Footprints

by Robert Rayner

  “We want you to tell us about, like, protesting and stuff,” says Isora.

  “You mean political action?” Lully asks.

  Isora nods. “I guess.”

  Lully smiles gently. “Am I writing another essay?”

  “No. It’s...it’s for us. We’re mad about not being able to go on the beach. We got in shit with the police about it. Well, Drumgold and Harp did, not me. And we don’t think it’s fair and we want to do something about it. But we don’t know what. Or how.”

  Lully nods. “I understand. Can I start with some theory?” He leans forward, his elbows on the picnic table, his fingertips pressed lightly together. “There are three stages – I call them ‘waves’ – of political action. The first wave is making a personal appeal to the person or organization you want to persuade to your point of view.”

  Harper looks up sharply. “You sound like my dad.”

  “He’s a union man then.”

  “Yeah. How d’you know?”

  “He’ll have come across this stuff. It’s been a kind of standard text for union negotiating for years.”

  “Did you write it?”

  Lully laughs and shakes his head. “It was drafted nearly a hundred years ago by a South American politician – some call him a revolutionary – called Raul Battista de la Cruz.”

  Isora remembers seeing that name on a library book Lully left on the kitchen table once when she was looking after George.

  Lully goes on, “You hope the first wave produces a constructive dialectic–”

  Harper interrupts. “Produces what?”

  Lully grins. “A constructive dialectic. It means both sides present their views – that’s the dialectic – and you hope you can somehow merge the arguments and produce something that may not be ideal, but is at least acceptable to both sides. That’s the constructive bit. The people with the grievance make a respectful, personal appeal to the one against whom they have the grievance, trying to see things from his, or her, perspective, and the one being appealed to does the same.”

  Watching Lully, Isora thinks his face is even thinner than it was when he moved in next door six months ago. She’s sure his cheek bones are more pronounced, his face more shrunken, more carved, making his eyes seem bigger. She thinks how little she knows about him. She’s not even sure of his age. When she first met him – when, shortly after moving in, he asked her father’s permission to ask her if she’d look after George when he was away – she thought he was only a few years older than her. But the manner of his interactions with adults – with her father and other neighbours – has persuaded her he’s in his thirties, his late thirties even. Like last summer, when her father, sitting on the front step as he looked through the mail, cursed loudly, and Lully looked across from where he was tending the tubs of flowers he had on each side of his door and asked, “Can I help?” Mr. Lee said, “This says I have to pay supplementary property tax.” Lully said, “May I see?” And after reading the document, said, “You don’t have to pay this,” and told Mr. Lee how to appeal it, which he did – successfully.

  Drumgold laughs shortly and scornfully. “So we need to see things from Anderson’s point of view.”

  “You need to try,” says Lully. “Pretend you are Mr. Anderson. Pretend the beach belongs to you.”

  “It doesn’t belong to anyone,” Isora starts.

  “From his point of view, it belongs to him,” Lully insists.

  “Okay,” says Isora. “The beach belongs to me and I want it all to myself.”

  “Right. You want peace and privacy because your days are filled with conflict and difficult decisions, so you pay a lot of money for a place in the country. And you find kids running around on the beach – your beach – like it belongs to them.”

  “What about how we feel?” says Drumgold.

  “You have to invite Mr. Anderson to understand that you would like to continue visiting the beach, which has always been regarded as public, and technically still is, except that he owns access to it. Now, can you suggest a compromise?”

  “He doesn’t own access from the sea,” says Harper. “So we could swim around to the beach from the Back River wharf.”

  “Sure,” says Drumgold. “And freeze our arses off and drown before we get halfway. Or we could sail around in that million dollar cabin cruiser we keep at the Back River marina.”

  “Just a thought,” Harper mumbles.

  “I suppose we could ask to go to the beach just sometimes,” says Isora. “Like when Mr. Anderson’s away.”

  Lully nods. “Or you could propose that he allows you access to one part of the beach, where you won’t disturb him.”

  “What happens when none of this works?” Drumgold asks.

  “Then you move on to the second wave, which involves legitimate and responsible political action. That means writing letters, organising petitions, holding demonstrations, and so on, trying to gather support for your cause in order to put pressure on the person you want to persuade.”

  “And marches and sit downs and stuff?” Isora asks.

  “Could be,” says Lully.

  “So I guess we’re supposed to somehow talk to Anderson – like he’s going to listen to us,” says Isora. She mimics talking on the telephone, fingers curled beside her head, her thumb to her ear, little finger to her mouth. “Hi, Mr. Anderson. We want you to give us permission to go on the beach, and by the way, we were there today and one of us kicked your security guard in the nuts and near poked his eye out and we ran through your garden and hid in your barn and thought about torching it...”

  Lully smiles. “If you’re interested in political action, why don’t you come to tonight’s town council meeting? You’ll see a group of people who are in the second wave of their protest about the LNG terminal and are trying to get the council to join their opposition to it.”

  Isora says, “Thanks, Dex.”

  “Wait,” says Drumgold. “You said there were three waves.”

  When Lully had started talking, Drumgold had sat with his arms folded and his eyes fixed pointedly upwards. Now he’s watching Lully intently.

  “The third wave is what de la Cruz calls direct action. It’s not something you want to get involved in, and it’s a long way from where you are with your protest.”

  Lully walks towards the woods, calling George. As the friends cross to Isora’s trailer, a police car cruises around the trailer park crescent. Sgt. Chase, at the wheel, smiles at them and raises a hand in greeting.

  A woman beside him, not in uniform, just stares.

  7

  There’s a line-up at the door of the town office as a security guard lets people in one at a time. Sgt. Chase is parked across the street. The woman who was with him when he cruised through the trailer park is taking photographs of everyone in the line-up.

  Isora, seeing her, murmurs, “We’re getting our picture taken.”

  She stands between Drumgold and Harper, and they pose with their arms around one another, the boys holding their spare arms out. Ta-da! Sgt. Chase smiles at them. The woman takes their picture, then lowers the camera and glares.

  Drumgold says, “Camera Woman didn’t like that.”

  When they get to the door, the boys stand back for Isora to go first, and the security guard says, “Photo ID, please.”

  “Like what?” says Isora.

  “Driver’s licence.”

  “Don’t have one.”

  “Student union card.”

  “The high school doesn’t do student union cards.”

  “You’re at high school?”

  Isora nods.

  The security guard says, “Then maybe you should be home studying. Next, please.”

  Isora doesn’t move.

  The security guard repeats, “Next, please.”

  Isora still doesn’t move. Harper turns, but comes up against Drumgold, who is standing with his arms folded.

  The security guard says, “You and your friends have to step aside, p
lease, miss, or I’ll–”

  A voice from behind Drumgold interrupts. “I’ll vouch for these young people. I know them personally.” It’s Sgt. Chase.

  “My orders from Eastern Oil are that all people entering the meeting show photo ID,” says the security guard.

  “I’ll take full responsibility. And I’ll also point out that this meeting was called by the Back River Council, not by Eastern Oil.”

  The guard hesitates, and waves Isora and the boys through.

  Harper turns to Sgt. Chase and mouths, “Thanks.”

  Sgt. Chase winks.

  In the council chamber, rows of chairs face a long table that bears nine name plates. The centre name plate, which has a gavel beside it, announces Mayor Thomas Green. On the wall behind the table there’s an old picture of Main Street, busy with high, boxy cars, and men in suits and round hats, and women in long, full dresses.

  The room is crowded, and the friends stand against the wall just inside the door. Lully is in the centre of the back row and offers his seat to Isora but she shakes her head. A door at the front of the room opens and the councillors file in. Mayor Green takes his place at the centre of the table, taps the gavel lightly, and says, “Thank you for attending tonight. The council is here to receive presentations both for and against Eastern Oil’s proposal to build a liquefied natural gas terminal on a site at Sandy Point, fifteen kilometres east of Back River. As you know, the council was asked by Eastern Oil to express its support for the project, which the council has done wholeheartedly because of the needed boost the construction would bring to the local community, to say nothing of the subsequent opportunities for employment. However, in light of subsequently expressed reservations from certain quarters about the project, the council is holding this public meeting in order to hear your comments. The floor is now open.”

  The woman sitting beside Lully clasps a little girl in her lap. The man with her dangles a key ring to amuse the child, but she squirms free, pushes past the man, and runs to the front of the audience, where she stops, looking back, grinning. The man rises to fetch her but she runs across the room.

  Mayor Green bangs his gavel and says, “Please!”

  Someone in the front row holds the child until the man retrieves her and carries her, wriggling and kicking, back to his seat. The woman takes her and sits her in her lap, where she squirms and frets.

  Mayor Green bangs his gavel louder and says, “Order, please.”

  Lully, with a nod to the woman, takes the toddler and sits her on his knee. He gives her his pen and offers his notepad to draw on.

  Mayor Green says, “Would anyone like to speak?”

  The man stands. “Perhaps we can be first, so the child doesn’t disturb the meeting.”

  One of the councillors – his name plate says Councillor Frederick Graham – mutters, “Please.”

  “State your name, for the record,” says Mayor Green.

  “You know who I am, Tom,” the man protests. “Maggie here’s your cousin.”

  “Say your name anyway, please, Phil,” says Mayor Green.

  The man rolls his eyes. “I’m Philip Nason, and my wife is Maggie, and my daughter is Sharon–”

  Mayor Green interrupts. “I’m afraid we can’t record your daughter’s views without her being here in person.”

  “But she’s at work. That’s why we have the child here. She’d be here if she could.”

  “But she isn’t,” says Councillor Graham firmly. “Therefore her opinion cannot be counted.”

  Mr. Nason, with a glance at his wife and another roll of his eyes, starts, “We live at Sandy Point. We put a home there to retire to, for the peace and the view–”

  “A mobile home – a trailer, I believe,” another of the councillors, nameplate Councillor Mary Holt, puts in. She wrinkles her nose as she says “trailer.”

  Mr. Nason nods. “If the LNG plant is built, we’ll lose everything we moved there for, the peace and the view, with the supertankers coming in, and the traffic on the new road they say will be built. Our daughter moved there to be beside us with the child–”

  “In another mobile home,” Councillor Holt interjects.

  “And she’d say the same, that–”

  Mayor Green interrupts again. “I’ve already explained that we cannot hear your daughter’s views second-hand. Have you anything more to say?”

  Mr. Nason looks at his wife. She shrugs.

  “Thank you, Mr. Nason,” says Mayor Green. “The council has noted your comments. Does anyone need Mr. Nason to clarify anything?” He looks right and left along the table.

  Councillor Graham says, “Mr. Nason, you are concerned about the spoiling of your view, correct?”

  Mr. Nason, who is now sitting, rises, nodding eagerly. “Yes, that’s it exactly, sir.”

  Councillor Graham goes on, “There are those who would say the presence of two mobile homes on Sandy Point is already a desecration of the view. Would you agree?”

  Mr. Nason is about to answer, but Councillor Holt says, “I believe it’s true that Eastern Oil has generously offered to relocate you and your daughter.”

  Mr. Nason says, “But we don’t want to live anywhere else. Our neighbour, Garrett Needle...” He nods at a man slumped, eyes closed, at the end of the row, on the other side of Lully. “He lives a short ways along the Point from me. He’ll tell you the same.”

  “He might if he was awake,” says Councillor Graham.

  “He’s been on night shift,” Mr. Nason explains.

  “That’s not all he’s been on,” Councillor Holt murmurs.

  The mayor frowns at his colleagues. “I’ll have everyone present treated with respect and courtesy. An apology is in order.”

  Councillor Holt mumbles apologies.

  Mayor Green says, “I assume Mr. Needle’s comments would be the same as yours, Mr. Nason, and we’ll take them as read, if you like. Thank you for addressing us.”

  Mr. Nason makes his way out. The woman takes the child from Lully and follows him.

  Mayor Green says, “Who is next?”

  A woman in the front row stands. “Ms. Beverly Myles, representing the Back River branch of the Conservation Council.”

  The mayor tells her, “The council has already received your report and taken note of it.”

  “I’d like to read it, nevertheless, for the record.”

  “Very well, but in abbreviated form, please.”

  Beverly Myles reads a statement about the danger to the marine environment the increased traffic coming to the LNG plant would cause, especially vessels too large to safely navigate the waters off Sandy Point. She notes the impact of the plant on lobster fishing and on the whales who return to those waters every summer.

  Councillor Holt yawns.

  Mayor Green thanks Ms. Myles for her well-researched comments and says, “Next?”

  Isora glances at Lully. He’s busy taking notes.

  Suddenly Garrett Needle lurches to his feet. He has a stubbled chin and matted grey hair pulled back in a ponytail. A smell like thawing spring earth wafts from him and fills the council chamber. His eyes are wide and staring. He seems surprised to find himself in a crowded room.

  Mayor Green says, “Do you wish to address the meeting, Mr. Needle?”

  Garrett Needle stares around the room, his head moving in quick jerks. Lully plucks at his sleeve. Garrett Needle lowers his head for Lully to whisper in his ear.

  Garrett Needle nods, pulls himself upright, and says, “It’s wrong, what they’ll do to the Point, building the...the...”

  He looks down at Lully, who whispers, “LNG terminal.”

  “That...what he says,” Garrett Needle tells the meeting. “It’s not meant for the Point. It’s not meant for anywhere.”

  Mayor Green says, “Thank you, Mr. Needle. The council will take your comments into consideration.”

  Councillor Holt is in whispered conversation with the man beside her.

  “It’s not just me saying
it’s wrong,” Garrett Needle goes on, his voice rising.

  “We understand,” says Mayor Green. “Thank you.”

  “It’s not God’s will that the sea be desecrated with... with...terminals, or with anything else.”

  “Give me a break,” Councillor Graham mutters.

  “The sea is for the fish and the whales, and for honest fishermen like I was for forty years, not for tankers and ports and pollution and...and...” Garrett Needle glances at Lully. “LNG terminals that will desecrate what God gave us.”

  Mayor Green taps his gavel and says, “Thank you, Mr. Needle.”

  “God will punish you, all of you, if you go along with this.”

  Councillor Holt breaks off her conversation and says loudly, “Do we have to listen to this?”

  “He will rain fire on you, fire and destruction. The Lord saith, ‘I will have revenge on those who sully My earth.’”

  Lully stands and murmurs in Garrett Needle’s ear. He guides him gently down to his seat.

  Mayor Green says, “Thank you for your presentation, Mr. Needle, and for your help, Mr...er...” He looks at Lully, whose head stays bent over his notebook. “Mr...er...” Most of the people in the room are looking back at Lully. He doesn’t look up. The mayor looks at his colleagues. Councillor Holt shrugs.

  The mayor says, “Are there any more presentations?”

  Garrett Needle, slumped in his seat, mutters, “You’ll be sorry.”

  After the meeting, outside the town office, Lully says, “Now you’ve seen politics in action, do you still want to pursue your protest?”

  Isora says, “Yes, but I hope Anderson listens to us better than the councillors listened to the people who spoke tonight.”

  Harper asks, “Should we talk to the council about the beach? It’s in town limits, isn’t it?”

  “Who’s your argument with?” says Lully.

  “Mr. Anderson, I suppose.”

  “Then that’s who you talk to.”

  “But Mr. Anderson isn’t going to talk to us,” says Harper. “We can’t just knock at the door of his cottage and say we’ve come about the beach.”

  “You need to see him at his office. Make it like it’s a business meeting.”