He managed to get the car turned around and headed back to the house. “I should have known better than to start out on a night like this in my Mustang. Your Cavalier has front wheel drive and much better traction."
The change of vehicles and slow driving caused them to reach the intersection of Highway 13 and the Old Charlotte Road just five minutes before the meeting was scheduled to begin.
“Not a damn car in sight,” he said as he cautiously made the necessary left-hand turn. “I don't mind rescheduling the meeting, but I do dread worrying about it for another week."
“Damn,” Sandra exclaimed when the Cavalier headlights illuminated the church parking lot.
“There must be two hundred cars here,” he said in awe.
Chapter Eighteen
The sanctuary of the Dot Baptist Church was buzzing with dozens of group conversations when Tim and Sandra entered. They walked down the left aisle and Sandra slipped into the pew beside the Honneycutt sisters. Tim, removing his overcoat, proceeded to the platform and stood behind the pulpit. He adjusted the knot of his tie, removed his notes from the breast pocket of his suit jacket and spread them on the lectern. Finally, he allowed his eyes to rove over the assembled citizens of Dot and noted that Diane Sizemore had set up shop beside the communion table to take notes for the Courier.
The din did not diminish. Tim felt a knot growing in the pit of his stomach as he realized he did not know most of the people present and they didn't know him either.
“Folks,” he said in his friendliest tone of voice, “If you will take your seats we can get started.” Gradually a few of the people began to sit down. He realized that when everybody sat down, only standing room would remain. He waited for the quiet that he expected, but it did not come. He cleared his throat and began reading his prepared speech, although he knew few were listening to him.
“I want to thank all of you for coming tonight. Frankly, due to the bad weather, I thought we would have to reschedule the meeting. I have not yet had the privilege of becoming acquainted with most of you. My name is Tim Dollar. I recently inherited the estate of my uncle, Pete Harlow. We all have at least one thing in common. We are all interested in the future of this fine community."
“I ain't payin’ no more taxes!”
Tim searched for the source of the booming bass voice that finally quieted the crowd.
“I pay Federal and State Income Taxes, Social Security Taxes, Medicare Taxes, Property Taxes, Capital Gains Taxes, Sales Taxes to the state and Sales Taxes to the county, Gasoline Taxes and Lord knows what else. No more taxes!"
Tim found the speaker on the front row to his right. He was a giant of a man with snow-white hair and flashing blue eyes. His blue denim bib overalls did not seem quite large enough to cover his massive chest. The man punctuated his speech with the wooden cane in his hand. His ultimatum elicited from his friends a chorus of “Amens” and “tell it brother."
“Sir,” Tim meekly replied, abandoning his prepared speech, “What I hope we can accomplish tonight is to discover whether or not we want to make any changes in Dot."
“Same thing,” the man bellowed as he stood up using the cane for leverage. “If you change things you've gotta pay for ’em somehow. I been gowin’ ‘bacca since before I was knee high to a grasshopper. Ain't nothin’ wrong with Dot the way it is. You jest like Pete Harlow, always wantin’ to make changes so he could add to his bank account. I ain't gonna stand for it."
The murmurs of approval broke into applause, and Tim felt his ears flattening.
“Sir, I don't know you,” Tim said angrily. “More to the point, you don't know me. As I said, my name is Tim Dollar. I am not Pete Harlow."
The booming bass interrupted, “Name's Amos Stone, young fella. I stood up to Pete Harlow more'n once and I'll stand up to you too. I ain't payin’ no more taxes."
“Mr. Stone,” Tim continued coldly, aware that few, other than Stone, could hear him. “I called this meeting to find out what the people of Dot think about making changes here. You've made your position known. If it's all right with you I'd like to let some others express themselves."
“Go ahead on,” Stone replied starting to take his seat but abruptly adding a parting shot. “But I ain't payin’ no more taxes!"
The crowd erupted in laughter. Tim tried for several minutes to restore order without succeeding. People were shouting various comments in such frenzy that it was impossible to proceed with meaningful discussion. Tim propped his elbows on the lectern and rested his head in his hands. Sandra wanted to strangle everybody present.
Amos Stone, expressionless, stood and mounted the steps to the podium, dragging his left leg. His well oiled brogans made a curious thump-drag-thump-drag noise on the faded, badly worn crimson carpet. He nudged Tim aside without speaking to him, slammed his cane down on the lectern and shouted, “Hush up!” Instant silence blanketed the crowd.
“The man's right about one thing,” Stone said. “The weather out there's bad. Let's get this meetin’ over with before them roads gets any worse. Everybody that's satisfied with things the way they is, raise your hands."
As hands went up, a clear tenor voice from the back of the room could be heard saying, “Hold on a minute, Amos."
“What is it, Bart?"
“Miz Jenkins wants to say something."
“Well Miz Jenkins, I reckon if I don't shush everybody up you'll rap my knuckles with a ruler. I still remember how much that hurts."
Laughter filled the room. A frail little lady stood and began to speak, but soon there were shouts of, “Louder,” and “We can't hear."
“Some of you gents help Miz Jenkins on down here so we can all see her pretty face,” the big man urged.
When she at last stood behind the lectern, silence prevailed, as all wanted to hear. Amos and Tim sat in the large ornamental chairs on the platform.
“I have lived in Dot all of my life,” began Ida Jenkins. “As a child I primed tobacco like most of you did, tended the fires while the tobacco was being cured, and listened in awe to the auctioneer's chant as the tobacco was being sold. For over forty years I was a teacher at the Dot Elementary School.” Smiling, she turned towards Amos Stone. “It pains me to see how badly I failed to teach you proper English, Amos Stone."
Laughter again erupted as Stone dropped his head in mock repentance. Turning back to the audience, she continued, “It may be an apocryphal story, but I have heard that a salesman named our community. In trying to explain to his boss where he was going, he called us ‘just a dot on the map.’”
Although most in attendance had heard the story many times, they laughed politely. “I have seen many changes in Dot over the years. I watched our community grow. I used to play on the rafters when they were building the two tobacco warehouses. I watched a rabbit trail turn into Highway 13. I saw buildings built, businesses created, babies born and whole families moving to Dot. Then things turned around. The community began to shrink. The warehouses went out of business, as did other enterprises. The once grand hotel closed for lack of customers. Young people moved away in search of jobs. Sometimes whole families left us. Not many babies are born around here anymore. Those of us who are left are old. We started out as a dot on the map and we have returned to being a dot on the map."
She paused for affect. “If things continue the way they are, in twenty years or less, we won't even be a dot on the map. We will become a residential neighborhood of Charlotte. I don't want that to happen. Do you?"
She lowered her head and started towards the platform steps. Tim assisted her down the steps and others helped her return to her seat.
Amos Stone again stood at the pulpit. “Miz Jenkins, you've rapped my knuckles many times when I was a young ‘un, and I always deserved it. Maybe I deserve it this time too, but you tell me how we're gonna pay for changes without raising money through taxes."
The small voice from the back of the church responded. “Faith, hope and love, Amos. Faith, hope and love."
“Mr. Stone.” The voice came from Dave Blanchard, pharmacist and owner of the Dot Pharmacy. “I liked one of Mr. Dollar's suggestions in the Courier—streetlights. I have been thinking about keeping the Pharmacy open nights on weekends. Lights would help and they are a definite hindrance to vandalism and break-ins. I have no idea what Duke Power will charge, but I don't think it will be too much. The business owners would probably be glad to pay for the lights. If there are no objections, I'll be glad to look into it."
Before Stone could say anything, Dr. Honneycutt stood and said, “My biggest concern is medical care for our community. We desperately need a modern clinic."
“Well, build one,” a voice chimed in.
“It's not that simple. It is expensive and Tim, Mr. Dollar, says that it will never pay for itself as a business venture. It's going to take tax dollars to do it."
A crescendo of groans arose from those present, but the banker, Tom Anthony, turned the signs of disapproval into applause. “Dr. Honneycutt,” he said. “I will be glad to work with you on this project. There may be some county and federal tax dollars already available to us, and we may be able to combine another service, like convalescence care, to get it on a break-even basis."
“While you're at it,” Joe Sizemore said, “See if you can find us a good dentist. Charlotte's a long way to drive when you have a tooth ache."
“Mr. Stone, may I say something?” asked Tim.
Stone turned to Tim, a little embarrassed. “Here, Tim. This here's your meetin'.” He moved towards the steps.
“No,” Tim replied. “You're doing a great job."
“You're a college man,” Stone grinned as he carefully descended the steps. “Shucks. I'm just an ol’ country boy."
Laughter again erupted. Everyone but Tim and Sandra knew that Amos Stone was a very proud honor graduate of North Carolina State University.
Standing once more behind the lectern, Tim said, “My biggest concern is the area's economy. I know some of you still grow tobacco, but we all know that market is fading fast. We need to find other ways to make a living."
“You have any suggestions?” Tim did not see who asked the question.
“Not really,” he replied, “but I do have some thoughts. As close as Charlotte is to us, we should think of those people as potential customers. I have learned that a considerable amount of current business at the Lumberyard, Hardware Store and Discount House comes from Charlotte customers. I have been thinking of turning some of my land into a housing development for folks who work in Charlotte but prefer a rural setting for their homes."
Negative murmurs erupted again. A man Tim did not know spoke next. “I've thought of doing that too. Trouble is that once you've done it, it isn't your land anymore. I'd rather farm my land if I could find a crop I could make some money on."
“If I had all your land, know what I'd so?” asked another man Tim did not know. “I'd build a golf course.” Responding to the resulting laughter the man continued, “I know you clowns don't play golf, but Charlotte is full of golfers."
“Why don't we see if we can get the county bookmobile to make a weekly stop in Dot?” asked one lady who immediately agreed to look into it when asked.
Billy Frank shouted, “I think what we need here is a good pool hall and beer joint."
Possibly trying to save the family honor, Dottie Frank ended the laughter and crude comments by saying, “There's something I've thought frequently about, but I don't own any farmland."
“Go on, Mrs. Frank,” Tim urged.
“Well, you all know that the tomatoes we get out of California, Mexico and even Florida during the fall, winter and spring don't have much taste. I'll bet fancy restaurants in Charlotte would pay a pretty penny for homegrown vegetables during the off season."
“That sounds like a great idea,” Tim responded.
“You gonna give us the money to build them expensive greenhouses Tim?” Again, Tim could not locate the speaker.
“No,” he replied. “I know that Pete Harlow made some personal loans, but I am not going to do that. We have a bank in Dot that will make loans. If need be, I will cosign a note with you for worthwhile projects."
Even as he was speaking, Tim saw Amos Stone again standing up. Tim's pulse rate immediately increased.
“Down at State, they spend a lot of time and money developing new farm products and other business ideas. Maybe we ought to check them out."
“Any volunteers?” Tim asked.
“If Oscar Norman and Ruth Jernigan will help, I'll take that one,” said Amos Stone to an astonished Tim Dollar.
“Mr. Dollar,” called out a soprano voice.
Tim searched for the speaker and found her standing at the right rear of the room.
“Don't you own the old warehouse across from the church?"
“I don't know. Do I?"
Amid the laughter, Tim acknowledged that he was the owner.
“Is it being used for anything?"
“I really don't know. That's one thing I haven't taken the time to check on yet. I believe Silas Coan may have told me some of Uncle Pete's things are stored there. Do you have a use for it in mind?"
“Well, I've been thinking. Everybody loves a flea market, and consignment shops are all the rage now. If we advertise pretty good in Charlotte, that kind of business might do okay. At least it would get Charlotte people into Dot."
“I'm sorry, ma'am. I don't know your name."
“I'm Brenda Atwood. I'm one of the young ‘uns who didn't leave home"
“Brenda, may I put you down to look into this possibility?"
“Yes sir. I was thinking too, lots of folks around here make things—you know—crafts. This would give them a chance to earn a little extra money."
The crowd had their thinking caps on now, and ideas were flying like bursting popcorn kernels in a pan of hot butter.
“I'd like to see us get a good barber in town, and Tim, it looks to me like you could use one too."
Amid the laughter, a female voice rang out. “Don't leave us ladies out. If you're going to get a barber shop, we need a beauty parlor too."
The meeting continued until midnight. While some people slipped out, most remained to the end. Without much order or dignity, the end result was that individuals or small groups agreed to further investigate most of the items on Tim's original list plus at least a dozen new possibilities identified in the long meeting.
At the beginning, Amos Stone almost destroyed the effort but at the end, it was Amos Stone who added the final important touch. He joked that the town meeting was Tim's idea, but Tim had escaped without an assignment. Stone observed that the project needed a head honcho and declared that Tim should fill that role. As it began, the meeting ended with a chorus of “Amens". Without anything so formal as a vote the people bundled up and moved to the parking lot to scrape ice from their windshields.
“That was rough,” Tim commented to Sandra during the drive home.
“Yep, Dude. But we're on our way,” she replied, slipping her hand to the inside of his right thigh.
* * * *
As the freezing rain began to beat against his hospital window, Matt Dilson reread the letter he had laboriously written to his wife over a two-day period.
Dear Loretta,
Masterson has been trying to look after me. They appointed him to fill the remainder of my term of office. He brought to me the note you left behind. I don't blame you. I have really made a terrible mess of things.
I can't explain Cathy to you. I don't understand it myself. Please believe me when I say I love you. It's not that Cathy replaced you in my heart and life. She made a separate place for herself. I was, and still am, an old fool, for I mourn her death, even though she totally destroyed me with her false sexual harassment charges.
To say that I am sorry is a huge understatement. I don't expect you to forgive me. I doubt that I will ever forgive myself.
You may not know that I was involved in an automobile ac
cident. I got banged up pretty badly. I am writing from my hospital room at Charlotte Memorial. They say I will be here for several more weeks, and that I will probably never walk again.
If you think I wrote the above to play on your sympathy, you're right. I miss you and I need you so much.
Love,
He signed the letter and sealed it in the envelope he had already addressed.
* * * *
While Dot slept, the moisture-driving low pressure moving northeastward triumphed over the high pressure that had eased into the state from the north. Quite rapidly the cold air was pushed back into Virginia. The freezing rain turned to rain. Black ice turned to slush and then disappeared. Mary Beth Jackson had to pull into the Dot Super Save parking lot and remove her tire chains before completing the delivery of the Sunday Charlotte Observer.
As planned, Tim went to church leaving Sandra behind to prepare dinner for Mack McGee. During the singing of the invitation hymn, Mack and Tim slipped out of the building. Tom Anthony followed.
“Tim,” Tom said when he was sure he could not be heard from inside the building. “I had a hard time getting to sleep last night. I got excited during the town meeting. Anyway, I have an idea I want to pass on."
“I was pretty excited myself,” Tim agreed.
“Have you given any thought to what you are going to do with the old hotel building?"
“Not really. I know it is an eyesore."
“I have never been inside it myself. Pete boarded it up before I came to Dot six years ago. Anyway, if the building is structurally sound, I think I know how you can do the town a favor and make a buck at the same time."
“I'm listening."
“It's a five story building. I'll bet we could put Dr. Honneycutt's clinic and maybe a beauty salon and barbershop on the ground floor. The second floor could be used for offices and the top floors could be converted into efficiency apartments."
“That's wonderful,” Tim said without enthusiasm, “But who's going to rent these offices and apartments?"
Sintown Chronicles I: Behind Closed Doors Page 24
