The Many Change and Pass

by R.P. Burnham

Myron was in his office going over budget requests for books and supplies on a quiet Friday afternoon in September when Nellie lightly tapped on his half-opened door and followed herself in. “Myron,” she whispered, “you should see who’s out there.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “Dora and Richard Nevins, the chairman of the city council.” She looked scared as she pronounced the man’s name—scared and worried.

  Instantly he understood what was happening. On Monday he had mounted a pasteboard display he had spent much of the previous week making. With many patrons curious about the mercury poisoning of the little boy upcountry, he had made a graphics and text display of the process that led to mercury pollution in air and water and its effects on the body. The first poster showed pictures and listed recyclable items that contained mercury—mercury switches, antilock brakes, thermometers, hospital equipment, fluorescent bulbs and the like. Another poster showed how mercury got into the environment from emissions of coal-fired plants and municipal burning. The next three posters traced the sequence from the mercury getting into a body of water where it was acted on by bacteria to produce organic compounds like methyl mercury and followed that through the food chain, ending up in higher animals like fish and birds, and the final three posters showed the effects of mercury on the human body—damage to the nervous system, kidney damage and the like. All in all it was a straightforward display. Perhaps the only real indiscretion in the whole display was a few sentences about unscrupulous and greedy people who illegally and knowingly dumped such dangerous things into the environment.

  He already knew Dora was displeased with the display. She had come in for work last Monday night and had silently inspected the display with a dark frown and a sour mouth but had said nothing. Obviously she was deeply disturbed by it, however, for during the week she became even more unpleasant than usual. She would hardly speak to him or look at him, and then only when necessary as she rasped out some curt question about operational matters. Now she was leaving behind passive aggression and actually declaring war. With a comforting pat on Nellie’s shoulder, Myron said, “Well, well,” and went out to confront the pair of right-wing conspirators.

  They were too engrossed in their inspection to notice him. Curious, he watched in silence. He knew Nevins by reputation and newspaper reports. He didn’t wear glasses, but it must have been from vanity, for he appeared to be nearsighted. He read the text and looked at the pictures by leaning forward and squinting. Sometimes his horrid face remained composed; several times he frowned darkly. He was a big bull of a man, with jowls and lips permanently curled into a sour expression as if he found everything disgusting. He wore an expensive suit that his bulging belly managed to make look like a cheap suit bought off the rack. His small beady eyes lacked even an iota of humanity. He telegraphed his lack of compassion and solidarity with ordinary folks who struggled from paycheck to paycheck. Very likely, street people and others without paychecks were so far off his scale of respectability that they would be regarded as nonhuman. Myron knew the type—every town and city in America featured them as favorite sons. Why America produced such bullheaded, Podsnappian abortions was a question he had often asked himself. This one was a right-wing Catholic who saw the world through the lenses of abstraction. He thought morality was following a few rules and rituals, as if adhering to the decalogue and saying Hail Mary and crossing himself was the secret of life. To Myron he was virtually another species. There would be no common ground possible, no appeal to fellow feeling, in dealing with him, only resort to legalisms and threats of the law or public opinion.

  Having sized up and dispatched the bull, he turned his mind to the snake. Dora’s effrontery and insubordination was stunning. He knew that she knew he could fire her, but like a poker player she was betting all on this one hand, hoping to get him fired after which she would assume the directorship that she always felt was hers by right. Apparently her envy and malice were so overwhelming that she wasn’t thinking clearly. Myron had read his contract for his five-year appointment carefully and knew that he was only answerable to the board of trustees, several with whom he had good personal relations and who were predominately liberals. Two were university professors and another the president of a small college. He knew that with their familiarity with education and the First Amendment they would side with him.

  At some point Myron became aware that they knew he was watching them. After a whispered exchange they turned to face him.

  Myron stepped forward. “Is there a problem?”

  “We wish to speak to you about this display, Mr. Seavey.” Nevins glanced at Nellie behind the counter and at a patron on her way to the stacks. “In private.”

  Myron led them to his office. Sitting down at his desk and waving his hand towards the chairs facing the desk, he said, “Well?”

  Dora looked at him sternly. “You know what the problem is. A library is no place for propaganda.”

  Myron smiled ironically. “A library is not a chamber of commerce, Dora. It’s a repository of what humankind has learned. It has a duty just like schools to educate and enlighten citizens. The display shows how pollution gets into the food supply. Many patrons have asked me questions about mercury poisoning since that little boy became sick. The display answers these questions. It is educational, not propaganda.”

  He raised his hand when Dora started to object. “No, I will say it another way. To be educated, people need perspective. John Stuart Mill in his book On Liberty argued that the truth arose from a dialectic. All sides of a question need to be examined before we can arrive at intelligent conclusions. The businesspeople in this town and this country have their views in the media all the time. But other views must be seen. The voiceless—like that little boy—need to have their side heard.”

  Nevins, frowning impatiently, hardly listened to him. “Have you considered the reputation of the town, Mr. Seavey?”

  “I’m not sure I understand what you mean, Mr. Nevins. As I explained to Dora, the display is a response to numerous queries from patrons of the library. It was carefully researched so that every fact can be verified. I think—”

  Nevins, tapping his fingers impatiently on his armrest, didn’t wait for him to finish. “The question is this, is a library a place for radical politics?”

  “Is sane ecology and a clean environment against the interests of the town of Waska?”

  Nevins frowned angrily. He seemed to find the question impertinent. “I think the solution to the problem is simple. Take the display down. Get rid of it. It doesn’t belong in the library.”

  Myron felt a flush of anger in turn but stifled it. “Mr. Nevins, you are uttering an opinion. You may believe it, but it’s still an opinion. Can you show me a statute or a law that would require its removal? Is there any law that is violated by having the display in the library?”

  Dora, her face flush with hatred and her lip curled in imitation of Nevins’s congenital condition, said, “A library is no place for communist propaganda. It is not the place to side with the terrorists either.”

  Nevins nodded in agreement, though he was too wily to commit himself verbally to such an emotional outburst. Affecting a tone of pitying regret, he said, “I thought you might be a man of sense, Mr. Seavey. I thought we could talk like two men of the world. Perhaps I am wrong. We’re not talking about legal issues here. We’re speaking of decency, decorum. We’re speaking of respect for the town and its people.”

  “I will repeat again. The display is educational. It was made for the benefit of the public and because there was a need. I have no plans to remove it.”

  Nevins rose and Dora followed suit. “Perhaps, then, it is a matter to be discussed in the city council. Perhaps a hearing is in order.”

  If that was supposed to intimidate Myron, it didn’t work. While he was controlling his anger, it was simmering close to the boiling point, and he was conceding nothing to this pair. “Again I will repeat, a library, like a university, is a place for fre
e inquiry. It is not a place to flout the First Amendment. A hearing changes nothing.”

  Nevins turned and was about to retort when he thought the better of it. Abruptly he turned to the door and with his back to Myron said, “Good day to you, sir.”

  Dora, looking like an eight-year-old spoiled brat under her mother’s protection in a childhood squabble, turned and smirked at Myron from the door.

  Myron remained at his desk listening to their feet clattering on the mar-ble floor. At the sound of the door closing, Nellie came into the office.

  “Did you hear any of that, Nellie?”

  The distress on her face said yes before she did. “What are you going to do, Myron?”

  “Whatever is necessary to keep the library free of pols like that man.”

  “Honestly, I knew Dora didn’t like you and was jealous, but I had no idea how venomous she could be. Shouldn’t you fire her?”

  He shook his head. “That would be too petty. Only if she becomes impossible to work with or even to talk to will that become an option.”

  He returned to his paperwork as soon as Nellie went back to the front, but his mind was not in it. He stopped, looked into space for a moment, then phoned Gerry MacArthur to ask him if he had time to meet him for a drink at 4:30 to talk about Richard Nevins. The name got Gerry’s full attention. He was going to run for city council as a Democrat in the municipal elections next spring, and Nevins would be his opponent. With the meeting arranged, he tried once more to get his paperwork done, only to find that his mind was still too busy for such drudgery. For two hours he busied himself with physical activity, restacking books and the like, then left early before Dora returned for the night shift. He drove directly to Bedford, then spent the fifteen minutes waiting until 4:30 walking aimlessly and thinking. He started musing about Nevins but as soon as he considered the publicity that was sure to arise in his dispute with the pol, he found himself dwelling on Becky and what her reaction to the news would be. They were engaged now and had scheduled the wedding for next May. They were sleeping together as well, though mostly on weekends. The presence of the two boys made logistics complicated. Most often they went away for weekend trips to either his cottage in western Massachusetts or to motels on the coast of Maine. Lynn took care of the boys when they were away. One weekend Lowell and Fiona, despite expecting their baby girl, which was in fact born the following week, had them at their cottage when Lynn was not available. Despite these complications, this aspect of their relationship was wonderful; the only hint of trouble that potentially threatened their future was their political—and by extension psychological—differences, which were most evident in their differing attitudes towards Chris Andrews. Where Myron supported the young man wholeheartedly, Becky detested the man. She tried to hide it, but her feelings were so biased that he could easily see her dislike. For a long time he was unsure of the source of her antipathy, but when he met Becky’s mother in July his eyes were opened. Mrs. Monroe was a very competent and orderly person, and in observing her and her husband he could see the Republican mindset in action.

  Her love of order expressed itself in two ways. First, he observed it in little things like her smoothing her husband’s hair after a gust of wind mussed it or her rearranging the silverware that Becky had set for dinner by moving a knife a quarter of an inch towards the fork and moving the fork down an eighth of an inch. But the way he became convinced her mania for order was borderline pathology was the day he saw that Mrs. Monroe’s need for order and stability also encompassed the civic order. They were sitting on the front porch having a before-dinner drink when he saw her eyes narrow in displeasure. He turned to see her following the progress of an unkempt man walking down the street. He wasn’t a street person, not a tramp, just a laborer, but it was obvious his presence in her neighborhood offended her deeply. She watched him until he was safely out of sight. How many times, he asked himself, would Becky have seen such behavior before she absorbed it unconsciously?

  He came away from the parental visit feeling he had gained insight into Becky’s psyche. At the same time he was equally sure that she knew intellectually that her antipathy towards Andrews was not legitimate. Indeed, she had never gone beyond expressing mild reservations concerning his partisan support of the environmental activist. He was attending a meeting of the Greens at the Unitarian Church tonight to discuss Chris Andrews, who was going to be in attendance. A supposed break-in at the office of Ridlon recycling had occurred, and Chris was accused of the crime. Everyone in the Green movement thought that Ridlon had staged the break-in to get rid of incriminating evidence, and a demonstration was being planned to support Andrews. Myron had wanted Becky to go with him, hoping that in meeting Chris Andrews she would see that he wasn’t a fanatic but rather a dedicated soul, but Lynn was unavailable for baby-sitting. Before Nevins became the issue, Myron was already feeling uneasy about this lost opportunity. Now with Nevins threatening a hearing and Myron becoming a target of the anti-environmental forces, not merely a supporter, he was going to have to be circumspect and show her he was acting prudently when he saw her at dinner. This was the main reason he decided to confer with Gerry.

  Checking his watch and seeing that it was almost 4:30, he turned back to the office building near the courthouse in Bedford. As he drew closer to the building he passed a group of teenaged boys arguing loudly about the football game between Courtney Academy and Bedford High tomorrow afternoon. Apparently some of the boys were C.A. students, for the discussion was getting heated and partisan. He smiled benignly at the high feelings occasioned by trivialities and recalled how well he had kept his temper with Nevins. That was something Becky should know.

  Gerry, not ordinarily particularly punctual, was waiting for him outside his building. They walked down the street to the bar, passing the arguing boys. Myron said he was involved with a different kind of dispute and needed to get an objective and professional opinion.

  “Nevins’s name certainly got my attention,” Gerry said.

  By implicit agreement they did not start discussing the matter until they were seated at a table in the bar and their drinks had arrived. Myron had a Bass ale and Gerry a whiskey sour.

  Myron narrated the afternoon’s events and ended by saying he didn’t think Nevins had a legal leg to stand on.

  “He doesn’t, but that isn’t how he works. He wields power. He uses intimidation. He’s unscrupulous.”

  “But would he actually have a hearing on my display?”

  Gerry scratched his chin and mused for a moment. “Probably he was trying to scare you. But he’s capable of doing what he said—subtly to be sure. He wouldn’t call it librarygate. It would be some vague thing like quality of life in our beloved town. He’d say in a press release that he had always felt that the library was a key institution in town.”

  “You know he has absolutely nothing to do with the library. A board of trustees is responsible. Several of them don’t even live in Waska.”

  “True, but he can make things uncomfortable for you. And…” He paused and gave Myron a troubled look.

  “What?”

  “Won’t it make things uncomfortable with Becky too?”

  Myron took a sip of beer, then carefully placed the mug back on the coaster. “You’ve noticed that Becky doesn’t like Chris Andrews and this whole ecological business, haven’t you?”

  “It’s hard to miss.”

  “Yeah, she won’t like it. I’m pretty sure, though, that I know why.”

  When Gerry raised his eyebrows, inviting an explanation, Myron told him about his observations of Mrs. Monroe.

  “I don’t know,” Gerry said doubtfully. He looked troubled but hesitant.

  Again Myron asked, “What?”

  “Well, what if you had to choose.”

  Myron looked at Gerry. His face was grim as if he thought an either/or was a real possibility. It occurred to Myron that he had probably heard of his first fiancée. “First, it won’t come to that—if by
that you mean a choice between Becky or choosing to follow my conscience to do what I think is right.”

  “But it might—or could. Lynn thinks it has more to do with her husband’s murder. Those two Nazis who killed Bill after breaking and entering his brother’s cottage—they were political fanatics. They were right-wing and Andrews is a lefty, but he too was guilty of breaking and entering, and you could see him as a fanatic. The similarities are there.”

  Gerry explained the similarities well, but it still didn’t seem real to Myron. And yet it occurred to him that his obsessive thinking of Becky this afternoon was telling him something. He finished his beer in a gulp. “You mean you think every time Becky thinks of Andrews she’s remembering her husband’s murderers?”

  “Lynn thinks so. And Lynn knows Becky better than anyone else.”

  Myron’s mind began racing. He saw Becky’s face when Andrews was mentioned. What he thought was psychological revulsion could just as likely be pain, pain she was trying to suppress. He felt dumbfounded. He thought he knew her, and this—the most important fact in her life—he had missed. Was it possible he could be so blind?

  “Did she take Bill’s death badly?”

  Gerry nodded grimly. “Very. It devastated her. For two years she was in mourning. I think she feels guilty. You know, he had an affair and they were separated. But she blames herself. Had he been home with her he would still be alive. I don’t think she has totally gotten over it yet.”

  “She doesn’t like to talk about it. That I know.”

  “You should, though. I think it would be healthy.”

  He thought about that advice during the rest of their conversation. Nevins was spoken of, but he hardly skimmed over the surface of Myron’s consciousness, so concentrated was his mind on Becky and this new revelation. On the drive back to Waska and to her house he felt something close to amazement at how right Gerry’s observation was. Once it was stated plainly and unambiguously, it seemed impossible that he had never noticed the connection in her mind between Chris Andrews and her husband’s murderers. For the past four months he had been with her constantly, had shared his life and his bed with her, and yet he had not seen the great throbbing pain of her life in the right light. He knew that falling in love with the survivor of a murder victim was not in the common way of human experience, but still he should have known. That look of suppressed pain that she was unable to hide when Chris Andrews’s name was mentioned spoke of the inner reality of her heart. Again and again he berated himself for his stupidity, his insensitivity. “You fool! you fool!” he muttered aloud, pounding the steering wheel while waiting for the light to change. He even began to be afraid that their love was endangered. Then Gerry’s question about choosing came vividly into his mind. He didn’t want any such choice. He wanted her love and he wanted to be true to his sense of duty. He went over and over the ways he could broach the topic to Becky without any solution. He would have to trust that he would find the way. He would have to trust Becky. He would have to take the existential leap, he thought as he pulled into the driveway.

  She was at the stove stirring spaghetti sauce when he entered the kitchen. She turned and smiled sweetly.

  He gave her a kiss, then tousled the hair of the boys when they ran into the kitchen to greet him. Johnny had a drawing of a house with two boys and a man and a woman standing in front of it. Myron was touched to recognize that the family pictured was theirs.

  “Nice drawing, Johnny.”

  “I can make one too,” Trevor said.

  “Okay, when you do I want to see it.”

  He looked at Becky, tilting his head slightly and raising his eye-brows.

  “Okay, boys, back to watching the nature show,” she said.

  Myron sat down at the kitchen table. “Well, Dora made her move today. She was even more brazen than I imagined.”

  She gave the sauce one final stir and came to the table. “You mean about the mercury display?”

  He nodded. “She brought in Richard Nevins from the city council. Do you know him?”

  “Not too well, but he owns the largest realty company around and has done business with the Davenport Agency. He’s a very strong-willed man, Myron. He’s dangerous. I hope there was no trouble. He likes to get his way.”

  “I know. I talked to Gerry about him. We had a drink at a bar in Bedford. I was looking for some legal advice, you know. He agrees with you that Nevins is a powerful and unscrupulous man. But he can’t give me any real trouble. They want me to remove the display.”

  A worried look passed over her face. She sat down and leaned forward, her hand on his. “Myron, maybe you’d better do it. He really is a very powerful man in this town.”

  “Maybe so, but the Bill of Rights is more powerful.”

  She shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Myron, Myron, Myron, what am I going to do with you?”

  She was trying to lighten up, even laughing at herself. It was a good time to bring up what Gerry had told him, but he lost his nerve and backed off. “Well, in a nutshell, they said it was political. I said it was educational. I don’t think it will get nasty. Many people have asked me about mercury poisoning since that Kimball boy got sick. If they tried to get me in trouble, they’d look bad. And besides, I don’t work for the city government. I’m answerable only to the trustees.”

  She stood and walked to the stove to turn the spaghetti sauce down to a simmer. Covering the pan, she turned to him and said, “I wish you wouldn’t make trouble for yourself. I know this is very important to you. It’s just…”

  “But you do understand I have to do this. Standing up for the earth is one thing I can do.”

  “But the Greens are planning a demonstration, aren’t they? You’ll be part of it. It will give Mr. Nevins more ammunition.”

  “It doesn’t have to. Demonstrations can be very civil and civic affairs. During the first Gulf War my mother came with me to the demonstration on the Boston Commons. That she was there showed it wasn’t all wild-eyed radicals.”

  He said this with a smile, but still she looked serious and troubled. “Peaceful demonstrations are one thing, but Andrews breaking the law goes over the line. People don’t have to break the law to disagree with the government.”

  “Maybe sometimes they do. Both parties are in essential agreement about U.S. imperialism. The media is on their side. A truly progressive point-of-view is never seen in the big media. It’s the same with ecology and the environment. The government is filled with people who think of business and moneymaking first. When it comes to a choice between a clean environment and wetlands and the like or more economic development, it’s the money that always wins. And think of Martin Luther King and the Civil Rights Movement. Without those illegal sit-ins and other acts of civil disobedience, racist Jim Crow laws would still be in effect. When it is a choice between law and ethics, one has to do what one thinks right. Thoreau called it a duty, the duty of civil disobedience. The authorities in this town are on Ridlon’s side. He’s a powerful man. But someone has to be on the side of that poor little boy.”

  Becky listened to him with arms folded and a thoughtful expression on her face. He could see that she felt the force of his argument yet still resisted it. “I see your point, though maybe you’re overstating it. There are plenty of people in government who dislike Ridlon. If Gerry wins his election, he would be one more. The vote is another way to protest.”

  Even while he nodded in polite agreement, he was still thinking of a way to bring up her husband. There was never going to be a time it would feel right, he decided, but it had to be done. He would take the leap. In a different tone, one he hoped suggested delicacy and firmness, he said, “There’s something else I want to ask you. I don’t want to cause you pain or even discomfort, but the way you feel about Chris Andrews—does it have anything to do with the murder of your husband?”

  She hadn’t expected this question. Her face dropped, she turned pale, and she struggled to compose herself. “Wh
y do you ask that?”

  “Because I am aware of certain similarities. Those two Nazis were breaking and entering before the shooting occurred. They were motivated by political beliefs. Andrews is accused of twice breaking and entering, and he too was motivated by a political agenda. I don’t think the similarities are close, but they are there.”

  Becky walked slowly to the kitchen counter and looked out the window above the sink for what felt like a long time before turning to face him. “I think the answer is yes. I know intellectually that the two cases are different, but, yes, I think I do see that Andrews is a fanatic just like those murderers were who killed—” The tears that started flowing stopped her. Her whole body shuddered; from the middle of her pained and contorted face her eyes appealed for comfort.

  Instantly he sprang up and took her into his arms. “Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry that I never considered your feelings in this case. It must have been painful for you thinking of Bill every time I blathered on about Chris Andrews. I’ll never forgive myself. I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

  He felt her trembling body becoming calmer. She nuzzled into his shoulder and was quiet for a while. “I know they’re two different things. It’s me that’s the problem. I’m not asking you to go against your conscience—I mean I understand. I just wish the world was saner.”

  “Well, I could write a letter to the newspaper. Would that be better?”

  “No, no. You go to that meeting, Myron. You do what you have to do. That’s what I want. I love you, every part of you, everything you do. I admire your moral courage. I want you to be yourself.”

  These love-laden words were everything he hoped to hear; relief, joy and love flooded his soul as he whispered, “I love you too, love you in every way.”

  He looked at the entryway into the living room to see four blue eyes staring at them. Both Trevor and Johnny looked worried and perplexed to hear their mother crying.

  Becky, seeing them, moved away. “It’s okay. We’ll be eating soon,” she said quietly.

  “Your mother was upset, boys. It’s okay now.”

  Johnny, already wise to the ways of the world, covered his embarrass-ment. “Are we having spaghetti? I can smell it.”

  “Yes, after we make a salad and boil the pasta,” Becky said. Turning to Myron, she asked, “You could use some help with the salad, couldn’t you?”

  He said yes emphatically. They were a family again, and everything was normal and all right. The boys helped Myron make a salad by washing the lettuce, an operation they had been taught to do, and as they ate the meal they shared their day. Johnny had learned about George Washington in school. Myron took a dollar bill from his wallet and showed him the picture, telling him that he was the father of our country and that he was a man who, it was said, could not tell a lie. Trevor was just learning his letters and ran into the living room to get a paper with A, B, C, and D written on it. Myron was suitably impressed.

  With the boys playing in the other room, he and Becky did the dishes. While he washed the pots and pans and she dried them, he said, “I wish you could go to the meeting.”

  “I do too, but after it’s over you can tell me all about it when you come home.”

  That was her way of inviting him to sleep with her tonight. Implicitly it meant she felt vulnerable and troubled by the memories of her husband that their conversation had stirred up. It also meant that she needed to be near the one she loved tonight. So Myron left for the meeting in a good mood and feeling good about the future.

  The Unitarian Church was a simple white building, box-shaped and with a small steeple that at its apex had a small cross so nondescript it could be mistaken for a weathervane. As such Myron liked the building and thought it an appropriate reflection of his religion. Many Unitarian churches took over Congregational churches when the reaction against Calvinism occurred in the early nineteenth-century, and as such showed no distinctive features. But the plainness of this building and its windows, which were regular and not stained glass, to his mind had an elegant simplicity that pointed to the Unitarian emphasis on living an ethical life and not being distracted by ritualistic baubles.

  After parking his car, Myron walked to the back of the building and down the stairs to the nondescript function room that was used for Sunday school, church suppers and meetings such as the one he was attending. The room was about thirty-five feet by twenty with the walls painted a light blue and the only pictures a few land- and seascapes. There were no overtly Christian emblems, even though the minister, unlike many Unitarian clergy, regarded herself as a Christian. Nine tables were pushed against the outer wall and one was on the dais at the end of the room. That arrangement, together with all the light brown folding chairs arranged in rows, was the Sunday school layout for the room. At some point, Myron knew, they would have to move the chairs into a different configuration.

  Five or six people had arrived before him, among them the minister herself, Barbara Hallam, whom Myron regarded as both his clergyman and friend. She was a plain woman, fortyish, with an angular face and straight brown hair just speckled with gray. Though small and soft-spoken, she had an inner strength that was positively Buddhist in character. She gave marvelous sermons, humane and deeply ethical, with the high seriousness accented with touches of humor. Myron both liked her and respected her immensely.

  With her husband, a doctor, she spent two months in a clinic in east Africa each summer. When she came up to greet him, it was her summer in Africa they talked about. She had just returned home last week, and this was his first opportunity to talk to her.

  “Hello, Barbara,” he said as they embraced. “Was it another good summer in Africa?”

  “Yes, and more interesting than usual. We had a young local girl who’s in med school with us. She wants to serve in Africa when she’s done medical school and residency.”

  “Oh? Who is she?”

  “Michelle Turcotte. If you ever lose faith with the younger generation, I recommend you talk to her. She’ll restore your faith in the younger generation in a matter of minutes.”

  He smiled. “Luckily I haven’t lost it yet, but I’m sure I’ll keep her in mind. How did my mother’s X-ray machine work?”

  His mother had raised money for the clinic for many years, and in her will she left the money to buy a portable X-ray machine. The will hadn’t gone through probate yet, but Myron had written a check for the machine after his mother’s funeral.

  “Wonderful, once we got it going. There was something wrong with the wiring, but a man from South Africa fixed it. And how have things been going with you?”

  “Well, until today just fine.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “What happened today?”

  As he told her about Nevins’s visit to the library, her face darkened into a frown. “That man is a disgrace. I do hope your friend defeats him next spring. But this is an important matter. Do you mind if we put it in the docket? The whole group should hear about it.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” Myron said somewhat absently. He just caught sight of Chris Andrews coming into the room.

  “I was just thinking,” Barbara said as she followed his eyes to the door—“Oh, I see our guest of honor has arrived.” She turned back to him. “Anyways, one thing undecided is where we’ll hold the demonstration. What do you think of having it at the library?”

  His first thought was of Becky. The library as the site would draw more attention to him, and he knew she wouldn’t like it. “I think it would be better in front of Ridlon’s business. But we can put it to the group, see what they think. The only good thing about the library is that it would give Dora a conniption fit.”

  Barbara smiled. “The personal is political, huh?”

  She excused herself and went over to welcome Chris Andrews and his friend. Myron was about to follow her when Ted Cote asked him if it was true that Richard Nevins was gunning for him. Myron gave him an incredulous look. “I know rumors fly like the wind, but I just told Barbara abo
ut it a second ago. How’d you know about it?”

  But there was no mystery. Ted’s wife had dropped some books off at the library after work and talked to Nellie. Ted’s question deflected him from Chris Andrews so that he didn’t get a chance to speak to him, but he observed him as he chatted with other members of the Greens—most of whom he knew from previous meetings or from the Unitarian Church (for many, like him, were both Unitarian and Green). He noticed an interesting thing right off—that Chris was basically shy. He kept close to his female friend, initiated no conversations, and looked uncomfortable when talking to some of the other people. He was dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. His friend, a pretty young woman with a pleasant face, full lips, a pug nose and sandy hair worn short, was similarly attired. Her flannel shirt was red and white, his black and white. He guessed that they were friends, though the way he saw the woman look at him lovingly a few times hinted at a deeper relationship. He also noticed something else that he would have to tell Becky. When they went over to where refreshments were available, they chose apple juice, not the wine that most of the people were drinking. Shy and a paragon of sobriety—that would be his report.

  He started chatting with Melissa and Ralph Brisbane about the reading group they had now joined and which was starting next week. They had already begun reading The Heart of Midlothian, the first book, and they got a preview of some of the points Myron was going to bring up at the first meeting. By the time they finished their conversation, the last person expected had arrived.

  This was the environmental lawyer from Boston who was representing Chris and the Green Party. Natalie Feldman was her name. She was a short, very attractive woman with dark eyes and hair, wearing a light blue V-necked sweater, short skirt and hose. In contrast to her client, she was self-confident and vivacious. Myron saw her meeting people and instantly engaging them. Their faces brightened and they began smiling as she spoke to them.

  Seeing that Chris was still surrounded by a group of people, Myron walked over to Barbara and Natalie Feldman and was introduced.

  “Myron’s our town librarian and has a display of what mercury poisoning does to the human body,” Barbara explained. Today the right-wing head of the city council demanded that he take it down.”

  “You didn’t do it, of course?”

  “No. You don’t have to be a lawyer to know he didn’t have a leg to stand on.”

  “He doesn’t,” she said vehemently, slapping her hands together.

  “But he threatens a hearing on the matter,” Barbara said.

  “You have a lawyer, I assume.”

  Myron shrugged. “I have a friend who’s a lawyer. I talked to him after work.”

  “I can give him some case law on this topic. I know offhand two or three relevant cases, and all were settled satisfactorily.”

  “That would be great. I think he’s just bluffing, but if he actually has a hearing, these cases would probably stop things quickly.”

  “Is it true that little boy is no better?”

  “That’s what people say. Someone—I guess it was Chris Andrews—said he was very small for his age and skinny. The mercury overwhelmed his system, I guess.”

  “It’s very sad.” Her face showed these were not just words to her. She looked pained.

  “Yes. Tell me, have you dealt with people like Ridlon before?”

  She grimaced and curled her lip. “Too many times. He’s a typical weasel, if that’s what you’re wondering. I’ve never seen any of these people accept responsibility. They always try to weasel out of it.”

  Myron pretended to be surprised. “You mean there are weasels in the world?”

  “She smiled. “Yes, and one of them is Ridlon.”

  “And they always seem to have friends in high places,” Barbara said as she checked her watch. Speaking in a loud voice for everyone to hear, she said, “I think it’s time we got down to business.”

  There were no Robert’s Rules of Order or any formal trappings of a meeting, but it being her church, she took it upon herself to begin the proceedings. The group made a circle of chairs, and after welcoming everyone she made a few opening remarks, saying she had recently seen global warming up close in east Africa and speaking about the clinic for a few minutes. Ted Cote interrupted to ask everyone if they had seen the latest information on the Greenland ice sheet. Ten years ago it was losing one meter a year; now it was eight to ten meters every year.

  Myron said that in fifty years if this continued they would be having their meeting on the seashore, which now was five miles away.

  “Tell that to the Republicans,” Melissa Brisbane said.

  Barbara, waiting for a few moments to see if anyone else wished to make a comment, turned to Chris. “Chris, would you tell us of the status of your case. Afterwards we’ll hear from Natalie and, because of something that happened in the library today which is relevant to our discussion, from Myron.”

  Speaking in public, Chris was another person. No longer a shy, quiet young man, he became confident and articulate, with facts at his command and a suppressed and righteous anger fueling his words. This was the Chris Andrews he had met last spring in the library; it was both a persona and the real him. He began speaking of his early investigation when he discovered mercury in the Waska River and of the process of narrowing his search until it pointed to Ridlon. He cited from memory some of his readings and compared them with E.P.A. guidelines. Because he was mostly familiar with this part of Chris’s story, Myron didn’t listen too attentively. Instead he found himself thinking about the difference between Barbara, Chris and Natalie on the one hand and Ridlon and Nevins on the other. Recalling Nevins’s bullheaded ignorance put him in mind of the old saw, while not all conservatives were stupid, all stupid people were conservative. Of course there was a legitimate way to be conservative (he was thinking of Becky), but that wasn’t the way for the Podsnappian moral ruffians like Nevins and Ridlon blinded by greed and power and lacking imagination. Their world was confined to the narrow limits of their mean-spirited selves. The humanity and intelligence of those whose minds expanded outwards to the world were in sharp contrast. These were the people the power elite hated. What was the cause of that streak of anti-intellectualism in America? Educated, articulate people couldn’t be fooled; they could see what the rascals were up to behind their lies and rationalizations. If people were truly educated they would see it too. Then the game would be up for the Ridlons and Nevinses of this world. In the meantime anti-intellectualism was a modern form of thought control, and the big media carefully observed the boundaries of permissible thought.

  But Chris was beginning to talk about the supposed break-in at Ridlon’s office, and Myron turned his attention to him.

  “You know he’s already got one of his workers to take the blame. I believe it is commonly known that he tried to bribe the victim’s family, the Kimballs, into silence. In the newspapers it was reported as ‘alleged’ or as a rumor, but I’ve talked to Mrs. Kimball and it happened. So what proof is left that he is behind the illegal dumping? His records, of course. There are bound to be discrepancies between the source and the paperwork to the places he moved the stuff to. Where are his files now? I knew this guy was a devious creep, but accusing me of breaking into his office and stealing his files and his computer takes the cake. Of course he staged this supposed robbery to get rid of the evidence and to make things uncomfortable for me.”

  He paused and a slight smile passed across his face. “I should make a confession here. I got a guy to try to hack into Ridlon’s computer online, but he couldn’t get anything. When that happened I did consider what he accuses me of doing, but saner heads”—here he glanced at his friend, who smiled shyly—“talked me out of it. So I am innocent of the charge, but guilty of…what do you call it?”

  He turned to Barbara, who said, “Thoughts aren’t crimes, Chris. You’re okay.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Chris grinned, then assumed his serious persona again. �
��Anyways, you all know the result. The Portland police got a search warrant and have taken all my records away. Of course they found nothing. There was nothing to find.”

  “Have you got them back yet?” someone asked.

  “That’s one of the first things I’ve done for Chris,” Natalie Feldman said. “He should have everything back by next week.”

  “And Natalie has outfoxed Ridlon too,” Chris said.

  Everyone turned to her.

  “We’ve subpoenaed the Ridlon records from the recycling company in New Jersey where he sent the hazardous material. Ridlon is not half so clever as he thinks he is. Those records should tell the tale.”

  The group broke into spontaneous applause.

  “On that high note, I think I’ve said enough,” Chris said. He sat down to another round of applause while he grinned sheepishly.

  Natalie spoke next. She explained that the only thing Chris was legally responsible for was mere trespassing. She was not a criminal lawyer, but it was not necessary. “The plaintiff in our case,” she said, “is the earth. Specifically we’re bringing a civil suit on behalf of that little boy, his family and the people of Waska. The fines that Ridlon will face when he is found guilty should be hefty enough to put him out of business. The trial will be in a federal court, so all the connections to powerful people he has in Waska and in Maine will be of no use to him whatsoever. When we get those records from New Jersey and from the hospitals and other places that were clients of Ridlon Recycling and start comparing the figures, they should tell us all we need to know. Right now, before I have actually seen them, I am very confident we will have a strong case.”

  Barbara interrupted to ask Natalie how she came to be an environmental lawyer.

  “When you look behind behavior to what motivates it, Ridlon is typical. I was struck when I was an undergraduate by an article I read about human exploitation of the environment. The writer discussed the difference between using natural resources to sustain life and capitalistic exploitation of those same resources. The writer used fishing as his example. Indians took the salmon they needed for food and no more. But if you’re a commercial fisherman, there is never any limit. The more fish you catch the more money you make. Hence overfishing, hence depleted stocks. Because exploiters are possessed—or is it obsessed?—with greed, they don’t care about anything but themselves. I am always amused by those who call the free market rational. It is totally irrational. These people would destroy the earth if there were no limitations placed on them. Global warming is the result of irrational greed. That little boy was poisoned by irrational greed. Someone has to stand up for the earth. One weapon we have is the courts. So I became an environmental lawyer.”

  Everyone was nodding in agreement. They had all undergone some such process of discovery; it was one of the important bonds of solidarity they shared, as Barbara observed when she thanked Natalie for coming to their meeting. A few people, in fact, shared their moment of discovery with the group while others whispered something to those nearby.

  As soon as everyone quieted down, she turned to look at Myron, who promptly stood.

  “I won’t take long and wouldn’t even mention it except that I have become a footnote to this situation. A poster display I made for the library explaining how mercury gets into the environment and how it affects human and mammalian health when it is ingested in its organic form met with the displeasure of one of my colleagues at the library—”

  “It’s Dora Ritter, isn’t it?” Leigh Schumann asked. “Her father was a member of the John Birch Society, and she’s carrying on the family tradition.”

  “Yes, but she’s not the problem. Richard Nevins, the chair of the city council, is. She brought him in to see it, and he wants me to get rid of it and threatens a city council hearing if I don’t.”

  “What did you say, Myron?”

  He grinned. “Let’s just say my answer wasn’t satisfactory.”

  “And what was the nature of the objection?”

  “That it was political propaganda. I maintained it was educational.”

  A murmur of outrage passed through the crowd, and many voices spoke at once. “That’s ridiculous.” “They’re trying to suppress the truth.” “What morons.” “They’ll stop at nothing.”

  “I’ve already suggested an idea to Chris,” Barbara said. “We need to decide on a location for our demonstration showing support for Chris and voicing our concerns about the environment. I suggest we demonstrate in front of the library.”

  A murmur of assent passed through the crowd. Myron, still standing, suggested an alternative. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think it would be better in front of Ridlon Recycling in Bedford. He’s the focus, after all. The library is a side issue.”

  Another murmur passed through the crowd, which Barbara in a quick volte-face gave voice to. She spoke forcefully, perhaps belatedly recalling that Myron was not interested in having attention drawn to the library. “Myron’s right. Demonstrating in front of the source of the pollution is better.”

  That completed the official business of the meeting. Everyone stood; some, revealing that they understood human nature quite well, went to get another glass of wine as people started talking in groups of two or three and circulating. Chris and his friend came up to him and waited while he finished describing the library display to Andrea and Leigh Schumann, who promised they would tell everyone they knew to visit the library and vocally let their approval be known.

  Once the Schumanns drifted away, Chris favored Myron with a friendly smile. “When I first came in I knew I’d seen you somewhere before. It took me a few minutes to place you. You look different without a tie. I do want to thank you for your help.”

  “You’re welcome,” Myron said. He was recalling how Chris saw him as a stereotype and was feeling bemused.

  Chris seemed to grasp something about his thoughts, for he said, “I remember you surprised me at the library. I didn’t expect to find a brother there.”

  “Well, I come from a long line of Quaker and Unitarian activists. I have ancestors who worked in the abolitionist movement before the Civil War and others who were conscientious objectors during both world wars. My mother was fighting against U.S. imperialism until the day she died. It’s in my blood, you see.”

  “I do and I’m glad.”

  Myron looked at his pretty companion then back at Chris.

  “This is my friend Patti Ryan.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “I’m glad to meet you too. I found your story about that city councilman interesting. Tell me, do you have a lawyer?”

  “Well, I have a friend who’s a lawyer. I spoke to him about it. I don’t expect to see the inside of a courtroom with him, though.” He turned back to Chris. “I remember talking to him about your case a few months ago. I was asking him his lawyerly take on the charges of breaking and entering into the shed.”

  “Oh? What did he say?”

  “He maintained that it was an open-and-shut case and that the prosecution would likely win. I said the best defense was Thoreau’s higher laws.”

  His face lit up. “Thoreau, yes, yes.”

  “But this man’s a regular lawyer. He didn’t think an appeal to higher laws was much of a courtroom defense. Who’s speaking of courtrooms, I said.”

  Chris nodded. Yes, I know the difference. Yes.”

  “What great people are here,” Patti said. “I feel energized from this meeting. We’re going to win.”

  “I think so too,” Myron said, thinking of those boys arguing about the football game. “But the ultimate win is still a long way off. I mean a healthy and a green earth. We won’t see it, but it is nice to contemplate.’

  “And it’s nice to be on the right side too,” Patti said.

  “Right, it is. We’re only here for a little while. We have to think of those who follow. It is our duty, in fact, a duty to the earth, to posterity.”

  They chatted a little longer, and thoug
h everyone there showed no signs of leaving, Myron left soon after talking to Patti and Chris. He had done his duty with Becky’s full sanction, but he was anxious to get home to that other duty, his duty to life, to the life of a man and a woman and the love they shared.

  Lost Soul