The Excellent Lombards(57)
It’s possible I had never felt so embarrassed. I wanted to scream, He’s not from here!
He scratched his cheek, his lips screwed to one side of his face, a gesture an actor would make on stage, a further mortification. “I guess,” he said, “I think that in this situation tonight the committee has tried to be both moral, you know? In terms of stewardship of the land and future generations, and also practical, serving the needs of the citizens in the here and now. I mean, it goes back as far as Plato, right? Philosophers making a close connection between true justice and human well-being. When companies pollute the air and the river, this is unjust because it disturbs every person’s well-being. It prevents individuals from flourishing. So then the Environmental Protection Agency is born.”
“My achin’ back,” someone behind us said.
My father was nodding, as if he was not at all ashamed of our relative. My mother was smiling encouragingly. William was paying close attention. Dolly, however, had been rummaging around in a bag and was pulling out her knitting.
“It seems like, from what I’ve heard and read, that the committee through the years has grappled with issues of justice at every governmental level—”
“Is there any Lombard that isn’t full of it?” Marv Johnson called out. Marv was a monumental man, his power in his brisket, that barrel in a red shirt, and there was no ignoring his drooping face with the pitted nose, his skin tending to purple.
Philip turned to him. “Excuse me, sir? I—”
My father said, “You don’t have the floor, Marv.”
Tribby banged his gavel—“Since when are you the chairman, Lombard? You don’t have the authority! That’s your whole problem, you people, as far as I’m concerned. You come in here with your college degrees, your whatever elite documents, and you think you can tell us, the real working farmers, the real citizens, how to run the government. You think if you just explain it for us one more time, we’ll let you snow us. No one wants this Plan. Hardly anyone at all. I’m in touch with the community. I’m telling you, the people, the real farmers, hate this Plan.”
“Actually, my father is a real farmer!” That cry was a hot streak through my mind but also it seemed to have come from my mouth. William grabbed my arm and Tribby banged his gavel; he banged his gavel at me, Mary Frances Lombard. My own words in the air were burning my ears, the clue, besides William’s grip, that I had spoken out loud.
I put my head down. What had just happened? Philip had maybe said something important; I wasn’t sure. My father had thought so but bringing up Plato? You did not bring up Plato at a town meeting. That was a rule anyone should instantly apprehend, crossing the threshold of the room. And yet Philip must have been right if people like the chairman and Marv Johnson were lambasting him. Think, think: I couldn’t very well be on Tribby’s side. He had practically beaten me with that mallet. I had shouted without even realizing it, which might mean I was out of my mind. Or very ill. I was hot and shivering, both. Trying to keep my body still, afraid the chair would start rattling. I could feel William not paying the slightest attention to me.
After some time I became aware that Sherwood was standing. Then I had to look up and take note; I had to abandon my own suffering. We held our breath since you could never quite know what Sherwood was going to say. His craggy face, that block of a forehead, was imposing, his curls were still red and made a fanciful halo, his best feature, and even though he wasn’t on the dais he had a pressed shirt and his good shoes. There was no need for him to be shy but he was hesitating. For what seemed like a few minutes he looked up at the ceiling, trying to collect his ideas, everyone, even the Lombard-haters, pulling for him. You just had to, no matter what, that man with visible effort intending to speak thoughtfully.
Finally he began. “Consider how much arable land was here twenty years ago, ten years ago, and now.” He spoke softly, dreamily.
Philip was nodding at Sherwood, nodding without pause, as if he were saying, That’s right, man, again and again.
“There are four or five farmers who among them work about twenty-three hundred acres,” Sherwood went on. There was a small cry, an uhhhh from Mrs. Tillet. All the good land gone, a fresh sorrow to her. “We can say that the shrinkage is due to an individual’s right, and his choice to sell, but what if we had a land-use plan that rewards stewardship, rather than cashing in, a land-use plan that has built into it conservation easements and tax policy, so that we are not only assisting the individual but working for the communal good?” There was spittle on his lips, his hands making larger circles, Sherwood revving up. Philip was still nodding, as if he alone understood the points being made. He had no right to think he knew anything and yet he continued his outrageous agreement while Sherwood gently educated us about the Dust Bowl, about the possibility of hunger, about the richness of our land resource, about our obligation to preserve it. Sherwood was spirited and tender, quiet in his knowledge, proving Tribby wrong, proving to the assembly that the Lombards’ intelligence was mannerly, that it was not unseemly or puffed up in any way.
“Those of you,” Sherwood was saying, “who want out can sell your property for a good price. There’s no reason to fear you wouldn’t get a good price. Those of us who want to continue farming will feel secure that we’re still in a community that values us, that supports us. We are together in this, more than we realize. If we understand that we’re together so much of this Plan makes sense.”