WHEN HOWARD WALKED into the second-floor auditorium of town hall, he was stunned and alarmed and also slightly gratified to find the room overflowing with people. Every seat was taken; people lined the walls and stood two deep at the back of the room. Howard paused for a moment to rub his neck. He’d never liked speaking in front of large groups. Even small groups made his mouth dry. Here and there he recognized a face, but it struck him painfully that he should know more of them. (“Know your neighbors,” he recalled his father saying. “They’ll know you.”) Usually planning board meetings attracted four or five citizens at best, one of whom usually stretched out on chairs in the back row and fell asleep. But tonight the long paneled room, hung with gilt-framed paintings of eighteenth-century New Aylesbury merchants and a clumsily executed frieze of the town seal, was filled with a tumult of voices that sounded neither hostile nor welcoming to Howard, as he pushed his way through, only loud.
On the dais at the front of the hall sat the five members of the planning board, arranged decorously around a conference table. Four men in their forties and fifties, sunburned, barbered, three of them wearing chinos and blue Oxford shirts, leaning comfortably back in their chairs; in spite of the age difference, they all reminded Howard of Dr. Michaels. The one woman on the board turned out to be the silver-haired realtor from whom Howard and Mirella had bought their house, who wore a blue pin-striped dress and enormous red-framed bifocals. He wished he could remember her name, also regretting for the first time the brief but heated dispute they’d had at the closing over a brass light fixture.
Joy Fiorella, the planning board agent, hunched at the end of the table. She was clad in pigeon-colored stretch pants and a flowered blouse; gray roots were showing at the part in her black hair as she scowled at something being said by the chair. But she looked up to give Howard a friendly smile as he sat down beside McConkey in a reserved front-row seat. In the aisle next to him stood a microphone stand. Beyond that waited a podium and an overhead projector.
McConkey looked nervous. Four or five other TownCommoners had come with him and leaned forward to wave. Howard waved back and shook McConkey’s hand, disconcerted when McConkey held on. “Howard,” he said hoarsely. “There are a lot of people here.”
“I know,” said Howard, discreetly trying to pull his hand away. But McConkey hung on, squeezing harder.
“Is that good or bad?” McConkey’s face was damp above the collar of his turquoise Polo shirt.
“We’ll find out,” said Howard, conscious that the planning board was watching him hold hands with McConkey. Gently he freed himself, then opened his portfolio case to check again that he had all his drawings and maps, everything neatly numbered and covered in acetate.
Hubbub from the crowd receded as the planning board secretary read out the minutes from the last meeting. Then the chair, dressed in a seersucker suit, stood up and came to the podium. He was a slight-featured man named Emerson with thin, fair hair, pale blue eyes, and a high forehead. In a nasal, Brahmin accent that might or might not be genuine, he thanked everyone for coming tonight, noting that he hadn’t seen so many people in this room since the night they’d voted on whether to replace the post office roof. No one laughed.
The chair cleared his throat and put on a pair of reading glasses. “Let’s get started. This is a public hearing to review plans for a subdivision proposed on a fifteen-acre property on Old Prence Farm Road. We’ll hear from the applicants first, who will give their presentation and answer questions.” He looked down at Howard and beckoned.
Howard gathered his folders and portfolio and stepped over to the podium, wishing that he’d asked Krystal Anne to come along as his assistant. He could have used her help in laying out his materials, and also her sedative air of impervious disinterest—but who could predict how all her body piercings might have affected the board? He rested his portfolio on the conference table and spent a few minutes arranging an overview map on the projector, then trying to find the light switch. When at last he managed to turn on the projector, he found himself staring at an unfamiliar topography. It took him an instant to realize the map was backward. Hastily he reversed it.
“My name is Howard Goldman,” he said into the podium microphone. “I am the architect for the TownCommon development, and what I’d like to try to explain tonight is what our project will look like, the community benefits we think it will bring to New Aylesbury, and how we intend to minimize any visual and environmental impacts on the town.”
In spite of his trepidation at confronting a muttering sea of faces, as Howard began pointing out features on the overview map, his confidence returned. He’d drawn everything so carefully, it was all laid out. “Here’s a bird’s-eye look at the property itself.” He tapped the map with a pencil. “Here’s the water, a wetland area, pastureland, existing forest.” He heard his voice grow steady, persuasive, even deeper. “We intend to cluster twenty houses toward the northwest corner of the property. Here.” Howard pointed his pencil to a circled area. “We’ve planned a small common, around which houses and a small meetinghouse will be situated on quarter-acre lots, amounting to a total of five and a quarter acres.”
He pulled off the overview map, replacing it with an architectural drawing. “The houses are all colonial style, three or four bedrooms, with four slightly different models to give a sense of variety amid continuity. A typical house will look like this.”
It was a beautiful drawing. Even Howard, preoccupied with getting the drawing straight on the overhead projector, could see how elegant and austere and perfectly proportioned this house would be. He pointed out the simple cornice and the classic architrave; he pointed out the two long sidelights beside the door, each shaped like a traditional pilaster. “Because,” he said, embarrassed by his own enthusiasm, “a front door should be a contemplative object, a moment of projecting outward or inward, not a means for shutting everything out.”
Howard glanced up and saw McConkey smiling in the front row. He gave Howard a thumbs-up sign.
Switching to a side-view drawing, Howard showed how he had planned a two-story wall of small windows alternating with larger ones so that the house would stay protected from northeast gales, yet fill with light even on winter afternoons. “A house of many viewpoints,” he declared, beginning to enjoy himself, “held in common.” The rear-view sketch demonstrated a back door as respectable as the front, though without sidelights, opening onto a small circular deck with built-in benches to encourage informal gatherings.
He could feel the crowd listening as he spoke and he imagined them comparing this graceful house with their own. He displayed a drawing of a typical lot, remembering to mention the group’s intention to put in only indigenous plantings. With mounting enthusiasm, he described the common sewerage system with its advanced water-treatment technology.
When he glanced over at the planning board he saw that several of them were nodding; the chair caught his eye and smiled, canted forward in his seat. To the left of him, the realtor had taken off her glasses and was cleaning the lenses with a tissue.
It was when Howard introduced the project’s open-space plan that the audience, which had begun rustling and whispering, began to grow more restive.
“What we’re proposing,” his voice ratcheted up an octave, “is to use one and three-quarters acres for the common, which is designed to mirror the New Aylesbury green and tie TownCommon thematically into the larger community. Down to the placement of our meetinghouse at one end.” He slid another sketch onto the overhead projector’s lit square to illustrate the common and the dimensions of the meetinghouse.
“The remaining eight acres,” he said, as he removed the meeting house and replaced it with another copy of the overview map. “The remaining eight acres,” he repeated, “four of which are waterfront and wetlands, we propose to deed permanently to the town as an environmental preserve, to be kept in a natural state.”
With his pencil, he indicated the dotted line demarcating the sanctuary, then stepped back from the projector, smiling. “When you consider that this land has been a privately owned farm, overgrazed and almost completely deforested, I think you’ll see that our development would be a significant land-use improvement.”
The chair shifted in his seat on the dais. “Quite a proposal, Mr. Goldman.”
As Howard turned to thank him, a patrician voice from the audience called out, “Environmental preserve, my eye.”
Howard swung back around, squinting to see who it was. “Excuse me,” said the chair wearily behind him. “We have not begun the period for public input.”
“It’s a scam,” cried a voice. “If you believe this guy, you’re an idiot.”
“Hold on, hold on,” said the chair.
A short man with a bulldog face and square-cut chinchilla hair stood up. “These developers always say they’re going to do nature stuff. Then they just build all over the goddamn place until there’s nothing left. Look at what happened to Box Point.”
“Hear, hear,” said the patrician voice behind him. Squinting into the audience, Howard spied a tiny, white-haired lady in a mossy-looking sweatshirt.
“We don’t want to be another Danvers,” puffed the bulldog man.
On the dais, Joy Fiorella bristled visibly. Howard said quickly, “Box Point is a good example of a bad project. In this case, the land will be legally deeded over. Your town counsel can draw up the transfer. What we propose—”
“You propose putting a bunch of houses on open land, that’s what you propose,” shouted a husky-voiced woman toward the back of the room. The crowd’s muttering began to billow into a din.
“Please,” said Howard tightly.
“Let Mr. Goldman finish,” demanded the chair.
Howard slid another sheet onto the projector, this one of typed text. “If you’ll hear me out, these four points outline our intentions—”
“My intention,” said the bulldog man, “is to stand here until this project is voted down.”
Two other people stood up. “We don’t want eight acres,” called out the husky-voiced woman. “We want the whole fifteen.”
“Are you prepared to buy the whole fifteen?” Howard flung back, his face growing hot. “This parcel is appraised at two point seven million dollars. Considerably more,” he added sharply, “than it cost to replace the post office roof. And as I seem to recall, the funding for that was almost voted down.”
As soon as he had spoken, he realized that he had made a mistake. The chair frowned at him; Joy Fiorella was tugging at her dyed hair, her mouth a moue of distress.
“It’s always about money,” shrieked someone.
Then suddenly there was Alice Norcross Pratt, standing at the microphone. Howard was actually glad to see her; she was familiar, at least, almost soothingly so, with her neat braided hair, her pink cotton smock dress and swollen belly. She faced him composedly, a sheaf of papers in her hands, and after a moment gave him a small nod.
“Hi, Howard,” she said into the microphone.
Immediately the crowd settled. The three people who had been standing glanced around and after a moment sat down.
“State your name and address,” sighed the chair.
“My name is Alice Norcross Pratt,” she said evenly. “I live at two twenty Briggs Road. I’m here tonight as a representative of the Preservation of New Aylesbury Committee to present to the board a petition signed by seven hundred town residents who oppose this project. No matter how worthy it is.”
To Howard’s amazement, she looked at him with something like sympathy. “We firmly believe that developing Prence Farm will destroy a historic landmark and further erode attempts to preserve our town’s heritage.”
“Have you considered—” Howard began.
“Plus,” Alice went on, consulting a notepad. “We are concerned about possible ground water contamination, increased auto traffic, and the endangered habitat of several threatened species, including the marbled salamander.”
“Marbled what?” asked the chair waspishly, plucking at the lapels of his seersucker suit.
“Salamander,” said Alice. “We have discovered a breeding pool near the site where the applicants propose their meetinghouse.”
“We’ve sited the meetinghouse basically on top of where a barn exists right now,” said Howard.
“Which is another point we’d like to raise,” Alice continued. “The farmhouse and the barn date back to the late nineteenth century. They are excellent examples of Edwardian agricultural architecture and should be restored.”
“With all due respect, Alice, there’s no such thing as Edwardian agricultural architecture. The barn is falling apart.” Howard tried to control his voice, which was getting reedy. “And most of the house burned down fifty years ago and had to be rebuilt. It has aluminum siding, for God’s sake,” he said, appealing to the board.
My house has aluminum siding,” shouted the husky woman at the back. “You want to tear it down, too?”
“Our petition has been duly notarized,” said Alice briskly. “I would like to submit it to the board and ask that it be placed on permanent record.”
She stepped up to the table on the dais and placed her petition in front of the chair. On her way back to her seat she gave Howard a prim smile, then stepped aside as a woman with stringy hair pulled back in a tight bun, wearing a purple T-shirt, wooden beads, and khaki pants, pushed up to the microphone.
“My name is Kristina Fisher,” the woman said in a trembling voice. “I’m the mother of three girls and I live at seventy-four Catbird Lane. I would just like to say that in the last five years, two women on my street have come down with cancer and there’s a little boy with a peptic ulcer.”
The crowd grew reverently silent.
“I have been doing a lot of research on the Internet,” she said, “and I’ve read a lot of studies linking auto exhaust and cancer.” She drew a shaky breath. “I think it’s completely irresponsible of the town even to consider a project that would bring more cars into our community. My children deserve a chance to grow up strong and healthy.”
People began to clap and whistle. Howard tried to think of something to say besides, “This is bullshit,” but he couldn’t think of anything. As the woman sat down, another woman embraced her; several people reached out to pat her shoulder.
“Look,” said Howard, attempting to sound forthright. “I appreciate hearing your reservations, and of course the Town-Common group wants to work with you on any environmental concerns, but I wonder if we’re getting a little off point. This is a modest development of twenty clustered buildings. Twenty families.”
He paused to swallow and glanced at the four points of the summary he’d planned. “We do respect New Aylesbury’s heritage, and, in fact, you could view this development as an expression of the principles our town was founded on. A safe, tolerant, cooperative society. That’s exactly what TownCommon Co-Housing is after—a place to live responsibly within a larger community, in accordance with their beliefs and ideals—”
“Like Waco,” yelled someone near the door.
People began to laugh caustically, calling out “Jonestown,” “Ruby Ridge.” Someone shouted, “Silicon Valley.”
“What I’ve always admired about this town,” Howard said, hanging on to the podium as if it were a raft, “is its commitment to sharing its wealth.” Gazing around, he focused on the town seal hanging over the dais, which depicted a reluctant-looking Indian carrying a staff in one hand and a codfish in the other. The Indian was presenting the codfish to a bearded Puritan, who had come ashore carrying a plate-sized biscuit. In the foreground was a rowboat; in the background, a skinny pair of wigwams.
“Look at that,” Howard said, pointing upward. To his surprise, the audience quieted as everyone turned to look at the town seal. “This was the town’s first moment as a town.” He continued to point at the seal. “The convergence of two different elements into a new kind of community.” A few nights ago, he’d discovered a library book about New Aylesbury on top of the toaster oven and read the first chapter. Lucky coincidence, he realized now, although the chapter went on to explain that the Pilgrims who participated in this historic exchange weren’t allowed to settle in New Aylesbury, not being members of the Massachusetts Bay Company, and had sailed off to live in Dorchester. The Indians were soon obliged to move their wigwams as well.
“That seal is a reminder of what kind of town we really are,” Howard cried out, suddenly passionate and convinced. “We are a dynamic community, willing to grow and evolve. We’re not a museum.”
For several seconds the room was almost still. People continued to peer thoughtfully at the town seal and the woman in the back put a hand to her mouth. But as Howard paused to catch his breath and consider what to say next, he became aware of another figure, dressed in white, coming up the aisle toward the microphone. It was a long moment before he recognized who it was. So unlikely did this presence seem, so completely out of context, that he literally shook his head as if to clear his vision.
“Hello. My name is Nadine Fouch,” she said hesitantly into the microphone. “Excuse me, I live in Vermont, but I’d like to add my comment. I am an architect who has worked with Mr. Goldman. Several weeks ago I had the opportunity to review plans for this project at his studio.” She was careful not to look at Howard, but paused to give a diagnostic glance at the planning board. In her belted white linen dress she reminded him of a nurse, coming to take everyone’s blood pressure.
“This isn’t,” he said confusedly, turning toward the planning board. “This is not—we were having lunch, and I happened to mention—” Bifocals neatly transecting her eyes, the realtor stared back at him.
“In the course of our discussion,” interrupted Nadine, “Mr. Goldman confided that he knew he’d meet opposition to this development. He knew it would be unpopular. But he said, and I quote—” She produced a small, crumpled piece of foolscap. “Mr. Goldman said, ‘This town is full of bigoted rich isolationists. They are stupid and narrow-minded. I can’t wait to cram this project down their throats.’”
There were several audible gasps.
Putting his mouth too close to the microphone, Howard said, “That is completely implausible,” hearing his breath boom on each plosive. He caught sight of McConkey’s wide face, which looked waterlogged. “That is a complete lie. This woman—”
“This woman,” said Nadine, radiant above her spotless white dress, “is a licensed architect who does not believe communities should have housing projects forced on them.”
All over the room, people began clapping. A low hectic sound was rising from among them, almost like the hum of massing insects, and although he had never heard it before, Howard recognized the perilous noise of collective outrage.
And yet, for the first time since entering the auditorium, he felt calm. As he stared out at the excited crowd, he found himself recalling advice from a wilderness survival course he took in college: Before responding to the scene of a disaster, take enough time to smoke a cigarette and assess the situation. Thus one is more likely to administer appropriate rather than hasty care to the injured, avoiding additional injury, perhaps even saving lives. It seemed sound advice at the time, delivered by the course instructor, a soft-spoken man with a graying ponytail and a frayed red bandanna, who had actually saved people in mountain rescues.
But since Howard did not smoke, and since the injured person was himself, he realized this old advice, like so much old advice, would not serve.
“Excuse me,” he called out in a voice that sounded tinny to his ears. “Please. Just a moment.”
“You may also like to know,” Nadine’s voice drowned out his. “That despite everything Mr. Goldman just said about his clients’ wanting to live responsibly in your community, he told me that dealing with them was ‘a nightmare.’” She was folding away her piece of paper, but leaned forward to add, “He also gave me the impression that your new neighbors were into wife swapping.”
“I never said that,” shouted Howard, remembering at the same instant that he had indeed made a wisecrack about wife swapping. “This is ludicrous.” He turned once more to appeal to the planning board chair. “This woman was fired from an architectural firm and she thinks it’s because I gave her a poor reference. It’s absurd,” he said, almost choking.
“Would you like me to tell the real reason behind that poor reference?” Nadine drew herself up and shook back her pale hair, looking athletic and incorruptible, much as she had when she’d described for Howard her bicycle trip through France. “Would you like me to add sexual harassment to—”
“Someone should flog that guy,” called a man near the door.
“Fortunately, his wife is a lawyer,” Howard heard the realtor say.
“All right, all right,” called the chair, springing up and striding around the table. He motioned Howard to step away from the podium and took the microphone himself. “Thank you, Mr. Goldman. This concludes the applicants’ presentation. I would like to invite further comment from the audience, but, folks, I insist on courtesy here. No more outbursts. Now we’ll hear from one person at a time—”
Blindly, Howard gathered together his drawings and maps, shoved them into his portfolio and swung into his seat next to McConkey. Nadine shot him a final glance, her expression managing to combine scorn, triumph, and something indefinable that might have been remorse, or even fear, or perhaps it was only pity. Then she slid once more into the throng.
He put a hand over his eyes, aware of McConkey immobile beside him. Unable to look up, Howard whispered, “Sorry about this.” Then he pressed his eyes shut, hearing someone else begin speaking into the microphone, saying something about unwelcome elements.
Another voice followed, and another. Perhaps half an hour passed, perhaps more. As he sat on with his eyes shut, Howard tried to envision the bedroom he no longer shared with Mirella, the way the white lace curtains stirred at the windows in the morning breeze, the rectangle of peach-colored sun that fell on the floor by his side of the bed.
At last he felt the pressure of a heavy arm settle across his shoulders. Warm breath wreathed his ear, and he heard McConkey murmur, “Wife swapping. How seventies. Even we Unitarians have evolved past that.”
Howard opened his eyes to find McConkey frowning at him.
“I’m sorry,” Howard repeated. “I didn’t—”
McConkey inclined his head. “Friend,” he said, “I know you’re sorry. Believe me, I know.” He nodded to himself, then sat pondering for a long moment. Finally, with an air of profundity, which made Howard think of ancient philosophers and seers, struggling to share the burden of human knowledge, McConkey sighed and removed his arm from Howard’s shoulders. “You’re a sorry-ass bastard, friend,” he said softly, “that’s what you are. A good architect. But a sorry-ass bastard.”