Pike's Folly (13 page)

6

Pike barged into the common room of Sarah Cranberry's ski lodge and waved a newspaper at Stuart, who'd just got off the phone with his wife. “How're we going to spin this?” he demanded. In his excitement, he didn't notice that Stuart's hands were shaking.

Head buried in the paper, Pike read, “ ‘What gives the Independence Project its special mystique lies in its refusal to impose a set of values on the surrounding landscape. It is, quite simply, a parking lot. One approaches it with apprehension, but comes away feeling strangely renewed.' ” He interrupted himself. “What the
fuck
kind of nonsense is that, Stuart?”

No response.

Pike sat down with the paper and continued to read. “ ‘In this context, Mr. Pike has redefined what is organic—and, in turn, essential—to the American experience. Such Yankee bluster has never been politically correct and probably never will be. In a nation that owes a terrible debt to its indigenous populations, the idea of questioning what “indigenous” means can seem in poor taste. But in Nathaniel Pike's world,
nothing
is indigenous. Everything is imposed, and through such impositions, the ugly and the practical, the base and the utilitarian, are redeemed and made beautiful.' This is the
Globe,
” he said malevolently, and read on. “ ‘To some, such rhetoric deliberately misses the point. These same critics generally focus on the project's more sensational aspects—its hubris, its (ultimately negligible) physical impact on the environment—and fail to accept the parking lot on its own terms.' ”

Pike folded the paper and handed it to Stuart. “Whoever decided to call it the Independence Project, anyway?” he asked. “Not me. I never called it that. I never called it anything. It's just a goddamn parking lot.” Snapping his fingers, he hurried into the next room and returned with a stack of newspaper articles that had appeared in advance of today's reception. Everyone, it seemed, had something to say about him. The
Village Voice
offered this rousing defense: “Get off the guy's ass. So he's nuts—so what? So was Frank Lloyd Wright.” The L.A. Times commented: “America has always had an uneasy relationship with dadaism, and Nathaniel Pike's Independence Project is no exception. Perhaps what bothers his critics the most is his apparent disregard for his own work. This is part of the charm, the fact that not even Mr. Pike quite ‘gets it.' ”
Entertainment
Weekly:
“And speaking of weird—Rhode Island's leading megabillionaire, Nathaniel Pike, this week unveiled his two-million-dollar-plus creation, Independence, to a chorus of acclaim. Consisting of little more than a slab of blacktop in the foothills of the White Mountains, Pike has called his parking-lot-in-the-sky ‘A tribute to the men and women who lost their lives in the Spanish Civil War.' We don't know what it all means, but we think it's pretty cool. GRADE: B+.”

Pike read each article out loud, until Stuart lost his patience and snapped, “What did you expect, Nate? This is what you wanted. Attention.”

“Not
this
kind of attention!” Pike tossed the reviews onto the bear rug under his feet. Of all the possible scenarios, this was one that he hadn't considered—getting good reviews, being accepted instead of scorned. “I don't want praise, I don't want criticism. I want dumb, mute awe.” Feeling melancholy, he settled into a leather easy chair and glanced through the reviews again. Even after so many years, he still found it strange to see his name in print. What would it be like to lead an entirely private life? he wondered. To his surprise, the idea didn't bother him—so long as he had his drink, plus all the material comforts money could buy.

When he looked up, Stuart's face was pale, which Pike took to mean that he was upset about the reviews as well. “Don't worry about it, Stuart. I don't care who thinks I'm crazy. I consider that a compliment, coming from these assholes. Is it crazy to dream?”

“No, Nate, it's not,” Stuart muttered.

“That's right. Everyone dreams. You go to bed, you dream— it's that simple. Who cares what any of it means? These books they've got,
1001 Dreams Decoded . . .
I don't want my dreams decoded. I don't want to think that hard.”

Stuart left Pike brooding with the stack of reviews in his lap. The question returned to him:
What did you expect, Nate?
He didn't know. Playing the part of Nathaniel Pike had made it difficult for him to think of himself as anything other than a provocateur. For the first time, he noticed how quiet it was inside the lodge. Except for a single lamp next to the easy chair, the room was entirely dark, and he could almost forget that Sarah was in the kitchen making his dinner for him.
This
is what I want, he thought. Not loud but soft. Not big but tiny. I want to stop acting like such a jerk. The thought was so foreign to him, however, that once he became aware of it, he rejected it.

One thing was certain: he hadn't taken the project far enough. Reflecting on all that he'd learned, he decided that whatever he replaced the parking lot with, it would have to be immune to interpretation, so that not even the most astute critic could say anything about it.

That same evening, Gregg Reese was sitting at home, watching the local news. The story about the naked woman had taken up the first three minutes of the broadcast. He'd never met her before, but he'd spent some time with her husband, Stuart, both in New Hampshire and Rhode Island. Stuart worked for Siemens and McMasters, which meant he worked for Nathaniel Pike. Everyone associated with Pike seemed to exist on the deviant fringes of society: literary novelists, experimental filmmakers, now streakers. Keeny Reese would not have approved. But what about Gregg himself? He was a friend of Pike's, no less involved than Stuart. There weren't enough degrees of separation between himself and these wackos. His mother was right: Pike was bad news. Gregg was used to his mother's being right. She was right when she'd told him not to divorce Renee, to keep his little secret a secret, if only for the sake of public relations. The very fact of his existence was a lingering embarrassment. The Reeses deserved better than him. They deserved a patriarch, like his father, or Martin Kelley Reese, or Daniel Foster Reese, or Parker Davis Reese, who died in 1841. It wasn't fair. What was so great about being a Reese? Did these people ever really exist? Or just their legends?

7

By 1639, Hugh and Ginny Reese had established a successful mercantile operation in the newly founded harbor town of Newport, Rhode Island. Prosperity came naturally to Reese, whose keen
business sense led him to experiment with different forms of trade.
From 1640 to 1643 he dealt mostly in such crops as corn and peas,
and in 1644 he switched to cattle. By decade's end, he was one of the
wealthiest merchants in New England.

Despite his good fortune, we can assume that he wasn't satisfied, for in 1649 he embarked on a capital venture that was new
to the region: the slave trade. Rhode Islanders were split on the
issue of slavery, with opposing sides falling along the dividing line
between merchants and Puritans. Hugh presided over a vast trade
monopoly that flourished for many years before social pressures
forced him to move on. The first blow to his empire came in the
1650s, when the towns of Providence and Warwick passed an ordinance outlawing hereditary black slavery. Though the law had little practical effect, it indicated the political dangers inherent in
trading such a risky commodity. Along with those who admired
Reese for his business acumen, many more despised him for how he
made his living.

The slave trade grew over the years until Newport ranked as the
largest slaveholding port in New England. Unfortunately for Hugh,
he'd created considerable ill will among the Puritans, many of
whom were friends of his wife. When Ginny died in 1669, he
decided to bring his investments west to the Great Swamp, which
was at that time in disputed territory claimed both by Rhode
Island and Connecticut. What the area lacked in navigable shoreline, it made up for in other resources, such as timber and orchards.
Using the money from his Newport ventures, Hugh built a grand
home for himself and his daughter, Maggie, on an estate of seventy
acres.

After a few lean years, he came up with a diabolical scheme to
increase his holdings. His plan was to raise a militia, support it
with his own finances and use it to stir up unrest among the clashing tribes of Indians in the region, who hardly needed any further
encouragement to kill one another. After each skirmish between the
tribes, Reese's men would round up the male survivors and send
them back to Newport, where they were auctioned off and shipped
to the West Indies. As for the females, they remained on the property as Hugh's personal slaves.

To provide shelter for the girls, Hugh had a team of laborers
construct a giant shed on the estate, which served as a makeshift
holding cell. They used cheap materials and worked in great haste.
The conditions inside the shed were unsanitary at best, the ground
was muddy, and the shingle roof leaked constantly. There were no
windows, and the only light bled in through spaces in the walls
where the boards failed to overlap.

In addition to cleaning house and tending to the grounds,
the girls were expected to entertain the men on the estate. Hugh
allowed his frequent guests to rape and abuse them to their hearts'
delight. Whenever a girl died from disease or exhaustion, he simply
replaced her. He recorded all this in his diary, no doubt assuming
that future readers would not judge him too harshly.

After Hugh's death in 1680, his daughter took over the family
business. Maggie Reese did not keep a diary, so her thoughts on
slavery are lost to us. As a woman, her feelings about forced prostitution may have differed from Hugh's, or perhaps not. Regardless,
the shed remained standing until 1685, when Maggie replaced it
with a more permanent stone structure. Apparently, she had more
of her father than her mother in her.

III

The Ocean State

1

A woman met Henry near the security check at T. F. Green Airport in Warwick, Rhode Island, ten minutes outside of Providence. She was wearing a black Mötley Crüe T-shirt, and her eyes were wild and blue with menace. “Savage,” she said.

“That's me.”

Celia introduced herself as they both moved in the direction of the exit. “Let me guess. You're a Republican.”

“Actually, no. I vote Independent.”

She looked disappointed. “I'm not as good at pickin' them as I used to be. First time in New England?”

“First time in Rhode Island but not New England. I used to come up to the White Mountains with my son every summer.”

“Ah, so it's a personal vendetta.”

They left the terminal through an automatic revolving door. The same spring breeze that had tossed Henry's plane around on approach now blew him off-balance. “It's no vendetta,” he said. “I don't let my personal life interfere with my work.”

He followed her across a pedestrian walkway and down to the short-term parking lot. When they reached her car, she said, “Well, since this is your first time, I'll have to give you a little introduction. Cabinets are milkshakes.”

“Excuse me?”

“Cabinets are milkshakes. Grinders are deli sandwiches. When you're ordering a coffee, ask for extra extra. Extra cream, extra sugar.”

“Extra extra,” he said, throwing his bag into Celia's trunk. “Anything else?”

“Don't rush me. There are thirty-nine towns in the entire state, including Block Island. East Bay means east of Narragansett Bay. South County is actually Washington County, but no one calls it that.” She unlocked the car door, and they both got in. “Joe Mollicone is the most hated man in the state, then Patrick Kennedy. Don't speak ill of Buddy Cianci on Federal Hill unless you want to wind up in a body bag.” Without looking behind her, she backed out of the parking space. “South Providence is black, Fox Point is Portuguese. Total population's just over a million. The mob runs everything, including this airport. Everyone knows everyone else.” Once past the toll booth, she began to free-associate. “The hurricane of thirty-eight. The blizzard of seventy-eight. The Patriots, the PawSox. Newport Jai Alai. We are, without a doubt, the greatest state in the Union.”

“I didn't realize that Rhode Island was such a unique place.”

“Oh, we are. It's the size, it's the history. Most of our town centers were laid out before the Revolutionary War.”

As they drove along the expressway, Henry had to restrain himself from pointing out the Red Roof Inn next to the airport and the many gas stations and chain restaurants, none of which could've been more than ten years old. From here, Rhode Island looked about the same as any midsized metropolitan area on the eastern seaboard. “Where does Mr. Pike live?” he asked, staring out the window at the approaching skyline.

“Pike? When he's in
town,
he's on the East Side, just like Reese and all the other bigwigs.”

“What do you mean, when he's in town?”

“I haven't seen him for weeks. Last I heard, he was staying up in New Hampshire with some woman named Cranberry. Sounds like a bimbo to me.” Celia's hands tightened on the steering wheel. “It just makes me so mad. I want to
kill
that man, I'm telling you. I absolutely want to kill him.”

Henry cracked the window. “First things first. I'd like to take a look at that old house in . . . what's the name of the town again?”

She frowned. “Little Compton. I don't know what you intend to find there. The house itself isn't spectacular. Pike obviously doesn't know anything about real estate.”

“And why's that?”

“Well, the East Bay's great, provided you don't have to go anywhere. You've got one road leading in and out, and that's it. As an investment, it stinks.”

“Maybe he bought it for some other reason.”

“What reason?”

“I don't know yet. At any rate, it's worth checking out. It strains credulity that a man would spend that much money on a house, tear the whole thing down, then have it rebuilt, for no reason at all. Whatever the reason is, it might also be why he's up in New Hampshire doing God knows what.”

She sighed. “You people in D.C. always have to make everything so damn complicated.”

At the I-195 turnoff, a green highway sign read To Cape Cod, and even though Cape Cod was still an hour away, he wished he was going there instead of Providence. He imagined himself on the slow ferry to Nantucket, drinking a beer on the foredeck with the cold gray ocean spray in his face.

They stopped at Kennedy Plaza, and soon he was standing in front of the Biltmore Hotel, thanking Celia for the ride. “I'll call you in the morning,” he said, waving at her through the open car window.

She didn't wave back, just saluted mock officiously and drove off, leaving him there with his bag and his briefcase.
Well, screw
you, too,
he thought. Being away from Washington always made him feel like an outsider. A savage. Don't take it personally, he told himself. You're here to do your job.