Last Summer Boys(67)

At their table, the council members whisper to each other.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

“Your father’s rattled them,” Mr. Halleck says. “He’s told the whole world that some people will make a lot of money from this reservoir if it’s built. It was a stellar performance. But it won’t be enough.”

He returns the silver flask to his jacket and begins to tap the floor with his cane.

Mr. Travers reaches for his hammer and raps it against the table several times. The sound is suddenly very frightening.

“At this time, if there are no other persons wishing to testify, the chair would look favorably on a motion to close the hearing and move into voting procedure,” he says.

An electric silence fills the chamber. This is it. Dad’s words were powerful, but I see Kemper sitting down there next to Travers—right there. Green as I am to politics, I know we don’t have a chance.

That’s when Ma raises her hand.

“I’d like to speak on behalf of a group of concerned citizens.”

“And who might those be?” Travers asks her.

“The New Shiloh Nature Society,” Ma replies.

Travers’s eyebrows go up. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with any such organization.”

God’s honest truth, neither am I. And one look to both my brothers tells me they ain’t either.

“It has been recently formed,” Ma tells him. “But if you check your registry of local civic groups, you’ll find all the necessary paperwork is in order.”

Travers frowns. “I’ll take your word for that. Please proceed.”

Ma doesn’t go up to the podium; she speaks from the floor. “The members of the society register their strong opposition to the proposed reservoir, as its construction would result in a significant loss of habitat for several of our region’s rarest birds.”

Travers blinks. “Rare birds? Which ones in particular?”

“The great egret and the yellow-crowned night-heron, among others.”

Travers seems stunned. A few of the council members chuckle.

“You are here on behalf of rare bird species?”

Ma’s green eyes hold steady. “Yes, I am.”

Travers sits back in his seat. “Duly noted, Mrs. Elliot; thank you for your testimony.”

But Ma stays standing. “Councilman Rogers,” she says, and I see she’s speaking directly to one of the men at the end. “Your wife serves as recorder for the society. She would like me to ask you to vote no on today’s proposition.”

More chuckles now, from the audience. Ma smiles at him and sits. Councilman Rogers turns beet red.

Travers smacks the table with his hammer again. “Thank you, Mrs. Elliot. Are there any other persons wishing to speak? Perhaps someone who isn’t a member of the Elliot family?”

The chamber falls silent.

“Then, in that case, I motion to—”

“Yeah, hold up.”

The voice comes from the back of the room. Crash Callahan comes down the center aisle. “I’ll talk,” he says.

There’s more murmuring from the people on the folding metal chairs as Crash struts up to the podium.

Kemper rises in his place at the table then. “Councilman Travers, this is inappropriate. This is a hearing for a serious matter regarding the future health and economic vitality of the town. It is not a circus.”

Crash scowls. “You like circuses, little man? Here comes a lion.” He growls at him. So help me God, Crash Callahan growls at Kemper in front of all those people.

The room is utterly silent.

Slowly, very slowly, Kemper sits down.

“Please state your name for the record,” says Mr. Travers coldly.

“Crash.”

“Your last name too, please.”

“Callahan.”

“Thank you, Mr. Callahan. And what would you like to say to us this afternoon?” Travers’s voice ain’t so pleasant anymore.

Crash clears his throat and leans over the podium. “Listen. We don’t want you fellas flooding the valley. We like it just fine how it is.”

Everyone in the chamber stares. Crash sees he’s got himself an audience. He stands up a little straighter and takes hold of the lapels on his blue denim jacket. He goes on, tapping the air with his chin as he speaks.

“We take our recreation out that way, and it’s a fine place. And there’s some families live there. It’d be a crying shame if they lost their homes. Downright criminal to do that when you don’t have to. And so we ask that you boys drop this idea. Build your pretty little lake someplace else.”

Silence.

Travers blinks. “Mr. Callahan, you say ‘we.’ Might I ask, whom do you represent here today?”

That does it. Crash’s eyebrows go up. He’s stunned. Insulted.

He stomps over to the tall windows. He seizes the bottom rail. He yanks the window open. Then, whirling to face the council members, he jabs a finger to the courtyard.

“My associates, councilman. All those guys!”

From outside the chamber comes a deafening roar of motorbikes. A chorus of whoops and hollers pours through the open window and echoes around in the chamber. Everybody in the seats jumps to their feet. They rush to the windows and look to where Crash’s bikers are gunning their engines. And beyond the riders, formed up in ranks on the lawn, is our crowd—neighbors, townsfolk, and friends. They’ve got a banner: SAVE THE GREAT EGRET.