Good Faith

by Jane Smiley

  Even so, it made me a little uncomfortable—though not nearly as uncomfortable as the actual meeting. We filled an entire row at the back of the general purpose room of the township hall: Gottfried next to me, me next to Gordon, Gordon next to Jane, and Jane, at Gottfried’s insistence, next to Marcus at the other end. Jane was very friendly with Gottfried, almost, you might say, uppity. As soon as we arrived (the three of them had gotten there before us), Jane marched right up to Gottfried and took his hand. She said, “Well, you must be Mr. Nuelle. I’m impressed. You’re surprisingly young. I thought of you as some sort of ancient craftsman, you know, ninety years old and still fitting stones, no mortar, just the thinnest seams.”

  “I don’t do stonework, ma’am,” said Gottfried.

  “Well, that’s just an example. Excuse me for running on. But my brother’s house is maybe the most beautiful new house I’ve ever seen. He’s hardly worthy of it, being such a Philistine and all. Would you mind showing me some of the others?”

  “Joe here can do that, ma’am. I don’t show my own houses.”

  They went to their places and sat down. Everyone sitting in the rows in front of us (maybe ten people) turned to look around. They gave Marcus and Jane extra-long stares because they were beautifully dressed, Marcus in a gray suit and Jane in a black cashmere outfit, as if they had a big city date after the meeting. It was hard to tell if Jane had flattered Gottfried or offended him, but he did keep his mouth shut for the next two hours, and that was astonishing enough.

  The poodle woman was wearing pink, the theme of her establishment. She had hair from the 1960s, ski pants, and rubber boots, the sort you never saw anymore, that were made for wearing over high heels. They had fur around the tops. She wore a big smile and lots of lipstick, but when it came to pitching her dog runs, she mowed them down with facts, presented very rapidly. There were five commissioners, and she locked her gaze on each one in turn as she discussed dog and cat populations in the county, animal control possibilities (as a favor to the county), waste management, dog shows, the American Kennel Club, neutering programs, and general dereliction of animal control duties on the township’s part. She had seen a dog pack herself, crossing Roaring Falls Extension, numbering sixteen animals and led by two basset hounds, and if we didn’t think basset hounds were capable of feral behavior—well, we had another think coming. They passed her six dog runs 5 to 0.

  The commission had decided to pass the state park facilities without meeting, so that left Mike Lovell. It was only seven-thirty. Marcus leaned around Gordon and caught my eye, tapping his watch happily. Gordon looked a little dozy, and Gottfried was monumentally quiet. After the pink lady, everyone in the front rows turned around and looked at us again.

  Mike Lovell shuffled to the front of the room and stood in front of the table of commissioners like a recalcitrant schoolboy. From her place at another little desk, Vida read aloud the permit status: “‘Gasoline Tank Installation permit for Michael Paul Lovell, Darley Corners Garage, 261 Grass Hill Road, Unincorporated Area, Plymouth Township. Permit applied for the removal from said property of one gasoline tank, thought to be leaking—’”

  “I don’t think it’s leaking,” said Mike.

  “Where is Grass Hill Road?” whispered Marcus to Gordon.

  “‘And disposal of said tank. Tank to be replaced by newer model of similar capacity.’ What company is doing the removal, Hank?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  One of the township commissioners said, “When we met about this before Christmas, Mike, you said you’d have something lined up by the new year.”

  “Well, I ran into a little trouble.”

  Another commissioner spoke up. “This has been on the agenda every month since the summer, Mike. That tank has got to come out.”

  “They’ll take it out and see there’s no leak, and then that’s going to be a waste of my money. Here’s the deal. I think if you folks want it out, you ought to pay for it.”

  “It says right in your operating license that you have to ‘oversee your equipment and make sure it is in good repair,’” said the first commissioner.

  “My dad got that license.”

  “Well, yes, he did, but when you took over the station, you were supposed to know what was in it.”

  “Well, I didn’t, and now I’m stuck. This whole thing is your idea. If that woman down across the road there hadn’t complained, this never would have come up, and now you’re believing her and not me. I say the tank isn’t leaking, and there’s nothing wrong with the woman’s well water.”

  A woman in the front row stood up and said, “It stinks to high heaven. I’ve been getting water from up at the state park now for ten months. I ought to sue you. You know what it’s like, to have to go get every drop of water you drink and wash dishes in? It’s no picnic. The lab said there’s benzene in the water.”

  “That doesn’t mean it comes from my tank. That tank is no more than ten years old—”

  And now Marcus Burns raised his hand. One of the commissioners noticed him and said, “Yes?”

  “Do you mind if I ask where Grass Hill Road is?”

  “The property in question is on the northeast corner of Plymouth Village, where Grass Hill Road crosses K Street.”

  “Thank you,” said Marcus. Next to me, Gottfried rolled his eyes. But Marcus was not finished. He said to the woman, “Do you mind if I ask your name, ma’am?”

  The woman’s head swiveled in our direction. She said, “I’m Suzannah Saylor.”

  “Thank you,” said Marcus.

  I turned to Gordon and whispered, “Don’t let him buy any more property.” Gordon nodded.

  A third commissioner said, “Mr. Lovell, this issue has already been decided. We can’t keep arguing over the same facts.”

  “Well, take my license away. Then where’s everybody going to get gas or get their cars fixed? Will they drive to Cookborough or Deacon? That’s a twenty-mile trip for gas. You know how many times a week I look under somebody’s hood, knowing I’m not going to get paid for my time? I jiggle this or I fiddle with that so the driver can get to the dealer and have it fixed. Or I sell somebody a buck or two’s worth of gas so they can fill up over by the highway. You think it’s worth it to me to go into debt so I can keep doing that?”

  Marcus shook his head. Gordon put his hand on Marcus’s knee.

  “What about last week? I was out in the cold jumping somebody or other at the crack of dawn every day. And I pulled you out of the ditch, Vida, when you slid there on Rose Creek Road.”

  “I did pay you, Mike, but I’ll thank you again.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence—which Marcus Burns filled.

  “I take it that you’re an independent proprietor, Mr. Lovell?”

  “Yeah, I am now. We had Esso before, but the franchise expense wasn’t worth it.”

  “So where do you get the gas that you sell?”

  “Well, what happens is, a guy has a load for, say, a Texaco station down in Deacon or somewhere, and if the place can’t take it all, he brings the rest out to me, and I get it for a good rate.”

  “Very interesting,” said Marcus.

  I leaned around Gordon and whispered to him, “No, it isn’t!”

  All this time, Mike Lovell had been treating Marcus’s questions as annoying intrusions upon his efforts to persuade the township to let him off the hook, but now he turned around, looked Marcus full in the face, and gave each of us the once-over in turn. He leaned toward Vida and muttered, “Who are they?”

  “The company that bought the estate.”

  “Yeah?”

  She nodded.

  The second commissioner said to Marcus, “You got any more questions? Anyone?”

  “Not right now,” said Marcus.

  The commissioner said, “We do need to move forward on this matter, Mike.”

  “Well, the ground is froze, I can’t get the damned tank out of there right
now anyway.”

  Suzannah Saylor said in a rather loud voice, “This is ridiculous! I don’t want to be poisoned!”

  The commissioners looked at one another, and then one of the ones who hadn’t yet spoken said, “I move that the permit be granted to Mr. Lovell, and that he be given until April first to remove the tank. After that, if the tank isn’t removed, I move we notify the county and leave the issue to them.”

  “April first!” exclaimed Suzannah Saylor. “I’m supposed to monitor my well every week until—”

  “Now, see, I’m not sure I can get it done before April first. They could be backed up at the company—”

  “Excuse me,” said Marcus. “Do you mind if I talk to Mike outside for a minute?”

  And that was how we came to have a lease on an existing gas station in the village of Plymouth, five miles from the farm down a rather bumpy road and not, at least in any obvious sense, our business. Marcus took Mike Lovell outside and told him we would pay for the tank removal and reinstallation and help him pay for his franchise renewal, and all of these things Mike communicated to Vida and the commissioners when he came in from his conference with Marcus. Mike Lovell was all smiles and came to the back of the room and shook hands with each of us in turn, and when he went up to talk to the commissioners one last time they were all smiles too. Only Suzannah Saylor, possibly feeling that Mike Lovell was undeserving of such bounty, said, “I can’t believe this! This guy is a notorious polluter! He should be fined! But as long as that tank’s out of there, I don’t care who takes it out!” She glared at us as she left the room.

  It was now close to eight-thirty. Several of the commissioners got up from their seats and left the room. A few moments later, I could see them outside the window, in the lee of the front stoop, lighting cigarettes. The poodle lady and a couple of others took the opportunity to depart, and those remaining, Mike and three or four more, still sitting in the front of the room, stared at us a few more times. The commissioners returned.

  Vida announced that we were here for preliminary consideration of the development of Salt Key Farm, and that the sketch plan we had submitted included a golf course, a clubhouse, a modular sewage plant, fifty to a hundred houses, roads, sidewalks, et cetera. I was perfectly familiar with what we wanted, or at least what we were admitting right now that we wanted, and it sounded like a lot to me.

  The commissioners stared at us, I assumed in disbelief, for a few seconds after she finished talking. Then one of them said, “Who’s who, please?”

  I said, “On the end there is Marcus Burns, next to him is Ms. Jane Johnson, then Gordon Baldwin”—two of them nodded—“whom you already know. I am Joe Stratford. We’re the developers.”

  Vida leaned over to the commissioner closest to her and said, “Gottfried Nuelle.” But Gottfried kept his mouth shut. They looked at us for a moment, and we looked at them. Then they opened up the plans. I stood up and went forward.

  After a moment, they looked up at me, and I said, “Naturally, the most important thing to us is maintaining the look of the estate as it’s always been.”

  They remained impassive.

  I said, “I don’t know how many of you have been in the house recently.” No response. Possibly none of them, ever. “The house is a beautiful example of the work of Hunter Reston, who was a prominent New York architect in the period during and after the First World War. He specialized in rather traditional architecture but used very elegant detail; for example, the book-matched paneling in the library and the dining room. He also designed the gardens.”

  Still nothing.

  “We would carefully refurbish the house and renew the gardens, which are actually in excellent condition.” My voice began to frog up, no doubt because of the freezing response I was getting. I wanted to turn around and look at the faces of my associates, to see some signs of encouragement, but I went on, my voice getting higher and higher. “Our view is that the property is a valuable part of the history of this area, but unlikely to find a buyer who can by himself maintain . . .excuse me”—I cleared my throat—“maintain it in its present condition, and so the centerpiece of our plan is an eighteen-hole golf course and the retention of the house as a clubhouse for the course.”

  No golfers in this group.

  “Um.”

  Now there was a question. “A private club?”

  Now I could feel Marcus’s presence behind me, and I said, “No, public course, public access to the club—”

  “Yes?” He called on someone, and I turned around.

  Gordon said, “Last year I was down in North Carolina, where they have those famous courses. Pinehurst. You been down there? They’ve got seven courses. Anyway, the locals play for twenty bucks a round and the tourists play for a hundred.”

  At last, a response. All five of the commissioners smiled. Gordon continued.

  “When they get a famous golf tournament in there, that’s hundreds of thousands of dollars for the local economy. Joe?”

  “I think some form of public/private mix would work best in this situation.” I cleared my throat again. “You’ll notice that we’ve asked for acre-and-a-half lots, though in this township, lots are three acres. This is because we don’t want to break up the grounds. Theoretically, we could put one hundred ninety-two houses on the five-hundred-and-eighty-acre property without asking for a zoning variance, but”—I cleared my throat again and paused for a moment—“our real interest is in making sure that the community has a say in what we do, and, let’s say, agrees with what we do, because, of course, Salt Key Farm is and always has been an asset belonging to the whole community”—how was that again? I thought to myself; the only people around here that Mrs. Thorpe knew were her house servants and her stable hands—“so we would like to cluster the houses together on smaller lots, leaving plenty of open space—some cultivated, some in pasture, and some for—ah, wildlife. The Salt Key community aims to maintain the historic values of the farm, while adding to them by making the farm more accessible and useful to the general region.”

  The commissioners stared down at the plans again, passing them back and forth and turning pages. Behind me, Gottfried shifted position and crossed his legs the other way, then pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose. The commissioners looked at him. I stood quietly, waiting for more questions. One of the commissioners who hadn’t yet spoken said in a quiet voice, “I see you got a waste-treatment plant here. Does that creek run all year around?”

  Behind me, Marcus stood up, and in a moment he was beside me. He said, “I’d like to answer the questions about septic, waste treatment, water, all of that. We expect to have a modular state-of-the-art plant, expandable at any time that we need more capacity. We expect to set a new standard for environmental protection in this area. Now I think my friend Mr. Lovell’s dilemma illustrates some interesting features of the world of the future. Ms. Saylor, who unfortunately left during the break, came into the region from outside—what, about two years ago? I believe she has some sheep and is planning to start a boutique wool farm for upscale knitting supplies? Very interesting, and I would be glad to discuss further the market possibilities for specialty goods, but Ms. Saylor has left. Anyway, folks coming from outside have a certain belief or, you might say, picture of a place like this, and that is that it is pristine and unpolluted, because, you know, it looks so pretty, so when they get here, they are all the more disappointed to discover that many years of what you might call an unnaturally depressed local economy has resulted in some corners being cut with regard to environmental concerns, and while we around here might understand that sort of necessity, others don’t. So we at Salt Key Corporation have addressed that concern by designing—and I can show you the design if you would like me to, though I don’t have it with me—this, as I say, state-of-the-art facility to, essentially, make the waste products of the development vaporize—it’s really amazing what technology does these days—and of course this plant will be accessible to the surrounding co
mmunity, should that need arise.” He paused, then grew confidential. “This part of the plan, by the way, is my particular passion. And I will oversee it myself.” Ah, he was grinning. They were grinning. I glanced behind me. Jane was staring at the floor, Gordon was staring at the ceiling, and Gottfried was staring at Marcus. He went on casting this spell, and then he fell silent and one of the commissioners said, “Looks expensive to me. And you’re talking a lot of effluents. There’s got to be an impact report, and I don’t know what all. You got this plan to Jerry Taylor, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said. “Mr. Taylor had the plan the same day you did.”

  “He’s got a terrible cold and laryngitis,” offered Vida. “He called me today.”

  “So he’s not here. You folks are going to have to come back next month; that’s the first thing. But I do want to say that I think everything on here looks expensive.”

  “Sir,” said Marcus, “I assure you. There is plenty of money.”

  “Well, you don’t have to assure me, since we’ll see the letter of credit.”

  That was where they began talking like this was a done deal. There’s always a moment at any meeting like this where the tone changes from no to yes. It may be long before they have a discussion or actually vote, and even before the commissioners think they’ve seen everything and even begun to make up their minds. Before that moment, whoever wants it has to work to make it go; after that moment, whoever doesn’t want it has to work to stop it.

  Gottfried blew his nose again. I saw Vida look at him and give him a little smile, and I heard him clear his throat. But he didn’t say anything. Now there was a longer, rather more awkward, pause after which the first commissioner said that he and his colleagues needed to have some time alone. So our group stood up and, since the township center had only one room and a couple of rest rooms, we went out onto the porch where the commissioners had previously been smoking and stood there. It was cold.