A NANTUCKET GHOST STORY
By Drake Raft
www.nantuckets.com
www.jollyroger.com
Nantucket! Take out your map and look at it. See what a
real corner of the world it occupies; how it stands there, away off shore,
more lonely than the Eddystone lighthouse. Look at it --a mere hillock,
and elbow of sand; all beach, without a background. There is more sand
there than you would use in twenty years as a substitute for blotting
paper. Some gamesome wights will tell you that they have to plant weeds
there, they don't grow naturally; that they import Canada thistles; that
they have to send beyond seas for a spile to stop a leak in an oil cask;
that pieces of wood in Nantucket are carried about like bits of the true
cross in Rome; that people there plant toadstools before their houses, to
get under the shade in summer time; that one blade of grass makes an
oasis, three blades in a day's walk a prairie; that they wear quicksand
shoes, something like Laplander snowshoes; that they are so shut up,
belted about, every way inclosed, surrounded, and made an utter island of
by the ocean, that to their very chairs and tables small clams will
sometimes be found adhering, as to the backs of sea turtles.-- Chapter 14,
Moby Dick
Copyright 1998, McGucken & jollyroger.com
All rights reserved.
A NANTUCKET GHOST STORY
I
Mrs. Von Baron and Mrs. Starbuck paid me
twenty-five bucks an hour to hit tennis balls with them every Thursday
morning for an hour straight. They hated running after things, but on that
last morning I was making them run all over the place-- I kept having to
apologize. They must have thought I was on drugs or something. I didn't do
drugs, though-- they're against the law. It was just that I couldn't get
the previous night out of my head. If you knew Wilson, Wilson and girls,
you wouldn't have been able to stop thinking about it either. He's told me
stories-- in detail.
The previous night Wilson had gotten me lost. It
was tough to get lost on the 14x3 miles of Nantucket, unless you strayed
off onto the back roads, which we'd done, trying to find this one last
party. A thick fog was blowing in, intermittently glowing in accordance
with the sweep of the Sankaty lighthouse. I was doing seventy on some
random dirt road-- that was as fast as I dared to push the wired wheels on
my ’73 MGB. I had to wake up early for tomorrow's lessons. I just wanted
to get home and get some sleep. I'd tried to get Wilson to leave Bruce's
party for over an hour-- I finally had to drag him away from Kirsten, or
Kristen-- the blond girl he'd been hooking up with the whole summer.
Wilson was tripping pretty bad on something. He kept rolling down the
window to get sick.
"Take a right up here, buddy. It'll get ya
there."
"I've got work tomorrow." I told him, staring
straight ahead on down the road.
"It's a left then," he said in the same calm
voice.
The gas light blinked on. I hit the steering
wheel.
"You'd better take a right up here, then."
I reached for the volume of the radio, and I
drowned him out with 'What if God was One of Us' or something. There'd
been no other cars in sight for like half an hour. The winding road split
the dunes in two. I pressed my foot down on the accelerator-- not that it
made much of a difference or anything. Nantucket's actually an O.K. place
to grow up, even though most mainlanders will tell you it's bland. Wilson
kept singing over and over, "People won't stop screaming, driving me
insane, I'm going off the rails of a crazy train," giving it his best
Rhandy Rhodes solo. He finally got bored and shut up. But it didn't last
too long-- there was something he needed to tell me. He turned the radio
off to do it.
"Drake, man, there's something I've got to tell
you," he said. "You're going to hate me." I did what you're supposed to do
when someone keeps building on a grand opening like that-- nothing. "I’ve
got` to let the cat out of the bag. . . I went out with her."
"Who?"
"Windy."
He nailed me-- I'll admit it.
"I went out a couple of times with Windy. . . While
you were on vacation. I saw her at a party, and it just kind of
happened."
"That's news to me," I said with a poker face. My
heart was pounding.
"Way back in June. It was just a fling though. .
.she's all yours though. . . . She told me that you guys were seeing other
people-- we were both kind of drunk. Did you ever--"
"We were seeing other people."
"Dude, the thing though is," he laughed. "The thing
is here-- it's that I knocked her up, man. But like she's got a right to
her own body and everything, and she's loaded. . ."
All of a sudden I recognized where we were, and I
slammed on the brakes, throwing us against our seatbelts and eliciting and
expletive from Wilson.
"What the &#$@, man?" We were at the Top O' the
World. Windy and I had found this place at the beginning of the summer, I
mean stumbled upon it--
Just after dusk we had gotten lost on our way
home from the Sankaty pier. It was early evening and we were driving down
this two-lane dusty road when all of a sudden Windy thought she recognized
where we were. She grabbed the wheel and made me turn onto this one dirt
road leading up a hill. Weeping willow trees grew on both sides. Windy
told me that she was sure that she had come here with her father, to the
slate-shingled cottage at the top of the hill, to buy a kitten. It 'd been
when she was little, and she'd chosen the kitten with three white paws.
Mittens, she'd named it. The Willow trees, gnarled, low to the ground, and
leaning Southwestwardly in accordance with the perpetual urging of the
Nantucket North Easters, were planted close together and I had to drive
slowly through the green tunnel of dangling branches. Beyond the trees was
a clearing. A huge old white farm house sat on the very top of a hill, a
couple hundred feet in front of us. Gables and pillars and the whole
Colonial bit. Close by stood the charred skeleton of an old barn leaning
away over to one side.
"Oh, I love ghost houses," Windy said in this low
voice. For certain things she used this really low voice.
We pulled closer, passing a sign which read, "The
Coffins, Top O'the World & Altar Rock." Someone'd carved a
four-leaf clover into a grand old Oak tree, and someone else, more
recently, had added a cross inside of it. A lonely frayed rope hung down
from its branches. The overgrown driveway formed a large circle
around the house, and we parked behind it, close to the burned-down
barn. Most of the house's windows had been boarded up, and I
noticed that the few windows that weren't boarded up still had
pains of glass in them.
Windy walked up to the house and tried the door.
She was wearing a white faded t-shirt and these faded jeans with
holes in them-- my old jeans. I whistled at her, as a joke of
course, and she turned and smiled at me, "It's locked." It was a
really beautiful view from up there, the top of the world. We sat
on the Coffin's front porch for awhile, looking out over the sprawled-out
fields of brambles and dune grass on one side, and the glistening
ocean azure on the other. I thought I picked out the red and white
striped Cape Cod light in the distance—forty miles off, but as I watched
on, it progressed across the horizon, demonstrating that it was but a
ship. For the mainland cannot be seen from Nantucket. The green
rolling moores and brown dunes of Nantucket deepened in hue as they
receded, before blending into the slate-shingled town and then finally
halting at the azure. And beyond that was circumscribed the blue
boundary of water and air.
Windy kissed my ear . She whispered, "let's make
this our secret place."
"I'll never tell anyone."
"Hey man," I said, turning down the music and
looking right at Wilson. "You believe in ghosts?"
"Aww man, not now dude. Comin' down hard."
"Did you hear about those Satan Worshippers back in
May?"
"Yup," he said, rolling down the window to get
sick. "What's your opinion on the matter?"
"You were in Australia when it was in the papers,"
I said. "Why don't you open the door to do that. . . "
"Some other time, man."
"But the papers never even knew the full story.
Jackie's father told her that the police kept the story quiet because they
didn't want to cause any unnecessary panic or anything. Jackie made me
promise never to tell anyone, so you've got to promise you won't tell."
Jackie's dad was a cop.
He looked at me. "I promise, man."
"Well there's this deserted mansion up on the top
of that hill, and there were these kids last summer who were camping out
in the barn beside it, and the barn burned down. At first the police
thought it was just a tragic accident type of thing, but then, before they
completed their report, someone found a body of a girl in the house
itself. The body and face had been mutilated, and the teeth were all
pulled out so there was no way of telling who it was. . .one of the
doctors described it as an adult abortion." I was just thinking of this
Joyce Carol Oates book they'd forced upon me in honors English at
Princeton. "No-one knew where the kids came from, and there were no
missing persons reports filed around here, so the police just kept it
quiet. Whoever it was had written all these strange symbols on the walls
with her blood. . .pentagrams and stuff."
"The police wouldn't keep that quiet," he said.
"Take it easy, bro-- "
He rest his head back and closed his eyes.
"They had to," I told him. "Everyone would've
panicked. Makes ya wonder how many other things they keep quiet." The
moonlight streamed in through the windshield-- he had a tight grip on the
seatbelt. "Let's go check it out." He knew he had to.
We got out and walked up the moon-lit dirt road.
The fog was breaking up above us, and the haloed outline of a ghostly moon
shone through now and then. Wilson whispered that maybe we should roll up
the windows and lock the car. "Nobody's going to hide in the car," I told
him, "Unless you do."
It was pitch black under the gnarled weeping
willows. I was half believing my own story. Wilson told me to wait up as I
made my way through the dangling willow branches. I froze, listening to
his breathing as he stumbled along.
"Drake?" he asked. "Take it easy, babe-- some jerky
at Bruce's was passing around some strange stuff tonight." He'd stopped. I
fumbled around for something to throw. I picked up a small rock up and
tossed it up the road. It hit a branch, and he took off towards it. I
waited 'til he was passing right on by, and I whispered, "Wilson." He shot
up about ten feet in the air and landed sober.
We continued on through the hanging willow
branches, Wilson sticking to my side. We came to the edge of the clearing.
The Coffin mansion stood against the black sky, intermittently illuminated
by an almost full moon, fading in and out as the augmenting wind ushered
in a rolling fog off the Atlantic. Some of the boards had been pried off
the windows since I'd been up there with Windy. The house peaked out at
Wilson and I through those black holes, waiting to see what we did. . . We
stood there, in perfect silence-- I wondered what time the crickets had
gone to sleep. I broke the utter stillness. "Let's go and see if we can
get in."
"Dude. Not good." He whispered.
"The front door might be open."
"No flashlight, man."
"We've got the moon," I said, taking a step towards
the house. Right then I heard this crazy noise-- I mean I heard something.
"Shhh," I said, "listen."
"Let go fag." He’d grabbed my arm.
"You're freaking me out man." He read the moon-lit
sign, "Top O' the World." The noise! It came again.
"Holy $%&#." It sounded like a kid crying.
"What is it?" Wilson whispered. The noise came
again-- closer. My eyes strained in the darkness. My heart was beating
like a madman. I braced to run the hell out of there.
"It's coming!" Wilson bolted. My feet didn't wait
for my eyes to see it, and I was gone. I turned though, just before I dove
back into the weeping willows. I glimpsed this small, black shape bounding
'cross the silvery grass straight towards us. A cat. Wilson crashed
through the branches ahead of me.
Wilson had jumped in the driver's seat, and I
reached in my pocket for my keys as I vaulted over the hood of the car,
banging the hell out of my bad knee. I threw him the keys. He peeled out
of there, gravel flying and all, and I reached over and flipped on the
headlights. There was a black cat-- in the middle of the road. Frozen
still, its yellow eyes reflecting the headlights. It was too late to brake
or anything.
"Whoa," Wilson was breathing hard, "Where'd you
find that place?"
"Windy and I used to go up there."
"You had me going," Wilson laughed after a moment's
silence, "If there's any life up there, it's not good life."
"I think you got it."
"Got what?"
"The cat."
"The cat?"
"Yeah, you hit it, dude. I felt, I think."
"What cat?"
"Back there, when I flipped on the lights."
"I didn't see a cat."
"It was there. A black one."
Nobody said anything for a bit, and then I
remembered something. I'm not sure why. Hey man," I said, looking for the
sign to route 8. "Remember that time I gave Windy The Catcher in The
Rye? And you said she wouldn't get it?"
"Yeah."
"I disagree."
"Hey-- I was kidding about Windy fag." He
laughed.
"You serious?" I looked at him. "Awww man."
"You should've seen your face though, when I told
you. I thought you were about to kick my ass."
"I was, jerky. I was gonna defend her honor."
"As if." He laughed. "As if honor exists when
you're doing it all in the fifth grade." Nobody said too much else the
rest of the way home. And I couldn’t get to sleep that night. The more I
thought about it, the more I became certain that Wilson hadn’t been
kidding about Windy. He had been kidding about his kidding.
II
Anyways, all that stuff was buzzing around in my
mind all the way through the lesson at the Brant Point Tennis Club. Their
hour lesson never lasted more than forty-five minutes, on account of Mrs.
Von Baron's asthma or something. We walked over to the bench at the side
of the court that had all of their tennis stuff on it-- I smiled and
winked at Bootsy who was sitting on my extra Wilson Profile. She'd just
gotten her hair bobbed. She was about the only member with a decent sense
of humor-- her and the guy who swept around every morning-- only he wasn't
a member.
"I like your new glasses," I told her, "they add to
your eruditeness."
She extended her foot so it rested on my shin, "you
know I don't have glasses. You're just saying that because of my
hair."
"I like your hair too, even though it detracts from
your eruditeness."
"What's eruditeness?" she asked.
"When you get it, you'll know," Mrs. Starbuck
offered. She poured herself some ice water from the pitcher that I had to
fill twenty times a day.
"Bootsy, don't you have swim practice now?"
"It's too cold to swim."
"Too cold?" Mrs. Starbuck smiled, "Drake, do you
think it's too cold?"
"Cold water's the only reason I swam all those
years."
"I don't want to swim."
"Bootsy," Mrs. Starbuck said really impatiently, "I
want you to go and get back in that water this instant."
"B.S."
"That language." Mrs. Starbuck closed her eyes.
"Barbara Streisand!" Bootsy's voice ran the gamut
of a couple of octaves.
"Right now young lady!" She pointed at the pool,
"You're developing an attitude I don't like. I don't like it at all."
"O.K., O.K. Rush said it." Bootsy said, getting up
slowly, "you don't have to yell at me. . ." She marched back towards the
pool, singing, "All in all, I'm just another brick in the pool."
Mrs. Starbuck let out a deep sigh and smiled at me,
"She used to love swimming, I don't know what's gotten in to her. If it
were up to her, she wouldn't do anything."
"Rush is a bad influence," I joked.
"There's just too much trash out there," Mrs. Von
Baron shook her head piously. "It's impossible to raise kids anymore in a
decent manner."
"Oh, and Drake, perhaps we should warn you," Mrs.
Starbuck said quietly, looking at Mrs. Von Baron, " about Mrs.
Taylor."
"Oh yes," Mrs. Von Baron said, touching my arm,
"Mrs. Taylor is going to try to book all the courts on Tuesday mornings
throughout September, and she isn't allowed to do that." She was standing
so close to me that she had to look straight up.
"She tried to do it all last year, for her and her
friends," added Mrs. Starbuck.
"And it's against the club policy which states that
one person can only sign up for one court." You could tell it was pretty
important from their expressions.
"And Mrs. Taylor and her friends have their
practices just about every other weekday, so it's only fair that others
should get to play on Tuesday."
"Those A ladies think they own the courts. And they
have a history of being real..."
"Bitches," Mrs. Starbuck laughed, covering her
mouth, "Oh, I don't believe I said that. Pardon my French." She could be a
card.
"But don't let them take advantage of you Drake, we
know you're nice, just don't be too nice. Just give them that smile of
yours and tell them no."
"Teach them to play the fair way."
"It's a matter of principles," Mrs. Von Baron said,
giving me this look, "Sherry, don't you think that he has just the most
adorable smile?"
"Definitely, if only I was fifty years younger,"
she said and they both laughed. "Oh I'm sorry Drake, are we embarrassing
you?"
"I'll get over it." I said. They were always
kidding me like that. Smiling and giving courtesy laughs-- it's what
tennis was all about at the Club. "Would you like me to sign you up for
court time for Tuesday?"
They looked at each-other, "Oh, no, not this
Tuesday, we've got to volunteer at the hospital, but somewhere on down the
line, we're going to want to play."
They left me to pick up all the balls. All two
hundred of them which formed a green carpet on their side of the net. They
never volunteered to pick up the balls, but hey, they always paid me for a
full hour lesson which never lasted too long. Country Club mothers are an
O.K. breed, but I wouldn't want to go on a camping trip with them. I
grabbed one ball hopper in each hand and started picking up the balls. The
wind swirled the grey hard-tru of the courts. I tried not to breathe the
stuff, though skin cancer will get me before lung cancer does. I kept
singing in my head this one song I had kind of been working on. Wilson and
I used to write songs all the time, and we'd played a couple of places,
but now it kinda sucked. I mean standing in a smokey room, trying to look
like you didn't care. We both played the guitar. I was always thinking up
these crazy lyrics, no matter what I was doing-- I just missed flunking
out. Princeton's a crazy place, though. I thought that everyone was going
to be really smart, but that was the brochures. Everyone was too busy
distributing "save the world" fliers to hang out. About the only reason
they'd talk to you was if they could put it on their resume.
A piece of ice landed a couple of inches away from
me. Up in the balcony overlooking the courts was the regular gang of
little kids in their swimsuits. I glanced up and they all ducked and
disappeared.
"Where'd you learn how to throw, tough-guy?"
His head popped back out of sight and the hyenas
started up again. I continued picking up the balls, whistling a loud,
corny tune. It was echoed back to me from the balcony.
"Whatya whistlen'?" a kid's voice asked from behind
me, scaring the hell out of me. It was Bootsy, wrapped in her towel from
head to toe. Her teeth were chattering.
"Dixie. That was an awfully quick practice. Sprints
today?"
"That's not how it goes," she told me.
"How does it go?"
"Can I pick up balls with you? Becket said that you
let her."
"Only if you show me how to whistle Dixie."
She made her mouth into an 'o' but all I could hear
was the hollow sound of her blowing.
"You're gonna pass out, dude."
"I did it just last week."
"Hum a few bars." She was about turning blue.
She hummed a few bars of something which almost
sounded like Dixie.
"That's it all right, but I don't know how much
good Dixie can do for you if you can't whistle it."
"I like humming better," she smiled, "In Church I
hum when everyone's singing, but mom gets mad. She says I do it too loud.
You want to hear my favorite?"
"Hum me your favorite Church tune . . . hymn."
"How about Jeremey," she said. She took a deep
breath and started humming at the top of her lungs. The grand chorus from
the balcony echoed her musical efforts. She stopped and looked up
there.
"Who's up there?!"
"Up where?" I said loudly.
"In the balcony! Stand up Jerky boys!" she commanded,
and there was utter silence.
"I am standing up."
She scowled at me. "Smart butt."
"Them, huh." I raised my voice a notch, "Today I was
going to have a contest to see who could pick up the most balls. But since
you're the only one who showed up, I guess you get the free ice cream
sandwich." Nobody stood up. Kids know when you're being corny.
Bootsy yelled, "If you don't stand up and show
yourself, I'm going to come up there and beat you up or something. . .or
I'll kiss you!" Her ultimatum was followed by the rapid thudding of bare
feet on concrete. Then Bootsy started into one of her nutty shows. She
began pacing back and forth, swinging her shoulders, her hands guns with
the thumbs and index fingers at right angles. "All right pardner." Her
towel had become a cape. "This town has no need for a men who are too
aferd to show themselves."
"Yellow dude," I corrected, "too yellow to show
themselves." It cracked me up-- she was good too, I mean you could tell
she was really very intelligent or smart or whatever--she skipped fourth
grade last year. She knew eight times more about acting than all the
Princeton drama-flamers combined.
"We need men of character and conviction." she
drawled.
"They're the best type to kiss. If you're a
cowboy."
"I wouldn't kiss any of them," Bootsy said.
"Brrrrrrrrr." She was shivering. She wrapped her towel around herself--
her cape I mean. "Except maybe Mikey Robertson."
"Is he number one on the list now?"
"No, he's wierd."
"Oh yeah?"
"You should see how he stares at me now that he
thinks I like him."
"Well hey, that'd freak me."
Bootsy's ball hopper was filling up and she had to lift
it with both hands.
"I have to give you-- Do you want to take the
stupid-idiot test?"
"You're wasting your time here-- I always ace
'em."
"You're too old to be dumb, probably. . . What
color is the sky?"
"Blue," I said, "and that's without looking."
"Umm, what color is my earring?" she asked. She
lifted up here bobbed blond hair so I could see it better.
"It's gold."
"Silver," she corrected, "be serious Drake-- where
do pickles come from?"
"Pickle trees," I said.
"This is stupid-- never mind." She grinned, cocking
her head to one side. "And so are you. What kind of drugs do they put in
your cheerios?"
"I live in a drug-free school zone." I said,
pouring my full ball hopper into the shopping cart. "I get mine from my
mom."
"Why do you say things like that?"
"Like what?"
"Like you get your drugs from your mom."
"Dude, if I told ya, I'd have to drop ya."
"Like Snoop Doggy Dogg-- I saw a picture of him."
She wrinkled her nose. "I would eat lunch with you," she said, hitching a
ride on the front of the filled cart, "but mom is taking me to the
orthodontist. I'm getting damn railroad tracks in my mouth."
"Watch it tough guy."
"All I said was darn."
"Railroads-- don't knock 'em. My grandfather drove
a caboose."
A car honked it's horn. Mrs. Starbuck was sitting
at the wheel of her black 911 Porsche. She had the top down. Bootsy
covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh no! I forgot to give you something.
"Wait mom!" She screamed about seven times louder than necessary. She ran
into the women's bathroom. I smiled and shrugged at her mom. Mrs. Starbuck
was in a hurry or something-- she wouldn’t lay off on the horn.
"Drake!" Bootsy returned, holding a white envelope.
"Wilson gave me this to give to you while you were out
on the court giving lessons. . . it's top secret." She handed it to me and
ran off towards the car. "Bye Drake, and don't forget, tomorrow we do
lunch!" Top secret had been written on the envelope:
Hey Nitz,
Last chance mission tonight. Midnight. Altar Rock.
Don't make plans. You have to be the ghost, up at the Top O' the World. I
got Chuck and those guys thinking that my great great grandfather Coffin
hung himself up at the top of the world a hundred years ago tonight, at
midnight-- hook, line and sinker. Have to mow all day. Should be back at
about seven or eight. Stop by after your last supper with Windy.
With cordial regards to you and the new house,
Wilson Coffin(The chiznit)
III
The temperature dove on that clear Nantucket
evening. Windy stood with her hands inside the arms of her sweater as I
got my jeans jacket out of the trunk for her. Tomorrow I was leaving for
college-- yesterday we'd run into each-other jogging and agreed to do
something. I thought it would be a good idea to come up to the Top O' the
World one last time. I was kidding. Nobody ever wraps up these
relationship things these days, 'cause relationships aren't supposed to
exist. To go out with someone is to oppress them for the capitalistic
patriarchy or something. I'm not kidding-- I learned it in econ. 101.
Anyways, I was freaked out-- sort of. I'd written this poem for her. I
wasn't so sure I wanted to give it to her anymore. I had the stupid thing
in my pocket.
"It's cold out," Windy said through her teeth.
"Do you want to stay?"
"If you do."
"For awhile, while there's still sun." We walked
over to the front porch and sat down. Some of the windows had been
smashed, and broken glass lay all over the place. I wasn't much in the
mood for talking. Neither one of us said anything for a long time.
"You want to go?" I asked.
"If you do. . ."
"Let's."
"Are you mad," she said before I could get up, "at
me?"
"No. . ." We just sat there for a long time, not
saying anything. The sun was getting low, and I was freezing my ass
off.
"What's wrong with you?" The way she asked it
bothered me.
"Nothing, I'm just thinking a lot. . ."
"About what? Do you want to talk about it?"
I shrugged. She was being unusually
communicative.
"You're mad at me. . ."
"No I'm not," I said, looking right at her.
"I don't know," she said, looking down, "I think
you are. . ."
"I'm not. . . It's just everything." I waved my
hands about.
"Oh boy," she sighed. I saw her kinda look down at
her watch. "You shouldn't take things personally."
"Especially life."
"I just don't get you. I mean I never got you. I
totally admire you, but you start in on the littlest thing, and you make
it into something huge."
"Awww man. Something's messed up out there. You're
looking through the wrong end of the telescope. You always look--" I sat
up and took a deep breath. "I mean it just seems tough on everyone to make
things work. Every time I try to do something-- it seems like there's just
this total indifference out there. I mean I want things to matter. I feel
stupid as hell trying to tell you this. It's none of my business, even
though we said we loved each-other and all that and did all the things or
whatever. And that cracks me up. 'Cause those things were sacred once. And
they meant something. And there was this context or community or whatever
which supported the eternal part of love-- not all the infatuation stuff,
which fades no matter who or what probably, but like the deeper promises
that you feel not in your heart, and not in your mind, but like in your
soul. I mean I just don't know what to do. Like today you just date around
and after enough people it all falls into place, like when you've been
divorced seventeen times? Where's the honor in that? Everything’s so
pagan. Where's the meaning? Things could--"
"You have to do what you like." She was squinting
in the sun.
"Yeah, that's Wilson's religion too."
She looked at me. She knew I knew, but I was
surprised she let on. I was surprised she just didn't let it slide, along
with all the rest of entirety. "Who told you?"
I shrugged. "The cat." The black cat had snuck up
behind me and poked it's head out in-between my arm and body, its whiskers
just barely brushing my arm. When it meowed it sounded just like a kid
crying. It had white paws and a white nose. Wilson had missed it. Or at
least it had a few lives left.
She looked at me, the way they sometimes do, "You
don't know how bad I felt about it."
"Feelings for those who will never feel."
Her sky-blue eyes fixed on me. "What'd he tell
you?"
"Hey kitty." I scratched the cat behind her ears.
"Tell Windy what you told me."
"It's not a perfect world."
"Yeah-- but I don't confuse myself with it."
"Uhhh." She shook her head and laughed. "OK, like
you're perfect." Windy reached out for the cat and it hissed, arching its
back. "How many people have you slept with?"
I didn't say anything, and she answered her own
question.
"Sixteen-- so you could have sixteen kids out there
right now, maybe more."
"As if they wouldn't tell me."
"So you would've married them."
"I would’ve asked them about it."
"Even if it wasn't right."
I laughed. "It would've been right."
"So then we would've never happened. OK, I see it
all now. The only reason you went out with me is that you failed to get
anyone pregnant. Now there's a sign of a deep, quality relationship-- I'm
just another. . ."
"At least you are."
She maintained her stoic composure. "If you ever
come down off your high horse and realize it’s not a perfect world, you
might have a chance of enjoying life."
"A chance would’ve been nice." She didn’t flinch.
"And I know it’s not a perfect world, but it's the way I dream. You know?
It’s never been a perfect world, but at least it seems that men once
strove for ideals, and that concepts like honor and duty and a respect for
the innocent and unborn endowed their lives with profound meaning. I'm
afraid that someday I might wake up and find myself accepting all the
Barbara Streisand of your drugged out sex-today-abort-tomorrow-for a
Porsche-Rolling-Sto--"
She slapped me. "Don't make fun of Evie's
religion."
She grabbed my keys and made for the car. The wind
was blowing her hair back, and the soft pink light made her look pretty as
hell. Love is about the only four letter word they don't teach in school,
and I didn't understand it. For it made little sense to have loved that
which you never liked. She jumped in the driver’s side without opening the
door, and I got up and ran to it—I remembered what happened the last time
she tried to drive my stick.
She had the MG started when I jumped on in.
"Dude, I'll drive."
She put it in first and let the clutch in. The
engine would've dropped out had we not been on gravel. We tore down the
hill with the stones flying everywhere, chipping paint of the rear sides
of the car. I reached over for the parking break and she threw a punch at
my head. And then, just as she was shifting into second, a cat darted out
in front of us. A Ford Explorer was barreling along from the other
direction and thick pines lined the road, so she couldn’t have swerved
even had she wanted. Trapped somewhere between man and nature, I felt the
sickening bump. Windy didn't blink, and I didn't look back, 'cause I knew
what I'd see. She put the car in third, and like calmed down a bit, so I
figured I'd let her drive on home. I didn't feel like driving.
Dressing up as a ghost tonight seemed like the
perfect thing to do. Halfway home I looked over at Windy, and she had the
exact same pout on her face that she had had back at the Coffin's. The
same pout she used in that one perfume ad she'd been in last year-- only
here she was wearing something. She drove on home to the big old Starbuck
mansion and stopped at the bottom of the driveway.
"It could've been yours. Maybe I just didn't want
to hear you bitch about it." She got out and slammed the door. I sat there
and watched her walk all the way up her driveway. I thought of putting the
poem I wrote for her in her mailbox, but I didn't, I wasn't in the mood. I
just watched her walk.
II
I considered going home to get a sheet for my ghost
disguise, but my parents would've held one of their grand interrogations.
They were here for the week, living in the tiny cottage my grandfather had
left in his will. He’d bought it for $149 fifty years ago. About a month
ago some investment banker offered him $800,000 for the property, but
there was no way I was ever letting anyone sell it. You'd think a year at
college for me would've my parents a bit, but no-- every time I left a
house they were in, they grilled me about my philosophy on life. Anyways,
you don't need a sheet to be a ghost-- that's stereotyping. The DJ on the
radio said it was seven-twenty, and I headed over to Wilson's.
There were no cars in his driveway. His mom was
never home-- she practically lived in Switzerland. She'd won a Gold Medal
for downhill in the Olympics, and now she was a big-time ski-instructor. I
have no idea why she settled in Nantucket-- not to raise a family or
anything. I walked up to the door, rang the bell, and went on in. There
was no sign of the Indian butler who took care of the house. Chief. His
name was Chief-- at least that's what everyone had always called him.
Rumor had it that Chief descended from the original Wampanoag tribe who
had bestowed the name of Nantucket upon the island, as the word meant "far
off land." Wilson lived in a huge old house, and Chief was always popping
up all over the place. You'd be in the shower or something, and he'd hand
you the soap. I turned on the old MTV, just for a change. I turned it off.
Wilson and I hadn't cut our hair for a year. We had a bet. It's a good
conversation starter-- long hair I mean.
The back of Wilson's split-level house consisted of
huge glass window-walls. It overlooked the Sankaty Head Golf Course. In
the evening it could be pretty, like it was tonight. There's a large marsh
just beyond his backyard-- the setting sun reflects off of the sparkling
water, through the salt cattails, projecting rippling waves all over
everything in the room. I picked up the phone to call Cindy. I dialed her
number, but I hung up as soon as it rang. She was my girlfriend from a
couple of years ago-- I didn't really feel like talking to her. I could
predict exactly what we'd say. If I called her she'd go, "are you psyched
to back to school," and I would say that I was, like I had to. We'd talk
about the summer for a minute, agree to do e-mail, and say good-bye. It
would've been dumb, considering I'd seen her twice over the summer. I held
the phone for awhile, trying to think of someone to call. No-one came to
mind.
There was a party or something somewhere-- I could
hear music and voices-- barely. I got up and walked out the sliding doors,
on to the brick patio. It was still warm from the afternoon sun. The
crickets grew louder, and I could tell that the voices and music were
coming from somewhere on the other side of the golf course. Not directly
west where the sun had just sank, but a bit Southwest, behind some small
hills about a quarter of a mile off which helped to make the sixteenth
hole the hardest. Wilson and I had gone sledding there one Christmas, a
long time ago. His grandfather once told us that he was sure that they
were Indian burial mounds. Maybe Chief was hanging around to guard them. I
recognized the bass line of John Lennon's "Imagine," and suddenly I was
thinking about this one crazy night with Windy out on the fifth green. . .
everything reminded me of her. . .I stood on the edge of a fairway
for awhile, looking out over the golf course. The wind shifted and the
music became louder. I went back in the house, put my old tennis shoes on,
and set out across the golf course. It felt ten times better to be
outside, moving along under the stars. The air was cool and dew had
already formed on the grass-- it wouldn't rain tomorrow. I knew it would
be a long time until I would see skies as clear as these. I looked up to
see if I could pick out all the summer constellations I used to know. Now
that I knew the names for the stars, the wonder had been blunted. I kept
on thinking that the little scotch pine trees were people. The Chief. From
the top of the first hill, I could see for miles around me because
everything else was so flat. Lookout Point is what we used to call it, and
if you looked East, you could see the shimmering blue of the open Atlantic
away off in the distance. I picked out the lights of a freighter heading
South, and breathed in the fresh salt air which you get so used to, as it
pervades all. From up here the music and the voices were almost distinct,
even though the immense gathering was still a good half mile away. The
hostess lived in the old tower house. We always called it the tower house
because it has this medieval tower rising above its green copper roofs.
Mary Starbuck had had it built back before Melville’s day with a small
whaling fortune, before she became a Quaker and found the premises too
exquisite for a Quaker’s humble tastes. It had traded families over the
years, before they converted half of it into the Nantucket whaling museum.
The Starbucks lived in the other half now, as they’d traded their
spiritual heritage back in for their material one. Their father had
nothing to do with the Starbuck coffee company, which was named after the
first mate of the Pequod in Moby Dick, but rather he’d acquired a
small fortune by representing Microsoft. Melville had chosen the name for
the stalwart Quaker character in his novels after having noticed the
prominence of the Starbuck name while passing through Nantucket. The three
Starbuck daughters went by Windy, Courtney, and Bootsy, and during my few
summers of teaching tennis on Nantucket, I’d been close with the eldest
and the youngest, while having barely known Courtney at all.
There was a big swimming pool in her back yard, and
as I got closer, I discerned that it was her sister's party. Courtney's, I
mean. She was a sophomore in high-school. I walked past a few couples
wandering on the golf course and smelled the sweet scent of weed. It made
me sick. By the time I was at the perimeter, I'd recognized three faces.
Everyone looked about ten years younger than me-- baggy pants, attempted
goatees, everyone smoking the obligatory clove. I was feeling thirsty and
I spotted a keg, so I walked on over to it and got myself drink.
The million lights lit the yard bright as day. Some
guys were throwing screaming girls into the swimming pool. There were
about a thousand different groups standing and sitting all over the yard.
A lot of people had a bunch of crap in their face-- rings and stuff. There
was this really tan girl wearing a yellow polo shirt and a white
mini-skirt looking at me, and I smiled over and she smiled back. Her legs
were dark, and she was wearing a gold bracelet on her ankle. I had bought
one for my sister last Christmas. Some guy with his hair slicked back came
up and put his arm around her.
I decided to split the scene and head on back to
Wilson's-- hang out with Chief. Maybe he could give me a few tips on
haunting houses. I felt a tugging at my jacket. It was Bootsy.
She was wearing this huge REM t-shirt which
practically went down to her ankles.
"Whoa, am I glad to see a rock 'n' roll rebel I
know." I smiled, "What's up?"
"Just the sky," she said, "for the eightieth time."
She was holding a book behind her back. Probably one of those corny Judy
Blume pre-porns I'd teased her about.
"Getting a head start on your glory teenage
years?"
"I can never sleep when Courtney has her parties.
If I close my window, it gets too hot, and then I really can't
sleep--"
"It's freezing tonight."
"I got you a going away present." She said.
"Cool dude-- I'll be back next year ya know."
"Where's your car parked? It's for your car. I have
to put it on the mirror."
"It's not here right now, but I'll--"
"What, did you fly here?" She asked.
"I walked here."
"From your house?"
"I walked from Wilson's."
"Never mind then," she said really impatiently,
kind of rolling her eyes at me. "I'll send it to you or something." I
didn't tell her that I didn't take the car to school-- I could picture my
dad driving the Mustang to tennis with a pair of fuzzy dice, as it became
his weekend car when I returned to school. Bootsy put her left foot on
mine. "Can I ask you something--"
"You just did--" I said. "Is this another
test?"
"I was calling you all night, but your mom kept
answering-- I wanted to ask you over the phone."
"What?"
"You'll get mad at me." She looked at me, like I
had done something. "You'll never trust me again."
"Yes I will," I told her, "I'll always trust you."
I put out my hand for our secret handshake that she'd taught me.
"Promise you won't get mad at me?"
"Promise, Scouts' honor." I held up my three
fingers. "A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, court. .
."
"I know, I know." She stood up on her tiptoes and
pulled down on my shoulder. She started whispering, "I know what you and
Wilson are doing tonight."
"You read my top-secret?!" I said really
indignantly. I was joking her of course.
"Sorry," she said. "Are you mad at me?"
"I should be," I said, "but it wasn't a top top
secret."
"So you're not mad at me?"
"Not really." I said. "Though that's not to say
that someday someone might betray you-- and then what could you tell them,
knowing what you did to me?"
"Can I go with you? I made a ghost costume and
everything."
"No," I laughed. "Your mom would kill you-- then
you would be one."
"I won't tell her."
"Then who's going to drive you there?"
"You will," she grabbed my arm with both hands and
stood on her tip-toes, "Pleeeease?"
"It depends-- Are you reading The Great Brain?"
She shook her head. "I'll pick up balls for you all
next year."
"Or are you reading that Are you There God, It's
Me, Drake?"
That's when I recognized Mrs. Starbuck walking
towards us. "Bootsy, your mom's on the prowl. Make like a bush or
something."
She looked and put her hand over her mouth. "Uh oh,
she's looking for me!" she said, ducking behind me, "don't move!" I
watched as Mrs. Starbuck navigated through the indifferent partiers-- I
wasn't too hot about the idea of Bootsy hiding behind me. At least I
wasn't the oldest one here anymore. I ducked my head down and hid behind
the brim of my baseball cap.
"Tell me when the coast is clear," Bootsy
whispered.
"Sure thing dude."
"I'm not a dude!"
"Dudette," I corrected myself. I looked down as her
mother passed by and continued on in the wrong direction. She had her hair
tied back-- she looked really young. "All right," I whispered, "the coast
is clear, now scram!" I said, giving her a little smack on her behind,
"and don't let the golf course get you!" Whatever that meant.
"Will you pick me up before you go?"
"If it were daytime," I told her, "I'd have no
hesitation, it's just that you should really--"
"All right all right all right," she said. You
could tell she was pretty annoyed with me. "All I know is that I'd take
you." She turned and walked off.
"Write me!" I called after her.
I had absolutely no excuse to hang around anymore
now that the most intelligent girl had left the party. I got up and headed
out through the crowd-- I saw this girl walking towards me who I
recognized from somewhere. She had a white tank top on and long,
light-brown hair. Her eyes were darker than her hair.
"What are you doing here?" She smiled.
"I'm the accidental tourist," I told her, but she
didn't hear it because of the music, and I repeated it into her ear.
"Oh, are you going to write a good review?" she
asked. She'd seen the stupid movie.
"I taught you tennis a few years ago."
She gave it her best courtesy laugh and tossed her
hair back. When you think of pretty eyes, you think of green or blue, but
her eyes were pretty as hell, and they were black.
"Who're you here with?"
"Nobody-- I heard it from across the Golf course, I
was at Wilson Richardson's"
"Wil!" she said, like he was her long lost pal,
"How's he doing?"
"Same, I guess, what's your name?" I asked. She was
wearing a thin golden necklace with a small cross.
"Jenny," she said, "You're Drake, you go to Yale
and you just finished your first year."
"No, not jail." I said. "I go to Prison."
"You're majoring in writing and the first time you
ever had sex was at Chuck Allen's house, with Cindy," she giggled, "and
you think blow jobs and things are gross."
"Where is he?" I said.
"Who?" She laughed, and I felt his arm around my
shoulder.
"Drake man." Wilson was wearing a torn G'n'R
t-shirt. My t-shirt. "This is Jenny," Wilson said, putting his other arm
around her, "and this, this needs no introduction. . .this is the number
one Tough-guy." He was stoned. "Are you in on the mission?"
"Hell yeah." I said.
"What mission?" Jenny asked.
"Uh oh," Wilson said, "A third party heard from."
He laughed. "Tell Drake your life's mission."
"Huh?"
"You know, about your future plans and all."
"Why?"
"Tell him what you were just telling me, don't be
shy dude."
"Why?" she said, really indignantly, "you're
being queer."
Wilson shook his head. "She's going to be a model.
She's already been in Seventeen Magazine. Her mom won't let her
model until her grades come up, but I'm sure she's smart enough to do
both." Jenny shot a confused look at him. "She's sixteen and some day
she's going to go be a famous actress. She says that she wants to do it,
before she grows old and get wrinkles. That's a wonderful world out there,
full of creative geniuses, she ought to fit right in, you think?"
"Why are you making fun of me?" she kind of tilted
her head to one side.
"Do you think there's more to life than just
looking good? It depresses me, but I can't kid myself, like Drake does.
Did you ever read Nietzsche's The Birth of Tragedy?"
"Of course, there's a lot more to life, but it's
more fun," she smiled. You could tell she was trying to play along. "I
would hate being ugly."
"Hey-- answer the question. You read
Nietzsche?"
She gave him this look.
"Nietzsche said we need more people like you in
this world, to make it such a beautiful place. Nietzsche wrote it when he
was twenty-five. You read Nietzsche?"
"You know, just because someone is good-looking,
that doesn't mean that they're an airhead."
"That's not what he was saying at all. Nietzsche
knew that the most beautiful were the smartest-- the Greeks."
"My dad said insecure people are always quoting
from books." She smiled.
"Yeah," he smiled, "it's my will to power-- to
control your beauty with my Truth. And I'll tell ya-- I know a hell of a
lot you'll never see. Do you know what a supra man is?"
"I know everything I need to," she said.
"Then you're not a very curious person."
"I know you want to kiss me." She said. "And I know
you need a life."
"Thus spake Zaruthstra," Wilson called after
her.
I looked at Wilson. "Alright, let's go."
"If she's old enough to want it, she's old enough
to have it." He looked at me. "Tell me you didn't want her. Just 'cause
you go to Princeton doesn't mean you're exempt. All it means is that you
go to Princeton."
It was getting on towards midnight. "I've got to
split and go back to your house and get the car. You've got to get Chuck
and Kozak and those guys up to the house."
"Don' worry 'bout it." Wilson said. "They're all
here. They're getting high out front. They're getting high so they can
pretend they got into Princeton. Do you read books there?"
"Enough to know that a little learning's a
dangerous thing. So you're going to bring them up there? At twelve?"
"What the hell are you so worried about?" He lit a
cigarette. "Don't worry so much." He took a drag off it, opened his mouth
as if to say something, and then closed it again. He turned to leave, and
then turned back to me, taking a few small backwards steps. "I never did
like you." He looked me in the eye.
"So?" I said. "You didn't like your kid all that
much either."
He stopped, took a step back towards me. "My
what?"
"You know, tough guy."
He laughed. "That was Windy's gig." He laughed
again. "You’re so damn heavy—you’re bringing the whole world down."
"I’m just saying where it is."
"That was Windy’s gig."
"I guess." I said. "If you don't believe in
ghosts."
I turned and began walking away. I turned back.
"Didn't Nietzsche say God was dead?" I asked.
He turned and looked at me.
"Well Nietzsche's dead."
The smart thing to do would have been to just go on
home and get some sleep after leaving the Starbuck's. I still had to pack
for school. The golf course spooked the hell out of me on the way back-- I
kept expecting one of the little pine trees to turn into Chief, and come
after me with a tomahawk or something. By the time I got back to the
Wilson's, I was winded from running. There were no lights on in the house,
just flickering shadows from the big-screen T.V. That's how Chief watched
his T.V.-- every single night-- he always turned off every light in the
house. I didn't waste any time getting the hell out of there.
I put the radio on, not too loud or anything-- I
was in a mellow sort of mood, and I headed over to the MacGregor's house.
I couldn't get old Windy out of my brain-waves. I shouldn't have said all
that stuff. I am pretty damn judgmental. I’ll admit it. I know
people say you’re not supposed to be, as Jesus didn’t approve, but the
thing is he does. All he said was that you ought to forgive people, but
the thing is, you’re supposed to judge them first. For without judgment
there can be no wrong, and without wrong there can be no right.
About halfway to The Top O' The World I got the
weirdest spooked-out feeling-- I swear to God I have ESP or a sixth sense
or something. Everyone's always telling me I'm psychic. I craned my neck
and looked over into the back seat. There she was, lying on the floor,
looking up at me.
"How'd ya know?" Bootsy asked, popping her head up, "I
didn't make any noise." She was pretty disappointed.
"I just knew," I kind of laughed, only my voice was
shaking all over the place. "It kind of made sense."
"Don't take me home!" She climbed over into the
front seat. She had a white sheet with her.
"I've got to," I said, driving slowly, looking for
a place to make a U-turn.
"Nooo," she said. She wanted to go pretty badly.
"It's your last night here."
"I'll be back," I said.
"That's what my dad said one year ago today."
I looked over at her. She was biting her lip. "Awww
man-- it was rough out there for a lot of our parents."
"Yeah, right." She said and went back to biting her
lip.
"It's not that long," I told her, "Besides, we'll
keep in touch. You’d better email me. This night will seem like yesterday
next May. I promise you."
Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here had come on
the radio, and Bootsy started singing along-- she knew all the words. I
looked over at her and watched her put her seatbelt on. She was on the
small side, even for a fifth grader, and she took shoulder strap and put
it behind her head. She looked pretty as all hell in the green light
coming from the from the dashboard, her bobbed hair and all. I looked back
at the road. I was about to cry.
"Drake," she whispered, "What's wrong?" I didn't
say anything-- I couldn't really talk--and all of a sudden she was sitting
right next to me. She had put her hand on my shoulder. "If you want to
take me home it's OK."
"No," I swallowed.
"Drake," she repeated, "Maybe we can both go home--
if you want. Are you mad at Windy?" "No," I laughed. "We're almost
there."
"I'm sorry," she said. She still had her hand on my
shoulder. "It's rough on you guys too. I would've wanted it too."
"Jesus." I sighed. She knew.
"Couldn't you have sued Windy to have it?"
"It wasn't mine, dude."
"Whose was it?"
"Awww man, it doesn't matter." I took a deep
breath. "It's just that. . ." I said, "but I don't want to say that-- too
many people saying how everything's messed up. There's a whole industry
devoted to it, and they keep messing it up more. I mean you're not, and
that's enough. It was all of ours." I wiped a tear with the back of my
hand. "You believe in ghosts?"
"Hell yeah." She nodded right away. "Heck yeah I
mean. People have to go somewhere-- it wouldn't make any sense
otherwise."
"Socrates and Jesus would’ve agreed." I turned some
stupid grunge band off. My life didn't want a soundtrack. She took her
hand off my shoulder and just sat there, looking straight ahead and
whispering something. We passed the ancient Entering Coffin Country sign.
"What're you whispering?" I asked her.
"Take the top down and the wind'll tell you."
It was freezing out, but I pulled over and took the
top down. And that's how we drove the rest of the way there.
Soon after the passing cornfields turned into
trees, we began our ascent out of the Valley. I hung a right onto the dirt
road and drove up through the willows, not slowing down or anything.
Broken branches covered us when I burst out into the clearing. I slammed
on the brakes and skidded-- Bootsy got a kick out of my driving. My
brights lit up the MacGregor house. The cloud of dust stirred up by my car
slowly drifted across it. I sat there for a good minute-- there was
nothing spooky about the old house at all. I parked the car a couple
hundred feet away from it, behind some bushes. There was no moon out, and
the house was defined by its absence: a black silhouette against the
starred night. The Great Point Light threw its faint glint periodically
across the sky. We got out and walked towards the house, Bootsy a little
in front of me.
"It's so quiet," she whispered. The sea breeze
which usually prevailed had died.
I hopped up onto the porch and tried the door, but
it was locked. I gave it a few good kicks, but it didn't give. I picked up
a board and banged on the door handle for about a half an hour until it
finally bent and snapped off. I practically broke every toe in my foot
when I gave the door this one big kick; it 'd been nailed shut.
"Maybe we should climb in a window," she
suggested.
"They're all nailed shut." I picked up the board to
throw it through the window, but I didn't. I didn't feel like being a
ghost. Not if it meant breaking the window-- I couldn't help thinking
about the awful noise it would make. I put the board down and turned to
Bootsy. She was kneeling, stroking a cat. A black cat with white paws. She
looked up at me.
"You want to go home?" I asked.
"Home?" Bootsy said, "You don't want to be a ghost
tonight?" She picked up the cat. "This cat looks just like Mittens."
I walked over and stroked the cat behind the ears.
"Not really in the mood, dude."
"He must live here," Bootsy said, putting the cat
down. "Can I take him?"
"No-- he's got a home." Right then she did the
weirdest thing-- she took my hand-- I mean it was cool, but it wasn't
exactly something you would expect someone barely eleven years old to do.
We walked back to the car, Bootsy kind of leading the way. She climbed in
the car on the driver's side, and sat right in the middle. She turned the
radio on and put it on AM. She found that one Smashing Pumpkins song, but
then Rush's voice cut across it. "He's funny." She put her head on my
shoulder and dozed off. I could tell 'cause she started snoring. She slept
the whole way back. Rush was saying, "We've come to the point where it's
considered sophisticated and smart to see nothing but gray areas and
nuances. . . Moderates who take pride in their lack of ideological
conviction are held up as paragons of wisdom. And anyone who does take a
stand, who does dare tell the truth, is vilified, impugned, castigated,
and greeted with a cacophony of indignation. My friends, this is a
prescription for a new Dark Ages." I was gonna skip class to listen to him
next year. I stopped a couple of houses down the road before hers, down on
Perkins, so that her mother wouldn't see me. I got this idea. I nudged
Bootsy and reached in my back pocket for the envelope. I looked-- I hadn't
put Windy's name on it.
"Bootsy, hey kid, we're home." I handed her the
poem. "Hey there-- wake up. We're home." I cut the engine and lights, and
rolled to a stop infront of her house. "Here's something I wrote-- it was
a cool summer, dude." I don't think she woke up, not completely anyways. I
mean she'd let me call her dude with protesting. I watched her walk across
her lawn and down the side of her house, dragging her ghost sheet. The
silence was of the most perfect kind.
I waited a few minutes to make sure she’d gotten in
safely. Then I restarted the car, and soon as I got out of earshot of
Bootsy's house, I floored it. I turned Rush up as loud as he'd go, and I
roared on back towards The Top O' The World. About a mile away I
noticed it. There was a flickering glare of yellow and orange shadows up
on the hill, just beneath a giant plume of gray. They'd lit the house on
fire.
Driving up through the weeping Willows, I saw the
headlights of like five Jeeps and Explorers coming on down. Nobody was
gonna get by. I stopped and got out. There was Wilson's Cherokee. I went
for it. I heard Windy. "Drake! Oh my God, Drake! We thought you were in
the house!" She was crying. She ran up to hug me.
"I was." I said. I walked by her to where Wilson
was getting out of the car. I walked up to him. He was taller than me. We
just stood there for a small eternity.
"He's got a gun!" Somebody said.
I just stared into his eyes. People'd gotten out,
and they were standing around. Everyone was perfectly silent, waiting for
the first swing to be taken in the dancing shadows. He had this stupid gun
tucked in his pants.
"You're over-dressed dude," I told him. "They
aren't filming."
Then everyone heard it. A soft crying broke the
silence. The cat stood up on its hind legs in-between us and pawed me,
looking up and meowing. "Owe," I said, bending down and picking it up.
"Watch those claws, buddy." I looked at Wilson. "You believe in ghosts?" I
heard sirens off in the distance.
"You guys have a story to tell." I picked up the
cat, turned around, got back in my car, and headed home. Bootsy would be
glad to have it.
IV.
I caught the eight AM ferry to the Cape the next day.
Before I left I asked my mom to take the cat over to the Starbuck's. I
stood at the front of the ferry, not looking back, knowing that if I ever
returned to Nantucket, it would be as a ghost.
And just one more thing here which'll freak
everyone out whose ever taken an English course or anything, 'cause I'm
gonna break the most fundamental rule, and I'm gonna preach, and pass
judgment on all that happened. 'Cause I think that that's what's going on
here. It used to be OK to care about things. It used to be that people
didn't grow up being told that there's no good or bad or right or wrong
and that everything's just gray and everything.
I'm no historian or anything, but about all I know
is that when I look at my grand-parents I get a sense that there once was
this thing called honor. And defending it was what kept 'em together. They
both did it. Nobody was oppressing anybody-- they were in it together. And
I think it's tough to defend honor when most people don't want anything to
do with it, 'cause they think it gets in the way of their freedom. But the
thing is, you can't have freedom without moral responsibility. I mean you
can't have life. I know it's an antique, oppressive way of thinking, and
all, but maybe it's what's needed to keep people from killing that which
they conceive. I'm sorry I broke the postmodern rules here, and ruined the
story for the trained reader, but that's what I was trying to say.
And I don't think you can keep God out of things
for long, for even if nobody mentions Him, or talks about Him, or brings
Him up, or anything, there'll still be some Bootsy somewhere, and she'll
still know right from wrong, 'cause the thing is, He's inside the kids.
All I'm saying is that this is what Nantucket will always mean to me, and
that it'll always be cool, 'cause it was in the midst of the Grey Lady’s
fogs where I learned to believe in ghosts.
