The New City

by Stephen Amidon

  For now, however, it was Swope’s show. Wooten had little interest in the committee’s affairs, simply adding his technical expertise to matters under consideration. And the other EarthWorks representatives behaved like what they were—employees. As for Ellen Felice, she was happy for a few minutes to lobby for natural foods in school lunches and free birth control at the city’s clinics. The meetings were so well attended that many members found themselves leaning against tumbling mats at the back of the gym. Uplifted backboards and climbing ropes hung above them like jungle canopy. As the school’s vice principal, Ardelia Wooten served as host, sending janitors out for extra folding chairs and gently remonstrating with the occasional transgressors of the no-smoking policy.

  The first hour of tonight’s meeting had passed with the usual well-oiled monotony. Complaints were heard, budgets discussed, news related. Swope finessed the teen center situation by simply announcing that the flood-damaged structure was closed for repairs until further notice. Thankfully, nobody mentioned the gaslights. Wooten made a short speech announcing that Phase III housing starts were ahead of schedule, glossing over the fact that Phase IV presales had slumped. Holmes nodded sagely throughout, chewing on the stem of his unlit ebony pipe. Ellen Felice brought a motion asking that the Ecology Flag be flown outside Newton Plaza. Swope promised to take her recommendation under advisement. Sherman said he thought going slow on these matters was a good idea.

  It was only when he reached the last order of business that Swope’s mind came to life. The fence. This would be a tough one. On the face of it, the motion was simple enough. The residents of Zeno’s Way, a small Fogwood cul-de-sac, wanted permission to build a fence to keep the kids of Renaissance Heights from cutting through their yards. They had petitioned Swope in May, submitting a respectfully argued document backed up by Polaroids of damaged shrubbery and vandalized lawn furniture. Their representatives had come to Newton Plaza to make their case with sweet reasonableness. They knew all about the city’s restrictive covenants and Barnaby Vine’s vision of a fenceless metropolis. Swope had nodded sympathetically when they said they didn’t want to cause trouble. In fact, they wanted to prevent it.

  “Let me see what I can do,” he’d said. “I’ll try to have something for you come the next NHA meeting.”

  They thanked him, these solemn representatives of a dozen Newton families, two of whom, he noted, were black. That was good—he’d hate for this to become racial. Ever since that meeting, Swope had pondered the problem. It was a real poser. Although he sympathized with the good folk of Zeno’s Way, there was, on the face of it, nothing to be done. Vine’s city plan could not be more clear. His streetscapes allowed for no fences on residential property. No chain links or split rails or brick walls. No stockades or cyclones. Period.

  And yet it wasn’t that simple. To refuse the people of Zeno’s Way would entail serious consequences. Underlying their petition was an unspoken threat—if they didn’t get their fence, they would move. The stampede of Heights delinquents had become rampant. They completely ignored the nearby bike path, kicking through the well-kept yards at all hours. Compounding the problem was the nightly cacophony of thumping music and domestic beefs emanating from the projects. Worst of all, there had been a break-in at one of the Zeno’s Way houses. A stereo and some prescription drugs were pilfered. Swope shuddered at the thought of a row of For Sale signs appearing in front of those brand-new houses.

  Newton was supposed to provide a remedy for white flight, not another instance of it. The press would be all over that one. He could just see the photos and the headlines. Chicago would go nuts. Like the teen center, this was exactly the sort of dilemma a troubleshooter was supposed to gun down. If he couldn’t, then maybe someone else really should be city manager.

  It wasn’t until yesterday, as he lay in bed after being woken by Woo-ten’s call, that he came up with a solution. It was inspired. King Solomon himself couldn’t have done better. The principle was simplicity itself—reversion. If they couldn’t build fences on Newton land, then Swope would have to make sure that the land was no longer Newton. He’d revert a three-foot-wide strip of property around the cul-de-sac to Cannon County, who would lease it back to the homeowners for a nominal fee. And then they could build their fence. There would be some tricky paperwork involved and maybe an eminent domain writ. But all that was merely a matter of course. Come next month the people of Zeno’s Way would have their protection.

  All he had to do was get the NHA executive to rubber-stamp it at tonight’s meeting. He’d saved the motion until minds were already beginning to wander out the door, hoping to minimize debate. He read out the petition rapidly, his eyes flittering occasionally over the Zeno’s Way crew, seated, at Swope’s request, in the front now. Then he sternly reiterated the city’s policy on residential fencing. Shoulders began to sag and heads shake among the petitioners.

  “However …”

  In his coolest and most authoritative voice, Swope announced his reversion plan. He was sure to emphasize that this was a unique situation and, as such, called for radical measures. In no way did this suggest a change of EarthWorks policy. As he finished he could see to his delight that the crowd seemed more intrigued than outraged. Swope opened things up to questions. There were a few hardballs about violating the covenant, which he fought off with vague promises of more bike paths and an increased minibus service. After five minutes he could tell that there would be no trouble from the NHA membership.

  He’d done it.

  “Well, then, if there’s no further discussion I propose we—”

  “Austin?”

  Wooten’s voice seemed to come from very far away. It took Swope a moment to realize why—he was speaking into his microphone, causing the word to echo through the vast gym. Swope turned to look at his cochairman. His yellowy eyes were averted. His expression seemed both puzzled and determined.

  “Earl, sorry. You probably have something you want to add about the kind of fencing we can erect.”

  “Well, yes, I could talk about that. But first, I mean, do you really think this is a good idea?”

  Swope could hear the creak of folding chairs as people sat up to pay attention. It sounded like the slow shattering of an ancient glacier.

  “I think, well, yes, given the circumstances, it’s the best possible solution.”

  Wooten nodded, smiled briefly, then took a deep breath.

  “I just … I mean, wouldn’t it seem contrary to what we’ve been doing these past five years to throw up a fence over there?”

  “I think we’ve noted that, Earl. But situations change.”

  “Yes, I know, but I still think that this is an … overreaction.”

  Swope felt something cold move through him. Earl Wooten had just criticized his judgment. Challenged it. Over a microphone. In front of several hundred people. Swope was so stunned that his usually agile tongue failed him. He continued to stare at Wooten. Yielding the floor with his silence.

  “What I’m saying is that, if you look at how we’ve streetscaped these houses, there should be no call for fencing of any sort. And if we go putting it in now we’ll be ruining the balance.”

  “Things are out of balance,” someone in the front row said. “That’s the problem.”

  There were murmurs of assent, and not just from the front row. Thank you, Swope almost shouted.

  “I understand that,” Wooten persisted, his voice almost musical with reason. “And I think your problem is one we should solve before we do anything else. It’s just that … well, I’ve built a lot of fences in my day. And I’ve yet to see one that people can’t get over if that’s what they have a mind to do. I think Mr. Vine knew that when he put in his protective covenants. That’s all I’m saying here. We build this wall and we’ve got one more structure people can abuse.”

  There were whispers from the crowd at this. And not all of them negative. The people in the front row suddenly had trumped looks on their faces. Their eyes all wand
ered toward Swope. He realized that there was only one thing to do—put this to an immediate vote. But before he could forward the motion he noticed something. Ellen Felice’s nodding head. Agreeing with Wooten in that absurd theatrical style she had. Beside her Chad Sherman stared at Swope with the expression of an about-to-be-fed puppy.

  Swope did the math. Two on two. Which left Richard Holmes, sitting on Wooten’s far side, his lips bunched around his pipe stem, his eyes narrowed in a pantomime of judicious consideration. Although a Wooten crony, he was still an EarthWorks man. There was no way he would vote against Swope.

  Unless he knew something.

  Just call the vote, Swope thought. But he remembered Holmes’s words from the party. Any more good vibes on the grapevine …

  “Richard, you’ve been keeping pretty quiet over there,” he said jovially.

  Holmes plucked the pipe from his mouth with a wet noise.

  “I must say I think Mr. Wooten has a point,” he said.

  Swope nodded once, trying to mask his stupefaction. Unbelievable. If he called a vote now he would lose. Earl Wooten would defeat him in front of his own people. He suddenly had a cold, cold thought.

  The word was out. Wooten was going to be offered the job.

  Swope looked at the table in front of him. The petition, covered with his scribbled amendments, rested there like an algebra test some dunce kid had failed. Suddenly, an unfamiliar commercial began to play through his mind. This one was set in a hotel ballroom. Balloons are falling slowly to earth. The band packs their instruments. A tightly smiling Swope appears on stage, surrounded by tearstained aides fingering cheap boaters. Sally, looking grim, shrugs at someone offscreen. After scattered applause Swope begins to explain that he has just phoned his opponent to congratulate him. A chorus of no’s sounds, which he silences with a stoical hand. Maybe next time out, he says. Maybe next time.

  “Well,” he said finally, chuckling in a self-deprecating way. “It would appear that our plan needs a bit of fine-tuning. So, if it’s all right with the board, I’d like to take it back into the shop and do a bit more work under the hood.”

  “Absolutely,” Wooten agreed heartily. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Chairs began to scrape, voices murmur. The folks in the front row remained where they were, staring at Swope in angry confusion. He rapped the table with his bare knuckles. But the gesture was superfluous—Wooten’s words had already adjourned the meeting.

  After a brief bit of consolation work with the Zeno’s Way contingent, Swope headed toward the exit.

  “Austin?”

  Swope turned. Wooten was pursuing him, a grave but friendly look on his face. Swope waited beneath a row of climbing pegs that seemed well beyond his reach.

  “Hey, Austin, sorry about that.”

  “Not at all. I appreciate your input.”

  “I just wish you’d run it by me first …”

  “That was my mistake.”

  “Look, what do you say we get together and talk about this? I’m sure we can do something for those people. If not a fence then—”

  “Absolutely. Later this week?”

  Wooten grimaced.

  “Early next might be better.”

  “Next week it is,” Swope agreed.

  Wooten headed back to the crowd, but turned after just a few steps.

  “Austin, I really am sorry. That all … came out wrong.”

  “There’s democracy for you.”

  The two men smiled at each other for a brief, uneasy moment before Wooten walked off. Swope remained beneath the climbing pegs, watching as Wooten joined Holmes, Ardelia and Felice by the stage. Holmes said something and then Wooten said something. Everybody laughed. Swope turned and walked quickly out the door.

  He went to Newton Plaza directly from the meeting. He wasn’t sure why. It would be empty at this hour. He just felt he had to be there. Decisions needed to be made. He could hardly comprehend what had just happened. Wooten had opposed him. Crushed him. There could be no doubting it now. His job was in deep jeopardy. Wooten would have never pulled a stunt like that if he didn’t know something. And there was no way Holmes would have opposed Swope unless he was privy to the same knowledge. Swope began to fear that if he didn’t act now then this whole thing would slip away. The past five years would slide down the tubes, all that backbreaking work good for squat.

  The maddening thing was, he’d gone into the meeting convinced that there was no threat from Wooten. He’d spent the better part of the day trying to find out for sure if he was indeed going to Chicago, using subtle and indirect methods to question everybody from Wooten’s secretary to the EarthWorks travel office. But no one knew anything. By the close of business Swope was telling himself that he’d got himself riled over nothing. But now he wondered if his ignorance only meant that Wooten was being cagier than he’d ever dreamed possible. And then there was the fact that he couldn’t meet with Swope later that week. Wooten always had time to meet.

  Provided he was in town.

  Swope sped along Newton Pike, passing the occasional car. Businessmen coming home late from work; shoppers leaving the closed mall. What he needed was a way to be sure. If he knew for certain that Wooten was going to Chicago, then he could act. Stop this thing before it turned around and bit him on the ass. Because if it was true, then Swope realized he had been catastrophically wrong about Wooten all these years. The man was a schemer of the first order. Look at the way he’d continued to act as if they were the closest of friends even while packing his bags for Chicago. That cake, for instance. Presented with a brotherly flourish. Or that Sunday morning call. Like they were still just a couple of buddies who could help each other out when their teenagers got up to the usual nonsense.

  As Swope approached the Plaza he started to dwell on that predawn call. How concerned Wooten had been. The way Joel had crept into the kitchen later that morning, his expression that of a Biafran refugee.

  “Want some coffee?” Swope had asked the boy, deciding to put things on a manly footing.

  “Um, no thanks. I better get home.”

  “Rough night last night?”

  Joel looked even more embarrassed.

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “How’s that little friend of yours?” a curious Swope wondered. “Susan, right?”

  “She’s … I really better go. Could you tell Teddy I’ll call him?”

  “Sure. Oh, and Joel—your dad phoned this morning. I think he’s looking for you. Urgently.”

  “Shit. Okay.”

  After he was gone, Swope had decided it was time to talk to Teddy. He climbed the carpeted stairs, steaming mug in hand. He tried to avoid his son’s room as much as possible. It wasn’t so much the mess as the downright funk of the place that kept him away. Incense and chewing gum and a dozen other fragrances that he saw no good reason to characterize. And then there was the undeniable fact—painful for a father but a fact nonetheless—that Teddy himself did not always smell altogether rosy. He knew it was just the usual pubescent secretions, something that would dry up once the kid’s glands ratcheted down a gear. But still.

  He stood in the doorway, staring down at Teddy for a moment. He slept on his back, his gasping mouth half open. Seen like this, there was something pupal and unformed about him. A constellation of acne spread across his hairless chest. His nipples were so small they might have been two additional zits; his pectorals were as thin as prime-cut veal. And then there was the deep concavity that had been there since birth, the malformed breastbone that had almost killed him as a newborn. It had pressed right against his heart, causing the doctors to give him scant odds of making it. Swope had spent four unbroken days beside that primitive incubator, his index finger extended through a tube hole in the clear plastic for his infant son to grasp. Sleeping in his chair. Ignoring the nurses as they tried to coax him away. Threatening to break the hand that attempted to pull the plug. Willing his son to live as Sally wept in another room and the doctors talke
d doomily about nature taking its course. He and he alone believed that the boy would make it, so much so that when the child seemed to give up the fight that second night, Swope had torn back the lid and shouted in his face, startling him back to life. And Teddy had survived. Because he was a Swope. Because his father would not allow his death. Would not allow defeat.

  “Teddy.”

  His eyes fluttered open.

  “We have to talk.”

  They’d gathered in Swope’s office, Teddy sitting in an oxblood leather chair positioned in front of the inglenook fireplace, Swope taking up a position behind his desk. His study was done in the English baronial style, complete with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and Hogarth illustrations. Swope nurtured his third cup of coffee. Teddy sipped a Yoo-Hoo, a bluejeaned leg slung over the chair’s arm.

  “Earl Wooten called this morning,” Swope started, idly setting the balls of the Newton’s cradle in motion. “Early. He said something about some trouble at the Truaxes’. Know anything about that?”

  Teddy’s eyes had flickered toward his father for a fraction of a second before resuming their casual focus on the fireplace. A thin chocolate mustache wreathed his upper lip.

  “Don’t know,” he’d mumbled.

  “I think you do. Either you were there when it happened or Joel told you about it when he came here afterwards.”

  Swope rarely used a strict tone with Teddy. When he did he expected him to understand the gravity of the situation and respond accordingly. To Teddy’s credit he got the message straight away.

  “All right,” he conceded. “But you can’t tell Joel I said anything.”

  “Teddy, I have no intention of discussing this with Joel or his father or anyone else, for that matter. But Earl Wooten has involved me—at six o’clock on a Sunday morning—in a potential conflict between two of my employees. I need to know the facts before I can decide whether I should get involved.”