jackknife on you. It was almost as uncomfortable as the pews at First Parish. So far, there was precious little to report back to headquarters, she thought.
Signature collection and a hefty treasury. Possibly there was something there. She could ask Pix who the big donors were. Everyone had been asked to kick in at least ten dollars initially to cover the cost of the flyers. But a town-wide mailing was expensive. Millicent herself lived on a very fixed income—or so she said, frequently. Brad certainly made good money, but was he committed to the point where he was assuming the bulk of the cost? Faith wished she could make a note, but she didn’t want to look conspicuous.
Faith was getting bored. Maybe it was too much to hope for a repeat of the fireworks at the last selectmen’s meeting.
Millicent was discussing tactics for Town Meeting.
Someone suggested that all the Town Meeting members in POW! meet separately to talk about how best to present the articles. Millicent thought that was a pretty good idea. Faith didn’t. It meant Tom would find out what was going on before she did. Town Meeting was something the Fairchilds had always done wherever they found themselves, running for election before the boxes were unpacked, although in Tom’s family’s case, this normally meant years. The Fairchilds were savers and everything went with them. On one visit, Faith had been startled to discover some Allied Van cartons in her in-law’s attic marked,
“Children’s Misc. Schoolwork and Odd Curtains.”
“Now to be blunt . . .” Faith heard through her thoughts. Millicent might be getting to something interesting at last, she hoped. “We have to be very careful not to tread on any toes between now and the meeting. A certain family in town has come in for a great deal of criticism and mudslinging is not the way we do things in Aleford. They will have their day in court, just as we will. Town Meeting will decide.” This was pretty decent of Millicent—to call off the hounds and leave the Deanes in peace. But, Faith reflected, it was also very smart. There was nothing to be gained by going after them. It made POW! look bad. Millicent was a great believer in the power of moral superiority.
Suddenly, Faith began to feel sorry for the Deanes and was glad Millicent wasn’t a mind reader—close to it though she was. What about the Deanes’ rights?
Faith didn’t want the land developed, but Joey did own it. It belonged to him, and those opposing him would be equally furious if, for instance, Joey told them they couldn’t paint their houses a certain color or add on a bedroom because of some sainted “quality of life in Aleford” article.
“I’m getting mixed up about which side I’m on,” Faith said in a low voice to her husband.
“Me, too,” he responded, speaking into her ear. “I don’t like the bedfellows on one side; don’t like the bed on the other.”
Millicent was asking for someone to help draft the cover letter for the mailing. Faith, finally seeing an opportunity, shot her hand up like an eager “pick me, pick me!” third grader.
“Why, Faith,” Millicent said, the words tumbling out before she could help herself.
“Thank you, I’d love to work on this,” she said in acceptance, even though she well knew Millicent was merely voicing surprise. Faith never volunteered for anything. She’d learned from watching Pix that one thing did not lead to another, but to fifty or sixty.
Tom raised his eyebrows. It gave him an endearing look. Faith smiled. “I simply want to be of service, darling.”
“Sure you do,” he said, the eyebrows approaching his hairline.
At the close of the meeting, Ted Scott read a few passages from Thoreau to keep everyone in the mood and Millicent told them they would gather again, same time, same place, the following Wednesday.
POW! was gaining momentum and they would need to meet more often.
Faith was waiting for her at the side of the stage.
“When do you want to meet?” she asked.
“Meet?” Millicent made it sound like an indecent suggestion.
“Yes, to draft the letter.”
“Oh, that. Well, I can’t think about another thing until Patriots’ Day is over. I have a million things to do before Monday.”
Faith was sure this was not an exaggeration. Apart from organizing the reenactment, Millicent was also in charge of the DAR’s pancake breakfast served afterward to some of the hundreds of spectators who flocked to the green. Then there was the morning youth parade and the big parade later in the day. Millicent had received the Bronze Musket, the town’s highest civic award, twice—the only person in history to do so. In Aleford, this particular plaque was so prized it fell into the category of what-to-save-first-in-the-event-of-disaster. For a couple of the recipients, it might be a hard choice between musket and, say, spouse.
“How about Tuesday?” Faith was persistent. “The mailing should be well in advance of Town Meeting, and we could read it to the members the next night.”
“All right, Tuesday. Ten o’clock at my house. I’ll see if Brad can make it. He’s working at home for these two weeks.”
Just as Faith had hoped. Brad Hallowell. At last a chance to get to know this tempestuous young man, a young man Millicent obviously did know well, even down to his work schedule.
She left Millicent and went in search of Tom, who was talking to Pix. Faith suggested they walk home together. Sam Miller, while opposing Alefordiana Estates, told his wife he could not belong to any organization that had an exclamation point. He’d taken his son to the movies.
It wasn’t difficult to find out what Pix knew about POW!’s funding. All Faith had to do was ask.
“I assume you’re talking about amounts over a hundred, right?”
“Yes,” Faith answered, this being the rough equivalent of
“The Scotts gave a hundred and fifty and so did the Batcheldors. Brad gave two hundred. The largest donation was five hundred from anonymous.”
“Anonymous? Come on, you must have some idea of who it is, or Millicent does. The check had to be signed.”
“Nope.” They were approaching the parsonage and Pix slowed her steps. “The money was in cash. Millicent found it in her mailbox with the donation slip from the flyer inside.”
“Well, what did that say?”
“Nothing. Just ‘anonymous’ printed next to ‘Name’—and no other information.”
“Not too many people in town have that kind of money, or rather, they do, but they don’t give it away.
Take a guess, Pix. Who do you think it is?”
“I have given it some thought,” Pix admitted, “and we did talk about it when we met to plan last week’s meeting. It could be Bea Hoffman or one of the other selectmen—someone who can’t publicly support us.”
“Does Bea have that much money?” Faith asked.
Bea had never struck her as a lady with much in the way of disposable income. Same coat since Faith had been in Aleford. Same pocketbook, too. Although this frugality should have alerted her.
“Oh yes, Bea is very wealthy. Her mother’s family.” They were at the gate to the parsonage.
“I’ll come in and get Samantha,” Pix offered. “No sense in having her walk home alone.”
“I’m happy to walk her home, but she always laughs at me,” Tom protested.
“Since it’s only a few steps, I can see why,” her mother said, contradicting herself. But Faith knew Pix wasn’t concerned for Samantha’s safety. She just wanted to store up as much time as possible with her daughter.
Samantha was curled up in one of the wing chairs, reading. She yawned and stretched.
“They were perfect,” she told Faith, who believed her. One’s children always were for other people.
“How was POW! tonight?” She laughed.
“Fine. And we have enough signatures to reconvene Town Meeting. Poor Joey Madsen better give up now,” Pix said. “By the way, did you see that his lawyer was there again tonight? I think Joey should come himself instead of sending a spy!” The tops of Tom’s ears turned pink. “Maybe he has his reasons. Such as not wanting to cause a riot.” Faith looked at her husband. “I agree with Pix.
Spies, the very idea.”
At two o’clock the next afternoon, Faith was looking out the kitchen window, trying to predict the weather.
