The Value of Land

by Charles C. Cole

So, one day, after a sleepless night of work-related anxiety, I snapped. In the office. After I’d embarrassed myself in a department meeting with an ill-prepared Power Point presentation, my boss stalked me to my desk and closed the door behind him.

Granted, my manager should not have leaned that far into my personal space, just to make his redundantly emphatic point, spitting voluminously into the air and into my much-needed coffee. His response was neither sanitary nor professional. This was not a moot point, as even my friend Mesa in Human Resources agreed with me. But my counter-reaction, throwing my coffee at him, was uncalled for, admittedly. And for this I’m truly sorry. Still.

After about a month of watching me sulk in my man cave, our garage woodshop, my wife took our pre-school kids and moved in with her parents. Why not just kick me out? Because Grammy and Grampa had a mini-mansion with bedrooms to spare and an in-ground pool. Probably because our humble house reminded Flo, the missus, of bad life decisions and a loser husband.

This was not the first time I’d snapped or had been fired. My emotions had a habit of sneaking up on me when I wasn’t ready and bursting out of me on “eleven” when a six would have gotten the point across. Oh, and Flo’s childhood home, especially when contrasted with our cozy 1500-foot ranch, reminded her of untapped opportunities and hope for the future.

I was money-poor but land-rich. I’d inherited 40 wooded acres from my late parents which, in my desperate mind, was something I could sell off as house lots to get by in the short run. If needed. In an emergency. With one caveat.

Before he died, Dad had reminded me that territorial 18th-century warrior Chief Polin of the Wabanaki people was secretly buried on our land after his final skirmish with local colonists, making me, in a way, the last in a long line of sacred sextons.

Unfortunately, my protective father took the location of this final resting place to his grave, apparently afraid I’d make a roadside attraction or something out of the famous corpse when in financial straits. Dad was right.

Dear Chief Polin, give me a chance. Please tell me where you’re buried so that a deep-pocketed developer in a shiny backhoe doesn’t accidentally disturb your weary bones. I’m rough around the edges at times, but I have an inherent moral compass. I believe the dead have paid their dues and deserve their rest. Undisturbed.

Take it from me: silence is never golden when you are awaiting an important answer.

Every fall, for as long as my father had been alive, a Wabanaki spokesperson had delivered a basket of homemade blueberry preserves as a gesture of thanks. So, if the story was mere legend, many people were nonetheless true believers.

With an unopened beer — my third — and the best of intentions, I wandered away from the house late one afternoon, down toward the swamp, to the largest, oldest pine in the woods. If anybody knew where the body was hidden, it was Old Man Silence, as Dad had called the tree.

“The first swallow is yours,” I said, and I poured a little beer on the ground in deference to Old Man. “Help me out, and there’s more where that came from.” Then I sat with my back against his broad, rough trunk and promptly passed out.

I had a dream or a visitation. A bedazzled Humvee, antlers mounted on the front of the roof like you’d expect from a Texas oil baron, rolled to a stop at my feet. Never mind that in reality there are no roads to accommodate this appearance. A towering Native American stepped out, dressed a little like a middle-aged Vegas Elvis, chest exposed and glittering rhinestones on his collar and sleeves of his dark leather jacket.

My first thought: word had miraculously gotten out that I was thinking of selling and the local indigenous people had sent their lawyer with a “cease and desist” letter.

I stood and brushed myself off. My fancy company glanced down at the crumpled beer can sitting where I’d tossed it, and he shook his head dismissively.

“This is private property,” I said, trying to make him feel as defensive as I felt.

“Yes, it is,” he said, unexpectedly fixing my collar like I was heading out to the school bus. “But is it mine or yours?”

“I don’t want any trouble,” I said.

“Then sell the land back, whole, to the people who once lived here. Your father says I can count on you to do the right thing. Can I? And, in return, I’ll knock that chip off your shoulder for good.”

“What chip?” I asked, looking at my shoulder like he meant it literally. Of course, there was nothing to be seen. But when I glanced back, he hit me with a huge fist that impacted with a startling electric shock, which also woke me up.

In the waking world, the vehicle was gone, of course, and even the beer can and the anesthetizing buzz I’d been hot-tubbing in. I’d gotten my answer, but not to the question I’d been asking.

Not overnight, but I ended up selling the land to the first-locals, including my house, and I moved into an apartment in South Portland. My wife divorced me for a fancy lawyer, but she didn’t demand her half of the sale or contest shared custody of the kids.

I used some of the money for overdue therapy. And, in honor of my missteps, I opened a coffee shop. We’re doing okay. We also sell Native American hand-made crafts. I love it when people ask why. I never learned where Chief Polin was buried, and I have no need to know. I’m told the land will never be developed, which gives me some peace of mind. That’s just how Dad would have liked it.