"Maybe we should all take turns falling out a window," Jerry said. "It seems to have pepped you up."
"I'm just sick of sleepwalking through life. Can you take this tray up off me?"
"Of course."
I got up and out of the bed. Everything felt wobbly, but I stayed on my feet. Sun streamed through the windows. It felt like a new day.
"Also, ask Loren to get Brother Jobe to the board meeting tonight. That new bunch has to be in on this."
"All right," Jerry said.
"Tell them eight o'clock at the old town hall, upstairs."
The top floor of our three-story town hall, an 1879 Romanesque red sandstone heap, was the old council chamber that had also served for generations as the community theater and civic ballroom. It had a proscenium stage at one end. The seats were not fixed, so they could be arranged for official meetings, shows, dances, banquets, what have you. In the 1950s, they held boxing matches up there. The high coffered ceiling was partitioned into twelve octagons that had been painted long ago to depict the signs of the zodiac. They were so faded and flaked you could barely make out which sign was which.
Back of the stage, a painted flat from the last community theatrical production remained in place: the musical Guys and Dolls. It showed a Times Square scene of the mid-twentieth century. It was startling to be reminded that people had lived in a world of skyscraper apartments, night clubs, neon lights, and taxicabs. I remembered the excitement the week the show ran. We so looked forward to coming here and putting it on each night, no matter how hard we'd worked during the day or how frightened we were about what was happening around the country. Sandy played Sarah Brown, the Salvation Army girl, sweetheart of gambler Sky Masterson (Larry Prager). Loren was Nathan Detroit. Linda Allison was Adelaide. I played violin in the orchestra, of course. My Daniel was in the chorus of Nathan's gambler chums, with a painted-on mustache. We lit the stage with footlights fashioned out of candles and tin cans dug up from the general supply, and it all looked perfectly enchanting. You didn't need a thousand watts to put a show on. The people came from all around the county night after night to see it. Many came more than once. The chil dren seemed baffled about the world that the play depicted. Since the flu hit, we hadn't put on any more plays.
This evening the old wooden folding chairs were arranged in a few concentric circles with twelve at the center reserved for us trustees. I had slept most of the afternoon and felt nearly normal again, mentally. My shoulder hurt, but I had full rotation. The sun still lit the big arched windows when the trustees straggled in at eight. In late June, twilight would last until nine thirty. It was warm up there in the top floor of the old building and the big room smelled faintly of bats.
Before the meeting got underway, the trustees and some observers stood around in knots. They all stopped gabbing when I came in. Many acknowledged me with a nod, I supposed because of what happened at the fire. But then I realized it was because I was the one who'd called the meeting, and they were looking to me to explain why. The trustees were Ben Deaver, Ned Larmon, and Todd Zucker, all farmers; Cody DeLong, who still pretended to be a banker at the Battenkill Trust but barely survived off the big garden in the back of his house; Jason LaBountie, the veterinarian; shopkeeper Terry Einhorn; Rod Sauer, the mason; Victor Gasparry, the tinsmith; Loren, Andy Pendergast, and Dale Murray, the mayor. All the trustees were men, no women and no plain laborers. As the world changed, we reverted to social divisions that we'd thought were obsolete. The egalitarian pretenses of the highoctane decades had dissolved and nobody even debated it anymore, including the women of our town. A plain majority of the townspeople were laborers now, whatever in life they had been before. Nobody called them peasants, but in effect that's what they'd become. That's just the way things were. Shawn Watling, rest his soul, had called it clearly.
Jane Ann was among the few women there. She and Loren had an understanding that she always stood by him in public, whatever went on in private life. She explained to me more than once when we were together, as if she needed to explain it to herself. The idea was to reassure those whose families had been blown apart by catastrophe that the minister and the minister's wife remained a continuing presence for them, like a father and mother in the greater household of the town, and that therefore some kind of benign order still prevailed in our little corner of the universe. Jane Ann cast a haunted gaze at me when I came in, and I realized that we'd failed to get together that week.
Loren bustled over to me with Andy Pendergast. I'd taken that awkward head bandage off at home and they admired the stitches that Jerry had left in my scalp.
"Where'd you learn how to leap out of a burning house like that?" Andy said. "You looked like one of those old Hollywood stunt men."
"Self-preservation is a great motivator," I said.
"We're all proud of what you did," Loren said.
"It could have been anyone," I said.
"I don't know about that," he said.
"Well, you're our hero," Andy said, "so, hey, when are we all going to get together?" I knew what he meant by that. It was his code for prompting our music circle to meet. It had become his job to get the rest of us to make it to practice, especially this time of year when there was so much else to do.
"I'm not sure if I can play," I said, showing my bandaged hand.
"Well, you better heal up. It's important to keep things going, especially the way things are now."
I supposed that he meant Shawn Watling getting killed.
"It does keep the morale up around here," Loren said.
"It's more than that," Andy said. "It's light in the darkness. And I wonder if I'm alone thinking there's ever more darkness around us."
"You're not alone," I said.
"Uh-oh," Loren said.
Just then Dale Murray sauntered over, as though he still had the liveliest law practice in Washington County. He was actually wearing a necktie-the only one in the room. It was red silk foulard patterned with golden crests of some long lost fraternity or civic organization, and had a dark stain on it. His shirt collar was all nubbly too. His face had that flushed look, so I assumed he'd been drinking.
"Evening, gentlemen," Dale said. You could smell the liquor now, poorly made corn whiskey with a lot of fusel oil in it. "What's this all about, Robert?"
"It's about running the town's affairs."
"Anything about them in particular?"
"I have a whole list of particulars."
"Any you'd care to share before things get underway?"
"No."
He flinched theatrically, the way a drunk will, as though to register an insult when he can't quite put the words together. The fact that he was a genuine clown made it seem less comic.
"Should I take that as unfriendliness?" he said.
"Since when were you and me friends, Dale?"
"I'm everybody's friend."
"And I expect you'll stay that way," Loren said.
Brother Jobe suddenly emerged at the top of the stairs with two cohorts, Brother Elam and Brother Seth, who might have been defensive backs in the National Football League. Next to those two, with his hat on, Brother Jobe looked like a cookie jar. All eyes in the room went to them.
"There's your next mayor, if you ask me," Dale said.
"You're a little off on that," I said.
"See if you can stop him."
"Evenin' all," Brother Jobe said, doffing his hat with a flourish.
Some of the others mumbled "good evening" back.
Brother Jobe came directly over to us.
"What's up, old son?" he said.
"You're going to commence your civic duties tonight," I said.
"That a fact?" he said with something like genuine glee and he turned to Dale. "Howdy-do there, Mayor?"
"I was just telling Robert here, I expect you'll be mayor yourself here before too long," Dale said.
"Oh Lordy," Brother Jobe said. "I don't know that I can fill your shoes."
"A fellow like you could d
o this job barefoot," Dale said.
"Maybe so," Brother Jobe said. "I hear you've been doing a fair amount of it in your sleep."
Brother Jobe cracked up at his own joke. That got Loren and Andy cackling. Dale Murray seemed to grasp that the jokes would continue at his expense, so he cut his losses and called the meeting to order.
Naturally enough, the first order of business was a call for an account of how the New Faith Brotherhood happened to buy the high school, and how it was paid for exactly, and that was when Dale Murray disclosed that Brother Jobe had signed a contract to buy the school on a ten-year option term at five thousand dollars per year on an eventual purchase price of five million dollars.
"What become of the first five thousand?" Victor Gasparry asked.
"We've, uh, received that in the form of a note," Dale said.
"In other words, they didn't pay nothing."
"Since when does anybody pay cash for real estate around here?"
"And what the hell is that five million going to be worth in ten years?" Ned Larmon said. "Why five thousand bucks'll barely buy a wagon wheel now."
"Fiat currency: that's what did us in," Rod Sauer said.
"I don't believe there's going to be any U.S. dollar in ten years, way things are going," Jason LaBountie said. "I do almost all barter these days, myself. Unless someone has hard silver."
"Then how come we don't get some kind of barter agreement out of these people over at the school?" Cody DeLong said. "Payment of some kind in lieu of cash."
"Funny, coming from a would-be banker," Dale said. "I thought you liked money, Cody."
"Money's important, all right." Cody said. "You don't have civilization without it. But these aren't normal times."
"Make-believe money," Ned Larmon said. "Phooey."
"There's more than one way to do a deal," Terry Einhorn said.
"The contract is signed," Dale said.
"Maybe this council can vote to nullify it," Jason LaBountie said.
"You can't nullify a duly signed contract like that," Dale said.
"Why the hell not?"
"Because I'm an attorney, and I'm telling you the law doesn't allow it," Dale said.
"Maybe that law don't apply no more," Victor said.
"I'd like to know what the hell value that school has standing around empty, nobody using it, with the roof leaking?" Dale said.
"As I understand it," Andy Pendergast said, "the disposal of any significant town asset requires a vote of the trustees. That's what we did when we sold the snowplow garage to Bill Schroeder for his creamery operation."
"Look at it this way," Dale said. "These newcomers are an asset to the town, and the school wasn't anything but a liability. So it's a win-win for the community."
"I hate that goddamn phrase, win-win," Ben Deaver said. Long ago, before he farmed, he had been a United Air Lines executive. He didn't say much at meetings, but when he did, it was usually pungent.
"That building was nothing but a damn safety hazard," Dale said.
"How in the hell was it a safety hazard?" Todd Zucker said.
"Children were playing in there. Messing around."
"Hell, it used to be a school. Wasn't a safety hazard then."
"Messing around a place without supervision is something else. They could hurt themselves," Dale said. "Lock themself in the walk-in refrigerator."
"Now you're talking like a lawyer," Victor said.
"I am one," Dale said.
"Too bad there's no law anymore."
"Of course there is."
"It's all pretend," Ned Larmon said. "Where are the courts, then?"
"They'll reconvene by and by," Dale said. "When things settle down."
"Things are about as settled as they're going to get," Todd Zucker said, and several of the men laughed ruefully because they knew exactly what he meant.
"I didn't see any courts convene in the case of that Watling boy," Cody said.
"We'll get to that separately," I said. "Let's go back to this school deal. Maybe we can work something out. Maybe it's a good thing no cash was involved. There was nothing to get mislaid-"
"Are you insinuating"
"Oh, shut up now, Dale," Loren said.
"You all talk about how there's no law, and you don't even observe the order of the council chamber."
We went around in that vein for quite a while. But finally we gave up gibing each other and I proposed a solution: the New Faithers would work in lieu of payment, and that work would consist of civic improvement projects, starting with repair to the town water system so the next time a house caught fire we might have a chance to put it out. I further proposed that Brother Jobe be appointed to the vacant post of public works director at a salary of one dollar a year. The trustees voted him into the job unanimously with Dale Murray abstaining.
Brother Jobe said he would accept the post and the financial arrangement and he would begin making an assessment of the water system and the town reservoir right away.
Dale Murray, as mayor and chair of the board of trustees then moved to adjourn the meeting.
"We're not done," I said. "I told you I had a list of particulars."
"All right, all right," Dale said. "Don't get all touchy."
We turned to the matter of Shawn Watling and the fact that nobody was doing anything about it. Stephen Bullock, the elected magistrate, hadn't commenced an inquest. Heath Rucker hadn't started even the most elementary investigation-I knew that for a fact because I was the only person at the scene besides Wayne Karp's bunch, including Bunny Willman, and Heath had not even spoken to me about it. So I made a motion to begin by replacing the constaLle, Heath Rucker. The other trustees glanced around at each other, and that's when it occurred to me that nobody else wanted the job, I suppose because nobody wanted to go up against Wayne, when it came down to it.
"I move formally to remove Rucker," I said. "Second?"
Andy Pendergast seconded.
"Mr. Rucker's not here to defend himself," Dale Murray said.
"He isn't charged with anything," I said. "We're just firing him."
"And anyway, why isn't he here?" Terry Einhorn said. "He's required to be present at town board meetings, if I remember the charter right."
"Probably off drunk somewhere," Cody DeLong said.
"So, who's going to replace him then?" Dale said. "Any nominations?"
"Is that a move to call for nominations?" Ned Larmon said.
"Yes it is."
"Then say it," Dale said.
"Okay, I make a motion for nominations to the post of town constable," Cody said.
There was no rush to nominate anyone. You could hear birds twittering their evening songs outside the open windows.
"You can nominate yourselves," I said. "If anyone wants to volunteer."
More birds singing. A horsefly buzzed across the circle of chairs. Someone coughed.
"I'll nominate you, Robert," Todd Zucker said finally.
"I decline because of where I stand in the Watling case."
"All right," Jason LaBountie said, "then I nominate you for mayor.
That brought everybody up short, and a silence followed wide enough to drive a team of oxen through.
"That post is occupied," Dale said eventually.
"We can vote you out, just like that good-for-nothing constable," Jason said.
"There's a different motion on the table."
"Well, I move we suspend that motion and move on with my motion," Jason said. "Anyone second?"
"I second," Victor Gasparry said.
"I don't know that you're in order on that," Dale said.
"I don't give a damn," Jason said. "Discussion?"
"Let's vote him the hell out," Rod Sauer said.
"Look at what's become of our town under him," Cody DeLong said.
"Point of order," Dale said. "You are not following proper procedure here. Didn't any of you bring the Robert's Rules?"
"If proper procedure means so
much to you, why didn't you bring the damn Robert's Rules?" Jason said.
"We've never had these disputes at town board," Dale said.
"Maybe we should have," Ned Larmon said.
"I call a vote on the motion to get rid of Mayor Dale Murray," Todd Zucker said, "and replace him with Robert Earle."
"Wait a minute," I said. "How come nobody asked me if I want the job?"
"Sometimes duty just calls, son," Brother Jobe said from the outer circle of the few nonvoting observers. He was grinning.
"You're out of order, sir," Dale Murray said.
"Those in favor of the motion to give Dale the boot and put Robert in, raise your hands," Jason said.
"You can't call the vote," Dale said. "That's the chair's job."
All the trustees except Dale raised their hands.
"The motion is carried," Jason said. "You're out, Dale. Robert's the mayor now."
"And the chair of this board," Rod Sauer said.
"Congratulations, son," Brother Jobe said, and everybody in the room except Dale Murray clapped their hands briefly. Terry Einhorn actually got up, walked across the circle, and made to shake my hand-the one that wasn't bandaged up. I was flustered by this recognition from my peers, of course. But I also realized that somebody had to be responsible for things in town after years of apathy and paralysis, and that I was ready to try. I figured if I managed to accomplish the least thing it would be an improvement over the current situation.
"I guess you can always vote me out if you're dissatisfied," I said.
"You're damn straight we can," Ben Deaver said.
"All right, then, let's get back to the business of this meeting," I said. Meanwhile, Dale Murray made a big show of shoving his chair into the center of the circle and stalking out of the hall.
"Go easy on the corn liquor," Ned Larmon said, as Dale clomped across the big room to the exit.
And that was how the gavel passed to me, except there wasn't any gavel. By God, I thought, I could make one, though.
We went on with the meeting. Loren was nominated for the post of constable and the board elected him. I was surprised that he agreed to serve, considering all the rest of his duties around the community. We couldn't agree what to do about the Shawn Watling case. Victor Gasparry wanted to convene a special court and haul Bunny Willman in-Andy Pendergast called it "a kangaroo court"-but anyway that meant going up to the trailer park, Karptown, and placing Willman under arrest, and that posed additional problems.
World Made by Hand: A Novel Page 10
