by Polly Becks
A hoot, cheers, and much applause followed her statement.
“First, with respect, Ms. Marquarte, this proposal did not come from the Army Corps of Engineers,” the young soldier said patiently. “The New York State Public Benefit Corporation requested our input in the form of drawings and estimates to inform the town should it decide to undertake building a new hydroelectric dam in this location. We provided that information. But there were also other recommendations made—smaller-scale steps that could help offset the potential for flooding that would not require the building of a dam.”
He saw the townspeople looking at each other hostilely, and cleared his throat, rushing into the end of his remarks.
“Obviously, those may not meet with the vision of the Benefit Corporation, and therefore might require funding from other sources—including the town itself. But Colonel Genovese and I are not here to sell you on the dam. We are here to tell you that we are in fear for your safety as a town if you do not undertake some sort of flood abatement program in the near future.”
Lightning flashed outside the hall’s windows, and thunder rumbled through again.
Mayor Tibedeau smiled. “Truly, your special effects are remarkable, Sergeant.”
“In case you folks haven’t noticed, your ground is totally saturated with moisture and cannot absorb any more,” Colonel Genovese said from his seat at the table, under which all the Town Council members had momentarily taken refuge but had now returned, more or less gracefully. “Between the snowmelt, the precipitation, and the potential of a hit from the edge of Hurricane Clarence, we are worried about even more severe shoreline loss than you’ve had in the other two floods this decade.”
“All right, thank you, gentlemen,” said Bob Lundford wearily. “I am now going to open a limited period of public commentary, but I warn you, folks, if there are any more shenanigans like Buzz Cochrane throwing fruit at our distinguished guests, we will be clearing this hall of everyone except the Board and our advisors in Executive Session.” He sighed comically. “Thank the Lord for Town Law 3701-D.”
FOR MORE THAN two hours, the citizens of Obergrande ranted at the Town Board and its guests.
Most of the commentary initially came from residents and business owners from the east side of town, people who worked in or ran sawmills and factories that made furniture in the famous and less-famous Adirondack styles. There were also homeowners, sports tourism business owners and shopkeepers whose stores were in the area that had been designated to “drown” should the dam be built and Lake Obergrande expanded. To the best of Lucy’s knowledge, three of the five board members agreed with them.
On the other side of the room and sprinkled throughout the rest were people primarily, though not always, from West Obergrande, the wealthier side of town where people who could trace their ancestry back almost four hundred years lived. These were the people who favored the idea of the dam and the expansion of the lake, who spoke passionately about the danger of not undertaking to protect the eastern side of town near the river and lake. One of the town board members, George Durant, was enthusiastically on this side of the issue, with the last one, Phil Schirmer, running hot and cold between the two sides, but leaning with the west.
Fights and hostile word exchanges seemed to break out after every other speaker.
Finally it was Lucy’s turn to address the Town Council and the attendees of the meeting. She came to the microphone stand and cleared her throat, feeling the intensity of the anger behind her back.
“I’m Lucy Sullivan. I live in town, I teach kindergarten at Obergrande Elementary, and the first thing I want to say is that you should all be using your inside voices. We are adults, and rather than squabbling like we’re on the playground, we should be making reasoned arguments—in a calm tone—instead of screaming at each other. If you folks were kids in my classroom, we’d have a ton of people in Time Out.”
A chuckle and some muttering rumbled through the room.
Lucy cleared her throat again. “I do not favor the dam,” she continued. “I’ve only lived here for a few years, but I love my little house in East Obergrande. For many of the kids in my class, this part of town, which contains many of their homes and their school, is the only place they’ve ever known. How can you take away their security? I think the town should be looking at the alternative suggestions that the Corps spoke of that do not include building a dam and flooding East Obergrande. I’ve worked very hard fixing up my house, as have many of my neighbors, and you are talking about drowning a lot of dreams, hard work, and investments in time and labor when you suggest drowning half the town. I voted no on this ballot initiative, along with seventy-two percent of the electorate. I think the Town Board should take the hint and do so as well.”
Lucy sat down to thunderous applause, and a good deal of harsh grumbling. She was pretty sure old Mr. Credman winked at her.
Professor Isaac Byrnes, a stately gentleman who taught Philosophy and African-American studies at the State University of New York at Albany, and the father of one of her students, came to the microphone next.
He introduced himself by name in a voice that rang pleasantly through the room, reminding Lucy of James Earl Jones.
“My fellow citizens,” he said, looking around him at the crowd, “I would like to build on a point that Ms. Sullivan just made.”
Upon hearing her name spoken by the sonorous voice, Lucy jumped a little.
“Seventy-two percent of those who pulled a lever in the voting booth did so against the proposition,” Professor Byrnes went on, “but I believe it is important to note that only sixty-one percent of the population of Obergrande resides on the east side of town.”
The room fell suddenly silent.
“This would seem to indicate that, at bare minimum, eleven percent of the town’s population that lives in West Obergrande also voted against the proposition. I, in fact, was one of those voters.”
The silence grew heavier.
“In addition, the possibility exists that some people in East Obergrande might have voted for the proposition,” the professor went on. “While I did not personally choose that option, I could certainly cite some aspects of the plan to be fair ideas, including the removal and renovation of the areas with empty factories and mills, which are, to my mind, not only unsightly but actually hazardous.”
“My request of my fellow citizens, therefore, including those esteemed folk sitting before us this evening, would be not to let this discussion become polarized, but rather to look at the plan as objectively as possible, with safety being the primary focus. Thank you.”
Professor Byrnes sat down to generous, polite applause, having established peace in the room.
Which lasted long enough for the next speaker, a woman from the West Obergrande Elect, the historical society similar to the Daughters of the American Revolution, to take the floor.
“Esteemed Board members,” she began, “when considering the dam and the redesign of the east side, please think of this: as you know, next year Obergrande celebrates its quadri-centennial—its four hundredth birthday. Don’t we all want our town to be prettier, as much as it’s possible to be for its birthday?”
A near riot commenced, with the shouting so loud that Lucy had to cover her ears.
After almost another hour, Bob Lundford leaned closer to the microphone and addressed the long line of people still waiting to speak.
“One more speaker, folks,” he said wearily. “The Board is exhausted, and you are beginning to repeat yourselves.” He looked at the young father at the front of the line who had been waiting almost two hours to speak. “Sir? Please ask something that has not already been a question so far tonight.”
The dark-haired man turned to the people standing immediately behind him, consulted for a moment, nodded, then turned back to the microphone.
“Sergeant Evans,” he said plainly and clearly, “if you were the sole decision-maker, and this was your hometown, which of the solutions to
this problem would you choose?”
The young soldier, who had been sitting silently beside his superior officer for most of the evening, blinked.
“That’s not within my purview to say, sir.”
“I know it’s not,” the man said, “but I’m asking your opinion. You’ve made it very clear that the Army Corps of Engineers is not at the moment in charge of the decision, and that you’ve made a range of suggestions to the town. I’m asking you, er, Ace, if it was your decision alone, what would you decide to do in this situation?”
Silence filled the room.
Sergeant Evans turned to his superior officer. Colonel Genovese exhaled, then nodded reluctantly.
Bob Lundford handed the young soldier the microphone.
Sergeant Evans looked around the packed room.
“If it was my hometown, I believe I would opt to build the dam, carefully and conservatively,” he began as a rising tide of booing started to swell. “There are some outstanding architects who have very good ideas about how to minimize—”
His words were drowned as deeply in the audience’s response as the plan would drown East Obergrande.
Bob Lundford banged the gavel louder than he had all evening.
“That’s enough!” he shouted, his voice barely heard over the noise of the crowd.
He turned to the soldiers. “Thank you, gentlemen. Sorry for the rowdiness, and that we didn’t arrange for that open bar—goodness knows, everyone at this table could use a drink. As for the rest of you, go home. We’ve heard all your concerns and suggestions, which we will take into consideration as we move forward in the future. For now, it looks like the ‘nays’ have it. I imagine that we will not be discussing this plan again any time soon. Goodnight.”
His last words had to be shouted to be heard over the grumbling crowd.
Chapter 8
‡
10:45 PM
LUCY MADE HER way numbly out of the hall, pushing carefully between groups of arguing citizens who were stopped in the exit line, many of them still yelling at each other. Her head was throbbing, her stomach was sick, and her eyes were blazing in Irish anger.
It was all she could do to restrain herself from using Glen Daniels’ umbrella as a weapon to clear her way through the crowd.
Once to the door, she hurried out into the rain, lifting the umbrella over her head, and ran as quickly as she could around the edge of Tree Hill Park to the spot where she had left her car.
She opened the door, collapsed the umbrella and tossed it onto the passenger seat, then jumped in and closed the door as she slid the keys into the ignition and turned it.
Only to hear a clicking sound.
Lucy muttered curse words that her Irish cousins would be proud of, and turned the ignition again.
The car coughed, then fell into silent clicking once more.
The cursing hadn’t helped, so instead she thought of her grandmother Maeve. She took the rosary that hung from the rearview mirror in her hand and uttered the prayers she had heard the old woman say in difficult situations.
The car did not care.
Frustrated and tired, Lucy pounded on the steering wheel, then put her head down on it.
One or two more swear words dribbled out.
A tapping on the driver’s side window next to her made her lift her head so fast that she bumped her chin on the wheel.
She swiveled in shock and stared out the window.
A face beneath a military beret was looking back at her beneath tiny waterfalls streaming off the soft edge of the hat.
It seemed to be a handsome face up close, with dark, riveting eyes, fringed with thick lashes, and a mouth that appeared sensuous, though it was hard to tell through the beads of rain on the window.
Lucy pushed the button on the door handle.
The window ignored her just as the engine had.
Annoyed, Lucy took hold of the door handle and opened the door slightly.
“What do you want?” she demanded, trying to avoid the rain that was now whipping into her car in the cold wind.
The dark eyes blinked.
“Do you need help?” Sergeant Evans’ voice was flat, absent the humor that had been in it during his presentation.
“I do—but I don’t want to drown, so I think I will call AAA, thank you.”
Thick brown brows over the deep, dark eyes drew together, and the heavily-lashed lids of the eyes themselves blinked again.
“Sounds like you need a jump. I have cables.”
“Again, thank you, but no, thank you.” Lucy closed the door again, locking it manually.
The face disappeared from the window, replaced by the back of a dark regulation raincoat with long pleats in it as the soldier turned away. Lucy took the opportunity to fumble in her purse, searching for her AAA card.
Only to jump when the face appeared at her window again, followed by another polite rap.
“What do you want?” she demanded through the window in the closed and locked door.
The voice that responded was muffled by the rain and the door.
“Look, I can get you going and out of here in five minutes if you’ll just—”
“I—do—not—trust—you,” Lucy said loudly with exaggerated slowness through the car window.
Sergeant Evans pulled his head back in surprise. “Why?”
Lucy unlocked the car door and cracked it open again.
“Because you just gave aid and comfort to the enemy, Sergeant,” she said hostilely. “What you and the Army Corps of Engineers fail to understand is that most of the West Obergrande folk would like to see the working side of town systematically drowned, not because they are worried about our fate in a flood, but because they find our side of town ‘unsightly,’ all those nasty factories and mills where middle-income people work, all the lower-end housing where we live, where our children go to school, along with theirs from the west side.
“If they drown the school, they can rebuild it in West Obergrande, in their own neighborhood, and make it ‘prettier,’ as that one stupid woman said tonight that started the biggest fight, I believe. When a large part of our side of town is swallowed by the lake and the Hudson River, their property values will go up—most of them will have lakefront property. The rest of us, of course, would be screwed. And you just gave them valuable ammunition to do it. So, while I appreciate your kind offer, I’m going to have to turn it down, because I know where I stand, and whom I can, and cannot, trust. Thank you sincerely for your service to our nation as a National Guardsman, but you can move along now.”
She closed the door, her left side wet with rain, and went back to her search for the roadside-assistance card.
Ace Evans stared, straight-faced, through the window for a moment while she turned her purse upside down angrily and shook the contents into her lap.
Then shrugged, turned again and walked away into the dark.
1:35 AM
IT TOOK THE tow truck more than an hour to reach her.
By then, Lucy was kicking herself for her rash rejection of help from the Army National Guardsman, whom she determined, while waiting endlessly, would have undoubtedly gotten her car started while minding his manners after the chaos of the Town Board meeting.
Instead, she was paying for her bad temper by sitting in the heavy cigar smoke of the tow-truck’s cab, coughing every now and then, while the operator jumped her battery in the pouring rain.
She had needed to make her way back inside the town hall to use the pay phone to reach AAA, mentally thanking Glen Daniels for loaning her the umbrella overnight. In spite of the umbrella she had managed to get bone-chillingly soaked, as the rain was now blowing sideways, and had broken the heel off one of her shoes on her way back to the car.
I need anger management classes, she decided while she waited.
Finally, when her car was running again, and the tow truck driver opened the door, she stepped down from the cab tiredly and thanked him, got her card back from him
along with the paperwork, and made her way under Glen Daniels’ umbrella in the heavier rain.
I’m going to get Glen some baklava as a thank-you present, she mused as she returned to her running car.
She put the umbrella in the front seat once more, touched the rosary, fastened her belt and drove off into the night to her tiny but beloved house in East Obergrande.
AT THE CORNER, the lights of a jeep came on.
It sat quietly as Lucy’s car drove around the corner and out of sight.
Then pulled away in the other direction, heading to the local motel for the night, too late to start back to Saratoga until morning, a little over an hour’s journey home.
OUT BEHIND THE town hall, where cars had been parked like sardines over the course of the night, a dozen or so remaining people finally left the building, exhausted.
Two of them, however, held back as the rest got into their cars, long enough to exchange a glance.
Then opened their umbrellas and hurried into their own vehicles.
Heading off into the black night, the heavy rain and the obtrusive mist beneath a dark, moonless sky.
Chapter 9
‡
THE NEXT DAY, Friday, 7:03 AM
Obergrande Elementary School
KELLY MORAN CAME into the classroom in a foul mood, shaking the rain from her clothing and dripping it from her coat onto her shoes.
“This is ridiculous,” she muttered, fighting with her broken umbrella to close it. “Thank God it’s Friday.”
Lucy was perched atop a small stepladder, hanging up student self-portraits.
“No kidding,” she agreed. “Look at it out there—it looks like a tornado is brewing—except there’s no separation of light and dark in the sky, and it’s not green.”
“No, it’s pretty much black all the way down to the ground,” Kelly agreed, hanging her dripping coat in the teachers’ closet. “And the bloody rain is blowing sideways—they give us snow days when the weather’s awful in winter. I can’t imagine those poor little kids waiting for the bus this morning.”
