by Polly Becks
Tibedeau was in charge of the central village that lay in the center of East Obergrande, the part of town directly west of the river, where the sawmill and furniture factories stood, along with the elementary school, the library, and most of the middle-income housing in the town that backed up to the lake, and West Obergrande, the wealthier end of the town where expensive houses, historic estates and elegant camps were sheltered in the woods, accessible mostly by private roads.
Lundford was responsible for the whole of the town, including the village.
Neither of the men were looking happy at the moment.
“All right, enough of this hallway blather,” said Lundford. “Take your seats, folks. This is a government building, not a boxing arena. The monthly meeting can’t start until you are sitting quietly in your seats and we are ready to open business.”
The people who were standing in the hallway mostly complied, grumbling and still arguing loudly.
It was clear as soon as everyone was inside the courtroom that there would not be enough chairs for the regular citizens of the town that had come for the meeting. Lucy found a place to stand along the wall, surrounded by a number of parents of her students, who nodded pleasantly at her.
She turned her eyes toward the front of the room.
Sitting at the table were people she had recognized from various events at school, especially the Memorial Day parade, the members of the Town Board and the Town Clerk.
At the far left end of the table sat a man she recognized as the town’s lawyer, James O’Connor, who said very little at most board meetings, and two military men in uniform.
The older of the two men had closely cropped hair and wore a number of medals and military insignia, particularly pins that looked like small castles, on his chest, and a stern look on his face. The younger man, whose head bore the signs of what appeared to be a fairly recent buzz cut beneath a military beret, was attired in the uniform of the Army National Guard. He maintained a solemn expression, and Lucy found herself looking at his face, wondering why the volunteer soldiers she had seen wearing this uniform always seemed to be handsome but grim.
Then she remembered the sort of things the National Guard had to do, and answered her own question.
“All right, settle down and we’ll get started,” Bob Lundford said, sitting down at the place directly in the center of the table in front of a microphone. “We have a number of items of official town business to attend to, which I’m sure most of you couldn’t care less about, but it has to be done according to the law, so try and contain yourselves for a few minutes longer. There’s no point in being abusive to people you’ve elected to do these jobs which, believe me, do not pay enough to put up with nights like this.”
Lucy leaned up against the wall in the midst of the packed crowd. Every seat was taken, with an overflow into the exterior hallways.
Behind her on the wall was a banner with Obergrande’s symbol, a tree around which a river flowed in a circle in front of a range of high-peaked mountains. Lucy stared at the town flag as the board meeting started, almost missing the Pledge of Allegiance. She turned quickly toward the American flag at the front of the room and caught up with everyone reciting the pledge, probably the last thing they would all agree on that night.
Then she looked back at the town symbol again, remembering the first day she had seen it.
It had been in this very town hall, three years before, when she had come as a new homeowner to register to vote and get the information she needed about town services like garbage removal. Obergrande? she had asked Betty Finley, the town clerk, who now was sitting at the head table, taking notes and looking nervous. What does that name mean?
Mrs. Finley, a quiet, kind woman who knew many things about the town that no one else did, had looked up from behind her chained glasses and smiled.
It’s an English-ized version of the French words for ‘big tree,’ she had said. ‘Arbre Grand.’ The town’s most important historic landmark.
Lucy smiled to herself, remembering Glen Daniels telling her the same thing a short while before, when her mood, and that of the town, had still been pleasant.
It no longer was.
The Town Board sorted through a variety of allocations, amendments, contractual decisions and proposals for almost an hour, making an already largely hostile crowd even less pleasant. By the time they finally reached the agenda item the entire town had turned out to argue about, the citizens of Obergrande were in a universally foul mood.
Bob Lundford banged the gavel angrily on the table.
“We will have order, or we will clear the room of the public,” he said coldly. “Town Law 3701-D allows for that action if the Board deems the situation in the hall to be hazardous.”
“In other words, sit down, shut up, and wait ’til it’s your turn to speak,” said Smiley Carpenter, a famously grumpy Town Councilor who had obviously gotten his nickname as a joke. “Keep your comments short and do not repeat what people before you have already said. I don’t have any desire to be here all night and into tomorrow afternoon.”
“First, before any townsperson says anything, we have an opening statement from the Board, and two invited guests who will speak first,” said Lundford to a rising chorus of boos and catcalling. He banged his gavel savagely. “Settle down, dammit.”
The noise decreased to a low, intermittent rumble.
“Now,” said Lundford, “as most or all of you now know, we have recently had a school budget vote, which passed, along with the election of School Board members, the results of which have been posted in the newspaper.” He banged his gavel again as the noise began to increase, then pointed it at the crowd. “Last warning, folks.”
The attendees fell into a stony silence.
“On the ballot with the school budget vote, and the election of board members, were three initiatives. The first initiative, for the purchase of three new school buses, and the second, the annual funding package for the library, passed without incident, as you already know,” the town supervisor continued. “The third initiative, the proposal that the town of Obergrande once again consider the project that has been put forward since 1898 by the New York State Public Benefit Corporation, that Obergrande join other municipalities in the Adirondack Park and allow a dam to be built—at no expense to the town—”
An uproar ensued, both sides of the room shouting angrily at each other. Lundford banged his gavel sharply.
“For Pete’s sake, let me finish,” he growled. “I understand there are some strong feelings on both sides of this issue—”
“There is no issue!” a man from Lucy’s side of the room shouted at the town supervisor. “There was a vote. The measure failed overwhelmingly—as it does every time it gets put on the ballot. This discussion is over.”
“Or at least it should be,” a woman at the back on the other side of the room added.
“No cost to the town?” another man yelled from the center of the seats. “You are talking about drowning East Obergrande, where, in case you’ve managed to forget, Lundford, most of us live and work and our children go to school.”
The voices around the room exploded again, and Bob Lundford banged the table.
“All right, stop it,” he said angrily. “If you won’t show some respect to your elected officials, at least show some to the military men here tonight. You are embarrassing yourselves and, frankly, our town with this behavior. These gentlemen have come, one from Saranac Lake, one all the way from Buffalo, to speak tonight. At least have the courtesy to hear them out.”
The shouting diminished to a smoldering grumble.
The older man in uniform stood up as the supervisor passed the microphone to him.
“Good evening, folks,” he said pleasantly. “I’m Colonel Michael Genovese, Army Corps of Engineers, from the Great Lakes and Ohio River Division of Water Management, Buffalo District. Thank you for having me here this evening.”
The noise of the room disappeared, rep
laced by a respectful, if guarded, silence.
Colonel Genovese picked up a remote control and pointed it at a projector that was aimed at the screen above and behind the Town Board’s table.
An image of a bulleted list of items appeared on the screen.
“Water Management is a world-class engineering organization that supports eight of the Corps’ ten Civil Works business lines—navigation, flood risk management, hydropower, recreation, storm damage response, emergency response, water supply, and environmental restoration,” Colonel Genovese continued, naming the items in the bulleted list. “We embrace seven operating principles, but I think number seven is the most important one.”
He clicked the remote control again.
A numbered list appeared, the last item highlighted in bold. Colonel Genovese read the seventh item aloud.
“ ‘Number 7: Respecting the views of individuals and groups interested in Corps activities, listening to them actively, and learning from their perspective in the search to find innovative win-win solutions to the Nation’s problems that also protect and enhance the environment.’ ”
A small amount of grumbling returned to the room.
“In other words, in spite of the reputation the Corps has gained, and occasionally earned, for having to make hard decisions about dams and reservoirs that impact people’s property, we really do try to work with citizens to keep their waterside towns and cities safe.”
The room’s undercurrent of noise got slightly louder.
Lundford banged the gavel again.
Colonel Genovese waited patiently as the room grew quiet.
“We are not here to tell you what to do with your town’s water resources, at least not at this point,” he said. “But you should be aware of the changes that have occurred over the past ten years that are beginning to show some threat to the safety of the eastern side of your town.”
He turned to the younger man sitting beside him.
“This is Sergeant Alex Crandell Evans, a brilliant young civilian engineer from your area—he was born in Newcomb, just north of here—who serves our nation once a month in the uniform of the Army National Guard, currently stationed in Saranac Lake.
“In addition to those duties, Sergeant Evans, who works for the engineering firm of Speziale, Prince, and Foster in Saratoga, where he lives, spends a good deal of his time at the Water Management offices in Buffalo and New York City, lending his engineering expertise to the Corps. He is, as you can imagine, completely familiar with the Adirondack Park, its dams, reservoirs, and waterways, and is a specialist in the control of the flow of the Hudson River. I asked him here tonight to speak to you because of his connection to and knowledge of this area. Sergeant Evans?”
The young man rose as the Colonel passed the microphone and the remote to him. He cleared his throat and turned to the crowd.
“Good evening,” he said. “I’m Sergeant Alex Crandell Evans, but I usually go by ‘Ace’—it helps me remember my initials. I grew up in Newcomb, so it’s exciting to be here tonight in the Big City of Obergrande.”
Some of the attendees chuckled or snorted; even though Obergrande was a very small city, by comparison to the tiny, dying mining town of Newcomb, it was enormous.
“Like Colonel Genovese, I am not here to make recommendations at this point about what Obergrande should do in regard to the building of a larger, hydroelectric dam—”
“That’s good, since we’ve already decided, again, at the ballot box,” a gruff voice called from the back of the room where people were standing.
Bob Lundford banged the gavel and glared into the thickening crowd.
Sergeant Evans did not seem bothered by the interruption.
“I think it’s important to be clear on what this spring could hold for Obergrande from a water-control perspective,” he said seriously, turning to the projector. He hit the button on the remote.
The screen cleared. Then the word SNOWFALL appeared.
“This year the Adirondack region experienced a record snowfall,” he said, standing remarkably straight, Lucy noted dryly; a military bearing. “An average of one hundred and ninety-one inches of snow fell this fall and winter, considerably higher than the one hundred three, which is the average. This is already showing signs of being a heavier melt than the soils of the region can absorb. In case anyone missed it on the way in, there is also a higher-than-usual amount of precipitation for spring, which is not helping with that.”
As if to punctuate his sentence, a crash of thunder rolled overhead.
“Nice timing on the sound effects,” remarked Mayor Tibedeau wryly.
“Thank you, sir,” the young sergeant said politely. “We spared no expense for this presentation. There will be an open bar with hors d’oeuvres at the end.”
A small part of the crowd snickered again.
“Really?” asked Hannah Adams, a gullible young woman from West Obergrande.
“No, ma’am. Just teasing. Sorry.” Sergeant Evans’ voice was respectful.
He clicked the remote. The screen now read PRECIPITATION.
“In addition to somewhat relentless rain over most of the spring season and particularly in the last few weeks, we are also looking to take a hit from the edge rains of Hurricane Clarence, according to the National Weather Service,” he said seriously. “The current small spillway dam, which was built beginning in 1892 and completed in 1907, is expected to be able to hold up to this amount of excess water, as it has for over a century. But, as you know, in the last ten years there have been two floods of the western shore of the river, mostly from swollen or clogged local streams, resulting in damage to the eastern edge of town.”
“Some boat docks and the historic row of planters and flower boxes at the water’s edge were washed away,” said Eleanor Preston, the ninety-two-year-old town historian who, even at her advanced age, was sharp as a tack. “That’s hardly cause for concern. We had ’em back up, and the flower boxes planted, in time for Memorial Day.”
Sergeant Evans fell abruptly silent.
Lucy smiled. She had a special fondness for Eleanor, who always took the time to come and talk in her delightfully craggy voice to the kindergarten students on special historic holidays, usually bringing a basket of homemade treats with her when she did.
“That may be, ma’am,” Sergeant Evans continued respectfully. “But it has been over fifty years since the edge rains of a hurricane have come as far inland as the Adirondack region. We don’t know what that might mean for the increase in the Hudson’s flow this year.”
“If you don’t know, why are you here?” a snide voice demanded from the other side of the standing area, near to the front of the room.
“Stop giving them excuses!” a woman’s voice called from the left edge of the chairs. “You are lending the government’s support to rich people who want to flood East Obergrande!”
“You blind fool,” another woman’s voice retorted. “Can’t you see you’re rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic? You East Obergranders are going to go down with the ship sooner or later. We’re trying to help you.”
“Thanks, but we don’t need your help going down with the ship—”
All the hostile conversation was brought to an abrupt halt by the scream of air as a young man in the center of the crowd standing in the back of the room stepped angrily forward and heaved a fist-sized object directly at the young Sergeant’s head.
Chapter 7
‡
SHAKING WITH SHOCK, Lucy leapt toward the wall with the other people standing around her, who all fell like dominoes against it and into the town flag.
The Town Board members and the clerk dove beneath the table at the front of the room.
Colonel Genovese put up his arm in front of his head, but otherwise remained seated.
Sergeant Alex Evans’ body remained rigidly still, except for his arm, which shot up and plucked the hurled object out of the air just in front of his face.
His solemn expre
ssion did not change, but his voice, when he spoke, contained a note of humor.
“I always wanted to do that when Newcomb played Obergrande in varsity baseball,” he said to the man who had pitched the object at him. “Never got the chance until now. Thank you, sir.”
As security officers pushed through the crowd, the National Guardsman looked down at the object in his hand.
It was an apple.
His expression still did not change as he raised the fruit to his mouth and took a serious bite.
The room, still gasping and recovering, started to fill with laughter.
As the security guards led the man from the room, the soldier continued to consume the fruit, then dropped the core in the trashcan behind the long desk.
“Ooops—” he said as he wiped his hand on a piece of paper on the desk. “There went the evidence. I guess he’ll get off with a reprimand—unless it was poisoned. I’m in a world of hurt if it was, I guess. Oh well.”
He looked back the crowd, which was laughing freely now.
“Folks, there are many lakes and streams throughout the Adirondack Park that are looking at the likelihood of flooding in the years to come, but the Army Corps of Engineers cannot address every one of them. The reason we are here tonight is because the preservation of Obergrande’s lake and streams is singularly important to the watershed, largely due to the parts they play in the flow of the Hudson, which ultimately ends up in New York City. Should there be a devastating flood, it could damage a great deal more of the state than just Obergrande—and we don’t want to see that damaged, either.”
“You have an interesting definition of Obergrande not being damaged, Sergeant,” said Donna Marquarte, one of the Town Board members who was retired from her job at the local bank. Lucy assessed her as being a strong opponent of the dam project. “I have a bed-and-breakfast in the area that is proposed to be ‘drowned’ by your dam project, and I am looking forward to your explanation of how my property will not be damaged by being submerged under seventy feet of water.”
