Creature Discomforts

subsequently had the occasion to look up a few statistics on John D. Rockefeller, Jr., Mount Desert Island, and Acadia National Park. So, here goes. It won’t hurt; it’ll only sting a little. M.D.I. consists of about 74,000 acres, of which 34,000 acres belong to Acadia National Park. The park owns another 6,000 acres on nearby Isle au Haut, Schoodic Point, and other gorgeous spots. John D. Rockefeller, Jr., gave more than 10,000 acres to Acadia, which also received gifts of land from the Morgans, Astors, Fords, Vanderbilts, and Pulitzers.
    What’s famous about Rockefeller’s gift isn’t just its size or its value. It’s what John D., Jr., did with large portions of the land before signing it over to the park. He built carriage roads. Why? Because the principal heir to the Standard Oil fortune hated, and I mean detested, automobiles. He saw motor vehicles as the potential ruin of M.D.I. and, in fact, battled to ban cars from the island. What he liked were horses. Consequently, just as you or I might have done in his position, he spent twenty-seven years building fifty-one miles of no-cars-allowed broken-stone roads designed for horse-drawn carriages. Well, maybe just as you might have done. I, of course, would’ve spent the twenty-seven years constructing fifty-one miles of groomed paths open only to hikers accompanied by dogs, or a fifty-one mile sled-dog trail, or fifty-one miles of dog-recreational something else. But I’m not John D., Jr. Among others things, having funded and supervised the construction of fifty-one miles of anything whatever, I’d keep it for myself and my dogs, whereas John D., Jr., donated most of his carriage road system to Acadia National Park. Most. Not quite all. Here and there on the carriage roads near the town of Seal Harbor, you come to a sign announcing you’re about to leave the park and cross onto what is discreetly called “private land.” It doesn’t take half a brain—about what I had left—to know whose heirs’ private land it is.
    So when Tiffany mentioned philanthropist benefactors deeply committed to M.D.I., I took the obvious baby-step mental leap and was just opening my mouth to utter the mansionhold word when Tiffany raised a finger to her lips. “The benefactors prefer to remain anonymous,” said Tiffany, obviously quoting the official policy of the Pine Tree Foundation.
    I can take a hint. Instead of loudly sputtering, “Wow! The Rockefellers!” I just said, “Wow!”
    “Everyone knows, really,” Tiffany said. “It’s just like, uh, some game they like to play, you know, pretending they’re normal. Well, not normal exactly. You know, low profile. A couple of times a year, they meet with Malcolm at his house for formal stuff, votes, that kind of thing. They don’t want to be seen at the foundation. But I do the agendas for the meetings, so I have to know, really.” Her voice glowed. “And in between, they’ll call Malcolm, not that they give their names, not outright, not to me, or Malcolm will have to consult them about something, and then he’ll go see them at their, uh, house, or sometimes in the park. I always know who’s involved, really. I do the agendas for those meetings, too.”
    Malcolm Fairley startled me by swooping out of the darkness beyond the fire and the torches. The dread that had plagued me since I’d awakened on the mountain had been in partial abeyance. The sound of small waves, the unromantic reek of the ocean floor at low tide, the comforting presence of uninjured people and of my big, strong dogs, all of it had beaten back the terror. My grip on comfort was pitifully fragile. What set my heart racing now was, in part, a healthy startle reflex, a primitive what-the-hell-is-that? response. A figure unexpectedly swooped out of darkness. What seriously scared me, though, was my reaction to Malcolm Fairley’s voice. His words and tone were benign. In fact, all he did was tell Tiffany in a light, jocular fashion that he hoped she wasn’t giving any secrets away. “Anonymity is anonymity! It’s a solemn promise.” I had, of course, heard him speak of anonymity before. Addressing me, he added pleasantly, “Names are not for publication.”
    “No names have been named,” I said flatly, battling the temptation to ask where he expected me to publish any names that might have been mentioned. I enjoyed a fleeting and somewhat frightening moment in which I saw myself as a roving correspondent for some highbrow newspaper