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.”
The people below are silent—spellbound, it seems, by Kemper’s words. I ain’t ever heard him talk like this before. His squeaky voice is powerful behind that podium.
A terrible pit forms in my stomach as Kemper draws a breath and continues.
“This is America. We are not about to force people from their homes . . . But this is 1968, and we are about progress. Times change. Needs change. Attachments to old things, when they no longer serve the greatest good for the greatest number, must be severed. To refuse to let go of these attachments might at first seem an overstrong dose of sentimentality or nostalgia. Let me tell you, it is far worse. It is selfishness. Disguised and hidden, but selfishness nevertheless.”
My jaw drops.
Next to me Will starts forward off his bench, catches himself.
“This selfishness is subtle,” Kemper goes on. “It says ‘Let my neighbors fend for themselves; I care only about me and mine.’ But that is not who we are. Such thinking runs contrary to everything we believe in as a society. It is frankly un-American.”
I’m boiling inside. Kemper is leaning forward over his podium, like a deranged pastor filled with the fervor of his own words.
“To those who think this way, I say this: You can still choose to do right by your neighbors. You can even profit from it. You will be generously compensated. So let go. Don’t stand in the way of progress. Don’t stand in the way of kindness. Do the right thing.”
Kemper looks out over the room, stands up straight, and finishes:
“If those people want to ignore the rights and needs of their neighbors, that’s their business. But it is not the business of this council,” he thunders on. “We cannot make them see the right thing. But we can make them do it, whether they wish to or not. Council has that power. Council should use that power. I urge council to support the measure. Thank you.”
Kemper returns to his seat, smiles as several people in the front clap. A few even cheer. A cold salamander feeling runs down my spine as I see several men at the table clapping. When they finally stop, Travers looks down at his list.
“Council will now hear from Mr. Gene Elliot.”
I automatically come forward at the sound of my father’s name. Down below us, Dad rises from his chair and walks stiffly to the podium. He looks oddly different in his suit and tie: out of place, not like Kemper or the chemical company men. But then he puts both hands on the podium and stands up tall, and I feel a certain change fall over everyone in the room. The people in the seats go still.
My father ain’t even spoken yet, but everyone is paying attention.
Dad begins by thanking council for holding the meeting. Travers smiles tightly. Kemper’s black eyes seem shiny and dark at the same time.
Next Dad looks to the chemical company men. “I appreciate you gentlemen bringing your topographical map. I have lived my whole life along the creek, aside from a few years in Korea. During the war.”
The men narrow their eyes at him.
Next to me, Mr. Halleck says quietly, “That was good.”
“How so?”
“Your father has just reminded everyone of his valor during the war.”
“What’s that got to do with any of this?”