Pike's Folly (10 page)

When they arrived at Alice Shepperton's farmhouse, she felt drained by the conversation. Every comment of hers—even those that she'd screened carefully beforehand—was challenged, Celia extrapolating from them all manner of political subtext until Allison began to feel categorized, stereotyped and completely written-off. Celia's judgments were nothing that Allison hadn't heard before. She was naive like her father, spoiled rotten like her mother. Like Mom, a ditzy throwback to the 1950s; like Dad, a limousine liberal with decades of guilt to burn. Coming from Celia, this hurt more than it would've from Nathaniel Pike. Allison didn't care what Pike thought, but Celia—Celia was cool! Funky and sassy, a badass bitch. Allison wanted to be a Celia when she got to be that age. Not a Renee, or a Gregg Reese. Not a Reese at all.

The farmhouse was at the end of a long gravel road that curved through the forest until it came out onto a few acres of lawn covered with a dirty-looking layer of snow. A smaller cabin was connected to the main house by a trail of many footprints, and from a stone chimney rose smoke that looked pale against the black sky. Five cars were lined up in front of the house, and Allison parked next to a green-and-white Microbus. “Are you sure this is okay?” she asked, but Celia had already pushed the door open and was moving around to the front of the car. Allison grabbed her bag and followed.

The door to the house was unlocked, and Celia made quick business of introducing Allison to Alice Shepperton, who was stirring something in a mixing bowl with a long wooden spoon.

“We're having an all-dessert dinner tonight,” Alice said, setting the spoon down to shake Allison's hand. “I'm making banana brownies, Leah's got a batch of sugar-nut cookies in the oven, and
someone's
supposed to bring a cheesecake.”

Looking ahead into a vast and dark hearth, Allison could see a gathering of young people slumped in front of the fireplace, some lying prone on the furniture and others sitting cross-legged on the bare wood floor playing Trivial Pursuit. The warm smell of the cookies—and the sweet cedar fire, and the varnish on the cherry-plank walls—made her smile, and she proceeded farther into the house, leaving her bag and her wet boots by the door. Alice hurried ahead to introduce her to the other kids, none of whom seemed particularly interested, beyond a nod and a casual “ 'Sup?” A giant bong rose like a minaret in the middle of the group, surrounded by beer cans and plastic soda bottles. Up close, Allison could tell that the kids weren't her age but more like sixteen or seventeen, nineteen tops. To them she was a grown-up, an intruder from a generation that had already failed, unlike their own generation, which was unique and would never fail.

Alice and Celia went off to attend to their brownies, and Allison was left to watch the Trivial Pursuit players move their colored tokens around the circular board. After a long dry spell during which no one was able to answer a single question, a girl with blond dreadlocks finally won the game (Q: What early member of the Beatles died of a brain hemorrhage in 1962?). Allison soon grew tired of being ignored, so she ventured back to the kitchen, where the kids' boots were lined up along one wall. Alice and Celia were sitting at a butcher-block table with a bottle of Chianti between them.

Alice offered her a glass of wine, but even here she didn't feel completely welcome. For all the drinking and smoking, no one seemed to be having any fun. She wondered what her mother was up to. With her mom, Allison was free to do anything she pleased. If she wanted to put on a tight dress and vampy high heels, Renee would put on her own dress and pumps, and together they'd head down to the West End, take in a show, then go for dessert and drinks, then more drinks and dancing at another club across town. If, the next morning, Allison felt like chilling in her jeans and a T-shirt, her mom would be cool with that, too, and Allison wouldn't have to worry about maintaining the same persona from the night before. Renee was the least judgmental person in the world. She expected a certain inconsistency out of life and, like Allison, mistrusted those who went from day to day in the same earnest, predictable fashion.

Catching herself, Allison decided not to think about her mom. For all of her good qualities, Renee lacked the traits Allison always associated with independent women—like Celia, or even Cathy Diego. They had strong points of view; if you asked one of them about, say, NAFTA, they'd offer a strong opinion, good, bad or otherwise. It didn't matter what the opinion
was.
It was enough just to have one. Allison wanted to be like Celia, not like her mother, who had no opinions except of restaurants and orchestra conductors and the best places to score coke.

Sitting down at the table, Allison peeked at a stack of paperwork that the women had set aside. The sheet on the top had a picture of Pike with the caption, “This man is a war criminal.”

“We're disagreeing about the flyers, Allison, so maybe you can help.” Alice took a page from the stack and passed it to her. “I think it's too strident.”

“Not strident enough,” Celia grumbled. “I think it should say, ‘This man, this
canker sore,
this
son of a bitch,
has made a career out of throwing his money around without any care or thought of the consequences.' ”

Just like my father,
Allison thought.

“Even if that's true,” Alice said, “let's not lose the high road to Nathaniel Pike.”

“Don't worry about it.” Celia poured herself some more Chianti, giving Allison the last little splash from the bottle. “The only people who listen to Pike are freaks and malcontents. And highly impressionable multimillionaires.”

Allison knew that this was her cue to come to her father's defense, but she didn't feel like it. It wasn't that she didn't care about the parking lot anymore; she just wanted it to go away for a while.

“We need to be careful,” Alice warned Celia. “We've got our own radical factions at the SPNHF. That old-school agitprop ain't gonna cut it. It did when
we
were in school but not today. Let's just have a nice, orderly demonstration.” She turned to Allison. “What do you think?”

A nice, orderly demonstration sounded about right to Allison. “I agree,” she said. “I'd rather not go to jail over a parking lot.”

Celia slapped the table. “No, no! This isn't about a
parking
lot.
This strikes at the heart of who we are as Americans.”

Too late, Allison caught her mistake. “I didn't mean—”

“If Nathaniel Pike wants to spend his money, let him give it to a worthy cause. This is not a worthy cause. This is a perversion.”

“No, I know, it totally is.”

“As Americans, we have an obligation to lead responsible lives. No one's going to
make
us do it. There's no Hitler, no Stalin. No one's sticking a gun down our throats. It's all up to us. This country is ours to preserve or to squander, and that is why we must
squash
men like Nathaniel Pike, who don't respect their own responsibilities and who live in decadence when they should be helping others.”

“Without a doubt.” Not for the first time today, Allison realized, she'd said the wrong thing. “I mean, it's like . . . he's such an asshole.”

She excused herself and went back to the main room, where the kids had left the Trivial Pursuit pieces and quiz cards on the floor and had brought out an acoustic guitar, along with a few bongos and tambourines. An electric bass was plugged into an amp, and its booming sound overwhelmed all the other instruments.

Putting on her jacket, she took her cell phone outside and called her mother. It would be past midnight in London, but Renee usually stayed up until two or three. They hadn't spoken in over a week, so it took a few minutes to bring her up to speed. When Allison finished talking, Renee said, “Sounds perfectly awful. Why don't you spend Christmas with me?”

Allison moved farther down the porch to get away from the music. Even though she'd been hoping that her mother would invite her over, she felt bad anyway. She didn't want to think of herself as running away from a challenge. Being a strong, independent woman meant sticking with something, not just flitting from one distraction to another. “Mom, I can't just leave. Everyone's talking about Daddy like he's some kind of monster—like he's Nathaniel Pike. It's so unfair.”

As expected, Renee had no sympathy for this. “Allie, let your father fight his own battles. Now, look, I can wire you a plane ticket. I think there's a direct from Logan to Heathrow.”

“Not
now,
Mom.”

“Then later in the week. I'll pay for the ticket, and you can pick whatever date you'd like. Come out for New Year's.”

Allison could tell that a definite no was out of the question, so she said, “I'll think about it. It's expensive to fly to London.”

“I said I'd pay for it.”

“I know you did.” Allison cupped her hand around the cell phone and turned her back to the wind. “I don't want you to spend that much money.”

“Don't you want to see me?”

“Of course I do. I just want to have a quiet holiday.”

“We will!”

“On Ibiza?”

“I can cancel that. We don't have to go to Ibiza. We can stay right here. We'll find something to do around the house.”

“I already have something to do. I'm not in college anymore, Mom. I can't just hang out and go to clubs and . . . live off my parents.”

“But for
Christmas,
honey.” The English accent was showing in Renee's voice.

Allison snapped, “I
told
you, I can't—”

“New Year's! I'm sorry, I meant to say New Year's. Actually, I believe I'm spending Christmas in the country with Fabrice. You'll have to take the train to Gloucester if you come before Boxing Day.”

Having put up enough resistance, Allison no longer felt so guilty about humoring her mother, and she even allowed herself to enjoy the idea of spending a few days—days, weeks, whatever—in Europe. “Well, maybe. But don't spend a lot of money on a ticket, because depending on what goes on down here, I may have to back out.”

“That's fine,” Renee chirped. “Tourist on BA is just as good as first class. Pity about what happened in New York. You'll have a long wait at security.”

It was agreed that a ticket would be waiting for Allison at Logan; if she needed to cancel or change the date, she could do it either online or in person. When she got off the phone, Allison felt that she hadn't done wrong since she hadn't committed to anything.

Back inside, she told Alice and Celia that she was tired and wanted to go to bed. Alice gave her a sleeping bag, then showed her to the guest cabin, where the other kids were also staying. It was heated by a giant space heater, but she could still feel the cold wind seeping in through cracks in the walls.

Saying good night, Alice left a Coleman lantern by the door and went back to the house. Allison kept her clothes on at first but stripped down to her T-shirt and panties when it got too warm inside the bag. For nearly an hour she listened to the distant strum and bang of the jam session across the yard. A year ago she would've stayed at the party, passing the bong and sharing philosophies with the other kids, but tonight's experience had made her feel old and obsolete. Tonight, all she wanted was to fall asleep. She would've been better off at the Marriott—or, if not that, on a plane to London. Allison had options available to her that most people her age, she suspected, did not. But because she did, it was harder to decide what to do. Far better not to have a choice and just feel, like Celia Shriver, that she had a place and a purpose, and beyond that the rest of the world could go to hell. She wished that she didn't care so much about what other people thought of her; that someone—if not Celia, then one of the others—had been nice to her.

She woke early the next morning and left a note thanking Alice and Celia for letting her crash at the farmhouse. By seven, she was back on the road. Everything that she'd been through in recent days now seemed so pointless, so adolescent. Whatever it took to be a strong, independent woman, she didn't have it. She'd tried to prove her mettle to everyone she'd met in Concord and failed. These women didn't want to bother with her, and neither, she supposed, did she with them.

Driving toward Boston, she headed straight for the airport and left her car in the long-term parking lot. She'd packed only enough clothes for a few days, and most of them were dirty. No matter, she thought; she could always borrow something from her mom.

4

After so many demands, outraged statements and cries for blood from within the anti-Pike organization, something unexpected happened: nothing. In the end, the weather proved too much for even the likes of Celia Shriver and Cathy Diego. Christmas Eve was bitter cold, and temperatures remained below freezing through New Year's. Attendance at that year's First Night in Providence was lower than expected because of a near nor'easter that dumped fourteen inches of snow all along the Cape. Even the rally in Concord had to be canceled due to snow and high winds. For the next three weeks, no one much felt like going outside.

Then in mid-January, the weather took a mysterious turn for the better, and Rhode Islanders enjoyed a period of record highs, with readings in the balmy low-fifties. Every day, newspapers carried pictures of people walking around Bristol and Newport in shorts and shirtsleeves. While heavy snows continued to fall in Connecticut, northern New England, even parts of western Massachusetts, a halo of clear skies had settled over Rhode Island and stayed there.

Late in January, Stuart invited Heath over to the house for dinner. For weeks he'd been trying to introduce Marlene to some new people. Other than Bill and Carla Marshall, the Breens didn't have any real friends. All she had was him, and all he had was her overwhelming need for him.

About twenty minutes before Heath was to arrive, Stuart went downstairs to check on the lasagna he'd put in the oven. He was wearing an argyle sweater and a pair of gray permanent-press slacks. When he entered the kitchen, he was surprised to find Marlene naked. “You'd better put on some clothes,” he said. “Heath's a pretty conscientious guy. He's bound to be early.”

“Oh . . . right.” She hesitated. The backs of her bare legs stuck to her chair when she got up from the table. “I suppose you're right,” she said, taking her wine with her into the hall.

He stopped her at the bottom of the stairs. “Wait a minute. Were you planning on staying like that?”

“Of course not. I'm not crazy, Stuart. I don't want to upset your friend.”

She was still getting dressed ten minutes later when Heath arrived for dinner. Stuart led him into the living room, where he'd set out some cheese and crackers, an ice bucket and an assortment of soft drinks and hard liquor. “Marlene will be down in a second,” Stuart said. “Fix yourself a drink. We also have wine and beer.”

“No, this is fine.” Heath poured himself a soda and stood by the coffee table, waiting for Stuart to offer him a seat.

Stuart eyed his virgin drink. “You're welcome to some rum with that, or whiskey,” he said.

“Oh . . . okay.” Heath took a sip of his drink to bring it down a level, then added a splash of Bacardi, careful not to spill anything on the carpet.

“How's Nate?” Stuart asked, plunking down on the sofa. Through the ceiling, he could hear Marlene pacing around in her high heels.
What the hell is she doing?
he wondered.

Heath blushed, as he always did when the subject of Pike came up. “He's good, I guess. He's been spending a lot of time on the phone with Allison's dad.”

Stuart nodded. Other than the weather, the big news around town was Pike's decision to come out in support of Gregg Reese's pet project, the Allison Fund. The public perception of Pike and Reese was that they weren't exactly the best of friends, so the announcement had come as a surprise to everyone. With Pike's help, the Allison Fund had a marginally better chance of surviving the fall elections. “I don't get this Allison Fund business,” Stuart said. “I don't see why the state should have to subsidize the Reese Foundation. I mean, I know they've done plenty of good in the past, but it still makes no sense.”

“Neither does building a parking lot in the middle of the White Mountains,” Heath said. “By the way, you really should take another drive up there. They've done a lot of work on it since last week.”

“And it actually looks like a parking lot?” Stuart asked.

“Yep. Exactly like a parking lot. Hard to believe.”

Marlene soon appeared at the foot of the stairs, and Stuart got up to introduce her. “Heath, this is my wife, Marlene.” He chuckled to himself. “I always feel so old when I say that.”

His comment rattled Marlene, whose silver-blue eye shadow had the jarring effect of stage makeup.

“Marlene, are you sticking with wine?” Stuart asked.

“Yes,” she whispered and handed him her half-empty glass. Heath's rum and Coke was still fine, so Stuart went off to refill Marlene's drink in the kitchen. He'd planned on having a beer but on impulse poured himself a glass of wine instead.

When he returned to the living room, Marlene was talking to Heath about the weather. “I hope it stays like this,” she said. “I hate winter. I like being outdoors.”

Stuart tensed his jaw. “It's pretty unlikely that we've seen the last of winter, hon. Enjoy it while you can, because we're due for another snowstorm.”

“That's not what they said on the Weather Channel. They said that it was going to be the warmest February on record.”

“Well, we won't know until it happens, I guess,” Heath said.

Marlene agreed. “That's right. You never know what's going to happen next.”

“Good. A toast to that,” Stuart said pleasantly, and they all clinked their glasses. Marlene took a big gulp of wine, then another. Stuart felt embarrassed watching her drink. “Have you heard anything from Gregg's daughter?” he asked Heath.

“Allison? Yeah, she calls me every day.” Heath turned to Marlene. “My girlfriend's staying with her mom in London.”

“When's she coming back?” Stuart asked.

“I dunno. Maybe next month. I think she's been partying a lot over there. You know, getting it out of her system.”

Marlene touched Heath's knee. “You must miss her,” she said.

Stuart noticed how quickly she'd warmed up to Heath and attributed some of it to the wine.

“I guess I do,” Heath said. “I've got more time on my hands now—when I'm not working for Mr. Pike.”

“Oh? What do you do for Mr. Pike?” she asked.

“Marlene, we've been over this,” Stuart said. “Heath's making a documentary about Nate in the White Mountains.”

She took another thirsty gulp of wine. “Is that what you do for a living?”

Heath shrugged. “Sort of. I don't really do anything for a living. I just like making movies.”

The simplicity of this delighted her. “Good for you. That's great. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“Oh, I won't,” Heath said.

“Ask Stuart. He knows. Don't you, Stuart?”

Stuart came to; he'd been staring at the back of Marlene's neck. “Hmm?”

“Tell Heath what you went through to get your book published.”

It would've been easy enough to humor them both, but he chose not to. “No, Marlene. You can tell him, if you'd like. I've got some work to do in the kitchen.”

He left them in the living room and went to finish preparing dinner. He stayed in the kitchen for ten minutes, getting some plates down from the cupboard, rinsing out the water glasses, checking on the lasagna, checking on it again, turning down the oven, turning it off, washing his hands, cutting into the lasagna with the flat edge of a spatula. Once everything was ready, he went back to the living room and called Heath and Marlene to the table.

“Stuart, Heath and I have decided to make a movie together,” Marlene said, stumbling a bit as Stuart helped her to her feet.

“Oh? What kind of a movie?” he asked warily.

“We don't know yet. We haven't gotten to that part. Something about us. We're interesting people. Well,
you
are,” she said, nudging Stuart. “I'm not, but we can work around me.”

“You're interesting, Marlene,” Heath said as they sat down at the table. No one commented on the food, and Stuart sulkily took his chair at the end. “Tell me something interesting about yourself,” Heath prompted her.

She kept her eyes downcast. “Oh, gosh, let me see. I work in a
bank . . .
not much exciting there.”

“Here, who wants to get started?” Stuart asked, offering the lasagna to Heath and Marlene. They both passed on it, so he served himself the first piece.

“It doesn't have to be work related,” Heath said. “How about a hobby? What do you like to do in your spare time?”

Stuart's throat began to ache. “Food's getting cold,” he said weakly, handing the serving platter to Heath.

Marlene didn't lift her head. “Nope, no hobbies. Like I told you before, I'm boring.”

Stuart said, “She's right, Heath. Marlene's the most boring person in the world.” Marlene looked hurt. “Oh, come on. I'm kidding! You're always going on about how boring you are. No one's buying it, Marlene.”

An awkward silence ensued, which Heath didn't dare to interrupt. Finally she said, “I'm not boring, Stuart.
You
should know that.”

“I do. That's what I've been saying all along. Now come on, let's pass this salad around,” he said.

She took the bowl from him but didn't put any salad on her plate. “Maybe Heath would like to know what we're talking about,” she suggested.

Stuart shot her a warning look, then turned to their guest. “Maybe Heath would like to eat,” he said, rolling his eyes, trying to enlist Heath's support. “Hey, you look like you need a new drink,” he said, but Heath covered his glass with his hand.

“I don't want to make trouble for you guys,” he said, more to Stuart than to Marlene. “I was just kidding about the movie thing. I don't want to pry into your personal lives.”

“You're not prying,” Marlene said. “We don't have any secrets around here. Isn't that right, Stuart?”

Stuart put down his fork. “Hon. Stop.”

She continued in her easygoing voice, “There's one thing you should know about us, Heath. We're not normally this formal around the house.”

“Hon . . .” The word died in Stuart's throat.

“I mean, we're not this dressed up,” she said, smiling now. “The fact is we're not normally dressed at all.”

“All right, that's enough,” Stuart snapped. “You're being silly, Marlene. Heath doesn't need to hear this.”

“We haven't actually been to a nude beach yet. I want to go, but Stuart says—”

“Just zip it, okay?” he hissed.

Her moment of courage left her. “I'm sorry. I'm spoiling the night.”

Feeling sorry for her, Heath said, “Hey, no, you're not spoiling anything. Really. I think I understand.”

“No, you don't,” she sighed.

“I do. I've met people like you before.”

Stuart turned his anger on Heath. “Like who?” he asked.

As Marlene fought back tears, Heath insisted, “It's okay, guys. You don't have to explain. Trust me, it's a lot more common than you'd think. I used to live near this special camp when I was a kid. I had a good friend who went there with his family every summer. It was cool.”

Marlene wiped her eyes. “It was?”

“Totally! I even ran the naked mile when I was at UNC. All my friends did. There was a guy in my dorm who was a nudist. He used to hang out in the hallway, and no one ever said anything.”

“All right, I'm not listening to this anymore. You two can finish eating by yourselves,” Stuart said, pushing back his chair.

“Then let's talk about something else,” Heath said. “I'm just saying you guys shouldn't be ashamed. You should be proud of it. I've got a lot of respect for the nudist community . . . or whatever it's called. The nudism community. Nudist, nudism. Nudist.”

Marlene laughed gratefully through her tears. “That's nice of you to say,” she said.

“Speak for yourself,” Stuart barked. “No one's a nudist here.”

“So,” Heath asked Marlene, “what about streaking? Have you ever done any streaking?”

She blushed. “Not much. Well, not yet.”

“Not much. What does ‘not much' mean?”

“You know . . . we've been out to the backyard a few times.”

Heath slapped the table. “Oh, dude! I've
got
to get this on tape!”

“Nope,” Stuart said. “No movies, nothing. Marlene, knock it off, okay?”

Heath set aside his plate, no longer interested in eating. “Think about it, guys. We could make a streaking video. We could even use Mr. Pike's camera. We'd shoot it on the weekends.”

Marlene turned the idea over in her head. “Where would we go?”

“Here, there, wherever you'd like. We'd go all over the state. It'd be like”—he fumbled for the right words—“a naked tour of Rhode Island. And you'd be the perfect host for it, Marlene.”

Flustered, she asked, “Me? Why?”

“Because you're a nice person. People can relate to you,” Heath said.

Stuart was eager to deflate their growing enthusiasm. “People? What people? You're not actually taking this crackpot idea seriously, are you?” he asked Marlene.

She reached across the table for his hand. In a quiet, pleading voice, she said, “We wouldn't have to show it to anyone, Stuart. It could be just our little thing.”

“No.”

“I'd even edit the master tape for you,” Heath added. “You'd really be doing me a favor. I could use the extra practice time in the studio.”

Stuart didn't know what to say. Much as the idea repulsed him, he also saw some sense in it. If they had a few of their naked adventures preserved on videotape, maybe they could stop torturing themselves like this. They could take the tape out once a year, watch it for a laugh, then put it back on its shelf. “This is crazy,” he said, mostly to reassure himself. At least he still knew what crazy was. If not his dignity, he still had his self-consciousness, which distinguished him from Marlene.