by Joan Bauer
There was a murmur in the restaurant as she slowly moved to a table, raising her hand as a few people said hello. She stopped at one booth, putting her hand to her forehead.
“Your scarf,” Madame Zobek said to a woman. “It has been to a sad place.”
The woman caught her breath. “I just bought this.”
Minska sat Madame Zobek at a table.
“A little water, please, dear one.”
The restaurant became very quiet, then a woman’s voice rang out: “Did you see that?”
Heads turned to Madame Zobek, whose hand caused a knife to move around the table. That wouldn’t have been a big deal if she’d touched the knife. The thing is, she didn’t.
“Silly me,” she said. “Sometimes the power, you know, just comes out. I cannot help it.”
The knife moved just slightly as Madame Zobek’s hand hovered over it.
“Science in our everyday lives,” Zack said, and headed to her table.
He stood in front of her.
“You are forthright,” she said to him. “You have come for information.”
“I’ve got the information,” Zack said loudly. “Like poles repel, unlike poles attract.” He grabbed Madame Zobek’s hand, turned it over, and something from her hand fell out and clinked onto the floor. Zack picked it up, held it high, and announced, “Magnets have remarkable power, ladies and gentlemen.”
That’s how she moved the knife!
Madame Zobek rose quickly. “I thought this was a friendly place. I sense great darkness here.”
“Go figure,” Zack said.
She tossed her cape dramatically and left.
“Good friends,” Minska said, laughing, “spread the word.”
No one knows what the sheriff said when he spoke to Madame Zobek, but the next day she’d left town fast and put a note on her studio door that she had been “called to a new place. The stirrings are strong.”
I heard the police had trailed her just outside of Syracuse.
It was like a house of cards falling.
Chad Pritt of Hair-Raising Haunts canceled the Ludlow cable TV taping due to “questions of authenticity.”
Mrs. Kutash countersued Pen Piedmont on behalf of the school, saying he had knowingly and with malice shut down a “vital school communications network” (The Core).
He denied everything, saying the whole world was out to get him, blah, blah, blah, but even committed liars can’t weasel out of everything.
Soon after, he left town on “an extended vacation.”
Don’t feel the need to hurry back, Pen!
It’s a wonderful thing when truth hits the streets. It’s like people were starving for real news.
There were smiles—that’s the first thing I noticed. Minska said when fear begins to lift, you can see the freedom in people’s faces.
Even the early winter vegetables at the farmers market seemed happy. A potato farmer started decorating some of his spuds with smiley faces. Cabbages sprouted eye holes and big toothy grins.
The Elders Against Evil felt the cheer and decided to decorate Farnsworth Road for Christmas with hundreds of blinking lights. They stuck Frosty, Rudolph, and the Holy Family up, too, until a freak lightning storm decapitated Frosty and left the Baby Jesus looking irked.
The big question in town was whether The Bee would shut down.
The big question at The Peel was, do we fully unveil ourselves and write under our bylines?
I talked about it with Mom.
“I wonder, Hildy, how people would have reacted to a teenage paper, really. We adults aren’t always the most open-minded when it comes to your age group.”
Tell me about it.
“But now I think you’re free to let people know who you are.”
I went to Minska’s to get her opinion.
“The women in the underground press,” Minska reminded me, “didn’t get the recognition, but they got the results.” She handed me the picture of Anna shaking her fist at the Lenin Shipyards. “For you.”
“Oh, I couldn’t take it, it’s—”
“For you.” Minska tapped the glass over Anna’s determined face. “During all the uprisings, everyone knew her name.”
I held the photo close.
“What are you going to do now, Hildy?”
I laughed. “I’m going to sleep longer.”
“For a little while,” Minska said. “And then you take up the next thing.”
The next thing came fast and with a fury.
On December 8, Martin Midian held a press conference in Boston.
“We are fully committed to building our haunted village,” he declared. “We own the Ludlow estate and several properties along Red Road and will not let challenges stand in our way. We are proud to announce that major construction will begin next week in Banesville, New York.”
Behind him was a black banner with white letters:
The mayor’s office was flooded with calls. The poor receptionist kept telling people she didn’t know much, but she knew Midian Associates had a permit.
“Is the mayor available?” I demanded on the phone.
“No.”
“When will he be available to answer questions?”
Possibly never.
The questions piled higher and deeper.
What about the Hortons’ property?
How will this affect Farnsworth Road?
The town?
Our way of life?
Chapter 26
Dear Orchard Professional,
As part of an exciting community revitalization project, your home and/or land is being purchased by Midian Associates. Because of the blighted condition of your home and/or land, the financial offer is not negotiable. You are required to leave your home and/or land within sixty days of the date of this letter.
Please call 1-888-555-0000 and use your special offer number, 666, to receive your nonnegotiable financial offer and we will put you in touch with one of our relocation specialists. All contracts must be signed within twenty-one days.
We thank you in advance for your cooperation.
Midian Associates
Thinking Today About Tomorrow
I was raging.
How can people lose their land without giving their permission?
“It’s called eminent domain, Hildy,” Zack said. “It’s a law that says a city or community can actually force people to leave their homes if they can prove the land can be used for something better.”
“We’re not talking about a highway or a hospital, Zack. We’re talking about a theme park!”
The mayor’s office released a statement: “We believe that the Red Road farmland and the Ludlow property must be put to better use. We support Midian Associates’ plans for development and embrace their vision.”
Growers stood along Red Road, holding their letters and protesting.
“We’re going to raise our voices,” Lacey shouted. “And we will be heard!”
Lacey’s father painted HELL NO, WE WON’T GO! on their roof.
“Get photos of this,” I told Tanisha. “If we have to publish every day, we’re going to do it. We’re going to make sure everyone knows what this is costing people!”
Zack called our congressman and our senator and was told that the eminent domain law had been approved months ago.
That meant the mayor knew all along.
The Peel pushed out a special edition.
THE GRINCH WHO STOLE CHRISTMAS
For the next two days, we had special one-sheet editions with Tanisha’s photos of town angst.
There were meetings at our house about what to do.
A website went up where Red Road orchard owners could get help.
Mom put out a press release.
HAPPY APPLE VALLEY TOWN ENVELOPED BY FEAR AND GREED
Small orchard owners forced from their land.
And for what purpose?
To build a haunted theme park.
Baker calle
d some friends at other newspapers.
The Elders Against Evil surrounded the mayor’s house.
You can tell what trees are made of when the big storms hit.
Lev wasn’t helping at the paper as much because he thought a haunted theme park was cool.
“They’ve hired the interactive theme park ride designers,” he told me, “and they’re going to create this ride that lets people control their own experiences by how they deal with fear.”
“You know how I deal with fear, Lev? I don’t give into it. I fight it.”
“I can sympathize with both sides, Hildy.”
“So you think a theme park is worth people losing their land?”
He shrugged. “Well…not exactly…”
“So you think Midian Associates should be stopped?”
“Well… not exactly…”
“I think you should turn in your peeler, Lev.” He didn’t like that much.
“We need people who want to join the fight,” I told him.
He pulled me close. “I don’t feel like fighting.”
“I do.” I pushed him away.
The line of construction vehicles wound through town like tanks bringing martial law. They had a job to do—razing the orchards Midian had already bought.
Tanisha, Zack, and I followed behind them in Zack’s car. Bennington Orchard was the first farm on Red Road to be leveled—the farmhouse, the barn, and the apple trees—everything would go.
Zack pulled along the side of the road as the trucks thundered up the old driveway. We got out and walked up the drive. This couldn’t be happening, could it?
The lead trucker had a steely expression; he was wearing a T-shirt reading BEER, IT’S NOT JUST FOR BREAKFAST ANYMORE. He had a contract he was waving in the sheriff’s face that gave him permission to move his trucks in.
The Elders Against Evil raised their fists. They were standing in the driveway looking surly.
“Back those old ladies off,” the lead trucker told the sheriff. “They’re trespassing.”
The Elders Against Evil started booing and hissing.
The sheriff read the contract and walked in slow motion to Pinky and her gang. “You’ve got to move across the street, ladies. It’s the law, but I’m sure not going to have a problem if you take your sweet time.”
Two of the elders inched toward the street.
Pinky Sandusky turned to follow and shouted, “My knee!”
I ran up to her. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes were bright. “Why, it’s just clicked out on me again, honey. I can’t walk. I’m going to have to sit down right here. You help me… no, not there… right here on the driveway.” And down she went, holding her SHAME ON YOU! sign.
Suddenly, like a bolt from heaven, the Elders Against Evil were all struck in various aging body parts.
“My hip!” one cried.
“Oh, Lord, my back!” another shouted.
Not to be outdone, Erma Lockeed started shrieking about her “entire lower body going into spasm.”
Down they went, helped by Sheriff Metcalf, who turned to the lead trucker and said, “Sorry about this, ace. But we can’t move these ladies now. They’re going to need medical care.”
“They can’t stay here!” the trucker shouted.
“Oh, yes they can!” the sheriff shouted back.
Pinky moaned, “I want my doctor.”
“What’s his name?” the trucker demanded.
“Well, now I’m trying to remember. I can see his face plain as anything!”
The lead trucker flipped open his phone, punched in numbers. “We got a problem, Mr. Midian. Well, it’s… kind of difficult to explain…”
“It’s the Elders Against Evil, hotshot!” Pinky bellowed.
Tanisha got some of the best pictures of her life that long afternoon, but a sit-in can last just so long.
The ambulance came. Pinky’s doctor showed up.
“Go limp, girls!” Pinky hollered, and the EAE went limp in their bodies so it was harder for them to be carried off.
The lead trucker with the BEER shirt watched without compassion. And one by one the elders were taken off the property.
Pinky was the last one to go. “Beer man,” she cried, “spare those trees!”
“The area’s been cleared,” said a man in a hard hat on a walkie-talkie.
And the construction men rumbled their weapons of mass destruction onto the property and leveled that good land to the ground.
We lost two orchards that week.
Meanwhile, at the Ludlow place, construction workers were getting the house ready to move to Red Road.
Niles Van Doren, Midian’s architect, came to town to oversee the project.
They dug up the foundation under the house; intersected steel beams across the base; brought in big cylinders with a platform; lined up hydraulic jacks…
Day by day our story was appearing in other newspapers.
A David and Goliath Tale, one newspaper called it.
Midianites Strike Again said another.
Fakery Flourishes!
But it didn’t matter what we did, what was written, how we protested.
Midian owned the land and they were moving the house.
Period.
DATELINE: Banesville, New York. December 17.
Moving Day. Farnsworth Road.
You’d think God could have sent a blizzard, an ice storm, thick fog, something nasty. Instead we got unseasonably warm weather and a happy, shining sun.
A crowd gathered across the street from the old Ludlow house. Mom, Nan, and Uncle Felix stood somberly with Minska and Jarek. The Peel staff was here in force.
Elizabeth held a little blue felt flag she’d made that said BELIEVE.
“Believe in what?” Baker demanded.
Elizabeth bit her lip. “Goodness?”
Not too much of that on this street.
Zack whispered to me, “You’re not taking notes?”
I took out my notepad dutifully and wrote,
thugs in hard hats
2 flatbed trucks—flatbed lowered
steel beams underneath house
misery
Tanisha wove in and out of the crowd, taking pictures.
The Elders Against Evil were chanting, “Shame, shame, shame on you!” as Niles Van Doren waved his hand and the two trucks lowered the huge flatbed in front of the Ludlow house side by side. Hydraulic jacks made a screeching sound and began to move.
It would almost have been interesting to watch if it wasn’t so awful.
Slowly, the old house was lifted on the steel beams.
I wrote,
the end of an era
the beginning of a new time of—
I was about to write fear when I heard a loud sound.
The men in hard hats stepped back.
There was another noise like a giant cracking.
The men in hard hats started shouting.
And before our eyes the Ludlow house cracked—I mean it. Right down the middle!
The porch collapsed; whole walls broke in two; bricks tumbled in the foundation hole; glass shot out sideways. Construction workers started running toward the street as the house groaned, split in two, and collapsed into itself with a thunderous noise.
Elizabeth gave a little shout and raised her BELIEVE flag high.
I swear to you, I couldn’t move.
Zack started laughing and twirled me around as clouds of dust rose into the air.
Baker chuckled, “Stop the presses!”
Niles Van Doren stumbled toward us, a broken person. He fumbled for his phone and put it to his ear.
“Mr. Midian,” he stammered, “the house… my God… it collapsed.” He sat down on the curb. “No, sir, I’m not kidding. The damage… is… well… I’m trying to think of the word. It’s in…”
“Shambles,” Zack said to him.
I kissed Zack in public for that comment as the band of true believers cheered.
The next day, December 18, we got our blizzard.
Snow covered the great mound that used to be the Ludlow house.
Martin Midian’s statement was slow in coming: Midian Associates is assessing the situation.
Hey, take your time.
Every day people gathered on Farnsworth Road to gawk as one of Banesville’s ghosts tried to elbow his way back into the limelight.
Pen Piedmont starting writing editorials. The only kind he knew.
It was old man Ludlow’s ghost who broke the house in two.
He’s not done making his presence known in town.
He’s not going to stop until he takes his next victim.
But no one was listening to that. The Mighty Pen was out of ink.
The Peel came out with our own editorial—Story time is over, folks.
The engineering report from Midian Associates said the accident was due to “inherent weakness in the main beams.”
The engineering report from the town of Banesville said that Midian Associates were “in too much of a rush to take the time for a full engineering inspection.”
“They didn’t measure accurately,” Zack explained to me. “They didn’t have the weight of the house right.”
I prefer to think of it as the triumph of the little guy.
Everywhere, little guys were cheering.
The Hortons made it through the winter with a little help from their friends. There was a community Christmas fund set up, and people gave money to help the Red Road farmers keep going.
Midian Associates got such bad press that by March they put the Ludlow property up for sale. The town council passed a referendum that the property could be used only for residential properties. The razed orchards were the saddest sight. They lay there like old battlefields scarred by war. No one knew what would happen to that land.
Bonnie Sue Bomgartner used it as a photo op. She was gearing up for the Produce Princess beauty pageant in nearby Chesterton and taking no prisoners. She stood on the razed ground looking gorgeous and compassionate as a professional photographer clicked away.
It was Zack’s idea to plant the garden, not that he was any good at it. He dug a minuscule hole to put the plants in.
“It’s got to be deeper,” I told him. “The flowers won’t take root. The rain will wash them away.”
