Cape Cod Read Free Page A

that fringed his face. He shaved his upper lip, in the style of an old shipmaster, so that whenever he bought property or petitioned for a permit, he would seem to have sprung from the Cape Cod sand itself, a modern man with the shrewd yet upright soul of a Yankee seafarer.
    Next to him, Rake looked like the original go-to-hell dory fisherman—leathery face, dirty cap, dirtier deck shoes, and flannel shirt stuffed into trousers so dirty you could chop them up and use them for chum.
    Rake glanced at Dickerson’s bony bare feet, the same color as the sand, at the gray trousers rolled up to the calves, the windbreaker draped over the barrel chest, and the knot of the striped tie. “Men don’t wear ties to the beach ’less they come on business.”
    “Our families have quite a resource here, Rake.”
    “Answer’s no.”
    “Magnificent spot.” Dickerson stepped to the top of the dune and looked around.
    “Mind the dune grass. That’s Hilyard property. Don’t want it blowin’ away.”
    “It is blowin’ away. The whole Cape’s blowin’ away, washin’ away, every day. Time to sell, ’fore any more of it goes.”
    When the Pilgrims came, the land between the creeks had been surrounded by a wide marsh. Then someone dumped some sand in the marsh to make a cart path, then more sand to make a causeway, and later, macadam for a modern road, but the seventy acres of upland, dune, and beach was still called Jack’s Island . It nestled in the crook of the Cape’s elbow, safe from the rage of the Atlantic, sheltered from the northeast wind, but fully exposed to the two families who’d lived on it and fought over it for three and a half centuries.
    “Won’t sell. Sister won’t sell.” Rake Hilyard started walking again. “And with any luck, town’ll take it all . My side and yours.”
    “Don’t be so sure of that.” Bigelow went after Rake. He was taller and heavier, but from a distance, he looked like a balloon that the kid in the dirty pants tugged along behind him. “For all the centuries our families have suffered here, Rake, the Lord’s givin’ us the chance to get somethin’ back. Think of the future.”
    “The future, ” Rake stopped. “Most men think the land’s somethin’ they inherit from their fathers. The smart ones know they’re just borrowin’ it from their kids.”
    “The future’s now, and there’s some in your family who agree.”
    “Who?”
    Dickerson scratched at his beard.
    “You’re bluffin’,” said Rake.
    “The town meeting won’t take this land. Too many strings. And if I have to buy you out a parcel at a time, it could take years. Then it might be too late for all of us.”
    “Too late already, ’cause if the town won’t do it, I’m buyin’ you out.”
    “With what? Old lobster pots? The only Hilyard with more than two grand cash money’s married to my own daughter.”
    “Nobody’s perfect.”
    “So what do you have to buy me out?”
    “The truth.” Rake poked a finger at Dickerson. “Straight from history.”
    “Now you’re bluffin’.”
    “History don’t lie. ’Specially in a book written by a man who was there.”
    “What man? What book?”
    Rake pulled his cap down and turned toward Eastham.
    “You’re gettin’ senile, Rake.” Dickerson watched until Rake disappeared into the glare of the rising sun. He had come to upset his old adversary, to leave him wondering about the loyalty of his family. Instead, he was left wondering himself. As he walked back to his son’s house, his eyes fixed on the sand between his toes, his soul frustrated once more in its coveting, his mind traveled back through the story of the Hilyards and Bigelows in search of “a book written by a man who was there.”

The Book
November 9. Sixty-fourth day. Cold unto freezing yet another day. Position not fixed as clouds cover sky, but soundings show forty fathoms, shallowest since England. The Saints pray hard and regular after sight of land, and God may soon give them