The Blue Death

by Joan Brady

  Less than an hour later, the news programme announced that the problem had been solved and that pipework to affected homes was in the process of being flushed. The cause was unknown, it said; the present theory was an accumulation of summer algae on Lake Springfield, and there was no danger to public health.

  Too little and too late. The Journal-Register gave Jimmy headlines better than he could have hoped for:

  Springfield water stinks

  Is something rotten in the state of our public utilities?

  19

  SPRINGFIELD: Tuesday

  At a few minutes past eleven, Becky’s Lexus SUV edged its way through almost solid traffic along a stretch of highway at the edge of Springfield’s east side. Police were everywhere. Horns blared. People shouted. Crowds on foot threaded their way through the cars. Lillian manoeuvred the SUV towards a dilapidated building and a sign that read ‘NO PARKING’.

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ Becky said to her.

  ‘They using it as a homeless shelter,’ said Lillian.

  ‘How dare he?’

  Lillian laughed. ‘Usually Mr Mayor Jimmy Zemanski’s sense of humour don’t tickle me at all.’

  ‘I’ll have his head for this. I’ll have his head.’

  The public City Council meeting to discuss whether or not citizens should have a voice in selling off Springfield’s public water supply had been scheduled for ten thirty in the Old Capitol building; the announcement said available venues in the New Capitol complex weren’t large enough for the crowd expected. Becky dreaded the political wrangling ahead – she wasn’t used to defeat – but the Old Capitol itself offered a ray of hope. President Lincoln practised law there; President Obama announced his candidacy there. She was the reason those two men stood on the same steps. Everybody knew that she and her Arts Society had raised the money to restore the building, and that Obama wouldn’t have chosen it if she hadn’t restored it. The place – those memories – might sway public opinion. At least a little.

  But she and Lillian had arrived to find the streets blocked off and traffic wardens handing out leaflets:

  CITY COUNCIL MEETING THIS MORNING

  The Old Capitol is closed while police investigate an alleged bomb threat. Those wishing to attend the public session of the Council meeting should proceed to the Avenging Angel Shelter on Dirkson Parkway. The meeting will begin at 11:30.

  Dirkson Parkway was a four-lane wasteland of used-car lots, telephone poles, cheap motels and cheaper hamburger joints. The Avenging Angel fitted right in: small, squat, ugly, with a corrugated pink siding that had looked dirty from the moment it was installed. A stretch of weed-infested and chained-off macadam made up a forecourt. Groups of the homeless, evicted for the occasion, clustered at the property’s boundary while swarms of respectable-looking people elbowed each other to get into the hostel.

  One of the officers knocked on the SUV’s window. Lillian rolled it down.

  ‘You can’t park here, lady,’ he said.

  Becky leaned forward from the back seat. ‘Oh, yes, we can.’

  ‘Mrs Freyl! I didn’t see you.’ He took down the chain across the front yard, beckoned in the SUV, then helped Lillian unload Becky’s wheelchair into the sticky heat of the day and a clustering group of supporters.

  ‘Darling Becky,’ Donna cried, pushing her way through the crowd. ‘Just look at all these people. We’ve had to turn droves away. Droves! There isn’t anywhere near enough room, and it’s all so very ugly in this place. Wait until you see inside. I mean, forget the pink siding. Inside, the plaster is peeling off.’

  Becky pursed her lips. ‘I suppose that dreadful Kline man is here.’

  ‘Front row.’

  ‘Just as I feared.’

  Morris Kline was Director of Springfield Light and Power, an avid football fan and one of Jimmy’s first appointments as mayor. Becky had set herself the task of bringing him into the Coalition. Her first telephone call to his secretary included an invitation to lunch. The secretary told her that he wasn’t available. People like Morris Kline don’t snub Rebecca Freyl. She’d called again. This time the man’s secretary had had the gall to tell her that Mr Kline didn’t feel it was ‘appropriate to speak at this moment in time’. ‘At this moment in time’ was a phrase Becky particularly disliked.

  Becky pursed her lips again. ‘What about Aloysia?’

  ‘No sign of her,’ said Donna.

  ‘No word either?’

  ‘She’d have got in touch with me if she were back.’

  ‘Thank God for small mercies.’

  It’s true that Aloysia’s degree in hydrology made her a natural for the Coalition; after all, she was the person who’d warned Becky about Jimmy’s plans. But the cat-smile that Becky knew too well had come with the warning. The first time she’d seen it had been at her own dining table. Back in May, she and Helen held a dinner party that included the Englishwoman.

  Chat over iced Martinis had gone well. But when Lillian served the soup, Aloysia put the palms of her hands on the table and surveyed the company with that smile. As soon as she had everybody’s attention, she turned to Helen. ‘So where’s this delicious husband of yours?’

  Which is how Becky found out about the marriage. She’d spluttered, put down her spoon, started to get up, then sat down again. ‘Husband?’

  Helen reached out, took her hand. ‘I kept trying to tell you, Grandma, but you just didn’t want to hear.’

  ‘I always liked a bit of rough myself,’ Aloysia said dreamily.

  ‘Lillian!’ Becky had cried. ‘Get my pills.’

  The last thing she needed today at this Council meeting was somebody who enjoyed springing nasty surprises like that. She had enough to worry about already: Jimmy’s star speaker Morris Kline, last week’s stinky water, the damning headline in the Journal-Register. Now Jimmy’s aggressive change of venue.

  The shift from Old Capitol to Avenging Angel reeked of ambush, and the entryway of the shelter contributed its own smells of sweat and garbage. Donna wheeled Becky through it and into the cafeteria: long tables pushed to the sides, benches arranged in rows and crammed with people. More people perched on the tables and lined the walls. Lillian positioned Becky near the doorway – her supporters clustering around her still – to catch any breeze that might blow. The temperature outside was over a hundred and humidity at 96%. People fanned themselves with newspapers and paperback books. Not Becky. She didn’t mind. She’d been brought up in Atlanta. She loved the heat.

  At the end of the room, Jimmy sat with a quorum of sweat-soaked aldermen, three of them on either side of him. A lectern and a microphone stood in a cleared space in front of them. Jimmy banged his gavel, called the meeting to order, went through the ritual preliminaries and began his parade of witnesses with the Commissioner of the Department of Water Management.

  The Commissioner grew passionate about crumbling city water infrastructure and soaring prices: ‘We’ve all seen the effects of this neglect. We must act, ladies and gentlemen. Last week’s “incident” of sewage in our water is only a taster of what’s to come if we don’t.’

  City Planning explained that without private finance Springfield’s citizens would have to foot the bill for compliance to new environmental laws. ‘Last week’s “incident” is going to cost us dear. So are the new laws. Together these will take $250 million out of your pockets.’

  The Chief of the City Accounting Office waved the five hundred-page think-tank study that Sebastian Slad had given Jimmy: proof that private ownership alone could correct faults, update the system and at the same time ‘put $175 million of that money right back into your pockets.’

  Becky could feel the crowd waver. A few had already left. She clutched the arms of her wheelchair as Morris Kline walked to the lectern, a stiff, starched figure despite the temperature, the only person in the room who wasn’t sweating.

  ‘I’m a good soldier,’ he began. ‘I do what I’m told. But there are times when a soldier’s duty is
to disobey his orders.’ A murmur of consternation went through the audience. ‘Over a year ago my predecessor enacted plans to accommodate the environmental laws that concern City Planning. They’re not new at all. My predecessor also streamlined existing operations and began a quiet, inexpensive expansion of facilities. Because of him, the city is already saving tax dollars. As for last week’s “incident”, it came during the first trial run of Mr Zemanski’s new electronic system and the first time – the very first time – that my predecessor’s system was shut down after a decade of faultless performance.’

  Morris Kline left the lectern and sat down.

  For a moment Jimmy was too stunned to speak. Becky could hardly believe what she’d heard.

  ‘That’s it, Morris?’ Jimmy had to struggle to keep his voice even. ‘This isn’t quite what we . er, you haven’t anything to add?’

  Morris stood again. ‘In my opinion, privatization would constitute a criminal waste of public money.’

  The audience burst into applause. Becky looked around her in delight. David’s insolence had created unity. All the Coalition had needed was its first scent of blood – and here it was.

  Nothing could stop them now.

  20

  SPRINGFIELD: The following weekend

  Political spats rarely interrupt Springfield society, and Jimmy was still the Freyl family lawyer.

  Only the day before the meeting at the Avenging Angel, he’d been to Freyl House to discuss redrafting Becky’s will; she had to make sure David couldn’t get his hands on Helen’s inheritance. In Becky’s eyes, Jimmy’s love for Helen, his animosity towards David and his anger at this disastrous marriage certainly created a bond more important than a petty disagreement about Springfield’s water supply. She’d told him over a glass of iced tea that if he really wanted Helen, he was going to have to change his approach. She was the one who’d suggested that he begin with a party at his house on Saturday.

  As for David, she assured him there’d be no problem. One of the prime texts for anybody involved in business in any country in the world is Sun Tzu’s Art of War. It’s the source of the expression ‘Know thy enemy.’ Becky had studied it herself when she took over the Freyl investments.

  ‘I think I’m beginning to understand the man a little,’ she said to Jimmy.

  ‘So?’ he said.

  ‘Do the right thing.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is.’

  ‘Ask him first. Before you ask us.’

  Jimmy drove out early in the morning to the site where David was working on the house that he and Helen were to share. A concrete mixer churned away. A burly man with a wheelbarrow stood beside it; David shovelled cement from it into the barrow. The din from the mixer overwhelmed even the heavy beat from the radio.

  ‘Hiya, David,’ Jimmy shouted.

  ‘What?’ David shouted back. He didn’t turn away from the mixer.

  ‘Can’t you turn that thing off for a minute?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you and Helen to dinner at my house next Saturday.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I said—’

  ‘I heard you,’ David shouted.

  ‘Can you come?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just “no”?’

  David didn’t respond. Jimmy stood there, not sure whether he’d gained an advantage or lost one. ‘Do the right thing,’ Becky had said, her mind on the ancient Chinese text about war. ‘What about Helen?’ Jimmy shouted at David.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘You don’t mind if I ask her, do you?’

  ‘Nothing to do with me.’

  Jimmy’s house at the edge of Lake Springfield took up the entirety of what was once a modest neighbourhood. But that was years ago. A previous governor of the state had bought the tract of land, levelled it, turned it into a private park and built a monumental house there: glass, steel and rough oak. It added to Jimmy’s stature; he’d bought it not long before his campaign for mayor. Spotlights lit it up from the outside.

  He’d thought hard about Becky’s advice on how he should behave, and he had it firmly in mind as he opened the door.

  ‘Helen!’ he said, pulling her into his arms before she could protest. ‘God, you’re a sight for sore eyes.’ He held her out, hands on her shoulders, then let her go. ‘No husband this evening? I thought he might relent just this once. I can’t say I’m sorry he hasn’t, but these occasions must be—’

  ‘Leave it, Jimmy,’ Helen interrupted.

  ‘Sure, sure. I understand. And Becky!’ He bent down, kissed Becky’s cheek. ‘Thanks for making the effort.’ He laughed. ‘I don’t know why you aren’t as worn out as I am by the Coalition’s triumph at the Avenging Angel. It was so goddamned hot, I practically melted. And you seem to have more energy than ever.’

  ‘A homeless shelter! You should be ashamed of yourself, Jimmy Zemanski.’

  ‘Oh, I am. I am. Now come in, both of you. Allan and Ruth Madison are already here. So are the Orlandos and the Yetmans.’ He laughed at the purse of Becky’s lips. ‘I got to have some supporters around me, Becky.’ Jimmy hadn’t told her that he was going to include either couple in tonight’s party. Both had signed a public petition supporting the privatization plan. They were rich west siders, but neither wife had received an invitation to join the Springfield Arts Society even though both had wrangled hard for the honour. Becky didn’t like them. Mrs Orlando simpered and wore shoes that were too small. The Yetmans were City Council lawyers whose money came from squeezing high rents out of run-down tenements on the east side.

  Helen wheeled Becky into Jimmy’s living room where the others waited. Original prints in the style of Andy Warhol covered the walls. Soft focus lighting struggled with overstuffed chairs and angular tables. Pride of place went to a football signed by George Blanda himself; it sat on a marble slab beside a chunky statuette of a player mid-dash, his head and the football somehow melded into one.

  ‘Mrs Orlando,’ Becky said.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Freyl!’ Mrs Orlando’s bad knee was probably the only thing that held her back from a curtsy. Behind her, Mr Orlando bowed from the waist as best he could; he was fat and bulbous-nosed but a hedge-fund broker with a formidable reputation.

  Mrs Yetman was made out of different stuff entirely. She was a handsome redhead, and she knew it. ‘Nice to see you, Becky,’ she said.

  ‘Are we on first-name terms, Mrs Yetman?’ Becky’s voice was tart.

  ‘Sure we are,’ Mrs Yetman said. ‘Don’t you remember? Jimmy’s just been telling me you’ve got some memory problems. The name’s Tracy. We met lots of times at—’

  ‘I have no trouble whatever with my memory, Mrs Yetman,’ Becky interrupted. ‘Ruth!’ she said turning away. ‘How lovely you’re looking tonight.’ Ruth wore a pale beige dress that showed off her willowy figure.

  Jimmy opened bottles of champagne; several other couples arrived, and despite the chilly beginning, conversation tinkled on comfortably, guests in groups of three and four. Jimmy stood beside Ruth. A lightness of touch, his to hers, hers to him, made the relationship painfully clear; not that the husband seemed to mind.

  Jimmy refilled glasses, then sat next to Helen. ‘You and Ruth certainly get on well,’ Helen said to him with a wry smile.

  ‘I like Ruth. She tells me things. You didn’t even tell me you were teaching at the college. I had to track you there to find out. That’s not fair. I’m a busy man.’

  Helen knew he checked on her from time to time, but when he was at his best, even an admission like that became amusing, charming, almost endearing, ‘Jimmy, I didn’t know myself until an hour before.’

  ‘I teach there too.’

  ‘You’re kidding. Why? When did that start?’

  ‘Evening classes. Adult education. A couple of months now. Adults are easier than kids. They actually want to learn. It’s all, you know, what your rights are as a consumer and a citizen, make the city and the law work for you instead of
against you.’

  ‘It wasn’t evening, Jimmy. It was noon.’

  He laughed. ‘Now you’re going all technical on me.’

  She gave him a puzzled glance, looked away.

  ‘Something the matter?’ he said.

  ‘That’s what David says I do.’

  ‘Does he? How’d it go? The class I mean.’

  He decided from Helen’s face Becky was most likely right about his approach. ‘Tact, Jimmy,’ she’d said. ‘You must treat Helen as though she were a client whose business you wish to secure.’

  As for Helen, she was feeling rebellious – her dependence on David grated badly – but the shift in Jimmy’s manner registered on her only as relief that he was a little less crude than usual tonight. She found herself talking to him with some real interest about teaching.

  Dinner was old fashioned: shrimp cocktail and roast beef. As the chef brought on a dessert of baked apples, the talk turned towards water and Jimmy’s plan to privatize.

  Becky sat at Jimmy’s right. ‘I have an announcement to make,’ he said, patting her hand. ‘You’re going to be angry.’

  ‘Am I? Really? Haven’t we put all that aside?’

  ‘Well, Becky, sometimes things don’t go exactly as we . I’m sorry to say this has turned into a dinner party with a purpose.’

  ‘Oh, dear, now what have you done?’

  Jimmy poked his apple, shook his head, took in a breath. ‘You know, I did try to tell you that times have changed since you were young, that things aren’t as they—’

  ‘Just spit it out, Jimmy.’

  ‘I’ve negotiated a contract for Springfield.’

  Becky frowned. Her lips tightened. ‘A contract? What kind of contract?’

  ‘To privatize—’

  ‘This is a contract to sell off Springfield Light and Power?’ she interrupted. ‘Our water supply? You can’t be saying that.’