“I’ve never been,” I admit, surprised at the suggestion. The Whaling Museum is a small establishment about the history of whale hunting on Nantucket. It’s only a few rooms.
Lottie was a schoolteacher and continued to sub the fourth and fifth grade until a few years ago when she retired. She always reminded us that beneath the island’s tourist-friendly facade was a rich, surprising, and often devastating history.
Lottie reveled in the island’s natural beauty, but she never forgot the suffering beneath her feet: the twelve thousand years of human interaction, the Indigenous people who settled here long before the whaling industry and colonization took over.
I’m surprised that given Lottie’s love for history she never suggested a trip to the museum.
“Come on,” says Theo. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”
Five minutes and twenty-five dollars each later, we are standing in front of a giant graphic of a right whale being impaled.
“Is this what you had in mind?” I tease Theo.
The building itself, with its white columns, looks more like a historical home than a museum, but once we’re inside, I’m surprised by how much there is to consume.
We attend a talk about eighteenth-century whaling practices, marveling at the intricate patterns of scrimshaw art, reading about the sinking of theEssex—the shipwreck that inspiredMoby-Dick. I’m fascinated by the scrimshaw art in particular, the unlikely combination of brutality and delicate beauty. I try to picture the whalers in the grimy quarters belowdecks, carving intricate designs into the teeth and bones, making gifts for their wives and children back home, all while engaging in the violent practice of whale hunting up above.
In one room is a series of gold-framed portraits featuring prominent historical figures of Nantucket’s past:Island People: Portraits and Stories from Nantucket. In another, installations about the Nantucket of today include a life-size mannequin of a “modern tourist.”The prop is clothed in pink pastel pants and a gingham button-down, a sweater around its neck. It looks a lot like William.
Theo goes to shake its hand. “Ah, my good friend, Chad!” he says, grabbing the mannequin. “It’s been so long, I’ve missed you.” The arm falls out of its socket. “Oh, shit!” He looks around, but no one has seen.
Our wet sneakers squeak against the linoleum floors as we walk around the museum, laughing the whole time. Between exhibits, I tell him about what happened with Rose and Thomas.
“You really crashed a wedding?” says Theo, sounding impressed. “Badass.”
“It was a terrible idea,” I admit. “I probably shouldn’t have gotten involved.”
“How has everything been at the cottage since then? Have you talked to Thomas?”
“I’ve seen him a few times in the garden and waved, but we haven’t spoken. I’ve been trying to give him his space.”
Rachel left yesterday. She dropped a note on my windowsill. “Thanks for trying,” it read.
I’ve been wondering if Thomas is going to leave the island early. I wouldn’t blame him if he cut the rental short. After all, it was what Rose originally wanted.
Theo and I walk into a room made up of old brick that looks almost soft to the touch, like the entire facade is one bad storm away from crumbling. A sign on the wall tells us that it is a preservation of the original building that stood here, an 1847 spermaceti candle factory. Throughout it are exhibits about Nantucket’s other original industries such as boatbuilding, coopering, and blacksmithing. A ginormous forty-six-foot sperm whale skeleton hangs from the high ceilings, open-mouthed.
“Have you ever heard the story of how deer came to Nantucket?” I ask Theo as we stare up at the whale.
He shakes his head no. It’s a story I know well from Lottie, and recounting it makes me feel closer to my great-aunt.
“Basically, after Nantucket broke off and became an island, deer were quickly hunted to extinction by the early sixteen hundreds. Then, on a random June day in 1922, three hundred or so years later, some fishermen found a buck drowning in the Nantucket Sound. They took pity and rescued him, bringing him to the island and releasing him into the woods. They named him Old Buck.”
I tell Theo the rest of the story, how for four years, Old Buck was alone on the island. Then the town surmised he was lonely, clinically depressed even. They purchased a pair of lady deer for Old Buck to choose from. He impregnated them both immediately.
“Classic male,” says Theo. “Disappointing.”
When the two does arrived by ship, they were greeted by a cheering crowd at the wharf. And like that, the population boomed, and with it, a long and controversial conversation about hunting season commenced. In 1932, poor Old Buck was killed in a car collision but his legacy continues in his many, many descendants today.
Now the deer population is out of control and Nantucket has some of the highest incidence of tick-borne illnesses in the United States. All because some fishermen took pity on poor Old Buck.
“That’s a crazy story,” says Theo when I’m done. “It sounds made-up.”
“I like it because it reminds me of the best and worst of the island.”
I like to think Old Buck is a cautionary tale about the ramifications of man’s interference with nature but also a celebration of our uniquely human proclivity toward the sentimental. It is thecheering crowds at the dock when the two does arrive, but also the pragmatic brutishness of hunting season years later—how narratives easily form around the singular but are reduced or ignored in a collective.
As the two of us continue exploring the museum, I feel somehow lighter, more optimistic. When I’m around Theo, I miss Henry less. Or, at the very least, I momentarily forget how much I miss him. The hole in my chest is still there, but it no longer throbs around the edges. I can almost ignore it. I find myself wishing that summer wouldn’t end so I can keep him around.
