Mountain Lake Environmental Services

Blue Skies

Ah Wilderness

Dreams of the Maine Coast

What exactly did they represent, all those poetical adjectives and nouns? Drowsily Homer went to sleep, gathered into one curve with his sleeping wife.

But instead of dreaming of serene harbors and mountain lakes, he was circling in a crepuscular darkness, dancing in a slow, heavy-footed ring with shadowy people he could dimly recognize. They were Jefferson Grandison, Jack Markey, Ananda Singh, Oliver Fry and his daughter, Hope, Roger Bland and his wife, Marjorie. And who was that shapeless woman whose hand was so limply clasped in Marjorie's? It was the homeless woman he had seen in Copley Square. And look at all those others, the residents of Pond Viewa"Julian Snow and Charlotte Harris and Stuart LaDue and Honey Mooney. The big-shouldered woman was Mimi Pink. What a clumsy ring-a-round-rosy! There was no music, and even the tramp of their feet made no sound. Homer shuffled around clumsily, shuddering as he made room for two more. They were Alice Snow and Shirley Mills, wrapped in fluttering grave cloths, awakened into lethargic life. Around and around they all went in a sluggish gavotte, the alive and the dead together.

Homer woke up in the airless room and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. In a moment the languid figures of his dream were gone, leaving only an image of their joined hands, all those lumpish fingers clasped in a ring.

He turned over and whispered in Mary's ear, "A ring is a ring is a ring."

"What, Homer?"

"Nothing." Now even the shreds of his dream were gone, leaving only something about a ring. A ring? Homer closed his eyes again. It was strange the way dreams seemed so important when you were having them and so meaningless when you woke up.

Next morning Homer ate his breakfast, worrying about Julian Snow and his friends at Pond View. It had been days since he had spoken to Julian. Perhaps no news was good news. Perhaps the succession of violent events at the trailer park was over.

Homer stirred his coffee and looked at his wife with an expression of pathos. "My dear, you're so good with the telephone."

The toaster went pop and tossed up a blackened piece of bread. "d.a.m.n," said Mary, jumping out of her chair. Dropping in another slice, she glanced at him warily. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just that I really admire the way you hold the phone to your ear with such a wonderful iron clasp."

"Come on, Homer, tell me what you've got in mind. You want me to call somebody?"

"Not just somebody." Eagerly Homer whipped out his list. "Look, you see all these high-sounding foundations and grandiose charities and big-hearted companies? They all belong to Jefferson Grandison. I want to find out what the h.e.l.l they really are."

Mary examined the list. "You want me to look up their phone numbers and call them and ask what they actually do?"

"Exactly. My sainted wife." Homer shook his head in wonder. "I often ask myself how you got to be so perfect. I mean you were obviously born like that. For you it's just plain natural. Whereas if I were to try to be perfect, it would be a tortuous process of trial and error, I'd be b.u.mping into trees and falling off cliffs and struggling back up, while you just roll serenely along as though there were nothing to it. It's amazing."

Mary groaned, turning the list over. There was more on the back. And there was a second sheet. "What's this?" She held it up. "This isn't part of the list."

Homer looked at it. "Oh, my G.o.d, I forgot to look at..." Swiftly he ran his eye over it, then read it aloud.

MR. GRANDISON, YOU'VE HAD ANOTHER THREATENING CALL FROM ARCHIE POUCH, THE ATTORNEY INTERESTED IN THE DISPOSAL OF LOT 17. HE WAS MOST INSISTENT! HE SPOKE OF DIRE CONSEQUENCES!.

"Homer," said Mary disapprovingly, "you can't go around stealing papers from people's desks."

"You're right, of course," said Homer. "I'll never do such a naughty thing again." For a moment he sat staring at the piece of paper he had filched from Abigail Saltonstall. What did it mean? This attorney, Archie Pouch, was threatening Jefferson Grandison with some sort of dreadful catastrophe unless he did something or other about a mysterious ent.i.ty called Lot Seventeen. "I wonder what she means by Lot Seventeen?"

"Maybe it's something that's being auctioned off, like rugs or works of art."

"Well, maybe. This lawyer Archie Pouch is obviously very much interested in its disposal, whatever disposal means. I wonder if he's in the phone book."

"Oh, Homer, you're not going to call him up? What good would that do? No lawyer is going to tell you about the concerns of a client."

"No, I suppose not," said Homer dreamily. "Still, I think I'll just take a look at the Yellow Pages."

And then Homer had no trouble finding Archibald Pouch in the listings under "Lawyers." He was not only in the phone book, he was all over the phone book. There were four large half-page ads recommending the services of Pouch, Heaviside and Sprocket. One of the ads showed them in person, lined up side by side, three rapacious-looking characters in three-piece suits. Their areas of expertise were listed in full: PERSONAL INJURY.

MEDICAL MALPRACTICE.

DEFECTIVE PRODUCTS.

NEGLIGENCE.

SLIP AND FALL.

TOXIC INJURIES.

UNDERGROUND STORAGE TANKS.

2I-E HAZARDOUS WASTE.

LEAD PAINT POISONING.

DRUNK DRIVING.

And finally, as a general catch-all invitation:

LITIGATION.

The implicit message of all the ads was the samea""Consider yourself aggrieved? Sue the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds!"

For a while Homer sat musing, staring at the three drooping mustaches on the three faces of Pouch, Heaviside and Sprocket. Then he stood up, slammed the Yellow Pages shut, picked up the Boston phone book, and dumped it in front of his wife, who was finishing her breakfast and reading Barchester Towers. "Your turn, Mary dear. Good luck. I'm off to the city to bag Mr. Pouch."

Mary shook her head in a gesture that meant, Homer dear, you're out of your mind. But she licked the b.u.t.ter off her fingers and kissed him good-bye. And at midmorning she got to work on the list of Grandison's enterprises. With one finger holding her place in Barchester Towers, she dialed the number for Ah Wilderness.

"Please hold," said a faraway recorded voice. Mary held the receiver with its canned music away from her ear and lost herself in the machinations of Mr. Slope and the tyranny of Mrs. Proudie. Now and then the recording informed her that all lines were occupied. At last a human voice abruptly cut off the music. "Ah Wilderness Incorporated, may I help you?"

"Oh," said Mary, still caught up in the affairs of Barchester, "good morning. My name is Mary Kelly. I wonder if you could tell me what it is you do about wilderness?"

"Pardon me?"

"I mean, what does your name mean, Ah Wilderness?"

There was a chilly pause. "Who, may I ask, is calling?"

"I told you. My name's Mary Kelly. I live in Concord, Ma.s.sachusetts. I'm trying to find out what your company is for." Mary drummed her fingers on the table, thinking that Homer would have done better. He would have invented some plausible untruth, whereas she was incapable of lying.

"What, may I ask, is your interest in wilderness?"

"I don't have any particular interest. I'm just looking for information."

"I think perhaps you should speak to Mr. Thor."

"Mr. Thor? Well, all right. Could you transfer me?"

"Mr. Thor is in conference."

"Well, could he call me back when he's finished?"

"What is the nature of the subject you wish to discuss with Mr. Thor?"

Mary spent the morning fighting her way out of similar paper bags.

Seash.o.r.es Unlimited was closed for the day. Dreams of the Maine Coast put her on hold and forgot her. Breathe Free told her to call back between four and four-fifteen. Serene Harbors transferred her to five different departments and at last informed her that the individual to whom she wished to speak had left for the day. Save the World Services wanted her to punch b.u.t.tons with which her old-fashioned telephone was not equipped. Birdsong Incorporated put her on hold.

By midafternoon Mary had come to the chapter in Barchester Towers in which the gown of the overbearing Mrs. Proudie is ripped by the sofa of the ravishing Signora Neroni, and she was almost irritated when Pride of the Earth awoke from its musical slumber and asked her what she wanted.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo! My name is Mary Kelly, and I wonder if you could tell me what Pride of the Earth means, what it is exactly that you people do."

"May I ask the nature of your interest?"

"Just curiosity. The name sounds so grand, I just wondered what it means."

"Do you represent the media?"

"The media? Oh, no."

"Well, I'm afraid we are too busy here to respond to random questions."

"Too busy doing what?"