“And that you need to steer clear of your family?” Hattie pours. “That they’re gaps?”
“Yes.”
Hattie pours a bit more.
“So did she stay a Christian?” asks Sophy.
“My mother?”
Sophy moves Annie’s head up and down.
“She did.” Hattie places the mugs on the table, sits, then thinks ice—it’s warm out, after all—and stands again.
“Did she believe in God and pray?”
“She did.”
Hattie puts the ice in a bowl; it shines invitingly. Still, Hattie is surprised that Sophy immediately accepts some. Maybe her parents drank iced coffee in Cambodia? Or is her acquaintance through Dunkin’ Donuts? Who knows where she’s learned what she’s learned.
“Did she believe in Satan, and in heaven and hell, and in the second coming?” Sophy goes on.
“She believed in them as allegories. Do you know what that means?” Hattie sits.
“It means she didn’t really believe.”
“She did, Sophy.” Hattie’s voice rises like a gym teacher’s, more emphatic than she would have anticipated. “She did believe. She was a good woman. God-fearing.”
“Did she make you pray?”
“No. She believed it was our choice.” Hattie’s own ice cracks loudly.
“And if you made the wrong choice?”
“She believed in universal salvation. Do you know what that means?”
“It means she didn’t believe in salvation by faith through grace.”
How hard Ginny’s been working! A certified teacher, who never could find herself a job, people say. But now here she was, it seems, teaching with a vengeance.
“She did believe in salvation by faith through grace,” Hattie says. “She just didn’t believe that that was the only path to salvation. She believed God’s pardoning love extended to everyone.”
“What about ‘I am the way and the life’?”
“You mean John 14:6. ‘I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by Me’?”
Sophy nods.
“I don’t know, but I am going to guess that she would argue that ‘by Me’ God doesn’t mean by way of Christian faith, but by way of Christ’s sacrifice—that it is as a result of his sacrifice that everyone ‘cometh unto the Father.’ ”
Sophy is quiet.
“You know, churches are smart,” Hattie goes on. “They know their parishioners. A good pastor listens carefully, and then works hard at giving his flock what it needs. And don’t you find that? That the church gives you something you need?”
Sophy nods.
“They understand you and serve you. Include you. But let me ask you. Do you actually believe in God, or do you just like the church?”
Sophy waggles her head. “I try to believe.”
“What about karma and reincarnation? Do you believe in any of that Buddhist stuff anymore?”
“Sort of. Reincarnation for sure. And grace is kind of like good karma.”
“Except that one you earn and the other is a gift from God.”
“I guess.” Sophy hugs herself, crossing her arms under her breasts.
Has Hattie pushed too hard? She drinks a little.
“Oh, but I forgot.”
Hattie gone batty!
“Do you still want to pray? Because I’ll pray with you. It’s okay. We can say grace.”
But Sophy does not want to pray anymore. Neither does she want a cookie when Hattie pushes the plate toward her.
“ ‘Daniel purposed in his heart that he would not defile himself with the portion of the king’s meat, nor with the wine which he drank,’ ” Hattie recites softly.
Sophy uncurls.
“I’m not a gap in your wall,” says Hattie. “Do you remember how Daniel kept his window open? Keeping his own faith? I’m just keeping my window open, like Daniel.”
Sophy has her silver flip-flops on. “God has a plan for me,” she says. “I believe that.”
“Is that what Ginny told you?”
Sophy heads straight to the slider. Her flip-flops make no noise as they hit the floor but they do
smack smack smack
as they hit her feet. She leaves the screen door half open behind her.
F
irst the cell tower and now Value-Mart! A Value-Mart rep’s been invited to a select board meeting, but it is not clear what for; the town has no leverage over their project. Still, on Value-Mart Day, as they call it, people jam Town Hall. The floor fans roar as if with the outrage of the people in front of them; the people themselves, though, sit stony and stunned.
“All the zoning ordinance says is that ‘any prospective enterprise must be adjacent to and contiguous with existing town businesses,’ ” says Greta, grim. “It says nothing about the size of the enterprise or its nature.”
Her mouth is tight, as is Hattie’s; four or five rows behind them, Carter, too, Hattie can’t help but notice, is all but lipless. Who can believe Value-Mart could have gotten this far? When there’d been so much controversy over even an inn that it had had to close its doors? And who would have dreamed that the inn’s owner would go offering the thing to Value-Mart, much less that Value-Mart would want it?
But open a new exit off the interstate, and what do you know—the world’s rolling in. Everyone’s seen the renderings: a concrete box taking up an entire acre, it seems, and many more acres paved over for parking. Hattie pictures the cars in their spaces—a very different lineup from the one before her now: so many concerned citizens, sitting, in the heat and humidity, with their thighs V’ed—their legs making for a kind of zigzag if you look down a row at lap level. Everyone is sweating, Hattie included; she cools her fingers on the metal struts of her chair.
Road Budget. A review of the town library hours. Discussion of a proposed new stop sign at the corner of Cat and Dog Streets. As Jim Wright’s left town, Judge Lukens is subbing in until they can name a replacement chair; he moves through the agenda with dispatch, his reading glasses a small glinty interruption of his large, focused face.
“Next—Introduction of Value-Mart,” he says.
The Value-Mart rep stands. An older man with a close-cropped beard, he talks so glowingly of the jobs Value-Mart can bring Riverlake that though most people remain cross-armed, Beth, Hattie sees, tilts her head one way then the other; and she’s not the only one wavering. Why doesn’t Neddy Needham stand up the way he did at the cell tower meeting?
Whose town is this?
he should be demanding, with dignified passion. Answering, with heat,
Not yours, sir. Not yours!
So far, though, this meeting is more desperation than glory.
“This a done deal?” asks Jed Jamison.
The rep smiles. “Well, we do, of course, require a number of permits from the state,” he says. “Environmental, septic, traffic, and so on.”
“Have you filed for them?” asks Hattie.
“We have.”
Silence.
“You need any permits from town?” Judy Tell-All’s eyelashes are spiky as ever, but her manner is not.
“We need a conditional-use permit,” the rep concedes. He has the app right in front of him. “So far as I know, though, we are in compliance with the ordinance as written.”
Murmurs. Can an interim zoning ordinance be passed? Greta sits forward. No urging Hattie to talk today; Greta simply throws her braid back and raises her own hand high.
“I’m wondering if you know anything about a lawsuit going on north of here,” she says—standing, uncharacteristically, almost before she is called on. “As I understand it, the town tried to rework their zoning ordinance against Value-Mart, only to find the legality of the entire state statute from which their power derives being challenged.”
Now it’s Judge Lukens sitting forward; he cups his good ear.
“Ah, yes, I have heard about that, ah, lawsuit,” says the rep.
“Is it not true that regardless of how the ruling goes, our neighbor is in trouble? Is it not true that even if the court rules in its favor, the legal fees stand to bankrupt the town, and that Value-Mart is banking on that? That they know they can force the town into mediation, and into making concessions that way?” Greta does not sit immediately the way she normally does, but stands swaying an extra moment instead, like a bull that could charge.
“Well, I don’t know that we’re banking on anything, as you put it.” The rep shuffles a little to the side, as if to stay clear of trouble. “For that you’d have to talk to the legal department.”
“But you did take the town to court,” puts in Neddy Needham at last. He does not raise his hand, but simply stands as Greta sits, as if taking her place. Jill Jenkins, next to him, looks up admiringly; and indeed, it is hard not to notice, not only how much weight he’s lost, but how his voice has deepened, and his air of command. Some people are calling him “Ned” now, instead of “Neddy,” and it isn’t just Jill Jenkins, it seems, who’s registered the change: For there sits Carter in a hot square of window light, studiously immersing himself in the intricacies of the agenda. Never mind that it is only six lines long; he scowls at it as if at a federal science budget.
“I, myself, did not personally do anything,” says the rep.
“You took the town to court,” repeats Neddy. “With a willingness to bring down the whole zoning ordinance if you had to.”
People look up hopefully, but Neddy stalls out, failing to attain any great oratorical height. It is Jill Jenkins who leaps to her feet like a madwoman.
“I find that outrageous!” she cries.
Chaos erupts. Lukens calls for order; Greta elbows Hattie. Before she can figure out what she might usefully interject, though, Carter raises his elegant hand.
“I see that there is one more item on the agenda,” he says coolly. “A review of the policies of the Riverlake waste management district.”
The crowd settles down, respectful but puzzled.
“But perhaps there are other questions regarding Value-Mart?” Judge Lukens speaks quietly—addressing Carter publicly and yet privately, it seems. “This is a signal matter we have before us.”
“I move that we simply move on,” says Carter.
He looks at Hattie then as he used to so often in lab meetings—with a glance she used to call
code blue
. And immediately—not holding back—she says, “I second.”
Judge Lukens frowns. “Well, then. Will all those in favor …”
The motion is carried narrowly, but is carried.
Carter looks at Hattie again and winks. Then comes an all-in-one preparation to speak she knows so well, it brings a lump to her throat: the way he clears his throat with a rumble. The way he pushes off the arm of his chair. The way his mother’s chin comes up first and then, after it, like a piece of artillery, his father’s gaze.
“This item concerns the question of waste,” he begins. “As some of you know, Greta Rodriguez here has been agitating for some time for an increase in our trash fees. Her idea, if I may attempt to summarize it, is to reduce the waste generated by Riverlake by accepting all recycling for free, but charging money for the disposal of trash. Is that not correct, Greta?”
Greta half stands. “Yes. I propose we charge five dollars a bag.” She sits down wondering, Hattie knows, why they are even talking about this. A matter important to her, yes, but—! Her braid bulges out over the back of her chair.
“A fine idea,” continues Carter, “but let me verify, if I may, Mr. Chairman, that our town has the capacity to change its disposal laws. That is—if I may ask a question for the clarification of the public: Is this town, as it appears from the by-laws, an independent waste management district?”
“To the best of my knowledge.” Judge Lukens looks to Rhonda, the town clerk, for confirmation.
Rhonda nods.
“Then it is in a position to set its own disposal fees?”
Judge Lukens looks to Rhonda again. She stands in a manner befitting a town official.
“Yes,” she says. She sits.
“Wonderful!” says Carter, with a strange burst of energy. “Then let us discuss Greta’s proposal. Though I’d like to ask, if I may, one more question before we do. In going through the by-laws the other day, I noticed that Riverlake has not changed its tipping fees in some time. In fact, the last time they were adjusted was, it appears, in 1922. Is that correct?”
Judge Lukens looks to Rhonda a third time. She takes off her reading glasses and stands up tall again.
“That’s true.” She exchanges looks with Lukens as she sits.
“I pause here to note also,” says Carter, “for the illumination of the public and for the record, that tipping fees are the fees we charge dump trucks for emptying their trash.”
Rhonda stands yet again; Hattie looks down. She hadn’t seen it, not having wanted to see it, but the truth is inescapable now: The love of her youth—of her life, even, maybe—her own Mr. Combustible—has become a parody of himself.
Slipping
, just as he feared. Digressing. Wandering after
the wraith of an idea
. It is too awful to watch. She presses her fingers to her eyelids; if only she could block her ears, too.
“So it would not be strange to suggest,” continues Carter, “that perhaps some sort of fee adjustment is overdue on that front, too?”
“Professor Hatch. Carter,” says Judge Lukens. More irritated than indulgent, anyway; Hattie is glad for that. He does not raise his voice, but does give all to understand, much as Hattie’s mother used to, that he is exercising restraint. “Do you have an update to propose?”
“I do.” Carter passes a scrap of paper up to the front of the room. “And while we are waiting,” he goes on, “I have a question for the representative from Value-Mart about your trash. Mr.—I’m sorry.”
“Toutmange. Giles Toutmange.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Toutmange. Do you have any idea how much trash you’ll be generating a day?”
“I do not have that figure.”
“But it would be in the tons, no doubt, per month?” Carter raises his eyebrows—his
pup tents
.
Hattie wants to cry.
“That would be my guesstimate. Yes.”
“Thank you, Mr. Toutmange.” Carter sits the same way he stood, only in reverse. He takes his time, like an old man.
Carter, an old man.
Judge Lukens, meanwhile, is grinning.
“Proposed,” he begins. He stops, adjusts his reading glasses, and starts again, reading as slowly and clearly as if he had just concluded an experiment and had a finding to report. “Proposed: That the Riverlake waste management district set its tipping fee at ten thousand dollars per load.”