people managed to meet, fall in love, and have uncomplicated relationships.
My romance with Garnet Gochenauer was a perfect example of how things always seemed to go wrong for me. As I'd plotted a surprise move to Lickin Creek to be near Garnet, he'd decided there was little job satisfaction to be found as a small-town police chief and took a year's leave of absence to work in Central America. There was a local Pennsylvania Dutch saying that seemed to describe me perfectly: A person who could screw up a one-car funeral.
Marvin Bumbaugh, president of the council, called for the meeting to start, and the council members took their places at the long oak table. Buchanan was on Marvin's right, Jackson Clopper, the borough manager, on his left. Next to Jackson sat Primrose Flack, described last night by Ginnie as “the council's token woman.” Across the table from Primrose was “almost-a-doctor” Matavious Clopper. I wondered what effect the Clopper family feud had on council business. Several visitors joined the council members at the table. When everyone was seated, I took the last empty chair, black and sticky like the others from generations of council meetings.
After the reading of minutes by Primrose and the treasurer's report by Matavious (the borough was still solvent… barely), Marvin turned to Jackson Clopper and asked him what was happening with the search for Kevin.
“No news is good news,” Jackson said. His face was lined, and I guessed he hadn't gotten much sleep last night.
“Nice attitude,” Primrose muttered.
“I'll bet Garnet could find him,” a woman said. It was Bernice Roadcap, once again wearing her politically incorrect, full-length mink coat. She wasn't a council member, but she often attended the meetings to protect her business interests.
After her crack about Garnet, everyone turned to glare at me, as if I had chased Garnet away by moving to town. I ignored them and gave the blank page in my notebook my full attention.
“Let's talk about the downtown Christmas preparations and get the hell out of here,” Marvin said. His breath, warmed by the coffee, was visible in the frosty air.
“What about my cold-storage building?” Bernice interrupted shrilly. “I need an answer, and I need it now.”
“We can't just jump into this, Bernice,” Marvin said. “We need to look at the remodeling costs. Having a center for the arts sounds great, but it might be more than the borough's budget can handle.”
“Not to mention the environmental impact on the Lickin Creek,” Buchanan added. “Your idea of having small boats travel from Moon Lake into the arts center sounds attractive, but we mustn't forget the native brown trout in the creek.”
“A museum and creative arts center with a tasteful shopping mall attached would create a point of interest in the downtown area,” Bernice protested, “where now there is nothing. You're always talking about bringing in the tourists, but once they're here, there's nothing for them to see or do.”
This brought a flood of objections from the others. “Not true… the fountain… courthouse… municipal park… Civil War cemetery…” Their voices faded as they ran out of tourist attractions.
“Look at what San Antonio did with the River Walk,” Bernice said. “We could do something like that here.”
Marvin snorted rudely. “If you think Lickin Creek's gonna turn into another San Antonio… you got another think coming. For one thing, we got a creek here, not a river.”
“Not to mention the trout,” Buchanan added.
“I can't afford to pay taxes forever on an empty building, and I have to know what's going to happen to it before my divorce is final. So, I'm warning you, if you don't make a decision in the next six weeks, I'll tear it down. I don't need to remind you it's the last large historic building in the downtown area. Once it's gone you won't have another opportunity.”
“We'll appoint a committee to-you know-ya-dee-ya-dee-ya-da,” Marvin told her.
“How reassuring,” she sniffed. “A committee… wonderful!”
“The Christmas decorations are literally on the table. Let's do something about them,” Marvin said with a grim smile.
“I think you mean figuratively on the table, not literally,” Buchanan whispered.
“I mean whatever the hell I think I mean,” the council president snapped at the attorney. “We've had some complaints about the Christmas decorations in the square. Fifteen people called or wrote in to say they want colored lights, not the white lights we use each year. Here's one what says, ‘We've lost the meaning of Christmas with them cold white lights. Colored lights is the traditional way to say Merry X-mas.’”
“X-mas!” Jackson Clopper stabbed the air with his ever-present pipe. “He wrote
Murmurs of disapproval fluttered around the table.
“Who wrote it?” Jackson demanded to know.
“It's anonymous,” Marvin said. “Just like last year and the year before.”
“Actually,” Buchanan said, “there is historic accuracy in using an
“Thank you, Mr. McCleary, for that scholarly explanation. I suppose we'd all know that if we was Rhodes scholars like you,” Marvin said. “Let's try to stay on task so we can get out of here by lunchtime.”
He looked at his list and continued. “Other complaints deal with where we're putting Santa's Workshop, if we really need to place an electric menorah in front of the courthouse, the small size of the red bows on the lampposts, and the ‘environmental incorrectness’ of killing a tree for decorative purposes.” He paused and glared at Buchanan. “I think we all know where
“So, if it's okay with you'uns, I'll have Jackson deal with the complaints in the usual manner-a nice letter saying ‘Thank you for your interest, ya-dee-ya-dee-ya-da.’ By then, Christmas'll be over.
“What we
“Sounds fine to me. So what's the problem?” Primrose Flack asked.
“The baby Jesus. That gal who's the new director of our child welfare agency says it's too cold to let a baby lie in a manger for four hours. Says she'll charge us all with child abuse.”
“Great, just great,” came a snort from somewhere inside the mink coat. “What the hell good is a Nativity scene without a baby Jesus? It's no wonder this town doesn't go anywhere, with attitudes like that.” Bernice adjusted her collar and scowled at Marvin, who scowled back at her.
“Stuff it in your sock, Bernice, I've got everything under control. My daughter's saved the day.”
“Dakota's too old and the wrong sex to be baby Jesus.” These were the first words I'd heard from Matavious Clopper since the treasurer's report.
Marvin ignored Dr. Clopper's comment. “Dakota is gonna loan us her favorite doll to use in the manger. It's one of them exact replicas of a real baby.” He groped for something out of sight under the table. “Ah, here it is.” From one large hand dangled a large, naked, blond doll with staring blue eyes. “Ma-ma,” cried a voice from deep within its plastic tummy. “Ma-ma.”
“Baby Jesus was a boy,” Jackson muttered around the pipe stem clenched between his teeth.
“It'll be wrapped in swaddling clothes, whatever they are. Nobody's gonna know the difference. I'll see you'uns next week. Same time, same place, ya-dee-ya-dee-ya-da. Good-bye.” Marvin scooped up his papers and was out the door before any more objections could be voiced.
I put down my pencil and tried to blow life back into my numb fingers. What on earth could I report about this meeting? They'd completely dropped the subject of turning Bernice's cold-storage house into a shopping center, which sounded like a fairly good idea to me, and had managed to absolutely ignore the wishes of the people who'd voted them into office. I finally made a notation on my blank page: “Dakota = Baby Jesus.”
Bernice Roadcap, adjusting her furs, advanced on me.
“Toni, I've had a terrible shock. I wonder if you can help me.”
“Tori,” I corrected with a smile. “I'm sorry to hear that. What's happened?” As a foreign service brat, I'd been trained to smile politely and express interest where none was felt.
