by Dana Taylor
"Until today I didn't know that this proposed project had stirred up such a hornet's nest,” he said rather pointedly at me, then turned to the crowd. “I fully understand the objections to commercial hog farming, but poor management has historically been the error of other operations. I did my research on this proposal before I ever moved to Peeler and I've got to tell you-this is a win, win situation-for the owners of Peeler Pork and for the citizens of Peeler..."
He worked his Brooks magic on the crowd. Where Charlene had been officious and condescending, he was our good friend and gentle advisor explaining simple truths, alleviating our fears, and convincing us that hog farms are a good thing. He slipped one hand into a pocket, paced the floor in his best country lawyer fashion. By God, he was a good actor. He knew just how to play the room.
My breathing got shallow; my pulse raced. Tremors rumbled my stomach and shook my extremities. I was spitting mad. This man could elicit such emotion from me, it was frightening. If I wasn't melting like butter in his hot hands, I was ready to pitch a frying pan at his head.
His smooth voice continued, “So, it's simply good business and good community development to proceed. Peeler needs the economic base to fund its schools, library, and parks-all the things that improve the quality of life. The community should really be working together to bring this development to fruition. Any questions?"
I stood. “I have a question, Mr. Brooks."
He did that little chin up thing.
"What provisions will be made to insure the pollution from the lagoons won't be seeping into the local water table? What will be done with the tons of waste from the lagoons? Will it be simply sprayed onto fields as in other operations? I brought a few pictures of my own to show what happens to local ponds after the build-up of nitrates causes algae overgrowth. And what will you do about the smell, Mr. Brooks?"
I walked around the table, grabbed my jar, and moved toward Jason. “Have you ever personally experienced the true aroma that emanates for miles around from a large hog farm? How about you, honorable council people?"
I tried to hang on to my Kim Novack persona, but my hands were shaking as I looked at the traitor before me in the Armani suit. “Let's just go whole hog and show the people the true future of Peeler, shall we?"
I gave the jar top a twist, but it wouldn't budge, so I put a little more muscle into it. Suddenly the back door crashed open with a bang, startling me. The jar lid flew out of my hand. Gushy contents spewed into the air hurtling towards the immaculate lapels of Mr. Jason Brooks, Esquire.
Squish ... splat ... drip, it hit his jacket with amazing accuracy. He took one step back and then froze, looking at me first with surprise and then intense irritation. Spectators gasped and then moaned with sounds of disgust as the odor from the jar wafted its way throughout the room.
I held the jar in one hand and clasped the other hand over my mouth, staring at Jason with horror-struck eyes. Strange choking sounds issued from my throat as I watched glops of pig poop slowly sliding down his suit. The flashes and clicks of cameras from the local media snapped into immediate action.
Brad Beasley charged down the aisle from the door he had banged open. “I've got them! I've got all the signatures we need to put this issue on a ballot."
The crowd erupted in cheers and boos.
"I think I'd better go change.” Jason gazed down at his clothes and then straight at me with steely-gray thunder.
"See you at the polls, Miss Jones."
Chapter Nine
-
When I got home that night, exhausted, humiliated and chagrined, I played back my answering machine. Jason had left messages all day. The last one came in at 5:15.
"Perse, I wanted to tell you this in person, but I can't find you. I'll be at the council meeting tonight. I guess we can talk afterwards."
Of course, that hadn't happened. He'd turned on his heels and strode out the door. The council voted to hold an election on December 12th to decide the fate of the hog farm. I was caught with the anti-piggers until ten o'clock.
I trudged up the stairs, high heels in hand. Orion followed my feet; I pitched the blue dress deep in the hamper. I showered and put on a long cotton nighty, crawled into bed, but sleep would not come. At midnight a dreaded banging on my front door finally occurred.
"Perse, let me in. We need to talk!” Jason's voice sailed through the bedroom window loud and clear.
I trotted down the stairs and yanked open the door.
He stood silhouetted in the porch light beam. He'd changed into jeans, western shirt, and jacket. I stood aside to let him in. He marched into the living room and took possession of the green love seat. I followed, turning on lights, and fired up the gas log in the fireplace to take the chill out of the room.
For someone who came to talk, he was disconcertedly silent, watching me move about the room.
I sat in the wingback chair and blurted out, “I'll buy you a new suit. It was an accident, you know. I only meant to have everyone smell the jar."
Humorless eyes stared me down. “Freud says there are no accidents and you can't afford to buy me a suit.” He sighed. “You were really angry with me, weren't you?"
I tucked my legs under me, trying to keep my cool. “I was surprised, that's all. I had no idea you were involved with Peeler Pork."
"Don't lie to me.” His eyes bored through me. “I can read your face like a book. You were damn mad and you still are."
I stood up. “All right. Yes, I was utterly furious, okay? How can you be in cahoots with Charlene and Brent?"
He ran his fingers through his hair, frustrated. “I'm not in cahoots with them, I'm in business with them. The farm is a smart move."
Crossing my arms and squinting my eyes, I asked, “Just how much of it do you own?"
Facing me head-on, he replied, “Fifty-one percent."
"Fifty-one percent!” I yelped. “How come I didn't know about this? Why were you keeping it a secret?"
He rested his arms on the back of the couch. “It wasn't a secret. I didn't know about your little crusade until this morning. Why didn't you ever mention it?"
I plopped back in the chair and twisted a lock of my hair. “Our talks and times together have been a separate compartment in my life, I guess. I didn't want to talk about hog farms with you."
He shrugged out of his jacket. “We're going to be front page news tomorrow. I was hoping to put a lid on this thing at the meeting tonight, but you literally pulled the lid off.” He shook his head. “You are so damned impulsive."
"Which is worse, do you think? Impulsive or anal?"
Oh man, what was I thinking? When it came to attacking I was no match for an attorney with the reputation of a pit-bull in the court room. It was some measure of his regard for me that he didn't flay me to shreds.
Instead, he lifted an eyebrow with a quelling look. “You're not going to back down, are you?"
"Of course not. I've done a lot of research. I know all the problems with hog farms."
He spoke very deliberately, as if I were deaf or stupid. “Have you not heard all the things that will make this a better operation?"
I answered in the same tone. “Yes, but I don't believe a thing Charlene has to say."
"How about me? Do you believe what I tell you?” he asked in a low drawl.
"Maybe."
We glared at each other. He jiggled one foot as I twisted my hair.
He stood up. “You've completely closed your mind on this issue, haven't you? For a free thinker, you are amazingly small-minded."
I stomped my foot. “Small minded! I happen to love this town and I don't appreciate fat cats like you coming in and polluting it to make even more money than you already have right now."
He grabbed his jacket. “I can see this is a waste of time. When you're ready to be reasonable, let me know. But do me a favor. Take a hard look around this town-at the closed shops and warehouses, at the abandoned farms. This town you love so much is dying. That
little strip of antique stores and your alternative health paradise aren't putting enough tax revenue in the city coffers to fill the pot holes. You may know herbs and oils, lady, but I know business."
He strode out the front door with a slam. I stared at the gas fire, listening to his car crunch gravel as he drove away.
I kicked an ottoman. “Damn you, Jason Brooks and your cold-blooded lawyering soul."
* * * *
Jason was right about being front-page news. Over the next few days the papers had a field day showing Jason staring me down while pig glops dripped from his clothes. His detractors enjoyed portraying the event as poetic justice on a guy who defended the scum of the earth. Evening newscasts showed him being dogged by reporters as he stoically repeated, “No comment."
I didn't fare any better. Rotten still photographs from the earlier TV broadcast ran alongside stories portraying me as a green peace, health nut wacko. They even dredged up references to the witch stories that had floated around since my mother's day.
On Saturday morning I drove up to the shop to discover someone had written, “No witches,” in bright red paint across the storefront window. It took me an hour to scrub it all off. Unfortunately I had to remove Val's pretty world of plants and sunshine, too.
I heard later in the day that someone had copycatted my hog feces idea and attacked Charlene's front door with the nasty stuff. I couldn't take the least bit of pleasure from that news. This whole crusade had spun out of control. Out-of-towners descended on little Peeler to further their agendas. Some guy from a lobbyist group of pork producers was going door-to-door passing out pamphlets while another fellow from a consumers watchdog organization walked around town filming a documentary on hog farm controversy.
And Jason's parting words to me about looking around and noticing the signs of economic decay replayed in my head. There were empty buildings and storefronts. Wal-Mart was gobbling up local businesses. Boarded up farmhouses dotted the surrounding landscape. Maybe my point of view was narrow-minded. I suffered in confusion.
The atmosphere at church Sunday morning was fraught with tension. As luck would have it, the Foster family and I reached the church doors at the same time. Cowboy Bill held the door open for Charlene and me. We didn't even attempt our usual phony pretense of friendliness. She looked at me and wrinkled her nose as if I smelled of hog droppings.
She turned right and I turned left as we each joined our respective circle of friends. Each side prominently wore their buttons. Instead of the usual friendly pre-church chatter, the entry held pockets of people who huddled in tight groups, whispering and peering at other huddled groups.
Organ music wafted in from the sanctuary, lending a funeral tone to the atmosphere. I stood with Mavis and company trying to make chit-chat when I heard my name being called.
"Perse!” It was Valerie. “Perse, come here and meet my mom."
Just what I needed.
Valerie approached with a beautiful, blond woman at her side. The fair Christina. Her hair curled elegantly about her head setting off an angelic face. The pretty peach dress, cloud-like scarf, and dainty diamond earrings evoked helpless femininity personified.
Valerie tugged on her hand, moving toward me. Val's appearance was a shock. No make up, neatly brushed hair and a conservative dress. She looked so young and fresh.
"Perse, this is my mom, Christina. She's going to watch me in the youth drama this morning.” I'd never seen Valerie so happy.
Christina simpered. “Hello. Valerie's told me good things about you. You've even inspired her to eat vegetables.” She put an arm around Val and hugged her.
I smiled back. Christina radiated a childlike charm. “I'm sorry about your husband,” I said.
She looked genuinely pained. “Thank you. I'm trying to pull myself together. I'm lucky to have Val and of course, Jason is a rock."
"Of course. Well, it was nice to have met you...” I tried to make my getaway.
Ruth was suddenly at my side. “Perse, I haven't seen you all week. I have so much to tell you. You remember the predicament that Marlene was in on ‘Days’ a couple weeks ago?"
I nodded. The sight of Jason standing behind her nearly sent me into hyperventilation. She prattled on while he and I exchanged looks. His shuttered expression appeared cold, turned off, utterly without any of the teasing twinkle I usually saw in his eyes.
"Mother,” he said, “we need to go take our seat. Val, you'd better go find the Youth Pastor."
She ran off.
He maneuvered past me, started guiding Christina and Ruth into the sanctuary.
Ruth grabbed my hand. “You come sit with us. I have so much to tell you. There was a fascinating guest on Oprah last Thursday."
"I really should go sit with Mavis.” But she would have none of it, dragging me along and chattering away.
I was loathe to create any more scenes, so I slid into a pew and sat down. Ruth and Christina sat between Jason and me. He never glanced my way, but studied his bulletin and occasionally answered Christina's whispered comments. I focused on Ruth, wishing I were anywhere else. This must be a penance for my wicked, wicked ways.
The service began with stilted praise singing. People barely clapped to “This is the Day that the Lord Has Made.” In lieu of a sermon, the youth performed a dramatic pantomime. The story had a Romeo-and-Juliet flavor to the plot. Piano music played in the background to enhance the scene. Valerie was our silent Juliet. She and Romeo were star-crossed lovers caught between two fighting factions of people. The Montagues sported red buttons, while the Capulets wore blue.
Valerie and her Romeo each had their differing buttons prominently displayed. She was a glowing leading lady, using her whole body to express her love for Romeo, her despair at the strife between their families. She silently ran from one faction to the other, pleading for reconciliation with outstretched arms, her face filled with pain.
Her transformation stunned me. This was the same angry, overdone adolescent who yelled, “Bite me!” and blasted her radio; the kid who always tried to appear bored and callous gave a soul-stirring performance. They threw out Shakespeare's ending and brought in a Christ figure. Romeo and Juliet finally prayed to him to bring peace to their families.
The finale portrayed Romeo and Juliet taking off their buttons and laying them at the feet of Christ. The fighting families slowly, one by one, removed their buttons, joined hands and became united in Christ. The music swelled as the organist let out the stops.
Pastor Martin had made his obvious point.
Valerie left the stage with an angelic smile on her face. She had such a sweet spirit waiting to be nurtured and encouraged. My eyes met Jason's and I smiled, caught up in my pride for Val. His frigid mask had slipped and I glimpsed his sentimental side. We shared a love for that little girl. Thank God for such a beautiful daughter.
And then it struck me.
She wasn't my daughter. This man who had captured my heart was not my man. Even little dotty Ruth had won my affection, but was only my neighbor. They were not my family. At this point, Jason was not even my friend and how could I blame him? With my impulsive action, I'd made him a laughing stock across the state, the butt of many jokes.
I'd caused strife and division in my church turning friends against each other, taking the joy out of this sacred place.
Reality came crashing down upon me.
I had no right to this man.
I had no right to his family.
My peace shattered.
I was alone.
Jason and I remained locked in our gaze as all these thoughts raced through my mind and across my face. My eyes teared up and I knew I had to get out of there before I let out a loud sob.
His face registered concern as I gathered up my purse and whispered to Ruth, “Tell Valerie she was wonderful. I have to go."
I exited as quickly as I could, dashing to Lizzie in the harsh winter wind. Once in the privacy of my truck, I let myself go, crying all the way home
, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Self-recrimination hurts so bad.
I spent the afternoon lying in my bed, taking comfort from my cat, crying until my face puffed and bagged like the grotesque stuffed-nylon dolls at the county fair.
High in the sky, Jason vented his frustration in the biplane. The man and his toy circled round and round. Buzz ... Buzz ... I yanked the covers over my head and tried to muffle the roar of his engine.
Go away, leave me alone!
But, it was useless.
And then I knew. As long as we remained neighbors, I'd never be at peace again.
Chapter Ten
-
Thus began the winter of my discontent. My mood was as colorless as the Oklahoma landscape. Everything turned stark. We didn't have lovely blankets of snow to transform the world into a winter wonderland. Oklahoma winter brought barren trees, faded yellow grass, and a cutting wind. Occasional light snow caused car crashes and filthy slush. Dreary gray days gave way to long, frigid nights.
After Pastor Martin's little play, no one wore their buttons to church anymore. I told Mavis and her crew to remove the Charlene pig posters and come up with something more tasteful. The Persephone witch posters disappeared, too, but I didn't know by whose orders. The Peeler Investment Group poured big bucks into a media campaign that overshadowed our grass roots movement. And a cloud of doubt that right was on our side crept over me.
My days were busy, as usual, but my nights became hellishly restless. Where I used to enjoy the peaceful quiet time for reading, catching up on my e-mail, renting a movie, it all left me lacking. Eating dinner in solitude was simply lonely. I missed Val's sassy mouth and homework questions.
"How do you spell ‘obvious'?"
"Don't you have a dictionary?"
"Come on..."
"O-b-v-i-o-u-s."
"Thanks."
I missed Ruth's recaps of “Oprah,” her off-beat observations and the sweet timbre of her voice. But it was the longing for contact with Jason that ripped my heart. No bantering, teasing phone calls. No hearing that wonderful voice and feeling warm down to my toes. No touching.