blue shadows seem to whisper. Heartless.

  Sal notices that whenever he turns his back, the maps on his table rearrange themselves as if another person is working, too. Someone strong-minded.

  When Phee bursts back in the kitchen door and looks around as if expecting to see someone else, Sal is startled.

  “What?” he asks his granddaughter.

  “Nothing,” she replies quickly, but her voice is disappointed.

  Sal’s face is thoughtful. Knowing there’s comfort in a question, he says, “I’ve been wondering why us,” he says. “Why our yard? Whoever is bringing the lumber could have chosen a much more public spot and gotten the whole town to notice.”

  “It’s odd,” Phee agrees.

  If you ask me, I think the recent pileup of old wood in their yard has something to do with how Sal and Phee use the town dump. The way they assume that almost everything in life can be reused or shared. All natives, ghosts perhaps most of all, understand the Folger yard. They can read it like a book.

  Phee and her grandfather dress almost entirely from the Take It or Leave It shed at the dump, as it’s called. It’s halfway to Madaket, at the west end of the island, and is actually a recycling center plus a landfill.

  They each have a large backpack, of course found there: Both are orange. “The color of survival,” Sal remarks.

  “Or tangerines, pumpkins, the bill of an oystercatcher, the sunset—” Phee grins.

  “Smarty-pants.” Her grandfather gives her a little shove and she shoves him back.

  Several times a week they go to the dump to pick through the piles. Pants, shirts, sweatshirts, even sneakers; once Phee saw a young woman unearth a beautiful wedding dress and weep with joy, taking it as a sign that, yes, she should marry her boyfriend. Sal and Phee have also found all of their blankets, sheets, and a ton of books.

  Sal will browse through piles of gear and tools while Phee does the clothes shopping for them both. Some days it’s sparse pickings. Other days—and most weekends—it’s a spread.

  Partly because it’s difficult to get things off Nantucket and in part because islanders have always been thrifty folk, belongings tend to float around and around in circles. Perfectly good sofas, curtains, rugs, and tables appear at the Take It or Leave It, creating ripples of delight and even the occasional fight. Finding a treasure at the dump is something to talk about, and furnishing a house from the dump is a badge of distinction. It’s been done countless times.

  In my day, people tossed only empty bottles and broken plates, or perhaps insect-eaten wood. Much of it tumbled down steep banks or into marshes. Places no one wanted to go. I would have loved this town dump. It’s like a birthday every day of the year, although it can get rough.

  Phee once got knocked flat by two women having a push-me-pull-you over a new feather comforter. Sal got a black eye when a man carrying a lamp spun around to grab another, decking him with a spiky brass pineapple.

  No one intends such injuries. They are simply known as Dump Bumps. For those who enjoy diving into the piles, it’s a bit like the hazards and pleasures of bodysurfing on a windy day. Scraped elbow? Didn’t get to the unopened box of dishes in time? Missed the crest of a perfect wave? Not to worry—there will be other tides and Saturdays.

  Nantucket’s spirit, after all, has always belonged to the frugal. Also, to those who understand that no one who has lived on Nantucket is ever quite done with it, no matter how many years they’ve been off in the world, hunting, harpooning, and perhaps hanging on to some rope or job for dear life.

  I see all kinds of fishing on this small island, in addition to the kind at the dump.

  Witness those—like me!—who are no longer alive but busier than they were when breathing. Someone with a hook is piling those boards in Sal’s yard, but the question is, who?

  And what are they trying to catch?

  November 20.

  Eddy Nold is feeling better. He’s also losing patience with the craziness going on at his work sites.

  At Lydia Lyon’s house today, the front door—white pine with a wooden latch and an ivory acorn for a handle—was gently removed by workers. The new owners want a heavy mahogany door in its place. Instantly, every original window or door left in the house opened and closed for a full half hour, the old wood slamming and rattling on its own.

  Whang! Bam! Crash! People driving by heard the noise and saw workers leaping away from the building. There was nothing Eddy could say to keep them there. It wasn’t until the property was emptied of people that the banging stopped.

  Eddy stands outside this afternoon and looks up at the second floor. He kicks some soda cans under a bush and walks across the torn-up yard toward my house. He steps over the back fence, tromps angrily across the yard, and heads for my front door, feeling in his pocket for a key.

  Aieeeeee! I panic and scream, “Hey! He’s coming! Heeeeeeelp!” Jagged sound floats out over the blue afternoon light, but does anyone hear me? The Old North Gang—where are they? I’m not sure what I should do, aside from these words, my horn, and my bell.

  Here’s hope: still no wind. All can be heard.

  Before Eddy reaches my front door, I leaf quickly through Nantucket’s past, noticing weapons. I never thought of myself as ferocious when living, but now that my home and others like it are in mortal danger, I find myself thinking of knives and sticks and harpoons in a new light.

  I also wonder who we islanders really are. Perhaps more of us are bad than good.

  Let’s look back.

  There was the Wampanoag Indian tribe, who named Nantucket after Maushop kicked off his second slipper, long before the first English settlers hopped off a boat in 1659. Sadly, thousands of welcoming Native Americans were killed off in a short time by European diseases.

  Another piece of ugliness involves the whaling industry. Forgive me if you already know, but a whale is the largest of intelligent mammals and not a cold-blooded fish. It can be caring, sad, or angry, and can watch you with a very human eye the size of a grapefruit, an eye that blinks. Whales sing. They care for their young.

  Killing a whale is not like killing an eel.

  The European settlers took this brutal hunt, first practiced close to shore by the Wampanoag, to a new level in wooden ships that sailed across oceans. By the 1840s, Nantucket had built the largest whaling empire in the United States. This tiny island’s name was known around the world.

  At its height, this community boasted a town of ten thousand residents and many industries. A Town Crier walked the streets come rain or shine, making enough noise to raise the dead.

  As in any boomtown, there was crime. We had hangings and murders.

  Weapons were everywhere. Knives, axes, saws, lances, harpoons, and scythes were as common as spoons and forks.

  Those who went out on the ships were often gone for years at a time as these compact floating factories sailed around the world. When a whale was chased, harpooned, and killed, the crew worked night and day. Every job was dangerous, truly the stuff of nightmares. Certainly the process of leaping into a small rowboat, stabbing one of those m
ajestic creatures, and then being violently dragged along—a Nantucket sleigh ride!—as a witness to its painful death, if not your shipmate’s or your own; the swirl of sharks attracted by the gore; the endless cutting and boiling down of the blubber in order to make oil; the process of removing buckets of coveted spermaceti oil from the huge head—often by climbing inside it and slithering around, a funhouse horror—and just plain surviving days of black smoke and decks slippery with blood and fat. Crew members who weren’t hurt during the chase were sometimes mortally injured while handling greasy, razor-sharp cutters and sliding in ankle-deep goo. The end result, amazingly, was many neatly sealed barrels of oil, stored belowdecks until they were unloaded on a Nantucket wharf. It was an ugly, smelly, exhausting job for the men, and cleaning the ship and themselves after each whale must have felt close to unbearable.

  Perhaps because of this violent profession, whaling crews were also the ones who taught themselves to make exquisite scrimshaw while on board, spending weeks carving and etching intricate images on a whale’s tooth or hunk of bone. Seamen created art that is now in museums. Meanwhile, the women left behind had become literate and business-savvy members of the workforce.

  The men weren’t the only ones bred to survive.

  We were famous during the whaling days for our independent women. Lucretia Coffin Mott, Phebe Coffin Hanaford, and later, Maria Mitchell—these were people who fought publicly for human rights at a time when few spoke out. In part because of them, the great Frederick Douglass gave his first speech to a mixed-race audience at the Atheneum library, in our town.

  When the whaling economy of Nantucket crashed, it happened fast. The Great Fire of 1846 destroyed most of the downtown businesses just as kerosene, cheap and plentiful, phased out whale oil for lighting.

  It was a terrible one-two blow.

  The island plunged into a deep depression, and thousands of our young people left. Sadly, there wasn’t enough work to go around, not anymore. Many headed for the Gold Rush in California.

  Tourism brought the island a trickle of money by the end of the century, as did a summer actors’ colony and a growing number of visiting painters and writers. The good side of those scrape-bucket decades was that this Quaker town survived intact, frozen in time. There was little money to build, and those who remained could only patch and repair.