Last Summer Boys(65)

The next thing I know our troop is inside a high-ceilinged room with a sea of metal folding chairs. There’s no more than a dozen people sitting among them.

“But there are plenty of seats here!” I blurt.

“So it seems,” Ma says tightly.

Dad sits in the very front row. Directly across from him is a long table. Seven men sit behind it, all in light-colored suits and patterned ties.

“You boys go up to the gallery,” Ma says. “You’ll see more from up there.” Without waiting for any of us to answer, she walks down to where Dad sits in the first row. As the rest of our crew files in, the four of us boys and Anna May climb a set of creaking wooden stairs to the gallery overlooking the room.

We find Mr. Halleck sitting on a bench there, hands folded over the handle of his cane. He is dressed in a seersucker suit with a yellow bowtie. He looks distinguished. Elegant. He lifts a finger to his lips as we shuffle down beside him while below one of the council members taps the table with a tiny wooden hammer.

The nameplate in front of him reads, in blocky gold letters: COUNCILMAN TRAVERS.

“Council will come to order. Please stand for the pledge.”

Metal chairs scrape over floorboards as everyone below turns to the flag hanging from a pole in the corner. We are almost through the pledge when Frankie elbows me in the ribs.

An eighth man has pulled up a seat at the table: Kemper.

“But he ain’t on council!” I whisper.

Mr. Halleck bends to my ear. “He is their lead counsel.”

I look at Will.

“He’s their lawyer,” he explains. “It’s all rigged.”

That anger hits me again. A cold, cold wave. Down below, everyone finishes the pledge and takes their seats again. Kemper settles himself just behind Travers’s shoulder, at ear level.

Travers is talking now, reading a list of names of people who will be allowed to speak. He points to a podium in the middle aisle of the folding chairs. Anybody wanting to talk has to do it from there.

“Council will now hear testimony from those wishing to speak on the topic of Proposition 22, ‘Requisitioning Appropriate Water Resources for the Municipality of New Shiloh and Surrounding Regions.’”

“What’s all that mean?” I ask.

Mr. Halleck sighs. “It’s the proposal to take your land and flood your home. Now hush!” He leans forward.

A pack of three men in suits moves to the front of the room. One goes to the podium while the others set up an easel with a map of the town and the valley. I recognize Apple Creek right away. A big blue oval is drawn over it: the reservoir.

Our house is inside it.

The man at the podium says New Shiloh is growing fast. He reads off a series of numbers about population estimates. Then he recites some more numbers about how many gallons of water all those people will need.

I can’t help myself. “Who’s that?”

Mr. Halleck grimaces. “He’s a representative from a chemical company. They want the reservoir built to provide water for their factory. He has some projections about population growth and water shortages that he’s trying to scare the council with.” Mr. Halleck pulls the silver flask from his jacket and takes a sip. “It’s working.”

I can’t follow the man at the podium, but the council members don’t seem to have any trouble. A few take notes. One man is nodding.

At last Councilman Travers taps his tiny hammer again, and the chemical company men take down their map.

Just then Kemper leans forward, whispers in Travers’s ear.

“You men can leave that up,” Travers says. “It will be a helpful reference for us.”

The map goes back up.

Will snorts.

Next up is a thin, wiry man in a flannel suit and thick glasses. He’s some sort of representative from a group of businessmen, and he also wants the reservoir. After him comes a big, beefy man with a red face and red hands. He owns a construction company. He wants it too.

Slowly, I realize: all of the people who want the reservoir are getting to talk first.

I look at Frankie and see he’s figured it out too.

It goes like that for half an hour: a whole parade of people who are for the reservoir walking up to the podium and telling council how good a thing it will be if they flood us out.

Then Kemper stands up.

“Council will now hear from its legal counsel,” Travers says.

Kemper looks even smaller behind the podium. His tie is a tiny knot under his monstrous Adam’s apple.

“It’s true I am legal counsel for the council,” he begins in a surprisingly strong voice. “But I would like to speak today in a purely personal capacity, as a citizen of the county.”

Mr. Halleck says “Hmm,” and leans ever so slightly forward.

Kemper looks out over his audience.

“We have heard from some excellent witnesses. All reliable, trustworthy men. Pillars of our community. What they say gives us the cold, hard facts of the matter: our town is growing. We need water not only for its families, but also for the industries and businesses that provide them with good jobs and good salaries. We can give them this water, by building a reservoir right where you see it on that map. Now, I understand this will mean a terrible inconvenience to a very small percentage of our neighbors. And some might mistakenly believe they’re being pressured to leave land their families have owned for generations. Let me assure you: nothing could be further from the truth.”