One Two Three

by Laurie Frankel

  “How?” Nora asks again, though in a different tone this time, less incredulity, more wonder.

  “We file an injunction to halt work on the dam. You believe that’s scheduled for November twenty-second?”

  “Yes,” my Voice and my sisters all answer at once.

  “I’ll prepare it now so it’s ready to file the minute construction starts.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?” Nora asks.

  “Nothing. Keep quiet. Call Omar. Get the deed and whatever other pursuant paperwork.”

  “Just like that?” says Nora.

  “Just like that,” says Russell.

  “It can’t possibly be that easy,” she breathes, “can it?”

  “Of course not,” Russell says cheerfully. “They’ll appeal the injunction. They’ll countersue. They’ll go to some judge who owes them a favor and suspend the suspension. But all of that takes time, and we’ll have a head start.”

  “And then what?” Nora says.

  “And then we’ll see,” Russell promises.

  “Trick or treat!” Matthew screams.

  “It is November twelfth!” Monday shrieks.

  “Bye, Matthew.” Nora gives a little wave.

  “Bye, girls.” Russell holds his hands to his heart.

  “Bye, Mab, Monday, Mirabel, and Nora,” Matthew sings.

  “Bye, Russell,” Nora whispers.

  “Bye, Nora,” he says and reaches forward to disconnect.

  In all the years, it is the first time I have ever heard them say goodbye.

  * * *

  She calls Omar.

  “Apple Templeton was both right and wrong,” she says without preamble. “It’s true you don’t have what she was looking for. But the answer is in your files.”

  A pause while she listens then announces triumphantly, “The dam is leaking.”

  Another pause.

  “I’m sure a few small leaks are nothing to be concerned about if your goal is just to maintain a nice park and a pretty lake no one would be caught dead swimming in anyway. But if your intention were, say, to reopen a disgraced chemical plant and dump poison into the nearby river, it’s apparently in desperate need of repair.”

  This time her face opens into its widest smile as she listens.

  “Good question. The person who gives the go-ahead for repairs to a dam is the person who owns the dam.”

  Pause.

  “Also a good question. The person who owns the dam is you. Us. Bourne.”

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, he’s at our front door.

  He is wearing a tuxedo jacket and shirt and bow tie over jeans and sneakers.

  He is holding flowers.

  And a tiny velvet box. A ring box.

  We are sitting around the kitchen table when he knocks, and she is laughing before she’s even got the door open.

  “Omar Radison. Why on earth do you own half a tuxedo?”

  “Work-study job at college. Catering and Events.”

  “I’m impressed it still fits.”

  “Nothing ever changes around here”—he pats his belly—“except my waistline, of course. The pants went long ago.”

  She laughs, touches the top of her own pants absently. “And where’d you get these?” She takes the flowers—yellow mums in a pot—with reverence. They are blooming things, after all.

  “Donna Anvers grew these herself. A good sign, no?”

  “The best.” Her other hand cups her flushed cheek like he’s told her they’ve struck oil underneath the Do Not Shop.

  “And you were right, Nora.”

  “About what?”

  “Everything, probably. You’ve always been right. I’ve known it … Honestly, I guess I’ve known it all along.”

  A pause then as she looks at him and he looks at her and neither looks away.

  He clears his throat. “But among other things, you were right about the dam. The dam belongs to Bourne. The decision as to what to do with it is ours. If it’s leaking, if Belsum needs it repaired to get up and running, we’ve got the chance to answer a question I only ever got one shot at answering. And that time I chose wrong.”

  “What question?” Nora’s trembling.

  He gets down on one knee, holds the tiny box up to her. “Say no.”

  She’s half-laughing, half-crying again. “Omar Radison, you’ve made me the happiest woman in the world.”

  “Open the box,” he says.

  She does. Inside is a piece of paper, origamied to fit. She unfolds and unfolds and unfolds until it lies flat. The deed to the dam. Witnessed by Hickory Grove. Built perhaps at his behest. But inarguably, unambiguously, notarized right there in black and white as belonging in its entirety to Bourne Town Council and Municipality.

  “You mashed it all up!” Monday shrieks.

  “It’s a copy.” Omar’s eyes do not leave my mother’s. “This one’s only for dramatic effect.”

  She hugs it to her chest. “And sentimental value.”

  “Sentiment is for the past.” He says it very softly because by now he is standing quite near her.

  “This is from the past,” she points out.

  “No”—his eyes are shining—“this is for our future.”

  Her eyes are shining too, and when I search them I see that she can’t quite believe it, this promise of a future. But I see that she can’t quite not believe it anymore either, that her permanently reined-in expectations are slipping their leads, taking first tentative steps, then running wild.

  One

  The plan is simple. All we have to do is wait, which should be easy since we’ve been waiting all our lives, but you’d think I would have learned by now: nothing is easy.

  It would be nice to march over to the library and wave the deed to the dam in Nathan Templeton’s face, and he would know we knew and had him beat. Now that we know permission is ours to withhold, we’ll never let him repair the dam. Maybe it’ll leak, then crumble, and Bourne will flood and drown, but at least then we’ll be cleansed and reborn and returned to our rightful state via the removal of the barrier that started it all. Realizing that’s a sacrifice we’re willing to make, a sacrifice Belsum has forced us to make, a sacrifice Belsum has made less of a sacrifice—there is not much Bourne left to save—Nathan Templeton will give up in defeat and slink off in shame, never to darken our doors again.

  We can’t do that, though. Because he can’t know we know.

  The reality is disappointingly less dramatic. First, we have to wait ten days. Then, on the twenty-second, when they try to start repairs, Russell will file the injunction to make them stop working on Bourne infrastructure without Bourne approval. Then we’ll wait some more while Belsum scrambles to do whatever they’re going to. Maybe a judge will finally be persuaded they’re evil when we show how they were trying to keep our own dam a secret. Maybe a judge will finally be persuaded by the proof we have at last that the effluent was not an accident but something Belsum knew and took measures to hide going in. Or maybe March will prove too long a delay, and fighting our injunction will prove too tiresome, and Belsum Chemical will decide Bourne is more trouble than we’re cheap and move on.

  The waits—ten days till the twenty-second, then waiting to see what they’ll do in response to the injunction, then waiting to see what happens after that—feel torturous, but actually, they’re the best thing because the reality is once he knows the plant’s not reopening, Nathan Templeton will take his family and go back to Boston. So, hard as it is, all this waiting is really a blessing. The plant will not reopen, but no one will know it, so all the bad things that are going to happen when everyone does—there will be no new jobs after all, no influx of customers for new shops and restaurants, and, worse than any of that, River will leave and I’ll never see him again—won’t happen yet. As Elmer Grove would say: win-win.

  The worst part of this plan though—the part it hinges on—is keeping it a secret. We cannot squander our head start. Russell’s injun
ction has to be a surprise to Belsum, a shock even. We want them scrambling and wrong-footed and delayed and behind and outsmarted. No one knows we know about the dam, neither who owns it nor Belsum’s secret plans to repair it before we realize we can say no, and we have to keep it that way for as long as possible. We can’t tell anyone, not even River. Mirabel says especially. Especially not River.

  “We don’t keep secrets from each other,” I say, and she laughs, I think unkindly. “Besides, he’s on our side.”

  “He is sixteen,” her Voice says. We are lying in the dark in bed waiting for sleep to come.

  “So?”

  “Young,” her Voice says.

  “We’re sixteen,” I remind her.

  “Yes.”

  “He spied on his father, gave us those emails, got me into the plant. He’s been helping us.”

  “So—”

  “So he deserves to know what’s going on.” But she wasn’t finished yet.

  “—far.”

  “You think he’d betray us?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “You don’t understand. He wouldn’t do that to me. He l-likes me.” I trip over the l because I was about to say “love.” “We tell each other everything.”

  “We tell each other everything.” Monday, from out of the darkness on the other side. I didn’t even know she was awake. “And sometimes I do not like you.”

  “We’re sisters. That’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s different with boyfriends.” Oh, what that word feels like coming out of my mouth. Even in the dark, I can see it rising to the ceiling, like a balloon, that buoyant but mostly that joyous, that celebratory.

  “Don’t tell him,” Mirabel’s Voice warns, back where we started.

  So I hold my tongue, guard our secrets. I wait seven days.

  And then I tell River anyway.

  I tell him because of what I told Mirabel. He’s on our side. He’s been helping us, helping me. This is his victory too. I tell him because I do not want to keep it—or anything—from him. I trust him. I know he will be thrilled for us, like Russell, like Omar. I tell him because the weather is turning for good, and the cold is coming for real now. There will be snow. I want to drink hot cocoa with my boyfriend and hold his hand while we watch it fall.

  So I tell him. I tell him not to tell anyone. I swear him to secrecy. He promises. He crosses his heart and hopes to die. He thanks me for trusting him. He pulls me to him and whispers into my hair that he would never betray me. And that might be the best feeling of all—trusting, having faith—better than the kissing, better than the sex, better than the magic.

  Briefly.

  Two

  It is November 21, so there is only one night left to wait, and we are eating dinner, and the doorbell rings, and Mama’s face looks happy, and I can guess that is because Omar has come to visit twice since he brought over the deed to the dam, and that makes me feel squiggly because Mama hated Omar until very recently. And happy and hate are opposites. But when Mab opens the door, the person on the other side is not Omar. It is Nathan Templeton.

  “You’re eating,” he says, which is accurate but not the point anymore. “I can come back later.”

  But I am alarmed he is here, and I cannot eat while I am worried about why, and I can make an assumption that that is true for Mama and Mab and Mirabel too so he might as well come in now. Mama opens a new bottle of water and pours him a glass of it. He thanks her, and he sits down, but he does not drink the water or say anything. Mama looks tired and afraid but patient. She will just wait to hear what he will say. I am afraid too, but I am not patient.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Monday,” Mama warns with her warning voice.

  But Nathan looks relieved I asked, probably because he wants to say why he is here but did not know how.

  “Listen,” he says, and then he does not say anything else, and then he says, “I know you know about the dam.”

  It feels in my stomach like I swallowed something very hot without waiting for it to cool first. I look at my sisters, and they look like they feel the same way. Mab’s face is the color of a marshmallow. Mirabel’s eyes look like they might try to exit her head.

  “How do you know?” I ask because no one else does even though it can be assumed that everyone wants to.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Nathan looks down at his water glass. Mab stands up and leaves the table, and even though I cannot see where she goes, I know it is into our bedroom because I hear our bedroom door slam. I look at Mirabel, but her stretched-out eyes are stretching toward Nathan. “I wanted to come here as a…” He trails off.

  “Friend?” my mother asks. Her question is not, Is that the word you were going to say before you stopped talking. Her question is, Do you think you are my friend.

  “Yeah, I guess.” He laughs a little bit of a laugh. “I felt I owed you I suppose. You helped me, my family. You’ve put up with … Well, over the years, you’ve put up with a lot from us.” He breathes in a big breath. “It’s true my father didn’t want anyone to realize the dam was yours rather than ours. And it’s true he’s not been taking the, uh, highest of roads. But first of all, the idea that this is going to stop him? There’s no way.” He holds his hands up and out like he will balance a pizza on each one. “So there’ll be a slight delay. So he’ll be angry and annoyed, and there’ll be a lot more to finagle than he anticipated. Fine. But then he’ll build his own dam. Or he’ll get someone at the state level to override your rights. Or he’ll pay someone enough money to ignore your injunction. He hasn’t worked it out yet, but trust me, he will.”

  “And second?” Mama’s voice sounds like she does not care about the answer, but her face shows that her voice is lying.

  “Secondly, more importantly, as I think you know, I haven’t always agreed with my father’s approach. Personally, I was never in favor of hiding your rights to the dam or trying to sneak anything by the citizens of this town. Myself, I’ve had a different plan all along. A better plan.”

  He stops talking and looks at Mama, and I can guess he wants her to ask about his plan, but she does not, so he starts talking some more. “As you know, the fate of that dam is up to this town.”

  “As we now know.” Mama’s voice means correcting. “As we discovered ourselves, despite your best efforts.”

  “As you discovered”—Nathan bows his head and hinges the palms of his hands open from a prayer shape to a book shape—“what happens with that dam is up to this town. Without a dam, Belsum would have to shutter the plant and leave.” I think he will look sad about this but he looks happy. “And the people of this town want Belsum to stay. We’ve done so much hiring, Nora. Everyone’s on board. Everyone’s excited.”

  “Not everyone.” Mama means she is not excited.

  But Nathan does not mind that she is not excited. “I got the final write-up of the R&D. That’s why I came tonight. I thought you’d want to see.” I think back to that day we met him in my library and how he looked so smooth. He still looks smooth but not as smooth because his hair looks like he has touched it with his hands a lot, and his pants look like regular pants instead of expensive smooth pants, and his shirt looks like a fancy shirt but a fancy shirt he slept in. He has his same smooth smile, but he does not look like he believes it anymore. “The QA numbers are high as they go. We commissioned the most rigorous testing we could find. I insisted on it. Harburon Analytical is the most exacting, state-of-the-art independent testing and chemical analysis company in the world. They’re famous for shutting down all sorts of would-be products that passed every other set of testing they were subjected to with flying colors. And they gave us their highest rating. They were absolutely reservation-free.”

  He holds out to Mama a binder, and she takes it, but she does not look inside.

  Nathan breathes another deep breath. “I know last time was terrible, Nora. I’m sorrier than you can know. But chemists far more experienced and talented and well funded than I was
have been working on GL606 for two decades now. I was a student. These are world-class scientists. A team of them. They’ve overhauled the whole thing. It’s safe. I’ve been over and over those results myself.” He points to the binder on her lap. “I give you my word.”

  “I will take that for what it’s worth,” Mama says.

  Nathan nods like she asked him a yes-or-no question, which she did not. Then he says, “You don’t have to. I’m going to Omar.”

  “For what?” Mama looks surprised but happy but mad. It is confusing.

  “For the mayoral go-ahead. For official permission to repair the dam.”

  “He’ll never give it,” our surprised happy mad mother says.

  “He will”—Nathan also looks like more than one feeling—“because that’s what the people of his town want.”

  “Omar’s on our side.” Our mother crosses her arms over her chest.

  “Omar’s on Bourne’s side,” Nathan Templeton says.

  “Me too,” says Mama.

  “Me too,” says Nathan.

  But this cannot be accurate. Nathan’s side and Mama’s side are opposites.

  Three

  I go to the bar with Nora, mostly so I don’t have to look at Mab, don’t have to think about what happened to bring Nathan Templeton to our door, don’t have to consider the hard-won, blown-glass-delicate, slight-as-corn-silk victory which has been squandered here and how and why. If she hadn’t gotten up and left the table when she did, I would have had to, and it was good she couldn’t raise her gaze from the floor because I could not have met my sister’s eyes.

  But the other reason I go is to take care of our mother, who is pretending unconvincingly not to be rattled by Nathan’s visit, by Nathan’s confidence, by Nathan’s conviction that he’s a better man than his father, when what he wants and what he’ll do to get it have come straight down the bloodline.