“Why do we have to go, again?”
“Because I said I would keep an open mind.”
Kit snorted. She raised her eyebrows at me. “Does that mean you’ll consider his offer?”
“No.”
“Then let’s get out of here. There’s a rockabilly band playing over in Lyndonville. We could go dancing.”
Max slung an arm over Kit’s shoulder. “Town meeting—of course we have to go.” Max, who had grown up in Chicago, had never been to a town meeting before and was excited about the idea of doing something so small-town New England.
“I made a vow twenty years ago never to go to another town meeting.”
“Kit, you can’t still be mad about that.” I walked backward so I could explain. “Max, one of her photography exhibits was shut down by the town.”
“They were completely tasteful.”
“Kit, they were nudes.”
“The human body is nothing to be ashamed of!”
“Of your friends. Your fifteen-year-old friends. They were basically illegal.”
Max barked out a laugh so loud that the people walking in front of us turned around to make sure he was okay.
“Provincial, puritanical, dirty minded,” Kit muttered underneath her breath.
“Anyway, it would be rude to Elliot to just not show up. I told him we would listen to what the community has to say.”
“Since when did Mr. Danforth become Elliot?”
When had Mr. Danforth become Elliot in my mind?
“Elliot. Mr. Danforth. Big-box guy. Whatever. We go, and we hear the arguments against HG, we see how the town votes on the zoning laws.”
“And if the town is all for it, will you reconsider?”
We had almost reached the front of the building. There were over a dozen people, men and women, teenagers and grandparents, walking in a circle, holding up signs that said NO TO HG and KEEP GUTHRIE SMALL and DOWN WITH THE CORPORATE MAN. That last one was held by the president of the food co-op. A young girl handed us a flyer.
“This is super important. Be sure to tell HG that we don’t want their corporate blood money in our community,” she said with a slight lisp. It looked like she had just gotten her braces.
“Thanks, honey,” I said, saying hello to the protestors. They were all customers at the diner. I waved the flyer at Kit. “Sure, if the town is all for it, I’m in.”
* * *
Rows of gray folding chairs had been set up all the way to the back of the hall, and almost every chair was filled, including the ones up in the balcony. I pushed my way through the crowd, pausing to say hello to the folks I made eye contact with, patting the shoulders of some of the regulars. The room was hot and smelled like sweat and floor wax. I couldn’t get out of my jean jacket fast enough.
“Hey, Nora, over here.” Fern stood and waved at me from a row about halfway down.
“Kettle corn,” I mouthed, pointing toward the table where the Girl Scouts were set up. There was a long line.
Fern held up two fingers in response.
While waiting I watched Elliot Danforth chat with the town manager. His brow was glistening with sweat and his tie looked like it was choking him.
“Good turnout,” I said to Fern, handing her a baggie of kettle corn. I don’t know what the sash-wearing scouts of Troop 235 added to their popcorn other than sugar and salt, but it was addictive. If you listened closely, you could hear the steady crunching underneath the din of conversation. It was one of the main reasons most of the town showed up for town meetings.
“That poor man,” Fern said, pointing at Elliot. “He doesn’t stand a chance.” She craned her neck. “Where’s your sister and the hunky philosopher?”
“Someplace close to an exit, I’m guessing.”
The town manager, Ed Dascomb, climbed the few steps up to the stage. He tapped the mic to get everyone’s attention. “Is this thing on?”
The microphone popped to life. The sounds of conversation subsided into the low muffle of whispered gossip.
“Yes. Well, then. I never thought this many people would have an opinion about the Mrs. Coventry County pageant.”
The crowd rumbled with appreciative laughter, all except Rebecca Goodwin, the head librarian and force behind the movement to abolish the pageant, who looked at the town manager as if he were eating a pile of spareribs over an overdue library book.
“Since there are a lot more of you than usual, let me go over the rules of the town meeting before we get started. Now, we here in Guthrie follow Robert’s Rules of Order. We will only be discussing the warned articles. If you have an issue with your neighbor—yes, I’m looking at you, Ben Smith—then you need to go through the proper channels and get it on the agenda for the next meeting. Once the discussion has been opened, come up to the mic in the center aisle and ask your questions. Once we have voted on a motion we won’t discuss the matter further. If things don’t go your way, you need to go through the official appeal channels. See Mrs. Fairbanks at the end of the meeting to pick up the paperwork. Agreed?” The town manager cast his eye over the crowd, giving a few warning looks to members of the audience. “Remember, folks—listen carefully, be courteous, respect your neighbor.” He glanced over at Elliot. “And keep your sense of humor. All right, without further ado, let’s bring up tonight’s moderator, the newest member of the town council, Sean LaPlante.”
Sean walked up onstage. He looked sharper than he ever did when we were married. For one thing, he was wearing a new suit, not the one he wore to our wedding and every funeral since. His hair and beard were trimmed, and he was wearing new hipster glasses. I craned my head to look up the aisle to the front row. There was Sean’s girlfriend. She was wearing leather pants. She probably didn’t even sweat in them.
“Thanks, Mr. Dascomb. Okay, folks. The meeting will come to order. Just one more thing before we get started—you there, in the back. Please, for everyone’s privacy, no filming allowed. We don’t need town business put up on YouTube.”
“Sorry, Sean,” Kit said, flipping closed the camera. “Hi, brother!”
Sean held his hands to his eyes. “Is that you, Kit? I heard you were back in town.”
The town manager coughed loudly from his seat on the stage.
Sean cleared his throat. “I’m sure everyone in town is happy to welcome Kit Huckleberry back”—a polite smattering of applause rose up from the crowd—“but let’s get to business. Mrs. Goodwin, you have the floor.”
Rebecca Goodwin smoothed her sundress as she approached the mic. “Thank you, Mr. Moderator.”
Sean looked puffed up. I caught him smiling down at the intern. I looked at Fern and rolled my eyes. She handed me a plastic bottle with the Guthrie Flying Squirrels logo and I twisted off the cap. By the citrusy, boozy smell I guessed it was filled up with a couple of Fern’s famous margaritas. I took a swig and handed it back.
“I’ll keep this short, since I know most of you are here to discuss the Johnson farm. The Mrs. Coventry County pageant is outdated and sexist. It objectifies women. And it discriminates against women who aren’t married, and women who aren’t heterosexual. I move to get rid of the pageant and replace it with something that would be more inspiring to the younger generation of Guthrie women.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Goodwin,” said Sean. “Does anyone have any questions?”
Melissa, who ran the apple pie contest at the fair, was first in line. “Mrs. Coventry County carries many responsibilities over the course of the year of her reign, including serving as hostess during the fair and awarding the ribbons for all the contests. Who do you see stepping in to perform these roles?”
Rebecca shrugged. “I’m sure we could find some volunteers to greet fairgoers and hand out ribbons. I mean, you’re a volunteer, aren’t you, Melissa?”
Melissa gave Rebecca a chilly look but returned to her seat
.
Jane White, a former Mrs. Coventry County, cleared her thoat before speaking. “Yes, Mrs. Goodwin. Isn’t it true”—Jane slowly pulled a piece of folded paper from the pocket of her seersucker skirt—“that the Mrs. Coventry County contestants are limited to married women over eighteen living with their husbands in Coventry County, and are judged”—Jane put on the reading glasses that were hanging by a chain around her neck— “and I quote, ‘on general appearance, poise, outgoing personality, and spirit of volunteerism’?”
Rebecca looked up at the ceiling. “Yes, and a baked good.”
“Would you consider an outgoing personality and a spirit of volunteerism a bad influence on the impressionable young female minds of Guthrie?”
Rebecca took off her reading glasses. “Look, everyone knows it’s both a popularity contest and a beauty contest. It’s archaic.”
Sean stepped carefully toward Rebecca. “Any more questions, folks? No?” Sean scanned the room. I knew he just wanted to linger in the moment. He loved this kind of attention. “All right, let’s take a vote. Those in favor of putting an end to the Mrs. Coventry County pageant, say aye.”
“Aye,” Fern and I said in unison. I heard Kit’s voice in the back of the room, and Max’s as well, even though technically they didn’t have the right to vote.
“Those opposed, say nay.”
“Nay,” said most of the room. Like I had told Elliot, Guthrie wasn’t a town that loved change. From the look on Elliot Danforth’s face, I guessed he was experiencing that firsthand.
“Well, that wasn’t a surprise,” Fern said, taking another long sip from her water bottle.
“Motion denied. The Mrs. Coventry County pageant will continue. Thank you for participating in our democracy, Rebecca. We appreciate your civic engagement.” Many of the townspeople clapped in a friendly way as Rebecca climbed down the stairs. Rebecca was well loved in the town. She was a generous waiver of overdue library fees and kept the DVD shelf stocked with the latest movies.
Sean held a piece of paper in his hand and moved it closer, then farther away, searching for the distance at which he could read it. I wondered if he avoided getting bifocals because he didn’t want to remind the intern that he was eighteen years her senior. “Now, we won’t be voting on article two. Tonight is an opportunity for HG spokesman Elliot Danforth to make a presentation, and for us to ask questions, of which I am sure there are many. Come on up here, Mr. Danforth.”
A low murmur rose up from the crowd. I felt a little bad for Elliot, having to try to convince a group of people who wrote formal letters of complaint when I took silver-dollar pancakes off the menu that this wouldn’t change the character of the whole town.
Elliot buttoned his suit jacket as he walked up the steps. He smiled at Sean and took the mic out of the stand. “Thanks, Mr. Moderator. And thank you all for attending this meeting. I’m impressed with Guthrie’s level of commitment. As some of you already know, I work for the HG Corporation. Tonight I hope to share with you HG’s vision, clear up any misconceptions about HG’s impact on a town like Guthrie, and answer any questions you may have.”
Up there on the stage, mic in hand, Elliot Danforth looked natural. It was the most comfortable I had seen him. I wondered if I would look odd outside of Guthrie. I wondered how Kit seemed to fit everywhere she went.
“HG helps people around the world save money and live better anytime and anywhere—in retail stores, online, and through their mobile devices. Each week, more than two hundred million customers and members visit our more than ten thousand stores in twenty-five countries and our e-commerce sites in ten countries. With fiscal year 2015 sales of approximately $460 billion, HG employs more than two million associates worldwide. HG continues to be a leader in sustainability, corporate philanthropy, and employment opportunity.”
Elliot walked across the stage in long, confident strides as he talked. It was like watching a motivational speaker on PBS.
“From a consumer standpoint, HG has more choices, and choices that are close to home so you don’t have to drive far. We offer lower prices on brand-name products that you love, as well as our own line of products at competitive prices.”
This speech was lighting him up from within. “A typical HG store creates three hundred new jobs in the community. Good jobs with career opportunities. Many of the store managers started out as hourly associates and worked their way up. And we offer medical, dental, and 401(k) plans to our full-time employees.”
“Of which there are two per store,” Fern said into my ear. “They’re famous for hiring mostly part-timers.”
“Of course, there is the direct impact of sales tax revenue and purchases from local suppliers,” he said. “Tax revenues that will go toward better roads, better schools, better services for the elderly and those who need a helping hand.”
Fern leaned back in her chair. “That man could sell a slaughterhouse to a vegetarian.”
“Right?” I said. He wasn’t just charismatic. He was on fire. He could be a cult leader. He made it seem like all of Guthrie’s problems could be solved with the opening of this single store on Peggy Johnson’s cow pasture. Only Guthrie didn’t really have any problems, did it? Sure, unemployment went up after Sean’s family furniture business shut down, but everyone in town tried to pitch in and offer some work to those who were laid off. I hired two of the young sanders to work the dishwasher on the weekends. I looked at the crowd. A few of the people were leaning forward, listening. Could he actually change their minds?
“At the store level, a store manager has a budget and the ability to make small donations to Little League teams and neighborhood groups,” Elliot said, gesturing with his hands at the group of Girl Scouts gathered behind the kettle corn table and smiling at the troop’s leaders.
“He just got the mom vote,” Fern laughed. “I’m glad I don’t have to deal with him. He could convince me to sell my farm and I don’t even have one.”
“Thanks, Fern,” I mumbled, shoving a handful of kettle corn into my mouth, suddenly grateful that Elliot hadn’t come on this strong in his pitch to Kit and me.
Sean walked across the stage, placed a hand on Elliot’s shoulder, and took the mic from his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Danforth. Why don’t we pause to hear from the community? Looks like we have a good amount of questions already. Let’s get right to it.”
I turned around in my seat. The questions and comments line stretched the length of the room, then snaked around the back. I caught Kit’s eyes for a moment. She looked like she was burning from within. This was not going to be a short meeting.
“Mr. Grant, you have the floor.” Sean placed the microphone back in the stand and walked off the stage.
Burt Grant had swapped his usual blue work shirt and painter’s pants for a pair of dress slacks and a shirt and tie. He looked miserable. I peeked over at Fern. She and Burt had gone on a couple of dates.
“Mr. Danforth, I’m a small-business owner here in Guthrie. My family has run the Guthrie Hammer and Nail since World War Two. Isn’t it true that a store like HG wipes out small businesses and guts downtowns?”
So we weren’t going to waste time. Elliot looked as if he had been asked about his favorite baseball team, or how he felt about mac and cheese. He smiled and nodded his head as if to say I hear you.
“Consumers from Guthrie and neighboring towns will gain tremendous benefits from access to an HG store,” he said. “HG boasts average prices that are fifteen percent lower than those of our competitors.” He scanned the crowd, taking its temperature. “That does mean competition for businesses whose focus overlaps that of HG.”
“And those would be?” Burt asked, his voice tense.
“Drugstores, florists, and stores specializing in apparel, sporting goods, jewelry, cards, and gifts.”
“And hardware stores.”
“HG does carry a large selection
of tools and building and repair supplies, as well as items for the lawn and garden.” Elliot had enough common sense to look sheepish when he added, “We advise small businesses to grow in sectors that HG doesn’t cover.”
“Like what?” Burt asked, unable to mask the anger in his voice. A low murmur rose from the crowd. “You sell clothing. You sell televisions. Hell, you even sell groceries.”
“In some stores,” Elliot said.
“Are you planning on selling groceries in the Guthrie store?”
Elliot’s face had lost the quality that made him an individual human. It was like he had become a branch of HG himself. “Considering the population density to market availability I would say yes, if we are given the proper permits.”
Burt Grant turned away from the microphone, disgusted. He gave me a stern look as he marched down the aisle of the hall. The big wooden door to the outside creaked open and shut.
Sean gave Elliot a level look. “Marshall Brown, you have the floor.”
Traffic patterns were discussed. Questions were raised about whether adding an HG would affect homeowners’ and farmers’ property values, and whether that would mean they would have to pay more taxes. Someone from the White family asked about crime rates of the towns that HG had moved into, adding that they didn’t want to attract an “unsavory element” to Guthrie, which made Fern and me giggle into our shirtsleeves, because Jane White had once said that the diner attracted an unsavory element to the town. We had joked that Jane would probably ask the same question if an order of Franciscan monks came to the town meeting to inquire about building a church. There were some questions asked that were decidedly pro-HG, and Elliot’s cheerful demeanor was restored as he described how many local tradesmen would be hired for the interior and exterior build-out, the current price they were offering for lumber, and the corporation’s commitment to sourcing products from local companies whenever possible.
Sean cleared his throat and took off his reading glasses. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said as he squinted down at the person at the front of the question line. “I don’t think I know your name.”
The Late Bloomers' Club Page 10
