StoneDust (26 page)
Tim Hall and Georgia Bowland had rallied their warring Newbury Democrats, and by a quarter to eight you couldn't
buy
a seat in the Leslie auditorium. Weekenders packed the front rows. The Scudder Mountain crowd held the balcony. The Frenchtown contingent huddled in back. Vicky's supporters, and a legion of fencesitters, occupied the middle.
The air conditioning had failed, and through the doors thrown open to the breeze we could see Republicans peering in, licking their chops.
Scooter MacKay moderated. He introduced Vicky and Steve, who took opposing lecterns. Vicky's famous chestnut curls danced in the lights. Steve stood gaunt and stern as Abe Lincoln. The rules called for each to deliver a five-minute opening statement.
Steve went first, savaging the mill rate, which he claimed had driven property taxes to a height where decent people were losing their homes. The Scudder Mountain crowd shook the balcony with volcanic roars and stomps.
Vicky offered a calm recitation of the town's recovery from fiscal disaster. She credited her tight-ship administration and the salutary effects of the gradually upturning economy. Education, she reminded her audience, was still the primary business of the town.
Then it was question time, with Scooter booming questions submitted by the audience. “A farmer on Morris Mountain asks: âKeep it simple. In one sentence, how are you going to stop taxes from driving us off the land?'”
Steve La France pounced like a wolfhound: “
Cut
the mill rate.
Lower
property taxes.
Balance
the budget.”
“But if we cut taxes,” Vicky retorted, “we'll have to close our schools.”
Steve said staunchly, “Maybe I'm just a frugal Yankee born in Newbury, but I know that the real âprimary' business of Newbury is to balance the budget.
Then
we'll worry about schools.”
“Excuse me, Steve,” Vicky asked, after Scooter had gaveled Scudder Mountain into remission. “But wouldn't such Yankee frugality mean closing our public schools?”
“Temporarily, if need be.”
“How temporary, Steve? A month or two? A year?”
“Steve! Steve! Steve!” erupted somewhere.
Vicky asked, “What would we do with our teachers?”
Before Steve could answer, old Frank La France howled, “Let them fend for themselves,” closing a trap his more astute son might still have backed out of.
Georgia Bowland covered her face. I imagined my father smiling in his grave.
Steve sounded reasonable. “I think my dad means that after we balance the budget, we'll start over with a new, stronger school.”
“Are you advocating we close our schools and let parents teach their children at home?”
Aware at last that he was teetering above a pitful of tigers, Steve clutched at a pillar of conservatism. “A lot of parents I know would be glad of the chance to control what goes into their kids' heads.”
“Glad too to have their children home all day? Every day?”
Sixty percent of the townsfolk in the auditorium turned pale. Somebody laughed.
Tim and I retreated, when the shouting had died down, to Vicky's office to discuss capitalizing upon this pleasant turn of events. We'd gotten lucky. We certainly hadn't won the renomination, not by a long shot, but the La France blunders had to slow the challenger's momentum. The trick now would be to gain our own.
Scooter MacKay lumbered in, notepad high, pencil flying, wondering how Steve's attack of hoof-in-mouth would affect the voting. Tim predicted a heavy turnout of “an appalled citizenry determined to defend their children's right to a quality education.”
I said, “Scooter, if it's okay with Tim, how about you change âan appalled citizenry' to âloyal Democrats'?”
A telephone rang. Tim snatched it off Vicky's desk. “First Selectman's officeâNow and Forever!”
Scooter nudged me. “Where in hell did Steve get that stupid idea to close the schools?”
“Beats me.”
Tim passed the telephone. “For you.”
“Who is it?”
“Sounds like your friend in the Castle.”
My gut clenched and my heart soared. “Hi, there.”
“I'm off to Hong Kong, for a while.”
“Business?” Long Technical Systems owned a flash chip factory out there.
“Sort of. But I'm here tonight.”
“Ummh.” All the conversations I'd cooked in my head boiled down to “ummh,” in a pinch.
“How does a humongous tin of caviar and a magnum of Dom sound?”
I thought that caviar, champagne, and Rita sounded absolutely terrific, but before I could say so, Vicky burst in, flushed with the scent of victory.
“What a break! Tim, order pizza. BenâI need your brain.”
“What's all that yelling?” Rita asked.
“The good guys won.”
Vicky laughed, alight with the joy of a perfect night and filled with hope for tomorrow. “Come on, Ben. We've got work to do.”
“Come on over,” said Rita.
I wished Aunt Connie hadn't taught me right from wrong.
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