31

The subterranean miner that works in us all, how can one tell whither leads his shaft by the ever shifting, muffled sound of his pick?

Moby Dick

They all went to Homer’s house for lunch. “I’ll cook,” said Homer, as Alice Dove looked up severely at the three of them from inside the chicken-wire enclosure of Jupiter’s pen.

Alice had just come home from her morning in the Pacific National Bank, and she was still wearing her respectable bank teller’s dress. “Oh, no, you won’t, Homer Kelly,” she said. “The last time you used my pots and pans you burnt a hole in one.”

“Don’t worry, Alice,” said Kitty. “I brought some bread and cheese from my house. We’re all set. Homer just wanted to come home and take his rubber suit off.”

“And I’ve got some plums and peaches here,” said Bob Fern, beaming at Alice, brandishing a paper bag. “Say, Alice, Jupiter looks pretty good today.”

Alice’s face softened. “Oh, do you think so? I wish you’d take a look at that wing of his and see if you think his new primaries are coming in.”

Obligingly Bob unfastened the roll of chicken wire Alice used for a gate and knelt down on the hard trampled ground beside the big white bird, holding him easily with one arm, spreading out his wounded wing with the other. The gap in Jupiter’s feathers was downy at the edges. “Well, something’s coming in. Let’s hope some of those feathers are going to be big strong ones.” Bob let go of Jupiter and stood up to watch him waddle after the kernels of cracked corn Alice had thrown down.

“I’d love to see him fly,” said Kitty.

“Maybe he’ll dismember his dimemberer,” said Homer darkly, “the way Ahab wanted to do.”

They went inside. But at the door Alice stopped. “There they are again,” she said. She was looking down her driveway. Bob and Kitty and Homer looked too. They saw a man with a tripod over his shoulder walking along the road, trailed by another man carrying a long ruled stick and a shovel.

“Surveyors,” said Homer. “What are they doing? Surveying your place?”

“No, no, Helen’s land,” mumbled Alice. “The land she gave to the Boatwright Trust.”

“Oh, is that around here somewhere?” said Kitty.

“All around. Ours just sticks into it a little bit.” Alice stumped into the house, her face set. Kitty opened up her loaf of bread on the table and began slicing her Swiss cheese with one of Alice’s kitchen knives. Bob Fern took his peaches to the sink and began peeling them. He was smiling like a boy at a birthday party.

Homer was changing his clothes behind the open door of his bedroom, shouting at Alice at the same time. “This Boatwright Trust of Helen Green’s—it’s some sort of conservation outfit, isn’t it, Alice? To preserve the land intact forever, isn’t that right?”

“I guess so,” grumbled Alice. She picked up a couple of cats from the table and dumped them on the floor. “What I want to know is, what do they keep surveying it for? That’s all I want to know.”

Homer burst out of his bedroom wearing a pair of brown pants, buttoning a shirt over his sweaty chest. “Want me to find out for you?” he said. “Wait a minute. I’ll be right back.” He threw open the screen door and pounded across the front yard in his bare feet.

At the top of the first rise beyond Alice’s house he caught sight of the surveyors and shouted, “Hey.” They looked back and waited for him to catch up. “Excuse me,” said Homer, puffing to a stop. “I just wondered what you fellows are doing.”

“Just checking the lines on this map here so we can put in stone bounds,” said the man with the transit. “Dig a few holes. Gonna make some percolation tests.”

He had a large roll of paper under his arm. “Mind if I take a look?” said Homer. “My friend Mrs. Dove, who lives right here, she’s sort of worried about what you guys are doing.”

“Well, I guess it’s okay.” The man put his transit down on the ground and unrolled the map. “It’s this big chunk in here,” he said, pointing at the middle of the sheet. “All this part marked ‘Boatwright Trust.’”

“My God,” said Homer, “that’s a big piece of the island. Who’s in charge of it anyhow, this Boatwright Trust?”

“Damned if I know. Do you know, Bertie?”

Bertie shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, who hired you guys?” said Homer.

“Oh, we work for an engineering firm in Woods Hole. Becket and Anderson. Come on, Bertie.” The transit man rolled up his map again and picked up his tripod.

“Off-islanders, eh?” said Homer. “Well, who hired Becket and Anderson to make the survey and dig the holes?”

“Don’t ask me.” The man turned around and started up the road again, his transit over his shoulder. Bertie followed with his rod and shovel.

“What about you, Bertie?” shouted Homer. Bertie’s back hunched up again to display his ignorance. “Sinister, that’s what it is,” bawled Homer. “You’re the faceless minions of a nameless blind gigantic secret power, that’s what you are. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

The two surveyors glanced at each other and grinned. Abutters—Christ, they always got so excited.

“It’s huge. Holy cow,” said Homer, walking into Alice’s kitchen again. “Alice, what in God’s name is that trust?”

“Don’t know.” Alice was pouring coffee. “Nobody seems to know,” she said, flashing him a lugubrious glance.

“Well, there must be some trustees or something. There must be somebody in charge.” Homer looked at the map on the wall. “Show me the boundary lines, Alice.”

Alice put down the coffeepot and pointed. “It’s this big piece here, called Saul’s Hills—that’s the old name for it. The Hidden Forest is part of it. It’s the heart of the island,” said Alice, turning away.

“It’s about four square miles,” said Bob Fern, pacing them off on the map with his fingers. “That’s a big part of Nantucket Island, all right. The whole island’s only about fifty square miles, all in all.”

“Funny they hired an engineering firm from the mainland,” said Homer. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Alice. I’ll see if I can track down the trustees of this Boatwright Trust. Don’t worry. The whole thing’s probably run by a couple of white-tailed deer and a flock of partridges. But I’ll look into it anyway and find out.”

Alice said nothing. She was grubbing away at the breakfast dishes in the sink. Kitty nudged Alice aside and began washing the dishes herself. Bob Fern snatched up a dish towel and took the dishes reverently from Kitty. Alice was making funny noises. She went into her bedroom and shut the door.

“She’s crying,” whispered Kitty, looking at Homer.

“Well, it means a lot to her,” said Homer softly. “She’s got strong feelings, after all. She’s a woman of passion.”