“Guess you don’t call this depressed,” John said, gesturing toward the barn.
“There’s changes comin’ here,” Gore said. “Don’t forget the summer people. And all the new ones stayin’ the winter now too.
Gore leaned back in his chair. “Like I told you, Perly knows about land. And there’s big things brewin’ in Harlowe to do with land. It’s comin’, I tell you. You know them towns down near Massachusetts? They’ve got as bad as the city. Vandalism all the time and traffic and filth... . Perly figures he can help Harlowe get to growin’ right before it strikes us full on.”
“What if Harlowe don’t care to grow at all?” John said.
“You better go dynamite the interstate then,” Gore said, looking apologetically at Ma. “With Boston, and I guess everyplace, spreadin’ like gypsy moths in June...” He leaned forward in his chair. “Besides,” he said, “would you like to live in the city?”
“Not me,” John said.
“Course not.” Gore settled back. “Perly figures the only reason city folk make such a mess everywhere they go is that they need just what we got. They come here lookin’ for some good country values. A group of real people to feel part of. Some kind of connection. But we keep them at arm’s length now, never let them into things—”
“He just moved in,” John said. “He plannin’ to set up as a welcome committee already? Or is he goin’ to set you up at the edge of town to give out daisies—from your new cruiser maybe?”
“Damn it, John,” Gore said. “You was always such a one to mock. With all the new people comin’ in, how can it hurt to have someone around knows what he’s doin’?”
“What’s he got in mind for himself’s what I’d like to know,” John said.
“You ain’t got the picture of this Perly straight at all,” Gore said. “The thing is, he’s sort of a do-gooder. After me all the time to swear off beer and cigarettes. Like one of them old-fashioned preachers, ought to be wearin’ a black hat and a collar. He’s got this idea if we bring back auctions for a start, and square dances, and quiltin’ bees, and potluck suppers... Remember them spellin’ bees we used to have before they closed the old school?”
“Me and you,” John said, “we always used to go down near the first ones. You hankerin’ to go back to that?”
“Then he’s got this thing about farmin’, and well water, and firewood, and clear air. To his mind, all that’s part and parcel with Christian values.”
Mim chewed on the knuckle of her thumb uneasily.
Gore lit another cigarette and drew on it so that his whole front lifted six inches. He looked down at Hildie, then turned to gaze uncomfortably at the plastic daisies hanging between the front windows. “Fact, he was after me to ask who all would send their little ones if he started a Sunday School.”
“I taught Sunday School thirty-five years, for my part,” Ma said.
“Well I know it,” Gore said, nodding.
“Course Hildie’d go to Sunday School,” Ma said. “She’d love that. And she needs it bad.”
Hildie felt her grandmother’s complacent glance, caught her lip in her teeth, and scuttled to her mother.
There was a loud snap in the stove and the hollow sound of the fire momentarily blazing, not a comforting sound since the room was already too warm for everyone but Ma.
“That what you’re doin’ here?” John asked, starting to laugh. “Collectin’ kids for a Sunday School class?”
“Well, not exactly,” Gore said. “Thing is, we thought we’d give it another go next Saturday.”
“Another auction?” John asked, his laughter cut short.
Gore shrugged.
“I thought the one you had was fine,” John said.
“If one’s good, two’s better,” Gore said, resettling his bulk in the chair. “We’re thinkin’ we might hold even more.”
“For the police again?” John asked.
Gore rummaged in his back pocket for his handkerchief again. “If you wait till crime gets out of hand before you get around to more police...”
Ma nodded enthusiastically. “Why it’s just like Janice Pulver was sayin’ about how Farmer’s Mutual had to raise its prices because of payin’ so much on account of them hippies campin’ out all over the place. Never mind Amelia strangled like that.”
“Well, things are gettin’ more complicated,” Gore said, turning to Ma with gratitude. “That’s about all I know.”
“Why, we can give them that old buffet,” Ma said. “What’d we ever do with that anyway?”
On the days when nobody went to town, John walked the quarter of a mile to the mailbox as he had since he was barely bigger than Hildie. Usually it was empty. But on the Friday after Gore’s second visit, when he lifted Hildie to look, she pulled out a letter. She ran home ahead of him in the sunshine, so agile now that John could no longer keep up with her without breaking into a run himself, and he was some years past that. His boots crunched rhythmically in the sandy mud as he followed, his broad face content as his child widened the gap between them, waving the letter high over her head like a flag.
Hildie threw the letter triumphantly into Ma’s lap and waited for John to sit in the rocker so she could climb into his lap. Mim leaned against the piano in her apron. Ma read aloud:
Dear John, Miriam, Mrs. Moore, and Hildie:
The wheels you contributed to the policeman’s auction brought a surprisingly good price. I would like to remit some of the money to you as a recompense for your generosity.
Bob thinks the auction was a great success. I certainly hope it will contribute to Harlowe’s future safety.
As you no doubt know, I am the new owner of the former Fawkes place on the Parade and very much hope that we will meet as neighbors soon and see a lot of one another.
Sincerely,
Perly Dunsmore
Enclosed was a check for three dollars. “More than the firemen ever do,” John said, turning the check over and righting it again.
“He’s sure got Bob Gore all wrapped up and tied with a yellow ribbon,” Mim said.
“That’s nothin’ to sneeze at,” Ma said. “For all his talk, Bobby got the share of sense for the whole nineteen of them Gore kids. And if he’d a lit out of Harlowe like the rest, we’d have old Toby on the dole sure.”
“How ’bout the cows, Ma?” John said, winking at Mim. “We’d of had the cows on the dole too. Might’s well shoot Toby outright as take his cows away.”
“Crazy how that barn don’t fall on them,” Mim said.
“Everybody from Harlowe knows it’s goin to stand as long as Toby,” snapped Ma.
“Bob’s not the worst cop you could have,” John said. “He’s sure to be up in a flash if you call.”
“He’d be scared of missin’ somethin’,” Ma said.
“Kind of mean, ain’t it?” John said. “All these seven years he’s been dreamin’ of havin’ a real honest-to-gosh crime to solve. And now he’s got a whopper—a stranglin’—not to mention the break-in and the holdup. And poor old Bobby ain’t scared up so much as a suspect.”
“Fanny says he was so cross he wouldn’t even talk about it,” Mim said. “Not even when he’d had a few. Not that I blame him. Downright humiliatin’, right there in the biggest house in town like that.”
Ma turned to John. “Do you recall that spell back when old Nicholas Fawkes used the big barn for auctions? she asked. That makes a sort of a tradition, don’t it? Maybe this Perly Dunsmore ain’t such a fool after all. You ought to go on down to the store a bit more often. See what you can find out.”
John shook his head and grinned. “You’re workin’ up a powerful curiosity about this fellow, Ma,” he said.
“Can’t say I ever thought about it just like that before, did you, John?” Mim asked. “That what they’re really after is to get to be like us?”