Flanked by the state and American flags, Penny called the meeting to order sternly. Pix had heard that Penny had phoned Millicent earlier in the day and told her in no uncertain terms that the board would not tolerate a circus atmosphere. Millicent had been extremely offended, and it would probably be a while before the two friends shared mugs and muffins at the Minuteman Café.
“The first order of business is the presentation of an”—Penny paused searching for the right word—
“alternative view of the proposal Mr. Madsen has submitted to the board for the development of the area known as Beecher’s Bog. I understand that Miss McKinley will represent her group.”
Millicent was sitting in the front row, flanked not by flags but by Brad Hallowell and Louise Scott. She was wearing her red suit again. Faith gave a thought to the appropriateness of the color with Patriots’ Day almost upon them. It did make one stand out—just as it had the British officers, whose coats were more scarlet than the foot soldiers’ and made excellent targets for the militia who sensibly aimed at them first. But Millicent wasn’t a target, not tonight, anyway. She was the projectile.
Brad followed her to the front of the room, carrying a number of oaktag sheets that appeared to be POW!’s visual aids. He sat down and Millicent began to speak.
It was a repetition of Friday night’s meeting, except she had brought examples of all the places Aleford had lost. It was pretty impressive. She’d put up a picture of an old farm, a house in the center, woodlands, or some other open space, then show a picture of what was there today. The small strip mall at the Byford border. A housing development. With a flourish, she produced a map of Aleford from 1960 with all the open space colored green, then set a current one next to it. The audience gasped. The green spaces had shrunk by at least two thirds.
“We were a milk town, a farming community.
There’s precious little left of that, but we must preserve some of the character of this bygone era for future generations. Unless we act now, I foresee a time in the not-so-distant future when our children won’t hear songbirds or be able to go on nature walks. The only plants they’ll know will be the ones cultivated in their own backyards. The only wildlife they’ll see will be in sanctuaries and they’ll have no idea that Aleford was once a green and pleasant land.” Faith thought the reference to Blake stretching things a bit, although his “dark Satanic mills” might be invoked. But she agreed with the rest and hoped the board would. Millicent was building up steam.
“They’ll think the only old houses Aleford ever had are the ones surrounding the green, protected by the Historic Commission,” Millicent continued, empha-sizing the word “protected.” “What of Civil War Aleford? What of Victorian Aleford? What of—”
“This is all very interesting, Miss McKinley,” Sanborn Harrington interrupted, “But what exactly would you have the board do? Mr. Madsen owns Beecher’s Bog and as an owner it is his right to do with it as he pleases if he meets the town’s requirements for development, which he has.”
Someone hissed. Faith thought it might be Brad.
Millicent did not appear perturbed—of course.
“I’m glad you asked that question, Sanborn.
POW!—Preserve Our Wetlands!—which organized around this issue, has collected almost enough signatures to reconvene Town Meeting, where we intend to place two motions on the floor. Rather than take up the board’s valuable time, I’ve made copies for everyone of the motions involved and would respectfully refer members to the cited precedents, available at the library and in town hall.”
Millicent handed each board member a sheet of paper. She was smart enough to know that any proposal involving turning a page already had one strike against it.
Several members scanned the motions and looked up stunned. Sanborn looked angry. “I repeat, Miss McKinley, your research is an admirable foray into the town’s past, but as for the present—what is it you are proposing to the board?”
“What we are asking the board to do is”—She paused, and Faith thought what the stage had lost when Millicent had opted for lanterns instead of footlights—“nothing.”
“Nothing?” Penny asked.
“Nothing,” Millicent replied firmly. “We’d like you to postpone your decision on Mr. Madsen’s proposal until Town Meeting has considered the motions I’ve described. I do not think this slight delay places an undue hardship on the petitioner in question.” Her voice dripped with scorn. “The bog isn’t going to vanish overnight.”
That did it. Whether it was the reference to one of the Deane properties vanishing overnight, as in houses burning down, or Millicent’s apparently successful blocking of a member of his family’s plans, Gus Deane had had quite enough. He came marching down the center of the room, pushing his way through the crowded seating like Moses parting the Red Sea.
He shook his fist at Millicent.
“I’ve had just about enough of you and the rest of your group. You may think you can destroy property and threaten innocent girls without anyone stopping you, but not while there’s a breath in my body.” Gus was not a tall man, yet there was clearly a great deal of breath in his massive body. His hair was completely white and the thick curls created a halo effect.
He did indeed look biblical—if not Moses, then one of the more wrathful prophets.
Penny was banging the gavel for all she was worth.
The room was going wild.
“Mr. Deane! Mr. Deane! I must ask you to resume your seat!”
“No, I will not. I have something to say. We’ve listened to her. Now you’ll have to listen to me.” Charley MacIsaac moved from the back of the room and stood to one side of the selectmen. Penny gulped down an entire glass of water and glanced from side to side at her fellow board members. Morris Phyfe broke the silence. “Let the man speak. Everyone else has had a say, and I expect we’ll be throwing out Robert’s Rules quite a bit in the next few hours.” Penny nodded at Gus and he stood and faced the room.
“Some of you are my friends. Some of you don’t know me at all. And some of you are my enemies. Not that I give a damn.” This last word was bleeped to those watching breathlessly at home but he might as well have said “read my lips,” so clear was the word.
“I want to clear the air; then we can get back to business—namely, approving a perfectly reasonable construction plan that will bring new taxpayers to town, to say nothing of jobs.
“Number one.” Gus held up his hand. Like Joey’s, they were huge—calloused, with fingers like knock-wurst. The room waited. He raised his index finger.
“Number one. Don’t think we haven’t been hearing all day that we set the fire ourselves for the insurance money and that Mrs. Batcheldor got herself killed when she wandered in on us. Now this is bullshit”—
another bleep—“and you all know it. There’s no way the insurance is going to cover our loss. And as for the poor woman, why not ask what in God’s name she was doing there? And who put her up to it? So, number one, I don’t want to hear any more about the Deanes setting fires or knocking people off. If the police were doing their job, they’d have figured out the facts by now. I have.”