Life Goes On (7 page)

T
he thunderstorm that hit in mid-August was all boom and very little rain, and by the last week of August the ground was parched, six inches of rain below normal. The farmers have been gathering each morning at the Coffee Cup to lament their predicament and hinting that if I had any pull with the Lord, I would deliver a good, steady rain on their behalf.

Farmers, I have discovered, are a generally gloomy lot, and when not worrying about the weather are direly predicting equipment failures or falling crop prices. If my prayers did produce rain, they would grumble that it didn't come in quarter-inch increments, equally disbursed over the growing season. My role in this is abundantly clear—I am to curry the favor of the rain god, lest their livelihoods be ruined and my suitability for ministry questioned.

By the last week of August, the drought was so bad, Harvey Muldock and the other men of the town council imposed a ban on lawn and garden watering. In an article in the
Herald,
Harvey was quoted as saying the town's water department would be monitoring
each home's water use and prosecuting scofflaws. The men at the American Legion detected a whiff of fascism and issued a proclamation declaring their opposition to the council's latest tyranny.

The town-council elections are in November, and it was Harvey's hope, when he proposed the watering ban, that it would make someone mad enough to run against him and he could retire from the town council altogether. He's served for sixteen years. He ran for the office to prove to his wife he could win, after he'd mentioned in passing that he'd been thinking of running and she'd laughed and told him to stop being ridiculous. So just to prove he could, he ran and won. Now she won't let him quit. The council meets every Monday night, which gets him out of the house so she can have her euchre club over. The last thing she wants is Harvey hanging around trying to be witty and charming, making a pest of himself.

It took several years for Harvey to realize he'd been duped into running. Now his only hope is to irritate enough people to be voted out of office. He is tired of the grind, weary of people phoning his home at all hours to complain about things over which he has no control. The last straw was when Hester Gladden phoned his house during his favorite TV program to complain that a groundhog was tearing up her garden and wanting to know what he was going to do about it.

The next evening, after dark, he took his .22 rifle down from the closet shelf and walked over to Hester's house to dispatch the groundhog, though it occurred to him it would be infinitely more satisfying to take out Hester. He was hiding behind her tulip tree when he noticed Hester sneak out of her house and drag her garden hose over
to Bea Majors's water spigot next door. He watched as Hester hooked up her hose to Bea's spigot and adjusted the sprinkler to water her grass.

He tiptoed to Bea's door and rang her doorbell until lights flickered on throughout the house as she awakened. He didn't stick around to watch the clash, but noticed the next morning at church that Bea and Hester weren't speaking to one another.

Hester has been the Friendly Women Circle's treasurer nearly twenty years. At their next meeting, without revealing the sordid details of the water heist, Bea suggested it might be wise to audit their books. “There are things you don't know that I'm not at liberty to discuss,” she said. “But it might behoove us to examine our books and appoint a new treasurer.”

Miriam Hodge pointed out there had never been more than a hundred dollars in the Friendly Women Circle's checking account, and that checks required two signatures.

“She's been putting her trash in my garbage can for years,” Bea sputtered angrily. “Now she's stealing my water.” Bea turned to Hester. “You didn't think I'd noticed, did you? And to think I invited you to join this honorable body. What was I thinking?”

The women gasped, and shifted away from Hester. To have one of their own exposed as a common thief was more than they could bear. If word ever got out, their stock would plummet; they'd be ruined.

“As much as it hurts me to say this,” Fern Hampton said to Hester, “I'm afraid we'll have to ask you to resign.”

It actually didn't hurt a bit. Fern hasn't liked Hester Gladden since 1989, when Hester had the temerity to run against her for the
Circle's presidency. According to Fern, Hester's defeat was one more indication of the Lord's protective hedge around the Circle.

“Aren't we moving awfully fast?” Miriam Hodge asked. “We haven't even heard Hester's side of it. And even if it's true, aren't we supposed to forgive?”

Although the Friendly Women's Circle is strong on noodles and fairly adept at organization, forgiveness has never been their strong suit. Three minutes later, Hester was ousted as treasurer and Jessie Peacock was being sworn in, her left hand resting on a 1935 first-edition copy of the Friendly Women's cookbook, her right hand upraised, as she pledged to defend the Friendly Women's Circle from all enemies, foreign and domestic. Then they brought the meeting to a quick close, so they could go home and begin circulating word of Hester's fall from grace.

Harvey was working at the dealership, and didn't learn of Hester's overthrow until that night at the supper table, when Eunice spilled the beans, describing in great detail Hester's transgressions and her eviction from the treasurer's position.

Brilliant, Harvey thought. Why didn't I think of that? I'll steal something, and they'll have to throw me off the council.

He started the next day, visiting the town hall during his lunch break and pocketing a box of paper clips in plain view of Dottie, the billing clerk.

“You need some paper clips, Harvey?” Dottie asked. “Help yourself. Somebody works as hard as you do for this town ought to get a box of paper clips every now and then.”

“I'm gonna take a stapler too,” he said. “Mine's broken.”

“Funny you should mention that,” she said, reaching into her desk drawer. “I brought an extra one from home just yesterday. You take it for as long as you need it.”

This wasn't going at all as he'd planned. If Dottie didn't start cooperating, he'd never be a thief. He glanced around the office. His eyes fell on the soda pop machine. He ambled across the room, reached behind the machine where Dottie hid the key, unlocked the machine door, pulled out a Nehi orange pop, and took a swig.

“Let me buy that for you,” Dottie said, fishing through her purse for change. “I owe you one from last week. Remember?”

Harvey sighed. That was the problem with people nowadays, he thought. They're too soft on crime. Whatever happened to the good old days when they hanged criminals?

On the way home, he walked past the
Herald
building just as Owen Stout was depositing a quarter in the newspaper dispenser. As Owen opened the door to get the paper, Harvey leaned in beside him. “Don't shut it yet,” he said, reaching past Owen to grab a copy of the paper from the dispenser.

Bob Miles was working on his “Bobservation Post” column, reporting the Tuesday afternoon view from the front window of the
Herald
, and saw the whole thing. He was aghast. Larceny on his doorstep! By a public servant, no less!

When the newspaper hit the doorsteps two days later, the first line of the “Bobservation Post” read, “What member of the town council was recently seen STEALING a newspaper?” Bob's article went on to lament the decline of integrity among politicians, starting with Watergate and winding its way through the Iran-Contra scandal, Bill
Clinton's impeachment, and now a brazen theft in broad daylight by a town councilman.

What kind of example did this set for the children in town? Bob wanted to know.

There are three members on the town council—Harvey, Owen Stout, and Clevis Nagle. Clevis was out of town that week with his wife on their annual trip to visit her brother in Des Moines, so he was ruled out, which left Harvey and Owen. Owen is an attorney, and an honest one, but because people like to believe the worst about lawyers, they assumed he was the culprit and letters to the editor began rolling in demanding his ouster from the council.

Owen was going to let it pass, but his wife wouldn't and wrote a letter to the
Herald
defending her husband. Unfortunately, by insisting on Owen's innocence, she inadvertently implicated Harvey. This annoyed people to no end. In all their lives, they had never seen such a malicious and blatant political attack. Harvey couldn't go anywhere without people stopping him to voice their support.

Harvey refrained from any public comment, which was seen as yet another example of his sterling character. People began sending him money for his reelection campaign. The Odd Fellows convened a special meeting, a first in their long and noble history, and named Harvey the recipient of their first annual Civic Leader of the Year Award.

Harvey began to panic. At this rate, the townspeople would not only vote Owen off the council, they'd carry Harvey through town on their shoulders and install him as council president for life. He thought of publicly confessing, but was growing accustomed to the
adulation and even starting to enjoy its privileges. The day before, he'd eaten at the Coffee Cup and Ned Kivett had insisted on buying his lunch. Vinny Toricelli had mowed his yard, and his name had been added to the prayer lists at all the churches so everyone would remember to pray for him and Eunice as they came under Satanic attack.

Judy Iverson wrote a letter to the
Herald
pointing out Harvey had served for sixteen years without a dime of compensation and suggested it was time for a tax hike so council members could be paid.

It was about this time that the idea of being president for life began appealing to Harvey.

Unfortunately, the only one able to set the record straight was Bob Miles, who was faced with having to chose between journalistic integrity and money. It did not take Bob long to decide. Harvey was Bob's largest advertiser—a twenty-dollar back-page ad every week for his car dealership. Though Bob felt sorry for Owen, Owen hadn't advertised in the paper for years.

Bob toyed with the idea of blackmailing Harvey. But, then,
blackmail
was such a harsh word. Actually, he thought of it as
laissez-faire
capitalism, which he explained to Harvey when he came in the
Herald
office to pay his advertising bill.

Bob was seated at his desk by the front window.

“Quite a view you got there,” Harvey commented as he laid a twenty on Bob's desk for that week's ad.

“It sure is,” Bob said. “I can see everything on the town square from here. Anybody does anything, and I can see it.”

“Everything?” Harvey asked.

“Yep. Everything.”

“So how's business?” Harvey asked, changing the subject.

“Been pretty good. Got a phone call the other day from someone wanting to buy the entire back page for the next year.”

“The back page?” Harvey said. “But that's my page. You've always put me on the back page.”

“Well, they've offered me fifty dollars for it. But don't worry, we can always run your ad on the classifieds page.”

“The classifieds page!” Harvey was indignant. “No one ever reads the classifieds. You can't do that to me.”

“Nothin' personal, Harvey. Just business. Course if you wanted to buy the back page, I could let you have it for the same price as the other fella.” Then Bob leaned back in his chair. “Yes, this sure is some view I have here.”

Well, what was Harvey to do? What is a man to do when, despite his best efforts, he finds himself the most respected man in town and suddenly has a reputation to uphold? He bought the entire back page for one year, though not cheerfully.

Harvey stopped by my house that evening seeking absolution for his sins. He told me the whole sordid story while sitting on my front porch.

“I don't feel bad about Hester,” he said. “She got what she had comin'. But I wish Owen hadn't been dragged into it. I'm sorry about that.”

“Maybe you should apologize to Owen.”

“I don't feel
that
bad,” he said.

“Well, what do you want from me, then?” I asked.

“Just wanted to get this off my chest, and it helped. I feel a whole lot better.”

“Don't you think you'd feel even better if you confessed to stealing the newspaper?”

Harvey thought for a moment. “No, I don't think so.” He paused. “So am I forgiven, Sam?”

“It's not up to me to forgive you, Harvey. You didn't wrong me. If you want forgiveness, you should go see Owen.”

“You know, the Catholics, they can go to their priest and the priest'll have 'em say a few prayers and they're forgiven.”

“Well, Harvey, we're not Catholic.”

“Not yet anyway,” Harvey grumbled. “But I'm giving it serious thought.”

Harvey sat quietly for several minutes. “So what would people think of me if I told the truth?”

“I know I would respect you a great deal, and I imagine others would too.”

“It's just that it's felt pretty nice with everybody treating me special. It's nice to be respected.”

“It sure is,” I agreed. “And the way you get respected is to be respectable.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

It began raining that night, just in time to save the corn, which gave people something else to talk about. The next day Harvey lifted the watering ban, and Hester's groundhog was struck dead by Amanda Hodge, who'd had her driver's permit less than thirty minutes before
taking a life. It wasn't a very auspicious start, even though Hester seemed profoundly grateful.

That week Harvey ran his first full-page ad—a letter of confession with an apology to Owen Stout, which was graciously accepted. All in all, it was a good way to end the month—a farmers' rain, soft on the roof, a fitting repentance, and the death of a marauding groundhog.