43

Every day or two I strolled to the village to
hear some of the gossip.…

Walden, “The Village”

The same issue of the Concord Journal that listed the death of Porter McAdoo published the warrant for the special town meeting in October.

One of the warrant articles was highly controversial—the proposed zoning change to allow a mixed-use complex on a site belonging to the high school. Jack Markey’s scenic watercolor rendering was printed on the front page. Soon everybody was talking about Walden Green and the sacrifice of the high school land.

“I must say,” said Marjorie Bland, meeting her friend Jo-Jo Field on the Milldam, “I think the picture of Walden Green is awfully attractive, don’t you?”

Jo-Jo was shocked. “But it’s another insult to Walden Woods. When is it going to end?”

“Oh, Jo-Jo, didn’t you read the article? Grandison Enterprises has promised to finance a transfer station at the landfill. Roger says the huge hole in the ground will disappear at last. You know, where they pile all those old washing machines.”

“It’s bribery,” said Jo-Jo, frowning and folding her arms. “I don’t like being bribed to do something wrong.”

“But, Jo-Jo, dear,” said Marjorie, laughing, “Roger says that’s the way things are done these days. And anyway he thinks the pretty little square with its houses and shops will be an asset to the town. And Roger thinks”—Marjorie stepped over a recumbent form on the sidewalk—“he thinks the affordable housing will fill a need.”

“Well, of course anything Roger says is gospel truth to me,” Jo-Jo said earnestly. “We all swear by Roger.” She nodded her head significantly at the man huddled in the entrance to Hugo’s Hair Harmonies and whispered, “But what about that poor old man? Will he be able to live there?”

Marjorie looked down at the man in surprise. “Good gracious. You know,” she said, hurrying away with Jo-Jo, “one of those people keeps turning up at my house. She hides in the stable with Carmencita.”

“Carmencita?”

“Wally’s horse, Baronesa Carmencita de Granada. She’s got a Spanish name because she’s a Paso Fino. You know, the Spaniards brought them to the West Indies way back in history.”

“A Paso Fino, isn’t that the horse with the lovely smooth gait?”

“Right, but she’s too small for Wally now. And anyway she’s been so skittish lately. I’ve been thinking seriously, Jo-Jo, of having her put down.”

“Put down! Good heavens.”

“Honestly, Jo-Jo, it would be such a relief. She tried to bite me the other day.” Marjorie displayed a bruise on her arm and stepped over another sleeping person on the sidewalk.

“Listen,” said Jo-Jo, getting back to brass tacks, “what about that homeless woman in your stable? Have you called the police?”

“The police? Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps we really should.” Marjorie said good-bye to Jo-Jo and rushed away without explaining that Roger was hoping to become a Harvard overseer, and therefore he couldn’t possibly throw a homeless person out on the street. It was a perfectly good reason, but it was just so difficult to explain.

Oliver Fry’s response to the front-page picture of Walden Green was his usual choking fury. But an item on one of the inner pages distressed him even more.

It was an interview with Judy Bowman, the chairperson of the Concord School Committee. Judy was answering a question about the committee’s plan for reducing their budget by the ten percent required by the finance committee. “We hate to do it, but we’ve got to. We’re going to close the libraries in the primary schools, restrict interschool athletic competition, and reduce the teaching staffs at the high school in the departments of language and biology. It’s a shame, but I don’t know what else we can do.”

“… and reduce the teaching staffs at the high school in the departments of language and biology.” The paper slipped out of Oliver’s fingers. He was about to lose his job. Judy had warned him it might happen, but he had chosen not to think about it. “It will only be for a year or two, Oliver,” Judy had said. “If this Walden Green zoning change passes, there’ll be money to burn, and we’ll hire you back.”

It was an ironic blow from the hand of fate. It was bad enough to lose his job, but to have it restored thanks to a shopping mall in Walden Woods was inconceivably awful.

Anxieties crowded in upon Oliver. Hope had another year of college ahead of her. He had been saving for years to put her through school. If he put together all his savings and some unemployment money and a little something from his pension plan, there’d be enough to allow the girl to finish her education. But what would they live on in the meantime? What if he couldn’t find another job?

At the moment Oliver couldn’t face it. He couldn’t make himself begin looking for a new teaching position. Instead he threw himself into the race against Roger Bland for the opening on the board of selectmen.

“It’s not as if the selectman’s job paid a salary,” said Hope to Jack Markey. “All those people on the town boards work for nothing.”

Hope was sorting bottles on the back porch under the fierce scrutiny of the owl, throwing them into paper bags. Marjorie Bland’s bottle-sorting campaign had swept the town, and Hope was doing her best to cooperate. Crash went the green bottles into one bag, smash went the clear ones into another.

Jack Markey thought about the two candidates. It was easy to guess that the fire-eating Mr. Fry would be an easy victim for sober, solid Roger Bland. “I don’t suppose your father will win anyway,” he said truthfully.

Hope opened a second bag for her father’s whiskey bottles. “It’s just so embarrassing. He’s going to have bumper stickers. Did you ever hear of a candidate for a town office handing out bumper stickers? And listen to this, they won’t say ‘Vote for Oliver Fry,’ or anything sensible like that. He’s going to use a quote from Emerson.” Hope took a mock heroic stance and waved her hand at the wooden ceiling of the porch. “‘The rapt saint is the only logician,’ how do you like that?”

“What?”

“‘The rapt saint’—oh, never mind. It’s just so ridiculous.”

“I suppose your, ah … tenant is supporting your father,” said Jack, feeling a twinge of jealousy at the thought of Ananda Singh.

“Oh, well, naturally.” Hope laughed bitterly. “Those Thoreau freaks all stand together.” She felt an odd discomfort as she said it, because it was for Ananda’s sake that she was reading Walden. Passages from the book had oozed through the cracks in her defenses like slippery snakes, inserting themselves in soft passages in her brain: “I grew in those seasons like corn in the night.… The greater part of what my neighbors call good I believe in my soul to be bad.… Only one in a hundred millions is awake to a poetic or divine life.”

“Hey,” said Jack, “who drinks all the booze around here? That’s a hell of a lot of whiskey bottles.”

“My father, of course. Who do you think?” Hope pushed the bags of bottles together with her foot and shrugged. Rays of afternoon sunshine were pouring through the wooden lattice of the porch, illuminating Jack’s blond curls. Hope couldn’t help thinking by contrast of Ananda’s sallow skin, his dark eyes and black hair. At the moment he seemed odd and foreign.

“You mean your father drank all this stuff? My God, what is it, a year’s supply?”

“This? Oh, no. It’s a couple of months, maybe. Less than that.” Hope took a melancholy pleasure in exaggerating her father’s indulgence in drink. Actually she couldn’t remember taking bottles to the dump since last Christmas.

A glimmer of a good idea came into Jack’s head. “I’ve got some errands to do. Why don’t I take this stuff to the landfill?”

“Oh, say, that would be great. You’ll have to use Father’s car. Yours doesn’t have a dump sticker. It’s okay, he won’t be needing it. He’s off somewhere on his bike.”

Jack and Hope carried everything out of the house and packed it in the back of Oliver’s ramshackle station wagon —the sacks of newspapers, the plastic bags of trash, the paper bags of bottles. Then Jack took off with a clash of gears because he wasn’t used to a standard shift.

On the way to the landfill the bottles rattled and jingled. Turning in at the gate, Jack followed the sign to the recycling area to drop off the newspapers and hurl the wine bottles into the glass-collecting dumpster. The three bags of whisky bottles stayed in the car, clinking against each other as he drove down the uneven dirt road to get rid of the plastic bags.

Pulling up at the drop-off point, he stopped beside three men who were standing next to a glittering new machine.

Jack recognized it at once. It was a compactor, the kind manufactured by one of Jefferson Grandison’s enterprises.

“Hey,” he said, getting out of the car, “where do I throw my stuff?”

“Hold it,” said one of the men. “Hey, Julian, here’s our first customer. Look,” he said to Jack, “just throw it right down there. See? Right there.” He pointed at the huge container buried in the ground, an empty bin of shining steel.

“Brand-new gadget,” said the second man as Jack hauled Hope’s plastic bags out of the car and dropped them in the bin. “New compactor. You’re the first guy to use it. Is that all you’ve got? Okay, Julian, let her go.”

The skinny man in the visor hat hesitated, then disappeared into another part of the machine high above the open container. There was a whining sound. Jack watched as one wall of the bin began moving forward, shoving the bags toward the other side. Slowly the moving wall ground them into the maw of the machine. For a moment there was a crumpling, crushing noise, and then the ram pulled back with a shriek of metal on metal.

“Holy shit,” said the first man.

“See, like it squeezes all the trash together,” said the second guy, “so the stuff don’t take up so much space.”

“Right,” said Jack.

The man called Julian came down from on high and looked at them. His face was pale. His hands were shaking. “My God,” he said, “you’ve got to watch it like a hawk. It’s dangerous, I tell you.”

“Oh, for shit’s sake, Julian, we’re just trying it out.” One of the other men grinned at Jack. “It’s just an experiment. It can’t handle all the stuff comes in here.”

“Well, thanks for letting me be your first customer,” said Jack. He backed Oliver’s car around and drove out of the landfill and headed across town to the bridge over the river at the foot of Nashawtuc Hill. There he parked the car and got out and carried the three bags of whisky bottles around the corner to the house of Roger Bland.

Roger was spraying his roses, wearing a mask over mouth and nose. The spray had a nasty smell. Roger’s horse had retreated to the far side of the field. It was rearing and plunging dangerously.

“I’ve got something to show you,” said Jack, walking bravely into the spray.

Roger put down his pump and pulled off his mask. “Well, okay,” he said. “Come on inside.”

Jack’s eyes watered. He turned his back on the poisonous cloud drifting over the river and followed Roger across the terrace into the house.

In the kitchen Jack took the bottles out of the bags and lined them up in a long row on the counter. “Do you know what these are?” he said dramatically.

“No,” said Roger Bland. “What are they?”

“They’re the downfall of Oliver Fry, that’s what they are.”