“The hell.”
“Listen, I’m not sure what’s bugging you. If you have something to say I’m ready to hear it.”
“Are you?”
“Don’t be playing games here, we’re here to do town business, this is town business we’re doing here!” Bill’s face was a mask of red stress. You could see him struggling to contain his emotions. Meredith’s mother, on the other hand, retained her composure; she stood with arms crossed and head tilted to one side; she looked like the home economics teacher she had once been, thoughtfully appraising a child with an attitude problem. Meredith looked my way and rolled her eyes. How I loved her for that! — the bond of shared irony. I lowered my gaze and pretended to be busy scribbling minutes. Barbara Nixon peered down too, not acknowledging the antagonists; she dug around with her fork in her salad. After a moment she noticed me noticing her, and she put down her fork.
Then Claire was beside Bill’s table, flipping through her pea-green check pad. Claire held aloft her pencil and, in a voice kind and soft with waitressly forbearance, inquired, “Yes?”
It was Bob, not Bill, who answered. The anthropologist pointed to his open menu and said, “I’ll have the fish chowder dinner and a side order of hush puppies, please, and, um, a draft.”
Which gave Jerry an opportunity to move the meeting along by proclaiming to the room, “I think it might be wise to consider Tom Thompson’s earlier words about the interconnectedness of things, and in this spirit propose we move on to the problem of the library system. I now call on our volunteer librarian, Rita Henderson.”
“Thanks, hon. The situation is this. Current levels of funding prohibit comprehensive acquisition, and outreach programs like Story Time and the bookmobile will probably have to be discontinued. I’ve developed a plan to merge the neighborhood branches into our main, Southshore location. Redundant editions can be sold to raise money for one of those magnetic checkout devices, which I think we should have one of.”
“No doubt,” said Jerry, who proceeded to motion for a committee to assist his wife. Hands flew up and I scribbled down nominations: Barbara Nixon; Betsy Isaac; Simone, the art teacher (who’d get my vote any day); Ray Conover, obviously not present; and Chuck Webster, likewise absent; along with a host of other likely and unlikely candidates, including, of all people, Abraham de Leon, who nominated himself. Jerry grimaced when Abe raised his hand and said, “Me.” Was something up, after all, between Abe and Rita Henderson, and did Jerry maybe know or suspect? Or was the chairman merely appalled — and who could blame him? — by his buddy’s clear lack of diplomacy in throwing his own hat into the ring? Whatever the case, Abe wasn’t anyone you wanted overseeing any libraries.
Jerry motioned to close the floor to further nominations. Though not before Helen Mooney raised her hand and declared, “I nominate my daughter.”
“Second,” many people shouted.
So it was that Meredith came to be part of a select commission authorized to engineer social programs and allocate funds. She won more votes than any other candidate. I wasn’t jealous, exactly. After all, I already held a civic post. Though mine was, of course, voluntary, not elected. I felt, well, strange — a mild case of territorial anxiety mixed with healthy domestic competitiveness. Also, I was proud of Meredith’s new popularity. What can be said about that? A lot of folks were enthralled by her ability to become a fish.
Other worthies elected to the task force were Simone, Barbara, and, as luck would have it, Abe, who bellowed, “All right!” when his name was called.
“Order,” demanded the chair. I still hadn’t managed to get myself a clam roll, which was probably a good thing because another plate on the table would’ve made it very difficult to write minutes. I turned to a clean notebook page and scrawled down Jerry’s call for “ten-minute recess, after which we’ll reconvene to discuss interfamilial strife and also, if time allows, the matter of a multipurpose public school / indoor sports complex to be located at Freedom Field and headmastered by our own Mr. Scrivener.”
Down came Jerry’s gavel on the tabletop. Down plummeted my mood with it. What a rude turn of events. When had I consented to this? I turned to address Henderson but he was already up and gone. I spotted him leaning over the bar with a gaggle of town hall types. Was it time for the drinking to begin? Already? I heard Rita shout, “Could I please see the library task force over by the ice machine?”
I sat alone. Across the room Barbara and Meredith embraced, gently patting one another on shoulder and back, like chums or sweethearts — teammates! Barbara said something and Meredith laughed. Rita orbited Abe like a minor planet. Abe looked like a biker — if it weren’t for that golf shirt. Beyond de Leon: the sea, faintly, blackly visible through a decorative “porthole” installed near the men’s room door.
“Well, Pete Robinson.”
It was my mother-in-law. I rose, and, because form dictated it, we hugged. Helen’s bristly hair tickled my face, and I thought I might sneeze, when she said, “How wonderful, a new school. I’ve always found it so gratifying that my daughter should choose a husband who values education.”
“Our children are our future.”
“Indeed they are. Tell me, son-in-law, do you anticipate a traditional curriculum?”
“Uh, could be. Too early to tell. Lots of problems to be worked out and all.”
“It’s high time we got back to solid values of fundamental learning and common human decency.”
“I agree.”
“Do you? Do you? I believe evil has found a home in your heart, Pete.”
Before I could say, Excuse me? Tom Thompson came over and smiled. “Hi guys.”
At which point I finally sneezed, not once but serially, causing nearby people to pause in their conversations and take turns saying, “God bless you, God bless you.”
I have to admit, I kind of like Tom. His politics are unsophisticated but his heart’s in the right place.
Take his speech, once recess was over and the meeting resumed: “The Bensons and Websters are waging private war on public land!”
“That’s right, that’s the issue exactly,” observed assenting voices. Tom was well known for his enthusiasm. Crowds excite him. That night at Terry’s he gave a memorable performance, stepping into the center of the room and holding aloft his arms and claiming, “I for one am prepared to make a nonviolent gesture of protest and self-sacrifice. Who’ll join me on a walking tour of the park to locate and deactivate those mines?”
No hands went up. Jerry said, “Noble gesture, Tom, but I don’t think it’s that simple.” I sneezed again. “You’re catching a little bug, aren’t you?” whispered Barbara, and I felt her breath on my ear. Wow. I imagined the feeling of her mouth, its warmth. And I saw an opportunity to integrate a lot of issues into one action; I blew my nose into an oversized paper napkin, folded the napkin into a pocketable square, pocketed it, and said, “Okay. A Turtle Pond Park initiative is desirable. I deem it appropriate to take decisive action in the form of removing obstacles to enjoyment of the park, and suggest an alternative to walking through it, thus risking grave injury. What if Rita’s soon-to-be-redundant large-format library reference editions were simply hurled into park grounds? The World Book, Columbia, and Britannica encyclopedias could possess the heft required to depress the claymore’s trigger.”
After that things got out of hand. Why, I ask, should a mere suggestion incite divisive bickering leading to vehement altercation? A simple no vote is all that’s required, not yelling things like “You’re crazy, Pete Robinson, you don’t give a damn about education!” which was what Helen shouted at me, repeatedly, so that finally Bill Nixon got fed up and went steamrolling unsteadily across the room — nearly flattening a child who was roaming innocently between tables with a milk-filled jelly glass that wound up inverted — getting right up in her, Helen’s, face. Granted, Bill’s tactic of swatting at Meredith’s mother like a fly was imprudent. He didn’t appear to intend actual harm. The mother of the milk-doused child shrieked, “That man hurt my baby!” Which wasn’t true, because, after all, it was only milk. Blood did not flow until Abe, presumably resolved to uphold the peace, imposed himself between Helen and Bill. Abe counseled his friend, “Take it easy, chief.” Too late. Abe’s nose got whacked by Bill’s hand. It’s a good thing there was a nurse in the house.