This image of Harriet in her garden is what Cheryl holds in her mind, three weeks later, as she sits at the massive oak table with her fellow commission members.
“Before we begin our scheduled agenda,” she says, making eye contact with each of them in turn, “I’d like to bring an urgent matter to your attention.”
The other commission members are sloppily dressed, in today’s way, and slump in their chairs. No particular light of attention springs to their eyes. Cheryl, however, has honed the forgotten art of rhetoric. She has learned to use her voice like an instrument, strong and clear. She likes to think that her immersion into the past has opened her to the voices of the ancestors, given her the ability to channel them for present-day purposes. There is no denying that exceptional fervor comes through her voice, like a clarion call, as she eloquently skewers applications for certificates of appropriateness. The renovation plans that homeowners submit would be laughable were they not so sickening, tantamount to decimating original structures and hiding vulgar McMansions behind their facades. The homeowners—usually young, urbane couples—stare at her as she lambasts their building plans. When the commission votes with her, the husbands protest like teenagers given a bad grade. The women clutch their designer purses with intertwined initials and push back their ironed hair. Sometimes they cry. They should have stayed in the city where they belong, Cheryl thinks, in their elevator buildings with awnings and entrance rugs and sycophantic doormen.
“As you may be aware,” she begins, “the Ezekiel Slater house at 430 Cannonfield Road, built in 1740 by the Reverend Ezekiel Slater, has recently passed into new ownership. As a neighbor of close proximity to the Slater homestead, it has come to my attention that the new proprietors have been absent from the premises for months. As a confidante of the former owner, Mrs. Harriet Hertz, I am privy to the fact that the house has long been in need of substantial repair. Mrs. Hertz, having become infirm and impecunious in her final years, was unable to finance said repairs, but took solace in the certainty that they would be conscientiously performed after her passing by the purchasers of the home.”
Cheryl pauses, glances at the faces around the table. Victor Conetta gazes up at her with the eyes of an elderly beagle.
“However”—she pauses as she imagines an ancestral orator would—“as further weeks pass without bodily sign of the purchasers, it has become apparent to me that the acquisition of this venerable home was in fact made with an eye to circumventing the regulations of this commission through gradual and insidious demolition by neglect.”
She lets these final, horrible words settle upon the table. A long moment passes.
“It is imperative that the commission take immediate action. We delay at our peril. The fate of one of this region’s most historic structures is at stake.”
A chair creaks, and Edward Drayton clears his throat.
“Pardon me, Cheryl, but is there visible evidence of neglect?” he asks in his slow, weary voice, gesturing as if his hands were underwater. “Are there broken windows, missing shingles, water stains on the roof?”
Cheryl straightens her posture and meets his gaze. “No, of course not. Not as yet, anyway.”
Drayton turns his palms to the ceiling. “Without visible evidence, we can’t accuse the owners of wrongdoing.” He smiles, as if speaking to a child. “You know that.”
“I am giving the commission concrete information about the interior condition of a significant structure located within this town’s defined historic district. Are you saying that we passively watch the house deteriorate until the owners waltz in with a demolition application?”
“If the house is truly in bad shape, we’ll see it on the outside eventually. Then we can contact the owners and discuss it.”
Cheryl sniffs. “Like we did with the Spaulding house? You may notice there is no more Spaulding house.”
“Again, Cheryl, I must remind you that it’s not within our jurisdiction to intervene into the upkeep of privately owned properties without cause, even within the historic district. Unless there is unmistakable evidence of neglect.” Drayton joins his hands and fingers together like the laces of a woman’s stays. “Thank you, regardless, for bringing this to the commission’s attention. We’ll keep an eye on it. Now, let’s move on to the written agenda.”