by Leslie Meier
“The scenery fell on Florence. She’s trapped and I think she’s hurt.”
Then they were back inside and Bill was hoisting the first of the three flats that had fallen, one on top of the other like huge dominoes. Florence’s hand and arm became visible. Then he lifted the second flat and her head and shoulders were revealed. Lucy was calling 9-1-1 and the ambulance was on its way when he got the last piece of scenery off the trapped woman, who had been knocked to the floor, face down.
“Don’t move,” Lucy warned. “You might have hurt your back.”
“Thank God you came,” Florence said in a weak voice. “I was afraid I’d be here forever.”
Lucy reached for her hand and held it. “It’s all right. The rescue squad is on the way.”
“I think I’m really okay,” Florence said. “It was just that I couldn’t get out from under.”
“What happened?” Bill asked, examining the flats. Each one was made out of two sheets of plywood nailed to a frame of two-by-fours. “Did you try to move them or something?”
“No,” she said, her voice small.
Lucy gave her hand a squeeze. “There’ll be time to figure out what happened later.” They could hear the ambulance siren coming closer, and then the flashing red and white lights could be seen in the windows. The door opened and the EMTs took charge, slipping a back board beneath Florence and transferring her to a gurney. Then they were off, leaving Bill and Lucy in the empty hall.
“How could that happen?” Lucy asked.
“Beats me,” Bill said.
“Maybe they were only set up temporarily, not properly secured,” she suggested.
“Seems like a foolish thing to do, what with the rehearsals and people coming and going,” Bill said.
“What if I hadn’t forgotten my bag? What if we hadn’t come back?” she asked, as they reached the doorway.
“It would’ve been a long, cold night for Florence,” Bill said, switching off the lights.
* * *
On Saturday morning Lucy phoned Florence to see how she was doing, but her call went unanswered. She tried calling the cottage hospital, fearing that Florence had been admitted, but the operator said there was no Florence Gallagher listed as a patient. Somewhat reassured, she headed out to the grocery store, where it seemed she was spending a lot of time and money lately.
Her grocery bill was always high at Christmastime, she thought, with all of the extra baking supplies she needed. She yanked a cart out of the corral and headed for the produce department, pausing at the holiday display of nuts and candied fruits to grab a bag of pecans and a tub of mixed fruits, wincing at the cost. She picked up a bag of potatoes and, noticing they were “buy one get one free,” added a second, then headed for the carrots. She knew that chuck roasts were on sale and was planning to make a pot roast for an old-fashioned Saturday-night dinner, and her recipe required carrots. The problem was whether she could get away with the cheaper conventional carrots, loaded with chemical fertilizer and pesticides, or buy the expensive, organic variety that Sara insisted on. Would Sara even notice? She probably would, Lucy thought, because she often snacked on carrots. Reluctantly, she picked up the two-pound bag of organic carrots, priced at a phenomenal six dollars.
By the time she was ready to check out she was crossing her fingers that she had enough cash in her wallet to pay for the cartload of food, which included fancy Greek yogurt, cage-free eggs, hormone-free milk, gluten-free bread, and organic chicken. Maybe, just maybe, she was thinking, it would be more economical to subsidize Sara’s desire to move out.
She was adding a chocolate bar to her cart, telling herself that today of all days she really deserved the jumbo size, when she spotted Florence at the end of the aisle. She was leaning heavily on her cart and was moving slowly, obviously in pain.
“Nothing broken?” Lucy asked, hurrying to her side.
“I was lucky,” Florence said, with a tight little smile. “It could have been so much worse. I got off with a few bumps and bruises.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it lucky,” Lucy said. “It would have been better if it didn’t happen at all.”
“I was lucky that you guys came and found me. I was afraid I’d be trapped there forever.”
“I forgot my bag,” Lucy said. “I’m glad we were able to help.” She paused. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Not really,” Florence admitted. “I was sitting at Bob Cratchit’s desk on the stage, sketching out some ideas. Then I heard a slam, like a door or window blowing open, and felt a cool draft, and it seemed to come from backstage. I had that sense you get, you know, that you’re not alone, and got up to investigate and . . . well . . . you saw what happened. I was crossing the stage to check the back door and they all just fell on me.”
From what Florence was saying, it seemed that an intruder must have entered the hall, perhaps intending to damage the scenery. Or maybe that person had planned to attack Florence. But why would anyone do that? “You have no idea who came in?” Lucy asked.
“I don’t even know if somebody was there or not. Maybe it was my imagination,” Florence said.
“The church is really old and needs some work,” Lucy said. “I bet a window just slipped down—it happens in old buildings.”
“You’re probably right,” Florence said, grimacing with pain. “And stage accidents aren’t uncommon. I went on Facebook this morning and quite a few of my actor friends said they’d had similar accidents.” She lowered her voice dramatically. “The stage is a dangerous place.”
“Life’s dangerous,” Lucy said, adding that chocolate bar to her cart.
“Chocolate! That reminds me—I need some baking cocoa for my chocolate cheese cake. I always make one for my open house.” Her eyes widened. “I do hope you’ll come. I have it every year on Christmas Eve and this year I’m inviting the whole cast. It’s going to be a blast.” She pursed her lips, as if savoring a secret. “Guess what? Uncle Ben actually said he might come, which is amazing since he always flat-out refuses. It would be so good for him. We have lots of food and plenty of wassail and it’s just a terrific party if I do say so myself. Will you come?”
“I’ll have to check with Bill, but thanks for the invitation,” Lucy said. She wasn’t sure she wanted to go.... Come to think of it, she wasn’t really friends with Florence and she really didn’t like the way Florence had been behaving toward Bob. And the notion that Ben Scribner might be attending was hardly an inducement. She turned her cart, heading for the checkout. “Take care, now. What do they say? RICE: Rest, ice, compression, and elevation?”
“Something like that.” Florence put her hand on Lucy’s arm. “You know, I hope you didn’t think me uncaring last night, when everybody was talking about Angie Cunningham’s need for a kidney.”
Actually, Lucy had thought Florence had been rather insensitive but wasn’t about to admit it. “Oh, no. It’s a very personal sort of thing. Not everyone wants to be an organ donor, not even after they die.”
“It’s not for me,” Florence admitted, “but I do wish the best for that poor little girl. I’m planning to make a donation to the Angel Fund.”
“Sooner would be better than later,” Lucy advised. “From what I’ve heard the Cunninghams are really up against it.”
“I’ll do it today,” Florence promised, slowly rolling her cart toward the deli counter.
When she got home, Lucy put the groceries away and began browning the chuck roast. While it sizzled in the casserole, she found herself wondering about Florence’s relationship with her uncle, and thought it odd that Florence was so pleased that the old Scrooge might come to her party. It just went to show, she thought, that you never could tell about people. She thought that Scribner and Downeast were a blight on the town, but Florence was hoping to rekindle family connections with him. Lucy gave voice to a little “hmph,” doubting that she would be successful.
The scent of browning meat filled the kitchen and Libby had heaved herse
lf off her cushion and was standing next to Lucy, actually leaning her shoulder against Lucy’s thigh. “There’ll be some for you,” Lucy told the dog, wishing that the human family members would show the same appreciation for her cooking. Dinnertime hadn’t become a full-fledged war zone, not yet, but Sara was stockpiling arms and wasn’t above firing off the occasional warning shot.
That night, predictably, Sara opened fire and sent a missile whizzing into the demilitarized zone. “I found a place to live that’s actually affordable,” she said, helping herself to mashed potatoes. “It’s only two hundred dollars a month—that’s probably less than you’re spending to feed me, right, Mom?”
Lucy thought of her grocery bill and nodded. “Those carrots are organic,” she said, “so you better eat some. They cost almost as much as the roast.”
“What does two hundred dollars cover? Does it include food?” Bill asked, holding up the carving knife and fork.
“Yes! Two hundred dollars would be my share of the monthly expenses.”
“That doesn’t sound very realistic,” Lucy said. “Is it an apartment or a house? Where is it?”
“I’m not sure. I’d be going in with a group. It must be a big place ’cause it’s a big group.”
“Like a hippie commune?” Zoe asked. “That would be cool.”
“Who’s in the group?” Bill asked.
“Oh, Seth and some others from SAC.”
Lucy’s eyes met Bill’s across the table. Beneath the table, Libby was noisily licking her chops, anticipating her dinner.
“Will you have a room of your own?” Bill demanded.
“What about your studies?” Lucy asked. “I’m afraid you’ll spend all your time in meetings, planning demonstrations and making posters.”
“Are there going to be a lot of guys?” Zoe asked.
Bill set the carving utensils on the side of the platter. “I think I need to see the place. . . .”
“And we need to know exactly who’s living there,” Lucy added.
Sara’s eyes were filling with tears. “I knew you’d be like this,” she said, pushing her chair back and standing up. “You just don’t understand! Changing the system is more important than getting good grades! It’s not like there’s any jobs for grads anyway.” She threw her napkin on the table and marched off angrily; they could hear her stamping up the stairs and then slamming her bedroom door.
“She didn’t ask to be excused,” Zoe said, in her good-girl voice.
Lucy looked at her youngest child, so like an angel with her cheeks like peaches and her big blue eyes. It was just a matter of time, she thought, before she lost her innocence and became a combatant, taking up arms against parental authority just like her sisters and brother before her.
* * *
Monday morning found Lucy hard at work at the Pennysaver office, pounding away at the keyboard to finish up her story about how Downeast Mortgage profited from Marlowe’s Finance Committee vote. This was one story that really ticked her off and her fingers were flying as she recounted how some of the town employees whose hours were cut and who also happened to have mortgages with Downeast were now losing their properties to foreclosure. At the last minute she decided to call Will Carlisle, the mortgage officer at Seamen’s Bank, and discovered that his bank’s policy was to offer forbearance to struggling mortgage holders.
“The thing is, if they come in before they miss a payment, we’ll let them pay interest only for a few months, and that’s often all that they need. If the situation continues—say the mortgage holder is facing long-term unemployment—we’ll work with them and renegotiate the loan so it’s affordable. We’re a local bank and we don’t see foreclosures as beneficial to the community or to the bank,” he said.
“That’s terrific,” Lucy said. “It’s a shame more banks aren’t like yours.”
“We’re small, and the board members are local businessmen. That means we can be a lot more flexible than some too-big-to-fail outfit.”
“What did you think of the demonstration the other day—the kids protesting student loans?”
“That’s a different kettle of fish,” Carlisle said. “Our hands are tied by the feds, but we’re trying to figure something out. It’s a huge problem.... These kids didn’t realize what they were getting into. Everybody told them college debt was okay. Personally, I won’t let my child take out loans for college. Bella’s going to have to live with what we’ve saved and start at the community college.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Lucy said, delighted to find her own views reinforced. “We’re sending Sara to Winchester. She’s got a scholarship and she’s living at home, at least for now.”
“Smart,” Will said.
Lucy thanked him for his time and finished the story, which she sent to Ted for editing. That job done, she busied herself with other stories and didn’t think about Downeast again until Wednesday morning when Ted sent the foreclosure story back to her, heavily edited. All the references to Downeast Mortgage had been deleted.
“I can’t believe this,” she declared. “I worked hard on this, and it’s all true. I’ve got the facts.”
“It could be coincidence,” Ted said. “Marlowe can’t explain himself. We don’t know that he had any intention of foreclosing on those town employees.”
“Well, what if I call Ben Scribner and ask him? I’ll get a comment from him.”
“He’s hardly going to admit anything of the sort,” Ted said.
“That’s okay. We’ll have him lying on record. It’ll be obvious to everyone, because of what’s happened. He can say that Downeast never intended to benefit from the FinCom vote, that it was only an effort to control town expenses, but nobody will believe him.”
“I don’t want you calling him, Lucy.” Ted wasn’t making a suggestion, he was giving an order.
“Why not?”
“Because it would be harassment. He’s just lost his partner, under the most horrible circumstances. . . .”
Lucy thought of all the times Ted had made her call grieving survivors of auto accidents and house fires, insisting that she was only giving them an opportunity to honor their deceased family members. “But, Ted, you always say it helps people through the grieving process if they can talk. . . .”
“No. We’re running the story without mentioning Marlowe’s vote or Downeast Mortgage. This is a story about how the recession is affecting our town.”
“But Seamen’s Bank—”
“I know,” Ted said. “And I wish to heaven I’d gone to them instead of Downeast when I needed money.”
“Oh,” Lucy said, suddenly understanding the situation. “I get it.”
He shoved his chair back and grabbed his coat, leaving without a word of explanation. Lucy and Phyllis both watched him go.
“It’s deadline day,” Lucy said.
“He’s never done that,” Phyllis said. “He’s never walked out on deadline.”
“Do you think he’s coming back?” Lucy asked, her throat tightening.
“I don’t think so.”
“What are we going to do?”
“You can put it together, Lucy,” Phyllis said, sounding like a cheerleader. “You’ve seen him do it enough times.”
“I appreciate your faith in me,” Lucy said, “but I don’t know where to begin.”
“With the first page,” Phyllis suggested.
“Okay.” Lucy took a deep breath. “What we need is a big photo on the front cover, maybe kids on Santa’s knee, something that says Christmas is coming. . . .” she said, thinking aloud as she opened the photo file.
Even as she worked to lay out the paper, clicking and dragging and occasionally swearing in a struggle to arrange ads and stories in what she hoped was an acceptable format, Lucy kept hoping Ted would return. The little bell on the door remained silent, however, and it was nearly two hours past the noon deadline when she finally shipped the file to the printer.
“Good work, Lucy,” said Phyllis, who
had been watching over her shoulder. “That page-one photo of the little Mini Cooper with a Christmas tree on top is real cute.”
“I hope it’s okay with Ted,” Lucy fretted.
“He’s the one who walked out, leaving you holding the bag,” Phyllis said with a sniff.
“I’m not sure he’s going to see it that way,” Lucy said, arching her back and stretching. She felt completely wiped out, her neck and shoulders tight with tension, and she had a low-grade headache. “I’m done here.”
Leaving the office, she headed for home where she recruited the dog for a walk. Libby was thrilled at the prospect of running through the woods, and Lucy needed to soothe her frazzled emotions. The sky was milk white, and it seemed as if snow might be coming, but Lucy inhaled the cold, crisp air and marched along, swinging her arms and humming Christmas carols. What was it with that “Little Drummer Boy”? Once you heard it, you were stuck with it. Rum-pa-pum-pum!
When she returned home she felt much better. She stretched out on the family room sofa with a magazine and next thing she knew Zoe was asking what she should make for dinner.
Rousing herself, Lucy threw together a meat loaf while Zoe made a salad and set the table. Tonight was the FinCom meeting and Lucy figured she’d fortify Bill with his favorite dinner. After they’d eaten, Lucy and Bill left Zoe in charge of clearing up. Lucy figured she might as well take advantage of Zoe’s willingness to cooperate while it lasted.
The meeting took place in the town hall’s basement conference room, which was set up rather like a courtroom. The four committee members sat at a long bench equipped with microphones and name plaques. Facing them were several dozen chairs set in neat rows for citizen observers; most of the chairs were empty. At the rear of the room a TV camera was set up, operated by members of the high school CATV Club. As promised, Ted had assigned a freelancer, Hildy Swanson, to cover the meeting since both he and Lucy had conflicts of interest. Hildy wrote the popular Chickadee Chatter bird column.
Lucy and Bill seated themselves in the middle of the room, receiving welcoming smiles from board members Frankie La Chance and Pam Stillings. The other two members, innkeeper Gene Hawthorne and insurance agent Jerry Taubert, ignored them, busy comparing favorite golf courses in Hilton Head. Hawthorne, who was chairman, called the meeting to order promptly at seven o’clock. The first order of business was the reading and approval of the minutes from the last meeting. Once that was done Hawthorne moved on to the first item on the agenda: filling the temporary vacancy left by Jake Marlowe’s death. When he asked if there were any volunteers, Bill raised his hand and so did Ben Scribner, whom they hadn’t noticed because he had entered late and seated himself behind them.