by Mic Roland
“Never mind the old and sick. What about us?” complained Dunan. “We pay taxes to this town. We demand that you do something. You owe us…”
Pete stood up quickly and faced Dunan. “This town don’t owe you diddly squat, ya panty waist. This ain’t some resort hotel where you can demand clean towels or order up room service when yer hungry.”
Dunan stood and stabbed his finger at Pete. “Listen you. You can’t talk to me like that. I’ll sue the pants off of you!” Landers continued to try and restore order with his gavel, but few paid any attention.
“Pfft.” sniffed Pete. “You think this town is like your mama or something: owes you a warm bed, wash your clothes and maybe cut your meat for you, eh little boy?”
Dunan lunged over the intervening row of chairs. Pete had time to square up his stance to face the charging young man. Others stood up behind Dunan, shouting their support. Dunan tried to grab Pete’s clothes, but failed. He took a swing at Pete, but from so far back that there was no surprise to the attack at all.
Even though Pete was a foot shorter than Dunan and twenty years older, he easily parried the wide swing. Furious that his first swing did not deliver a Hollywood knockout, the younger man swung with his other arm, but Pete easily deflected that blow too. Dunan stumbled on a fallen folding chair. In that interruption, a few of Dunan’s cohorts and supporters succeeded in restraining him, but also hurled epithets at Pete. Residents caught in the middle had quickly scurried aside. A handful of older men took up positions behind Pete, more in a show of support and back-up, not to restrain him.
By this point, Chief Burgh had rushed around the end of the table and into the rows of chairs. “Alright! Alright everybody just back off. Settle down here.”
“I demand that you arrest this man,” shouted Dunan. “I intend to press charges.”
“For what?” asked the Chief as he moved aside some chairs to stand between the men. “Seems to me you were the one throwing punches.”
“Well…he was…disrespecting me. That’s it. He was bullying and disrespecting. I have my rights. Bullies should be in jail.”
“Nobody’s going to jail over a few words,” said the Chief. “Now, everyone sit down and cool off. I will, take away the next person that starts a fight. Understand me?” The chief’s gaze was firmly locked on Dunan.
Candice stood to act as peacemaker. “We should all respect each others’ rights, and always in kindness.” Her smile was gone briefly as she glowered at Pete, but it flickered back on again.
“Is this what we can expect from this stinkin’ town?” Dunan said to Landers. “This is your meeting? What are you going to do about this?”
“Mr. Dunan,” began Landers. “We appreciate your concerns. We are all in the same boat as you. But…”
“No you’re not!” snapped Dunan. “Some of you have wood stoves and wood. We don’t. Some of you have generators. We don’t. That’s not fair.”
“Bet you’ve got a honkin’ huge TV, though Sport. I don’t,” quipped Pete.
“That’s it! I don’t have to take this crap!” ranted Dunan. “If you’re not going to deal with this man, then I want nothing more to do with you…and your stupid meetings and your stupid town. Come on, Trish. We’re going to stay with my mother in Wellsley.”
Dunan’s young wife shot an indignant scowl at Landers and Pete just before the two of them pushed through the chairs and stomped out. Several other couples stood up too, mumbled angry inarticulate words and followed the Dunans out. Other young couples, still in their seats, looked at each other like bewildered orphans. They may have shared Dunan’s worries and sentiment, but not enough of his zeal to join in the walk-out.
Candice rose to speak, “Jeff.” She had to speak loudly to be heard over thunder of petulant stomping down the wooden stairs. “Jeff. This is no way to take care of our citizens. Pete. That was totally uncalled for.”
“Bah,” said Pete. “I just did you all a favor. You’ve got big enough challenges on your hands. You’ve gotta figure out how to get through the winter with what you’ve got. The fewer pampered panty-waists, the better. The sort of talk that young guy was spouting concerns me: people thinking everyone else ought to be taking care of them. I’m willing to bet you all are going to be scraping the bottom of your barrels just to get yourselves by this winter. A bunch of do-nothing mooches is the last thing you all need.”
“Wasn’t so long ago,” Pete looked over the crowd. “This town used to be mostly folks who knew how to take care of themselves and did so: farmers, lumbermen, tradesmen. The women were sturdy stock, too. They could butcher and cook a chicken, split firewood and make clothes for their family. They knew how to take care of themselves and families without demanding anyone else do it for them.”
“But,” Pete shook his head. “Every year, more and more of them helpless city folks have been moving into town cuz rural is ‘quaint’ — looks cute in a magazine. But they ain’t got what it takes to actually live rural. Young men nowadays couldn’t lay up a cord of firewood if their lives depended on it — and soon enough, it just might! Young women nowadays couldn’t cook a whole chicken. Heck, they’d run from a chicken for fear of germs. They think that heating up something in a microwave is cooking!”
Martin glanced back. Susan was cringing with her head down. Most of the younger couples in middle and back had downcast faces or worried looks. While he imagined Pete was right enough about city people, he did not like seeing Susan’s feelings hurt.
Landers spoke up to fill the awkward silence. “Now Pete, you know I usually let people have their say, but I also expect them to stay on topic. I don’t want another one of your long rants about how things are going to hell in a hand basket, okay? Are you going to say something constructive about what’s going on now, or what?”
“Yessir, I am. What I was getting up to is this: You’ve got two basic problems. One, is how folks are going to get through this when there ain’t no stores to go buy stuff from. Two, is how you plan to handle all the helpless city folks, like that Dunan character, who will be coming out here looking for food and shelter. Back before all this, I’d hear city people say that if the Shinola ever hits the fan, they’ll head for the hills. Well, ladies and gentlemen, Cheshire is the hills.”
This caused a stir of murmurs and heads leaning together to whisper.
“What, Mr. Chairman sir, will the town do about that?” With a theatrically large nod as non-verbal punctuation, Pete sat down.
Chief Burgh stared into the distance with a furrowed brow. Martin could guess that he was wondering what his force of three men would do with an influx of helpless and hungry Dunan-types. Desperate people tend to be disorderly. His resources were just adequate when times were peaceful. An overcrowded shelter of citizens and refugees from the city with nowhere to go, would easily overwhelm his little police force. There would be no extra units to call in from neighboring towns either. They would likely be as overwhelmed as he was.
Candice looked pensive too. “Mr. Chairman,” she said with extra formality. “I propose that we establish an Aid Committee to gather up excess food and supplies and to distribute them to any needy people who find their way to Cheshire.” Her broad smile was on the compassion side of the line this time.
“I don’t got that much for myself,” said a voice from the right. “ Who decides what’s excess?” asked another. This touched off a wave of murmurs. “We barely have enough for our family,” said a third person. The murmurs grew louder.
“Now hold on,” said Wilder. “Before we go trying to figure out how to deal a hungry crowd that isn’t here…”
“Yet” interjected Pete.
“Yet,” conceded Wilder. “We need to deal with the people who already are here.”
“Oh. Oh, I see what you mean,” said Candice with a lilt in her voice. “You’re quite right. We have people in town right now who don’t have enough to eat or heat for their homes. The Aid Committee should collect excess supplies from the peop
le who have more than they need…(This last part uttered with scolding tone and a glare at Pete) and distribute them to our neediest citizens…”
“Now, don’t go putting words in my mouth, Candice!” said Wilder. “We are NOT going to go around taking away people’s stuff so we can give to other people.”
Candice’s enthusiastic smile quickly turned to a deeply-wrinkled frown. “You can’t just let people freeze in their homes and their children go hungry. It’s not fair that some people in town…” She glared at Pete again. “…have enough food to feed twenty families, while others have none. Are you going to just let the fat cats feast while the poor starve? We’ve got to do something.”
While Candice and the selectmen argued over the pros and cons of charitable confiscation, Martin’s mind latched onto a phrase Candice used: ‘more than they need.’ That was how Margaret described their jam supply. She said she was going to trade Jess for a can of tuna. What if lots of people in town had similarly lopsided pantries? Maybe someone out there had a freezer full of venison, but little in the way of carbs. Another man might have a lot of bread, but no jam to put on it.
Martin ignored his inner curmudgeon and raised his hand. Landers was eager for some other business than the ongoing debate, so gaveled Candice and Mike to silence and pointed to Martin.
“Um. What if people sold or traded their excess with each other? Somebody with a lot of meat, but not much bread, could trade with someone with lots of bread, etc. I’ll bet most people have excesses and shortages. People could even out their own supplies and be better situated for the long haul.” Martin sat down. His face felt hot. Why was he messing with vipers?
“Go on,” said Drew Haddock, the quieter Selectman.
“Well, what if we held something like a market day? People bring in their extra stuff? It could be like a flea market for food. People buy, sell, trade, whatever, with each other.”
“How about Monday?” Someone in the audience asked.
“And,” added Walter. “If you held your swap meet every Monday, you could use the gathering to update folks on issues, town business, etc. since there ain’t no phones or cable TV.”
Haddock asked, “Walter, think you could give us a radio news update on Monday?” Walter nodded eagerly. Martin thought he saw Sally look down and shake her head.
“This is a much more positive approach,” Landers said. “But what do all of you have to say? It’s your town. Is there any interest out there in having a market day? Can we see a show of hands?” Quite a few hands went up.
“Okay. Could I have someone make a motion? Mr. Simmons? It was your idea.”
Martin stood, trying to remember his Robert’s Rules of Order. “Um…I move that the town hold a public meeting here this…um, each…Monday to serve as an informational meeting and where people can buy, sell and trade goods.”
Walter seconded the motion. When the vote was called, the clear majority voted yea. Candice and a few of the younger couples voiced the few nays. From her furrowed frown, Martin guessed she preferred centrally managed redistribution to the chaos of self-management.
“Okay everyone. Let’s plan to meet back here on Monday, 10 o’clock. Tell your neighbors that did not make it here today. The more people we have bringing in things to trade, the more likely everyone will be able to find things they need. Thanks again for coming everyone. Meeting adjourned.”
On the walk home, Martin chatted about some of the extra items he might bring on Monday. After awhile, he noticed it was a one-way conversation. Susan stared at the ground as she walked.
“I’ve been talking to myself, apparently,” Martin said. “Something wrong?”
Her frown deepened. “I’m one of those helpless city people.”
“Don’t start with that burden talk again…” Martin replied.
“Well it’s true,” she interrupted. “I am one of them, but I don’t want to be.”
* * *
Chapter 3: The Pancakes of Damocles
After throwing the chickens some breakfast scratch, Martin set about harvesting the last of the pole beans and pulling up their poles. Most of the pods were dry enough to rattle as he dropped them in the basket hanging from the crook of his elbow. Doing chores before breakfast always sharpened his appetite.
When he set the basket inside the back door, the smell of something toasted almost set him to drooling. “Whatever that is sure smells good,” he said. “I’m going to take these poles down to the shed first. I’ll be back in a minute.”
As Martin neared the shed, he heard snapping and cracking behind the woodpiles. He quietly set down the poles and slowly pulled the revolver out of his coat pocket. He heard coyotes yipping before dawn, so approached cautiously.
Behind the last woodpile, Margaret was bent over a cardboard box. She was breaking small branches of windfall across her knee and putting them into a kindling box.
“It’s you? You’re not in the kitchen?” he said.
“No. I’m gathering more kindling for the Walkers. Lance’s test fire yesterday used up most of what I brought them, so I told them I’d get them another box of kindling and bring it over.”
“But, if you’re out here…” he pointed back up at the house.
“She insisted on making breakfast this morning. Said she wanted to pull her weight.”
“Oh. But, I don’t think she knows how to cook.”
“Pfft. Tell me about it. Couldn’t you have rescued someone a bit more capable?”
“I didn’t rescue anybody. She had no place to stay. We had a room. That’s all. It’s not a rescue!”
“That’s not how she sees it.”
“Oh never mind. It still wasn’t a rescue. But, you didn’t just set her loose in the kitchen did you?”
“No,” Margaret snorted. “And I’m not cleaning up after her, either. Whatever mess she makes, she’s cleaning up.”
“Of course, but then, what is she cooking?” Martin tried to identify the smell he caught from the back door, but could not.
“I showed her how to make pancakes.”
“That was pancakes?”
Margaret looked puzzled at his question. “It’s supposed to be. I have a few boxes of mix. Figured she couldn’t screw that up.”
“You have boxes of mix? When did that happen? You despise boxed mixes.”
“I do, but they were a gift from the Sunday School kids. They meant well. I couldn’t just throw them away, but had no idea what to do with them — until now. A box mix seemed safe enough for even her to try.”
Martin and Margaret stepped through the back door to see the table set: plates, forks, butter and syrup.
“Oh good,” said Susan brightly. “You’re just in time. Take off your things and have a seat. Breakfast is ready!” The last word had a singing tone to it.
They took off their coats and washed their hands in the kitchen sink. Margaret let out a little ‘hmm’ of surprise. The sink was not full of dirty bowls and spoons. Martin glanced around, half expecting to see a pile of dirty bowls in a corner. Other than one upside down mixing bowl, he saw nothing out of place. He had half expected a mess too.
After they took their seats, Susan set a platter of pancakes in the center of the table with a look of great accomplishment.
“Only six?” asked Margaret. “Those boxes make twelve to fifteen pancakes. Where are the rest?”
Susan’s look of pride fell away as she took her seat. “These are the good ones.”
“Oh.”
Martin quickly served up a pair of pancakes onto everyone’s plates to break the awkward silence. He drizzled some syrup, cut a wedge of pancake and was about to push it into his mouth when he noticed both Susan and Margaret were staring intently at him. He felt like a food royal taster. Was the king’s meal poisoned? He bit and chewed bravely.
“Well? What do you think?” Susan asked. Her face was a mix of enthusiasm and trepidation. Margaret was staring at him too. Her face had a hint of worry and trepidation. Both
watched him intently.
Good lord, Martin thought. Forget the Sword of Damocles. These are The Pancakes of Damocles.
He realized that if he said they were good, Susan would be happy, but Margaret would feel threatened. Being a good cook was one of her sources of pride. No rookie cook with a box of mix should instantly make great food.
If he said the pancakes were not good, Margaret would feel fine, but Susan would feel bad. He knew she wanted to prove she was not a helpless city person. Her efforts to learn skills needed encouragement.
What do I say? There’s no way to win this. He felt like a soldier who had stepped on a land mine that did not blow up. Was it a dud, or would it explode when he stepped off of it?
