Out of the Wild Night

by Blue Balliett

  “Yes!” the woman whispers. “Please stay!”

  That night, young feet creep down sets of stairs and out front doors. Oddly, no parents or grandparents are awake, as if the moon itself has sent them an irresistible dose of heavy, cloudless sleep.

  Gabe hurries from his house through the crooked, snoozing streets that lead to the Old North Cemetery. Once there, he spots Cyrus, Paul, and even little Maddie, as well as Maria and Markus. The kids are perched on the split rail fence that borders the road.

  After a quick round of whispered heys and a thumb bump from Maddie, they set off at a trot to Phee and Sal’s house.

  All who have walked this island at night know the gleam of a moonlit, cloudless sky. Perhaps the surrounding ocean reflects and radiates light.

  “My heart is jumping,” Maria whispered loudly. “It’s turned into a frog.”

  The others laugh and Cyrus says, “Yeah, I’m so awake I can’t imagine why we sleep every night. It’s awesome out here.” He means it, but there is a tremble to his voice. The Gang hugs the shadows at the side of each lane or road, traveling in a line. Everyone is busy imagining whoever carried all of those boards to Sal’s backyard, and at night. Strong arms. Many legs. Big feet.

  They also think of the footprints seen at the water’s edge and in the graveyard.

  Meeting up with these ghosts, if that’s what they are, is not an easy idea.

  Gabe doesn’t mention the group of people that Phee glimpsed yesterday—it’s too scary to bring that up. Not at night.

  He thinks of the shuffling noises—so many shoes!

  Maria and Markus remember the firefly flashes at the Old North Cemetery and the crashing sounds that chased them back to their bedroom window.

  Maddie, Paul, and Cyrus think separately about the invisible figures collecting snow, and the large bare feet in the graveyard on that same cold night. No one shares what he or she is picturing. All kids know that fear is contagious.

  The Gang slips in and out of the pools of deep black that drift beneath the elms.

  Paul breaks the silence with a whisper. “I’m thinking about who rescued the wood.”

  “Yeah,” Maddie squeaks. Did the moon make it easier to read one another’s minds? “They’re doing good.” As she says it, she looks up to be sure she’s sandwiched between her brothers.

  All are quiet for a beat.

  “Sometimes, Sal and Phee get restless and step outside on a clear night like tonight,” Gabe says softly. “Sal calls it ‘taking a lunar.’ That’s what the retired captains and seamen did; they ‘took a lunar reading,’ which meant checking on where they were. You’d do that at night on a ship, using a tool called a sextant and measuring the position of the moon and stars. Reading the sky like a map. Celestial navigation. Those old guys came home and stuck to their habits. Took a moment out back to look up and get their bearings before turning in each night.”

  Gabe pauses, suddenly hearing how comforting he sounds. Like a grown-up, he thinks, a cross between Sal, who accepts the weird islander stuff, and his dad, who needs to explain it.

  “Yeah.” Paul nods. “We need some old-timer to take a reading on all this craziness and tell us what—”

  Rrrrrr-wha-wha-rrrrr! A dog, large from the sound of his paws on dirt, scrambles to his feet in a nearby yard, growling and barking. The kids grab for each other and hurry along in wordless silence, some of the older ones holding younger hands.

  At Sal’s place, there are no lights in the windows.

  Phee rushes over to greet her friends, saying, “You’re here! Let’s get going!”

  Sal is already carrying boards on one shoulder, weaving rapidly in and out of the silvery darkness. “Get a move on, you blabber-lubbers,” he calls softly.

  Kids plus wood zip along beneath the stars and the moon until they reach the old navy base at the end of Tom Nevers Road. In what feels like the blink of an eye, all are standing in a cleared field, adding the backyard boards to an already huge pile.

  No one feels tired or frightened. Maddie skips in circles, counting to ten over and over on her fingers.

  Sal whistles. “I’ll be. Whoever these ghosts are, they waste no time. This is quite a dream.” His voice thrums with excitement. “Somehow, we’re all moving in the same current and the ghosts know what we have in mind. The buildings will happen. I can feel it in my clickety-clank-fling-flong Folger soul!”

  “Folger soldier!” Phee laughs, hugging her grandfather.

  The better things feel, the wilder the language becomes, as if anything can be understood. But something else is happening: Sal has gone from saying little to saying lots. Gabe, too. It’s as if the entire group feels oddly free.

  Maddie is now flapping her arms like wings.

  If Sal and the others were Maddie’s age, they’d do it, too.

  “How many people can say they’ve worked with ghosts?” All nod comfortably, thinking one of the others has said this.

  But no one did, and it wasn’t me.

  It’s time for this Crier to shed a few tears.

  If I concentrate, I can glimpse Sal as a boy, visiting my house after I was long gone. A whipped puppy of a kid with a thankless father, a man as nasty as a snapping turtle. Eliza offered refuge, with her starched curtains and ever-present wonders.

  Now, oh, I can hardly bear to face it! Her neighbor Lydia Lyon’s house is almost an empty shell. Even the curved lintel at the front door, that welcoming dip made by so many boots and soles—that smile of pine—has been tossed in the trash.

  I have yet more distressing news.

  Here it is: Eddy made a quiet call this morning from the hospital to the island company that owns the bulldozers and giant machines. He looked nervous. Sneaky. Like an adult doing something dishonest behind the backs of kids. I couldn’t hear his words.

  The doughnuts inside my door the other day, the ones that scared Eddy away—who set them out? It wasn’t me. Or Eliza.

  Many souls have lived in our house, I think to myself, realizing how little I know.

  Will they step forward?

  Herbie Pinkham is rarely at a loss, but lately he’s been clueless. The crimes being carried out at “renovation” sites around town are accelerating, and he has no idea what to do.

  The worst of it is that as an islander, he knows who’s at least partly responsible. Ghosts. For real. He saw the fat-cat lawyer being jerked around by his own scarf, and there wasn’t anybody doing it, if you follow me.

  No one who wanted to be seen, at any rate.

  When Gabe opens his eyes the next morning, he smells the Saturday happiness of waffles and maple syrup. And then he remembers. Yes! Last night’s adventure with the lumber!

  That massive pile, a harvest intended to help others who have no place to call home. Sal had explained it all to the Gang. This was unused, surplus land—the town of Nantucket had acquired it ages ago, and had barely thought of it in decades. And this beautiful, seasoned wood had been thrown away.

  Now Gabe hears his dad yelling. “Whaaat? Someone’s hauled wood out to the navy base and is building with it? What next!?”

  Gabe is already out of bed and bounding down the stairs. “Really?” he asks his dad. “They’re building?”

  Herbie, despite his worries, glances sharply at the boy. “What do you know about this, Gabe? Huh? Because if you’ve heard the other kids talking, spit it out. I need you on my side here, no joke.”

  Gabe ducks his head over the butter plate, helping himself to a large pat. There is silence in the kitchen as both of his parents turn to look at him.

  “Well, son?” His mom’s voice is businesslike. “Dad’s job is on the line, what with all these wrecked house sites and now this illegal construction, and no clue as to who is responsible. At least he can’t seem to explain it or come up with any suspects. What it is that you know?”

  Gabe pauses, a huge mouthful on his fork. “I know, well, that Sal Folger has had old boards piling up in his backyard at night. Lots of
them.”

  “I know. That Sal, always has been a kinda lone wolf,” the officer mutters. “Runs in his family. Never thought he’d break the law, though.”

  “Wait, Dad, no!” Gabe drops his fork. “He’s not doing anything wrong!”

  “And where exactly does Sal Folger say those boards are coming from?”

  Gabe shrugs. “He doesn’t know. Cross my heart. But he thinks it’s the sites in town.”

  His dad reaches for his jacket. “Been to see him once. Well, gonna go back. Have a talk.”

  “Time out, Dad!” Gabe jumps up, sending his chair down with a crash. “Sal didn’t do anything bad. He likes the idea of houses out on that unused land, houses for working people who can’t afford them; he’s talked about the housing problem for ages. Plus the idea of not wasting unwanted wood. You, Mom, and me have been on some of the Nantucket Hands picnics! It’s no secret.”

  Herbie nods stiffly.

  Gabe blurts, “And you know Sal’s a generous guy. Please leave Sal out of it! He’s shy—he’ll be, he’ll be—well, upset.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “I’M UPSET!” roared the officer. “My job is to keep the peace in this town, and at the moment a load of off-island people are angry because they think locals are ruining their properties. And now I hear that the boards that’ve been torn out of some historic houses—and I’m not saying that’s right, this gutting business, don’t get me wrong—are not only traveling around on their own but being used for an illegal project. Of course, I’m upset!”

  “How about we go to Sal’s together?”

  Herbie pauses, surprised at his son’s calm offer. The we is sweet. Gabe has never asked to go with him on a police matter before. He thinks for a moment, his mouth turned down like a disapproving flounder, his eyebrows up—as if being pulled in two directions.

  “Get some clothes on,” he tells his son. “We’re off in five.”

  Sal awoke that morning to the sound of a woman’s voice sobbing, “Pheeeeeee! PHEE-EE-EEE!”

  He sat up in bed, kicking off his quilts and scrambling into his trousers. This was a voice he knew.

  Barefoot, he stood by the window listening. There was no wind to sigh, tease, or sing. No breeze draping a voice across a bad dream.

  Heart thumping, Sal sank back down on his bed, thinking of his baby. Flossie, who had grown up without a mother and had loved to read and play and keep house with her father. Sal thought now of the blackberry jam she’d made every year, chatting through each part of the process—the picking, the crushing and boiling, the pouring into shining jars. She’d insisted on reading aloud to her father every night as soon as she knew how, doing what she always did: taking something he’d taught her and making it her own. She’d pulled away only as a young woman. When she met Phee’s father, she had rushed off with her boyfriend to live on that houseboat and be independent.

  And then came little Phee.

  Even when Sal had begged his daughter to join him in the big house with her new family, she hadn’t. Wouldn’t. Then came that stormy night, when they’d left Phee on the boat and the Coast Guard had found her, no thanks to her parents.

  Flossie had been furious with Sal when he became Phee’s guardian, but was it his fault? He’d stepped in only to help save them all.

  After Phee’s rescue, Flossie had rushed off. Although Phee had never seemed particularly worried about when her mother was returning, Sal reassured her that when Flossie was back, the three of them would live together in the Folger home.

  Come to think of it, Phee had been reaching out to her mom since Nantucket Hands started. Sal smiled in the dark. Had Nantucket Hands made Phee want her mom to come home and join the fight?

  Now Sal rubs his eyes with his knuckles. Sobbing, Flossie sobbing for her little girl … He tiptoes into Phee’s room, just to check. His granddaughter’s dark hair ripples across the pillow like eelgrass at low tide. She sighs peacefully in her sleep.

  His Phee. His Floss. Sal can’t get rid of a flicker of fear. Has something gone wrong? His forehead creases into lines that echo the ridges on a sandbar. Nah! His grown-up girl is fine, Sal tells himself, heading downstairs and plunking logs into the woodstove to start the fire.

  She’s probably on her way home.

  Dreams can be gut twisters.

  Sal is snoozing in one of the rockers when Officer Pinkham’s feet clump up the kitchen stairs. Gabe’s face peers in the side window. Sal knows kids’ expressions, and Gabe—well, Gabe is warning him.

  Herbie rap-raps on the window.

  “Why, hello, you two. Do come in.” Sal holds open the door.

  Gabe swallows, a horribly loud gulp followed by a log fizz-huffing in the stove. Perhaps the wood is trying to cover for him.

  “Some breakfast?” Sal asks.

  The officer looks around the room and his face softens. “No, no, thanks … boy, it feels good in here on a cold morning. Like old times. The house smells right, you know? Some of these new places, you might be inside a department store on the mainland. They stink of plastic and room fresheners. I mean, no heart at all—” Herbie Pinkham stops, realizing he’s babbling inappropriately.

  Gabe steps comfortably in front of his dad and Herbie frowns. “Yeah, I like this kitchen,” Gabe adds quietly. “Me and Phee and some of the other Nantucket Hands kids, we meet here after school sometimes. While you and Mom are still at work, Dad.”

  “Hrrrumpa-dun.” Herbie clears his throat, too. “Yes, thanks, Sal. Kind of you.”

  “Not at all, I thoroughly enjoy their company,” Sal says formally.

  Gabe realizes right then that his dad feels he has to be official in front of his son, at least with all these ghostly goings-on, and that Sal understands that.

  “Speaking of company,” Herbie trumpets, “I see the pile out behind is gone now, and understand a whole bunch of old wood from construction site dumpsters turned up last night on town property in the Southeast Quarter. Out Tom Nevers way. Looks like someone’s started to build with it. Know anything about that, Sal?”

  Just as the older man clears his throat to respond, a small empty rocker by the fireplace goes back and forth on its own. Ever so gently, as if the person sitting in it is thinking. This gives Gabe a chance to sneak a didn’t-tell-him-about-last-night look to Sal. The old man then turns to the officer, whose eyes are on the chair.

  Sal steps over and puts a foot on one of the rocker’s rungs. It stops.

  “Old house, you know” is all he had to say.

  “Yes, well, yup, yes sirree,” Herbie mutters, his eyes big. “But about that business—”

  Thump-thump, clunk-bonk-clunk! Familiar feet on the stairs. “Good morning, everyone!” Phee sings out, as if not at all surprised to see Herbie and Gabe.

  Good, Gabe thinks to himself. She’s been listening.

  “How about you take us all out to the old navy base, Dad?” Gabe asks quickly. “To see this building stuff you’re talking about. Sounds interesting!” He hopes Sal and Phee get the message.

  Hands on his hips, the officer glances nervously at the rocker. “Okay,” he says slowly. “Don’t see why not. Maybe you’ll also have some ideas about what’s been going on lately at the ‘renovation’ sites in town, Sal. Maybe you can help me out.”

  “Happy to, I’m sure,” Sal says.

  As soon as the door closes behind the four of them, the rocker starts moving again, a little faster this time.

  Creeeak-crack-creakity-sneak!

  When the group arrives at the navy base, the kids gasp.

  Sal turns quickly toward them and says, “Well, someone sure is working hard to make our Nantucket Hands dream come true! What say, kids? Look!”

  As if they hadn’t just been there the night before.

  But truly, there is something astounding going on. Since Sal and the kids left last night, someone else brought a load of cinder blocks for foundations. And under a huge tarp sits a bevy of household appliances. A new dishwas
her! Three clothes washers, an electric stove, and two brand-new-looking refrigerators! A flock of microwave units.

  I smile, thinking of all the housework this saves.

  “Yow!” Herbie says, walking gingerly around the lumber, building supplies, and appliances. “Looks like someone took a haul from the dump; crazy how much good stuff gets pulled out of houses when they change hands. Seen it happen myself, many a time. Well, I’ll be.”

  “Nice.” Sal nods. “Not to see all that wasted, don’t you think, Herbie? Like old times on the island. When everyone used every little bit of string, so to speak. That, and helped each other do it.”

  As if he’s forgotten for a moment why they’re there, the officer nods happily. “Yeah, that’s the way,” he says to the two kids. “The way both Sal and I were brought up here, to share.” Not wanting to burst the bubble of good feeling, Gabe and Phee smile innocently, looking around at the area as if for the first time.

  Gabe, feeling a rush of warmth for his dad, gives him a quick thumbs-up. To his surprise, his dad winks in return, as if the two of them share a secret.

  Gabe wonders if his dad knows more than he’s letting on. If so, he isn’t as much of a stiff toothpick as Gabe had thought.

  “But, Sal,” Herbie says, strolling away from the kids as if the older man should come with him. Sal does.

  “Say,” he continues, glancing back to be sure they are out of hearing range. “Didn’t want to ask you about this with the kids listening, but let’s cut to the chase. You’ve heard about all the craziness going on at the so-called renovation sites, the accidents and the broken stuff, the splashed paint, the flooding. Well, ah, I’m wondering if some of that could be ghosts.”

  “Ahh,” Sal says, a twinkle in his eye. “Angry ghosts. Don’t see why not, do you?”

  “Between the two of us, no,” the officer says. “But officially, how can I say that to off-island owners and their dad-blasted lawyers and such? I mean, I’m in a tight spot.”

  “You are,” Sal agreed. “A tight spot.”