“Sitting next to the wood-burning stove in my family’s home today, I appreciated what was around me. I rocked, watched the light dancing on old floorboards, the glow of new snow outside. I thought about what to say to you. And I sensed—oh, yes—that I wasn’t alone. Let me say that better—I’m sure I wasn’t alone.
“I think many of you will know what I mean. And because I wasn’t alone, I felt even more clearly that my life is a continuation. Yes. I am carrying forward an idea. I continue the work of my daughter and father, but also the work of many island families. Folks like you and me who join together to enable dreams, and to stop some of the—the—unfortunate things that have become the norm among a number of homeowners in recent years.”
Here the woman pauses and looks around the room.
“My heart is broken, yes, but I am also proud. And there is time. Time to work on fixing and safeguarding the treasure that is Nantucket. We cannot undo our mistakes, but we can carry forward some thinking that was begun by people we loved dearly.”
The woman stops. “Yes, I’ll say it: I think they are still here with us. There’s no other explanation—”
Here she breaks off again, her face crumpling. A sob is followed by a hum of sympathy, the squeak of folding chairs, the stir of feet and jackets.
Pulling herself together, the woman clears her throat. “My heart is broken, yes, but I am also proud.”
Splashes of applause ripple through the room. “I speak now as a preservationist, someone who is armed with a recent degree that I hope will serve to do good.
“Anyone can look at an old building on this island and see history come alive. Many of us who grew up on Nantucket believe that we live with ghosts, but it is more than that—our seventeenth-, eighteenth-, and nineteenth-century structures themselves tell stories.
“They frame the past.
“They carry it into the present.
“They embrace all lives lived within them.
“They bear witness.
“They breathe.
“Some say Nantucket has the greatest number of pre-1850 houses of any residential community in this country. I am lucky enough to live in my family’s creaky old home, one that was built centuries ago, but any one of us in this room can rub shoulders with the past no matter where we sleep at night. What’s gone is all around us. We can see it, visit much of it, and lay a hand on this same wood or brick almost anywhere in our town.
“That may not be true forever.
“During the past few years, there are newcomers who have bought historic houses of ours that they then practically destroy—truly, I believe, through ignorance of what is at stake. It’s not malicious, just unknowing. Wanting everything in their homes to feel new and fresh, they toss most of the old. They enjoy the story of Nantucket, but they don’t want to live with it. And in the way they’ve seen the island—or not seen it!—they have endangered the very soul of our town.
“Nantucket was long an outpost where folks who used everything at hand could build a home and live. Working people were the untitled kings and queens, tolerating visitors but setting the rules. We did things our own way. This island was a place where money was neither the bottom line nor a recipe for happiness.
“I don’t mean to sound like a grumpy native. I know that some of our recent property owners have supported the preservation of Nantucket’s buildings inside and out, please don’t get me wrong. And many of them have done extraordinary and deeply generous things, especially with land conservation, the arts, and adult education.
“But!” Here the woman holds up both hands. “That doesn’t change the fact that we’re facing a crisis here.
“Together, my daughter and father started a group called Nantucket Hands. They gathered many islanders together, families who do physical work on-island, some of them new to the United States—and introduced them to longtime Nantucketers who care about the island’s legacy and future. Sal organized outings on land and sea.” Here the woman breaks off again, and grabs for a tissue.
Her voice trembles as she continues. “My father and daughter wanted to make everyone welcome. And yes, to offer a hand.”
She pauses. “My heart is broken, but I am also proud.”
“You tell it, girl,” shouts a man at the back. “You always did!” This brings smiles.
“No details now, Tony!” the woman calls back. “Don’t you dare!”
A quick grin fades as she looks at her hands, rubbing them together as if with soap and water. “When I got the terrible news about the accident and rushed home, I felt as though I’d never find the strength to go on. But here I am. Here are all of you. We who live here are resilient people, souls who do not give up. Am I right?”
The room roars.
The woman repeats, “My heart is broken, yes, but”—and here the room picks up her refrain, calling out, “I am also proud!”—“as a member of Nantucket Hands, I am happy to say that no more of our old houses will be gutted in quite the same way. Too many are now watching: During the past year, we’ve reached news feeds of all kinds. We’ve had enough ghostly drama to satisfy even the most skeptical. We’ve been able to trumpet our message loud and clear. And when, the other night, some of us heard a bulldozer roaring through town in the middle of the night, we all made it to the right spot at the right time, and the right thing happened because of it. We were not alone in that. I know we weren’t.
“Do I pretend to understand how this happened? Do I pretend to understand how building materials and tools were moved during the past month and accidents were caused? I don’t. Any more than I pretend to understand why certain things happen in this life and others don’t.
“But now for what’s around us in this room.” The woman looks up. “Thanks to the Historical Association, we were invited to put together a Nantucket Hands show, and this is it. And, I should add, we didn’t do it without some unusual assistance.
“While setting up this show, a harpoon fell out the front door of the museum when one of us who had carefully taken it off the wall heard a knocking and, holding the harpoon, unlocked the entrance. Strange but true, this large weapon escaped from our hands and then floated right back in on its own. And a few of us have, well, collided with the invisible. We’ve brushed a piece of clothing, felt a touch, heard a footstep or a word. Four days ago, right over in that doorway, several of us heard a child’s voice say, ‘Look!’ clear as day.”
The woman pauses for a moment, rubbing her arms as if cold. “Of course, I called and reached out, but that was the end of it. Suddenly, there was nothing in that spot. Such is our island community, am I right? Something is there, and then it’s not.”
“You’re our girl, you know it,” a voice calls from the back.
“Thanks.” The woman tilts her head and frowns, as if to guard against too much emotion. “And I hope I always will be. No more off-island for me! But back to what we can all share. Before I turn you loose to explore our tribute to the glories of useful things made by hand, and by everyday folks … I want to dim the lights and show you a happy picture. An image of some people whose lives mattered a great deal. This was taken a little over a year ago, on Halloween afternoon.”
The lights go down and a huge photograph fills a screen on the wall.
There they are.
Gasps and moans fill the room.
Lined up on the deck of an old offshore fishing boat—ding, ding! prepare yourselves!—I see:
Phee. Sal. Gabe. Herbie and Becky Pinkham. The three Coffin kids—Paul, Cyrus, and Maddie—and their grandma Sue. Maria and Markus Ramos, their mom and their dad, Ray, who was Eliza Rebimbas’s great-grandson. One of the teachers from school, the one who spoke with Sal. A handful of other islanders you haven’t met, faces seen outside the Whaling Museum on the day the harpoon flew out the door. Many hands hold fishing poles or small hurricane lanterns.
The woman at the podium calls in a shaky voice, “We’ll never forget them.”
Now from across the
audience comes the sound of open weeping. Here and there a voice calls out, “Never!” and “You bet!”
The woman goes on. “We all look back and wonder what we could have done to prevent this. The what-ifs and whys are endless. And Ghost, Gabe’s dog, still returns to the beach every day, waiting for his master.
“Here is what helps me most: I hold tight to what Nantucket Hands is all about.
“It began in the heart of my daughter, Phoebe Folger Antoine, and she and my father, Absalom Folger, built on her dreams. My dad wrote to me that when she started school, in first grade, Phee worried about classmates who needed a place to live. Soon she and Sal were taking people into our family home on Main Street. That went on for years.
“Starting a few weeks ago, old but sound lumber being torn out of historic buildings around the island began magically to leave the dumpsters at ‘renovation’ sites and reappear in the Folger yard. In my yard. It seemed to travel by itself, and at night. Before it began drifting out to the navy base, the house was swamped.”
Here the woman shrugs, her head on one side. “All I can say is that there are forces at work here, energies that no one living can explain according to the known laws of physics.”
She takes a deep breath and swallows. “A little over a year ago, Phee wrote me a letter. On her own. And this, I must say, was a first; usually she added a line or two to her grandfather’s letters. I’d like to share this with you.”
The woman pulls a worn and creased piece of paper from her pocket. Hands trembling, she unfolds it and reads:
Dear Mom,
It’s time for you to come home.
Here the woman’s voice cracks and wobbles. “I can read this to you!” She tries to smile. “I can.” A moment later, she continues.
We need your help.
Sal is the best grandfather in the world, but he can’t handle what’s happening on his own. I don’t want him to get hurt. We’re kind of headed for trouble here, and I’m afraid Sal and I started it.
Let’s be honest: I started it. I’m not sure now if that’s a good thing.
You heard about the new owners who want to gut old houses, and the contractors who do it. That is bad. You heard about Nantucket Hands. That’s been okay.
Well, something scary is going on, too, something we can’t stop.
EEK! I think all this destroying of the insides of old homes has woken up some ghosts that were maybe resting quietly before. I believe these spirits are trying to help us, but sometimes they seem more like they’re having a tantrum at the same time. A few people have been injured, and badly.
You are a real Preservation Expert now. Can you organize something that will get the public to pay attention? I don’t think anyone will listen to ghosts, Sal, or me and my group of friends, probably because some are invisible, he’s old, and we’re young. If you take charge of that side of things, of making a big noise that will get people to stop destroying our old houses, then maybe these house ghosts will step back and cool off a bit. Let’s hope the work of Nantucket Hands can continue without anyone else getting hurt.
I know I sound bossy, but Sal says that you are, too. Sometimes that’s a good thing, right?
I can’t wait for you to be back in your old bedroom at home, the one between me and Sal. We’ve kept it dusted for you. I hope you’ll get rid of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Sal says it was his, I always hated it and he says you probably do, too. Full of nasty stories with sad endings. How about we drop it off at the Take It or Leave It?
Love,
Your Phee
P.S. Sal sometimes calls me Fee-fi-fo Phee because I’m so determined and my ideas are giant. Hopefully that’s good. He says you’re pretty headstrong, too, and that you and I are two peas in a pod. I like that.
P.P.S. I miss you. I want my mom to come home. Please bring me some nice-smelling lip balm. Sal thinks that stuff is silly.
P.P.P.S. You belong here.
P.P.P.P.S. Hurry.
Here the woman blows her nose. After folding the piece of paper and giving it a quick kiss, she tucks it back in her pocket.
“So in honor of Phee and Sal, my life is now about continuing what they did so well. Their hopes and dreams are now mine, and that is what gets me up every morning. I want their work to become bigger than my sadness.
“Nantucket Hands is all about filling hearts.
“Filling hearts, finding homes, and protecting a certain historic side of this complicated, beautiful island. Everyone here tonight has the ability to do this for our loved ones—we can pick up where they left off.”
A deep voice calls from the back of the room, “And maybe they’ll help us!”
“They’re not done, I know it!” a woman shouts.
“Too much spirit to disappear! Too much caring,” someone else calls.
Flinging both arms wide as if to hug the room, her cheeks now wet again with tears, the woman calls out, “Thank you, Phee, Gabe, Maria, Markus, Paul, Cyrus, and Maddie! Thank you to Sal, and everyone else in the Folger, Pinkham, Ramos, and Coffin families, and to every other soul who was on board that day! Thank you to whichever island spirits wanted to help Nantucket Hands.” Right at that moment, the clip holding her bun clicks open and her hair flies everywhere.
She reaches back, grabs for the clip, and waves it over her head.
Sparkly stars. “Here’s to Nantucket! All hands on deck! And, Phee, I’m right here, too!”
The lights go on and the crowd surges to their feet, encircling Flossie Folger.
I’m at her side.
I can’t always see what’s going on or keep track of who’s doing what, but I do know that I AM STILL HERE to do a job, an important one. I believe that’s because my house was recently rescued—and by a family who are in love with its oldness.
They saved me, me, ME. Mary W. Chase. Right at this tipping point.
I have to thank Eddy Nold, who has recovered from his injuries and become a leading force in the work of Nantucket Hands. He now has a business that truly does restore old houses! Proof that even the most misguided souls can change direction, he found the right family for my home. Tenderly, he propped up and repaired only what needed fixing. He told the new owners about Eliza Rebimbas and her famous wonders, and left them an old island recipe. They’ve done their best to honor her tradition. The plate she filled each day still sits on the chair by the front door, piled high each weekday afternoon. Children still stop by after school.
The painting of my aunt Thankful hangs in the living room. My old teapot is still on its shelf.
Claiming he was visited in the hospital by some of the kids who went down in the fishing boat, Eddy tells his story to any who will listen.
He freely admits that he was slow to believe in ghosts. In a fateful nighttime trip in a bulldozer, he almost knocked down the Folger house in a fit of anger at what Nantucket Hands had stirred up, but really at all whose love of old homes blocked his money-making.
In the process, he discovered the house was far from empty. He’s still not sure what he saw and heard in the yard that night, but he’ll tell you that he and Flossie weren’t alone. He also found out that the neighbors cared.
Speak with Eddy yourself; you’ll be glad you did. If you’re lucky, he may even tell you about smelling a magical plate that was put down with a clink inside Eliza’s empty house on a day when he stood outside.
That, for him, was the beginning of turning his head around.
A young girl who moved recently to the neighborhood near the Old North Cemetery takes the school bus from that stop. She reports that two boys, their little sister, and a set of twins sometimes ride with her—but the driver never sees them.
And look! Something to wonder at: Here, as a part of this very exhibit, is one of the old copper Town Crier trumpets. Up there on the wall, and so familiar! Now, that is something to blow, shout, and ring about! We Criers have always mattered on the island.
Sometimes I’m aware that Phee and Sal and Flossie are to
gether again, and in the same room in their home. Although more’s the pity, Flossie can’t see her father and daughter, nor can they see her. They feel each other’s presence, though, and are forever talking to each other. Flossie’s always been one for speaking her mind. Phee, too. Sometimes I spot Herbie Pinkham around town, trying to do what’s best for all, and I see the seven kids in the Old North Gang playing among the burial stones.
Here’s a glimpse of the Folger household on a recent day:
Sal is studying maps at his table in the corner of the kitchen. Occasionally he notices the sheets of paper flap or shuffle on their own. Flossie is working on them, too.
Sal shakes his head and mutters, “That’s my girl,” at the same moment that Flossie sighs and says, “If you’re here, Dad, give me a turn without rearranging stuff, okay? I know what I’m doing!” Neither hears the other’s voice, but both are glad to be struggling with the other’s company.
Before going to sleep each night, Flossie asks Phee how she’s doing, and often she can close her eyes and hear a response. Phee helps her with Nantucket Hands by continuing to do the hard work of a ghost, and Flossie responds to her daughter by sending her nonstop love. They are close, and have a nighttime routine.
Flossie hears “Mom? I’m still your big girl, and I’m right here.” And crazy as this is, Phee’s voice sounds as deliciously froggy as always.
Flossie then repeats aloud, “Right here! Right here!” and feels peace wash over her.
The folks who went down on that boat are not gone, I can tell you. And oh, yes! What? No, it’s true. Not even one of us on this island is alone. I mean truly alone. Not one. Ever.
I want to say a few things about broken hearts. Scars and injuries, I’ve learned by watching others, can change. Things transform. Take a tree. When it’s chopped down and boards are cut from this dying organism, it seems like the end. But these same boards, after decades of being used in a home, fill with life again. And if they’re then ripped out of that home before their time, there’s another dying—but if they turn up in a new home, it seems there may be yet more living to be done.
Out of the Wild Night Page 17
