“It was my idea, Bert. Please, let's sit and talk like adults.”
When the smoke had cleared Wanda and me sat and drank coffee at the kitchen table. I'd originally searched the back of the kitchen cupboard and found some whisky. I kept it there as a “just in case.”Wanda said there was no such thing as just in case, once you quit that was it. And she said she hid those notices for that very reason. She figured I'd hit the bottle for a few days upon getting the news, and then I'd dry up and become obsessed, run myself into the grave over getting vengeance on Bascomb and his idiots at Town Hall. I put the bottle back in the cupboard and we brewed coffee. She cried her eyes out, told me she felt really stuck, that it turned her stomach to keep a secret from me, especially one that would leave me looking like a fool. She pleaded for me to roll over, put my hands up in surrender because there would be a good chunk of change from the township. There was no way in hell I was leaving my home and business. She'd always talked about moving to the city, and I guess she saw this as her chance. Things had been slow, and I think Wanda thought that I'd see the compensation offer and say what the hell. She saw the whole mess as a chance to have the decision made for us.
There wasn't much relaxing, and certainly little sleeping for the rest of the weekend. Wanda moped around, stopping her routine now and again to say how sorry she was, but she had meant well. Travis hitched a ride to his hockey game. Rusty took off somewhere. There was no use asking Rusty where he was going or what time he'd get home. Travis was fifteen, level-headed and easygoing. He had no problems with curfews and pay phones and notes left on the kitchen table telling us where he was. Rusty, on the other hand, was nineteen, bullheaded, and played his hand close to his vest. He kept the schedule of a damn barn owl: up all night and home to his nest at dawn. I spent most of that weekend alternating between being angry with Wanda and realizing that she had a point. The township had changed. Business was slowing to a crawl. And she was right; I would have become a man possessed if I'd seen those notices. Jesus, I was already planning my strategy with Mayor Bascomb on Monday morning. Here's the thing: deciding to move on based on money and the needs of my family was one thing. Allowing the mayor and some factory to muscle into my backyard and tell me when it was time to move, well, that was another thing. And I already felt like an idiot. I'd seen the township trucks buzzing around the area and thought nothing of it. Gus and the boys at the diner had said things like “Well, things are really changing” and “We feel bad for you, Bert.”
Hell, I thought they were just sorry about how tough it was getting to make ends meet.
So I sat and I waited for Monday. And I fumed. And I decided to fight the rezoning and “truncating” as hard as I possibly could. There's nothing like being hoodwinked to piss a guy off.
Looking back on it I should've known it would be a short fight. I got to the township offices at 8:30 on Monday morning. I sat in the foyer and watched a frumpy woman I'd never seen before open up the switchboard in between sips of coffee. At exactly 8:45 she looked at me and said, “Can I help you, sir?”
I asked if I could see Mayor Bascomb. She studied me like I was insane, as if I'd asked to speak to the Prime Minister. It used to be I could wander into the old town hall and go straight to Chuck Dent's office, sit with him and shoot the shit for ten minutes. The new offices were larger, no doubt built with the idea that the township would become a town, and maybe even city one day. The receptionist had a little headset on. She'd taken the mouthpiece and pushed it closer to her lips. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but she eventually looked at me and said, “Can I tell the mayor your name?”
“Bert Commerford.”
The mayor's assistant came to fetch me and led me to his office. I didn't know her, either. She walked like she was late for a train, and I followed her down a long tunnel of wallpapered hallway. There was lots of art on the walls, ugly stuff that looked like someone had drunk paint and then puked it all over a canvas. The old town hall had some nice Group of Seven prints on the walls. I wondered what happened to those paintings as we neared the mayor's office.
Gavin Bascomb's father had been an accountant who moved in from Toronto and set up shop in town. He was a typical city man. He liked to talk and had an opinion on everything. When your turn came to talk he would glaze over and pretty much ignore you until you stopped and he could shoot his mouth off some more. Gavin was more polite and — I had thought — more patient than his old man. He'd moved out of Toronto when he was a boy, helping to shed the city habits and arrogance. Gavin was a grade-A student in both elementary and high school. He came back to town after he graduated university. He worked for the local paper for a while, took over his father's business when the old windbag died. He ran for mayor at the tender age of thirty-two. He was quick on his feet and had promised to revitalize the area if he was granted a chance in the mayor's seat. Once he took office he immediately began inviting businesses to set up in town, enticing builders to plan subdivisions, fast-tracking their permits. He'd already made some enemies, especially among the old-timers.
He invited me to sit down. A quick but firm handshake, no offer of a coffee or glass of water. He wanted to keep it business, so I did the same. I told him I'd never received the notices. He dug his chin into his neck and frowned, as if this were impossible. It wasn't long before we were arguing. His angle was to lecture about the small changes and adjustments I had to make for the long-term economic good of the community. He spoke to me like I was a dumb-ass. He assumed that because I fixed cars and pumped gas for a living I was simple, maybe plain stupid. He stood and asked me to leave when I pointed out that they were all in bed together: him, Crandy Manufacturing, the builders, and the newcomers to town. He said the municipality had done its due diligence in sending out the notices, and if I hadn't received them it was too bad; construction was set to begin within two weeks. We continued to squabble about it, but I could see his father in him. I saw that he wasn't even listening. He played with the cord to his telephone while I spoke. Checked his watch often. And probably peered across his big mahogany desk and saw a used-up old fool. Old Bert, sitting in his office demanding a say when it was too late. There's a new factory in town, new modern road, new subdivision for all the workers, convenience stores, hamburger joints. And then there's Bert and his aging service station with the old-fashioned service bays and two lousy gas pumps, and neither of them pump diesel.
I went to see Marc Savard the following day. Savard ran the little newspaper in town. He was scared of me, I could tell. He squirmed in his chair as I talked. I handed him something for his Letters to the Editor section. He read the first few lines and his fingers began to tremble. He waved the letter around as he spoke, his voice all shaky.
“Bert, I can't print this. It's not that I don't empathize, really. Look, I can't publish a scathing letter that rips apart the very people who are trying to create jobs —”
“You mean the factory folks who are promising you all kinds of advertising, huh, Savard?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed like woman. He insisted that that was not the case and that he understood my position. He said that if he printed my letter, Bascomb and his people would just take out space and reply that they'd followed the Planning and Municipal Acts. Everyone had been notified. There had even been a hearing that hardly anyone showed up for.
“Why don't you go and speak to the head guy up at Crandy? He's looking to fill jobs,” said Savard.
I got up and left, flung his door shut. It was light as balsam wood. A lightweight door for a lightweight journalist.
“Hey, don't be mad at me, Bert,” he called.
Wanda and Rusty were in it together. He loved the idea of living someplace where he could be footloose and fancy-free. The bigger the town the more trouble he'd find. And she wanted out. Her dad had been a farmer, and when we were dating she'd often become quiet, suddenly depressed. I'd ask her what was wrong, and she'd giggle nervously
