Chapter Nine
“Good Lord,” Clare said to no one in particular. Behind her, someone shoved forward, causing her to stumble and splash herself and the man in front of her with half the contents of her water bottle. The wet man turned and snarled at her. “I’m so sorry,” Clare said. She plucked her sodden T-shirt away from her goose bump–prickled flesh. She cooled down fast after a run, and all she had wanted to do was collect her official time, get back to her car, and pull on the sweats she had stashed there. Now she was stuck in a gridlock of excited humanity, pinned between the placard-waving protestors in front of her and what seemed like half the population of Millers Kill behind.
“Mom, get down from there!” she heard Russ order.
Mrs. Van Alstyne lowered her megaphone. “You’ll have to come and get me,” she said. The crowd nearby roared with laughter, and Clare could see Russ’s cheeks and ears turn pink.
“I know some of you think we’re doomed to be exposed to PCBs because we’re near Hudson Falls,” Mrs. Van Alstyne said through her megaphone. “I know some of you think the jobs that’ll come out of the new spa are worth a few extra chemicals in the groundwater.”
The eager watchers behind Clare pushed her steadily forward toward the center knot of protestors. Around her, faces were amused, incredulous, angry. She could see one…two…three video cameras in the crowd, pointed at Margy Van Alstyne, the chief of police, the demonstrators. This thing was going to be better documented than a Rose Garden speech. A young woman slipped between spectators, thrust one flyer from a ream of photocopied papers into Clare’s hand, and disappeared, working her way through the crowd. In the press of bodies around her, Clare had to hold the paper close to her face. STOP BWI DEVELOPMENT NOW! the heading screamed. On one side, it was a broadside against BWI; on the other, a gruesome list of the effects of PCB exposure. She tuned back in to Margy Van Alstyne’s speech.
“PCBs are known to cause cancer! PCBs are known to increase aggression!” Clare could see Russ’s head above the crowd as he made his way to the platform.
“Baltimore-based BWI stands to make millions from this development! Meanwhile, we get minimum-wage service-industry jobs and enough PCBs in the water to cause cancer in thirty percent of our population!”
“Any job’s better’n no job!” someone shouted from the crowd.
“They’re promising to pay eight dollars an hour,” a woman yelled.
Bill Ingraham was moving purposefully toward Mrs. Van Alstyne. Russ vaulted onto the platform’s edge and waved him off.
“Look around you at your friends and neighbors!” Margy Van Alstyne shouted. “One out of every four people you see could be dead from cancer within a decade. How many dollars an hour is that worth? No! Get your hands off me!”
Russ had wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist and lifted her bodily off the platform. She waved her megaphone out of his reach. “I have a right to speak! I have First Amendment rights!”
Russ grunted from the effort of pulling her away from the platform’s edge. “No permit,” he managed to gasp out. His mother flailed and twisted, and he staggered back, sending the mayor and several top runners scrambling to get out of his way. Boos erupted from the crowd.
“Let her speak!”
“What’re you afraid of?”
Russ put his mother down. “No permit for public demonstration,” he said more firmly. “Disturbing the peace, resisting an officer, and possible battery. Cuff her, Officer Flynn.”
“Me?” said Flynn.
Another protestor, the redheaded nurse Clare had seen at the town meeting, launched herself over the edge of the platform. Mrs. Van Alstyne tossed her the megaphone. “Ask yourself why the police and the mayor don’t want us to speak to you,” she shouted.
“Damn it, Laura, get down off there. Don’t make me write you up again.” Russ turned to drag her away from the impromptu podium. She danced out of reach.
“The government of this town is too blinded by the thought of the tax income from this development to look after your health,” the nurse shouted. “But you can demand the DEP stop this spa! You can demand new testing of the Landry site! You can demand—oof!”
Russ picked her up with considerably less effort than it had taken to move his mother. Boos mixed with cheers. The central knot of protestors took up the chant again, reinforced by other voices chiming in. To Clare’s right, someone called out, “Development means jobs! Development means jobs!” and the cry instantly spread into a ragged countercall. “Damn Commies,” one beefy man in front of her said to another. “They think government control of property is so great, I say let’s ship ’em off to North Korea.”
Officer Entwhistle was trying to remove the protestors, or the people harassing them. It was impossible to tell. Despite her soggy clothes and her clammy skin, and despite her grandmother’s voice warning her, This isn’t any of your business, miss, Clare couldn’t keep herself from trying to get closer. She edged sideways between individuals, couples, clumps of people, buffeted by excited voices.
“Folks? Folks? I’m Bill Ingraham, and I am BWI Development.” Someone had rescued the microphone stand from beneath the fallen banner and set it up in front of Ingraham. “I said this at Wednesday night’s town meeting and I’ll say it again: If you folks don’t want our resort in your community, we’re outta here.” He didn’t look like the genial, controlled businessman he had been at the meeting. He looked like a construction boss who had just found out his crew was threatening to unionize. “Personally, and professionally, I think connecting your PCB problem with our development site is bad science and worse business.”
“PCBs were stored on that site twenty-five years ago!” someone yelled from the crowd.
“Yeah, and then the storage canisters were removed by the government and the site was cleaned up. Look, folks, the feds and the state have both given the place the thumbs-up. Either you trust the government or you don’t. But if you don’t, why the hell would you want to call them in again?”
“He’s right! Listen to the man!” another person yelled.
“I take pride in my resorts. I build ’em right and I try to be as environmentally sensitive as possible.” The protestors jeered. “If you don’t want us here, call in the DEP and we’re gone. But don’t send a bunch of scientifically illiterate witches after me!” He thrust the microphone into the stand with enough force to set it rocking, stalked to the rear of the platform, and leaped down, disappearing from view.
The babble of the crowd was deafening. Mayor Jim Cameron visibly wavered between snatching the microphone or running after Ingraham. The urge to apologize to the developer must have won out, because he let himself down over the rear of the platform and also vanished.
Russ, who must have unloaded his mother on Officer Flynn, strode back to the front of the platform. He didn’t bother with a microphone, simply cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “You people are demonstrating without a permit. You must disperse now. Anyone who fails to disperse peaceably will be arrested.” The central knot of protestors promptly sat down and started singing “We Shall Overcome.” Clare could see Russ’s lips moving, but it didn’t look like he was saying anything fit for public consumption.
She heard the siren of another police car. Time to get out of here. She had to keep her head down and use her elbows aggressively to wedge her way between bodies. Very few people seemed inclined to leave before the show was over.
“Certainly the most interesting thing to happen on the Fourth of July since that streaker in ’seventy-nine, don’t you—”
“No proof that any of the stuff is coming from the development site.”