by Jan Smolders
When by noon they had finished their phone updates with their comrades-in-arms and completed the count of signatures that had arrived by mail, fax or email, they were disappointed.
“1451.” Mary sighed. “Our second week will have to be better, Joe.”
“A good bunch may still be sitting in the snail mail pipeline.”
She looked at him askance.
He scratched his head.
They calculated they might end up with a total of four thousand at best by the end of the second week. Not a great number compared to the adult population. Mayor Sanders might laugh them out of his office.
“We’ll just have to work harder and longer hours, Joe,” Mary said.
He tapped his chest with his index. “Me, I’ll start at nine. Nine to nine,” he sang to the tune of Dolly Parton’s “Nine to Five.”
That afternoon Joe drove the kids to a birthday party.
When he returned and opened the front door, Ravel’s Bolero pumped through the living room.
Mary called him from afar. “Welcome back, Joe. Lock the door. We must celebrate.” By now he had to have detected her perfume, and when he strode into the bedroom and pulled her against him, she wasn’t surprised that he was already erect.
Foreplay had no chance. His explosion of love and desire couldn’t wait. The untouched glasses of wine Mary had poured waited patiently on the side chest, seemingly full of empathy and understanding as the lovers caressed and relaxed.
“‘Celebrate,’ you said, Mary. Celebrate what? Our fantastic 1451?” he asked as his fingertips grazed her right breast.
Between soft groans she whispered, “Your liberation, Joe. You threw off the yoke of Supren, of the fracking gang, and set yourself free. It’s worth more to me than anything else.”
“Free of my job too, of course.” He sighed. “Doyle didn’t fire me…but someone did.”
“Me?” She felt pangs of guilt.
He laughed. “You? No. Me. Joe Bertolo.” He caressed her cheek. “I’ll manage, don’t worry.”
“Yes. We’ll manage. Lie a little closer.”
***
By late Saturday evening of the next week the final signature count had rounded the cape of thirty-six hundred: a disappointing figure.
“Some people will never stick their neck out, Joe. They’re sheep being led to slaughter without giving a peep,” Mary lamented as she walked into the kitchen, where Joe was doing his counting. She yawned.
Joe stood up. He pursed his lips but put his hand on Mary’s waist and massaged it softly. “We’d better hurry with this thing, sweetie. Our water isn’t getting any better. I don’t care what the mayor says or promises.”
Clean water tankers were still diligently making four rounds a week, covering all sections of the city, delivering their precious cargo into all kinds of containers. Citizens also could pick up five gallons a week per person at four stations set up on the main streets. But Mary had heard Supren was considering cutting back on the funding.
“Our ‘dear’ mayor.” Mary’s eyes stared at Joe from under a deep frown.
“You think he’ll resist? Three thousand plus isn’t something to sneeze at. He has to think about his reelection next year.”
“Will he run again?”
“Do your eyes tell me you think no?” He seemed puzzled.
She had to admit to herself that she hadn’t heard any rumor that Sanders wouldn’t run, but she showed Joe open palms and big eyes. She reached for the Jim Beam cabinet, looking back at him, and poured two drinks. “It’s late,” she said. “Let’s relax now. I’m going to take two good showers.”
“Huh?”
She offered Joe his drink and lifted her own glass. “This is my first one. The inside.”
“Cheers. I’ll join you.” He winked. “For both showers.”
On Sunday morning Mary contacted Frank at ten o’clock. “Good morning. Sorry to rip you out of Joanna’s arms so early, but Joe and I think we should make our move ASAP with the mayor.”
“Huh? With our current number of signatures?” Frank didn’t sound too enthused. Was he afraid they would look like fools? Losers? Or did she interrupt something important this morning?
She forged ahead. “It’s up to thirty-six hundred now. We may get another hundred tomorrow. People are suffering and wondering. I think our result of just two weeks of canvassing will come as quite a shock to the poor man. Should we try for Tuesday noon? People will be out to lunch, so we might get a bit of a crowd in front of city hall when we march in.”
“Hmm.”
She heard him mumble, presumably to Joanna.
He coughed. “The old man must have his feelers out,” he said, his voice still a bit hoarse. “He’ll already know our results more or less. He may refuse to see you. Us. May try to run out the clock while he consults with a bunch of lawyers.”
“He can’t possibly think thirty-six hundred is peanuts.”
“Who knows? He can think anything he wants. He may say they’re not officially certified or something. I have no idea. I’m no politician.”
“Me neither, but I bet you he’ll cave.” She caught Joe’s thumbs-up and smiled.
“Cave?”
Frank’s short, somewhat curt answers now had convinced her Joanna wasn’t pleased with the early Sunday morning call. She felt an internal giggle. “He will. First thing tomorrow morning I’ll ask him for an appointment for Tuesday noon and tell him what it’s about, as if he doesn’t know.”
“I wish I could be as—”
“As naïve as me? We must show confidence, Frank.”
“Okay….”
At nine o’clock on Monday Mary called City Hall and asked for the mayor. He wasn’t in yet, but Mrs. Cole, his assistant, was kind enough to relay a message. “Can I tell him what it’s about?”
“Guess,” Mary said. She knew Mrs. Cole well.
“Oh. I should know, of course. We all know, right?”
“Could we make it tomorrow at twelve?”
“Twelve…. Call you back, Mary.”
Twenty minutes later the mayor’s response came, through Julie Cole. “He’ll be glad to meet with you and your friends at noon tomorrow. For thirty minutes,” she said matter-of-factly.
Mary smiled. She knew what Julie thought. “I appreciate the mayor’s time and attention. Thanks for the appointment at such short notice,” she said courteously.
“Our pleasure. See you tomorrow.”
Joe had listened in. “That was easy. He must think our figures are ridiculously low. Easy to laugh off. But I bet he’s wrong and risking his job.” His pointed index showed his conviction.
“Or he’s not running,” Mary shot back, a bit nervous. “Let’s start packing for tomorrow’s show. And I must alert Frank.”
They managed to squeeze the bundles of petitions into three old cardboard boxes. Mary tried to lift one. “Piece of cake,” she said and puffed.
When they gathered on the steps of City Hall minutes before noon on Tuesday, a crowd of onlookers and sympathizers had formed. The trio had spread the news here and there. A slight drizzle tried to temper their enthusiasm, but they marched up the steps undeterred, to a cacophony of applause, cheers, hoots and whistles. Harriet watched the scene in silence. Mary felt a touch of compassion for her but it faded fast. She had to concentrate on Joe. He had insisted on carrying one of the boxes. Frank followed them, with two boxes, silent and looking lost in thought. Maybe he thinks it’s all futile. Anyway, he wants to be a good sport.
Julie Cole opened the front door before they could ring the bell. Mary checked her hair in the glass cover of a hallway photograph showing a younger, smiling Dick Cheney cutting a ribbon. She smoothed her blouse and took a deep breath.
The mayor’s door was open. He was standing in front of his huge desk when they entered.
The short, paunchy man checked his watch.
Telling us he’s hungry. Mary chuckled inside.
“Come in. You can drop those boxes in that corner,” he said curtly, pointing, “and take a seat.”
“Thank you.” Mary said.
His sturdy table was round, made of chestnut wood that didn’t have one visible scratch. The chairs were heavy, hard to move, but felt comfortable once she was seated. She looked at a picture behind the desk of a fly-fishing Sanders. She said, “Looks like—”
“Wyoming,” he said, smiling. “The good old days.” He groaned as he lowered his wide frame into a chair. “You guys must’ve been working overtime.”
He sounds jovial. It must be Wyoming, Mary thought, surprised. Or is it our low count? He must have heard. She lifted her hand, her eyes asking Sanders, “May I?”
He nodded and let a sigh.
She coughed lightly. “I think you agree we have no time to lose to solve our water problem, Mr. Mayor.”
He slowly closed and reopened his eyes, a long, calm blink. “I agree. We’re dealing with it with appropriate haste. I’m convinced that we’ll be able to maintain an adequate drinking water supply, a major effort, until the engineers come up with a permanent solution. Soon, I think.” It sounded like a line he had used a hundred times—delivered with confidence bordering on arrogance.
“Meanwhile we should stop making matters worse,” Frank responded. “More methane creeps into our aquifer every second.”
“More than just methane,” Mary added. Her eyes checked with Frank. His nod was close to unnoticeable.
Nobody reacted. She felt she had the floor, and indeed no time to lose, so she cut straight to the chase. “Mr. Mayor, I assume you’ve read our petition?”
“A few times.” His tone was flat. He started tapping the table, his eyes daring her.
She leaned her head toward the boxes. “Joe and Frank have carried in more than thirty-six hundred signatures from well-meaning concerned citizens.”
“Thirty-six hundred? Hmm. Not even half the population.”
“No, sir.”
“Uncertified, right?”
Baiting me. She knew she had to keep her indignation in check. “Uh. Of course. We don’t claim they’re ‘certified’, but we’ve counted meticulously and honestly, my husband and I. We’ve discarded duplicates and obvious fakes. Feel free to contact any of the signees to verify. We’re decent, honest people.”
He waved his hand. “Thirty-six hundred means nothing, anyway. Certified or not. Our population is over fourteen thousand.”
She wanted to respond, “Including at least two thousand children. We have signatures from more than half of the households,” but she bit her tongue. She said, “We know that many more—”
“I can tell you firsthand, right now, Mr. Mayor,” Joe jumped in, raising his voice, “that you have many more Noredge citizens, thousands, who keep silent but feel exactly the same as the three of us here.” He looked at Mary and Frank. “But many of them are afraid to speak up.”
“Afraid of whom? Me?” The mayor’s exaggerated laugh betrayed his anger.
Joe evinced a look of concern and lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t put it that way, Mayor Sanders, but every citizen knows by now the power Supren has here over…over everybody. My wife lost her job because she—”
“That was a school board decision,” Sanders snapped.
“Was it?” Mary’s tone was scorn-laden.
The mayor’s face had turned red and his forehead started showing pearls of perspiration. “It was. Keep your insinuations to yourself.”
She took another deep breath and asked, “Will you accept the terms of our petition?” She paused and waited for an answer or a nod—anything.
The mayor didn’t react.
“If not,” she went on, “somebody may have to run against you next year to force—”
“I’d welcome competition,” Sanders nickered. “I’ll beat them to a pulp, as I’ve done for more than a decade. And your petition? It’s unpatriotic, unworthy of serious discussion.”
“Unworthy? Have you read pages two and three?” Frank asked. He suddenly seemed to turn combative, and winked furtively at Mary.
She was convinced that the text floated a few levels above the mayor’s pay grade.
“I haven’t,” he said dismissively, waving his hand, “but my technical guy tells me it’s a bunch of misleading, tendentious gobbledygook.” He looked at his watch. “To answer your initial question,” he turned to Mary, “number one, no, I personally don’t accept your proposals. And I suggest you don’t try to scare me with empty political threats. Won’t work.”
“I don’t have the slightest intention to threaten anybody, Mr. Mayor.”
He ignored her. “Second, you guys should know that this kind of decision has to be taken up by the city council. Third, let me advise you that the petition’s chances in the council are nil: too much is at stake for the community. We’re losing jobs to China; our tire businesses are going down the drain; we’re getting whacked by cheap imports; and the US is being milked dry by Saudi sheiks. Maybe that should be page four of your petition.” He sat back, his eyes drilled into Mary’s.
Frank said, “We understand the procedure you have to follow. How soon can the council meet?”
“Governor Kasich may want to get his two cents in too, so it may take some time. Mrs. Cole will let you guys know the decision and I’ll confirm it in writing. Don’t get your hopes up too high.” At once he stood up. “Thanks for coming.”
The trio looked at each other as they proceeded to the exit of the building. The mayor’s attitude had apparently drawn Frank out of his earlier defeatism. He kept shaking his head. “This can’t be the end of the story. Too much is at stake. What the hell can we do? What more?”
“Go to court. Sue Supren for negligence. Barricade the access to their wells.” Joe sounded ready for action.
“Kidnap…whom could we kidnap?” Frank asked, his tone quipping but his facial expression showing desperation.
Mary had kept quiet. She understood Frank needed a dose of black humor to quash his disgust. “Okay. Okay. Are you guys done? How about something serious: I’m not done. With Sanders.”
“Yeah. We can always blackmail him. With one of those—”
“Stop joking, Joe. I can do better than that.” She was determined. “I’m going back in there. You stay here. Mister Mayor’s lunch can wait.”
Frank wrinkled a brow. “Why go back? Are you going to be long? Joanna’s waiting.”
“Long enough to spoil his appetite. He’ll listen, dammit. Til I’m done with him.” She was already on her way.
Joe looked incredulous.
“I’ll show you. Just wait,” she shouted.
She strode by Julie’s desk, which was vacant, headed straight for Sanders’s office and barged in unannounced.
He almost dropped his sandwich, his expression one of bafflement, which quickly changed to one of irritation.
“Two more minutes,” she said, nervous, her throat dry, index and middle finger trembling in the air. She swallowed and steadied herself. She felt his eyes diagnosing her as he offered himself another bite of his sandwich.
His look became one of amusement while he took his time to clear his mouth. An eternity. Then he asked, chuckling, “Got more signatures? Take a seat.”
“Thanks. I’m running against you next year.” She had blurted it out before she was in her chair.
He sat back and produced a big smile. “Great! Be my guest, honey. Friendly competition.”
“I’ll beat the shit out of you.”
He frowned, a condescending smirk on his face. “Oh. Not that friendly.”
“Stop joking. I’ve got a mailing list of over three thousand, you know. All keen, informed voters. And Joe’s silent legion
may be a lot bigger.”
“So that’s why—”
“Why I launched the petition? So I could run for your office? No. But now the game’s changed. You refuse to listen to your citizens. I have to kick you out. And I will. And then I’ll implement the petition. Me.”
He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Calm down, Mary. Calm down, girl. First of all, the council hasn’t decided anything. Hasn’t even discussed your document.”
“I have no illusions. You more than hinted how the vote would go.”
In a split second his face had turned livid. “What? Don’t you twist my words. You’re being unfair.” He stood up and gestured she should leave. “I don’t take rudeness very well.”
She got up too and moved close to him.
She felt his heavy breathing and smelled his perspiration, but didn’t let it bother her. She was going to get out the big guns. “I will go, but just one more thing. I demand that the city sue Supren. For mismanagement. For neglect. For disregard for the community. It’s your duty.”
“The council—”
“Forget your bloody council. Supren will sue Viola in any case. That’s obvious, right?”
He looked taken aback for a moment. Then he said, “Obvious? Well, they have the right, of course.”
“Viola will countersue. They’ve been seriously screwed over in the takeover battle of Doornaert.”
He leaned his head. “You know?”
“We’ll find out, won’t we?”
“Huh?” He smiled.
“I bet we’ll have a couple of very interesting lawsuits, or more than two. They’ll open city and company books, Supren’s, Viola’s and Doornaert’s; interview corporate, city and county personnel, even corporate lawyers; look for bribery, permit shenanigans and tax evasion; scrutinize private bank accounts and international transactions….” She ran out of breath.
He shrugged. “You don’t know a damn thing about such—”