Pamela Morsi (10 page)

There was the inevitable discussion about mail-order madness.

“People can order whatever they want,” Joe Simpson complained. “And it simply arrives on the train with their name on it. They don’t need general merchandise anymore.”

“The only good use for the Sears, Roebuck catalog,” shy Mr. Everhard, the tailor, proclaimed, “is the privy.”

Beyond the fear of mail-order madness was the discussion of streets and sewers. The organization was building both as quickly as it could afford them. Unfortunately, that was at a snail’s pace. Everybody in town wanted his street to be next, including the gentlemen in attendance.

Macadamization, constructing a road by cementing
small stones together, was the most popular and efficient road-building technology. The merchants association was purchasing cement and combining it with local rock to make dependable, mudless streets all across town.

The proposed Sanitary Sewer Project was a little less successfully managed. Huntley opened up the floor for debate, then apparently got distracted by the treasurer’s numbers report and allowed wrangling to go unabated.

The merchants association was laying sewer lines all over the city that were to be connected to a four-pool lagoon system just outside the town. The four-pool lagoon system was the most modern of solid-waste disposal systems. Raw sewage was pumped into one pool and settled. The top ran off into another pool. And then another. By the fourth pool, the one-time sewage was now water clean enough to be released into the river.

The Monday Merchants had invested heavily in the project, hoping to tie every business and residence in town onto the lines. Ditchdigging and pipe laying were everywhere. But, so far not one scoop of dirt for the lagoon system had been excavated.

“Has there been any word from the judge?” Mr. Potts, editor of the
Beacon
, asked.

Judge Barclay had been personally involved with the planning, the handling and the schedule. Under his guidance, the project had run much more smoothly. He had convinced Grover Richardson to donate the land for the four-pool lagoon system. And it seemed as if everything would simply fall into place.

But the judge had left town and Wade Pearsall was now in charge. The line construction continued in a mishmash fashion. Work on the lagoon had yet to start, and for some reason Pearsall was not able to either
express their concerns or get an answer from the judge. It was as if they could not discover what was holding up progress.

The mayor, George Honey, was at the meeting, looking as pompous and dignified as a fat fellow barely five feet tall could manage. He suggested that the Monday Merchants turn over the money they had raised for the project and allow the elected officials of the town to take on the oversight of the construction.

This was a very unlikely scenario at best. Wade Pearsall took the proposal as a personal affront and seemed ready to go to fisticuffs with Mayor Honey over the slight to his management abilities.

Rome was listening, but his heart was not truly in it this morning. The same arguments that were repeated meeting after meeting were being expressed once more.

What wasn’t being said was what a slap in the face it would be to take the work out from under Pearsall’s direction. It would be a public expression of no confidence and the gentlemen of the community were loath to do it, but in Rome’s opinion, it simply had to be done.

As with the past several meetings, the discussion was tabled and everyone agreed to allow things to remain in limbo at least another week, hoping that some brilliant solution to the intractable problem would occur to someone.

The next subject up for discussion was equally contentious. The Founder’s Day celebration had been an annual event in Cottonwood until the untimely death of Grover Richardson. The Richardsons were the town’s first family and for many years the event was nothing more than a small social gathering in the rooms and lawns of the Richardson house.

It had slowly evolved into an all-day community picnic with games and food booths and entertainment. Much of the money for community improvements had been raised then, and Richardson had always matched that amount from his own funds. Since his demise, the planning and implementation of Founder’s Day had simply been ignored.

This year, however, was the fiftieth anniversary of the founding of the town. Some kind of celebration marking that momentous occasion had to observed.

“We’ve been acting like we ain’t really a town without Grover Richardson,” Pete Davies declared, his tone accusing. “Well, I say we was a proud town then and we’re just as proud now.”

Casey McCade agreed. “I guess we quit doing the celebration out of respect for the dead. But it would be a better legacy if we kept it up and made it better.”

Those sentiments were repeated in a dozen other ways.

“And the more money we make for capital improvements,” Wade Pearsall chimed in, “the sooner everybody gets their street paved and their sewer dug.”

Pearsall’s words produced a groundswell of grumbling, but Huntley quickly reined in the situation before the discussion rebounded to improvement projects once more.

The first order of business was to come up with a date.

“That’s easy,” Joe Simpson answered. “We should do it on the Fourth of July.”

The date momentarily startled Rome. That was the day Miss Gussie had planned for her wedding. Well, that couldn’t be helped. She would simply have to pick another date. And truly, it didn’t matter. Rome fully
expected Amos Dewey to come around long before then.

“July fourth! That’s little more than five weeks away,” Matt Purdy complained.

“If we can’t put this together in five weeks,” Perry Wilhelm said, “then I very much doubt that we would be able to put it together at all.”

There was a good deal of agreement with that statement.

Immediately Huntley began to press into service one likely gentleman after another. There was no shortage of jobs to be done.

Committees were appointed to build booths and organize games.

Pete Davies volunteered his wife to take charge of the food. It was common knowledge that the two were still estranged. It was not clear if the man was volunteering her to get back in her good graces or to retaliate against her. But she had a reputation for being very organized and capable, so Huntley cheerfully assigned her the task in absentia.

Matt Purdy volunteered his acreage down by the river.

“All my hay should be in by then,” he said.

The location seemed a reasonable one. “Most of that ground is low land and prone to flooding,” Purdy allowed. “But given the date is in the driest part of midsummer, I think it unlikely that high water would—ah—dampen the event.”

The room collectively groaned at Purdy’s humor. Despite that, the location, close to town and yet affording the cool shade of the river, was approved.

“What kind of entertainment are we going to have?” Clive Benson asked. “I’m sure the band will want to play, but shouldn’t there be something more than that?”

Clive played the tuba in the Cottonwood Community Marching Band. The local volunteer musicians cheerfully paraded down Broad Street on any vaguely appropriate occasion and performed concerts in City Park all summer long.

“Perhaps the ladies of the community would be interested in providing entertainment,” the mayor suggested.

“Good Lord, don’t get them involved in that,” old Penderghast complained, turning to his son for support. “They will do some long-winded elocution about those Greek fellows who wore skirts or make us listen to some fat woman singing in Italian.”

The other men in the room chuckled in sympathy. Mrs. Penderghast’s preferences for Hellenic myth and grand opera were well known.

“The women will surely come up with something better than that,” Benson assured him. “Maybe something with a patriotic theme. We will be observing both the Founder’s Day and the Fourth.”

“We’ll certainly have appropriate speeches,” the mayor commented.

“Speeches ain’t entertainment,” Penderghast complained.

“Then the entertainment should be fireworks,” Joe Simpson said with certainty.

“Fireworks!” the mayor agreed excitedly.

Nods all around the room concurred with Simpson’s plan. A shower of fancy fireworks was exactly what would make the celebration special. Of course, fireworks were not something that you would expect the ladies to come up with. Fireworks were loud, messy, dangerous; they were clearly the province of men.

“Huntley,” the mayor said, “we need a couple of volunteers.”

The young banker was busy searching for something
in his pockets and looked startled when his name was called.

“Volunteer? Oh, volunteers … for …”

“Fireworks,” the mayor told him, clearly annoyed.

“Yes, of course, volunteers for the fireworks.”

No one immediately raised his hand. Most of the men had already committed themselves to other jobs. Rome almost sighed aloud. With all the time that was necessary to devote to Miss Gussie’s scheme, he really didn’t want any more obligations to fulfill. He should do something, that was certain. Planning and purchasing the fireworks would not involve as much time and trouble as some of the other tasks. But it would curtail what leisure he had left. It required someone sober, deliberate and thoughtful. He was, by nature, a careful fellow. He would rather take the risks himself than see some less steady fellow attempting them. And he was interested in fireworks. It made sense that he should volunteer. So he did.

At the exact moment that he raised his hand, he saw another go up across the room. He stood staring in disbelief at Amos Dewey as Amos stared back at him.

“Oh, good, there’s two right there,” Huntley said. “Rome and Amos will take care of the fireworks for us.”

I
T RAINED HEAVILY ON
S
ATURDAY NIGHT WITH GREAT
bolts of lightning and rumbling thunder. Sunday afternoon was bright and clear, the day seeming to be washed and sparkling in the sunshine.

Gussie gazed in her mirror and was pleased. She felt very well turned out in her new light blue mercerized gingham. She hadn’t really needed a new dress and she abhorred the practice some ladies fell into of buying things they did not need simply to have something new. But she was to be promenading in the park with Rome Akers. Every eye in town would be on her. And a woman with a new beau was expected to wear a new dress.

She had to admit it was a lovely dress. Perhaps the style was a bit youthful for a spinster of thirty-one years, but Miss Ima, Cottonwood’s most celebrated dressmaker and seamstress, had clearly outdone herself. The sleeves were plain and the skirt had only one flounce. But the bodice was pleated in several dozen quarter-inch tucks which spectacularly enhanced the natural measure of Gussie’s bosom. She was excessively
corseted, having pulled in her waist to a width not easily bearable since before she was twenty. And she had complained that even standing still she was light-headed. But Miss Ima was right: her inability to get a good breath seemed a frivolous concern when one glimpsed the incredible improvement in her silhouette. She was definitely hourglass, jaw-dropping, male-stopping hourglass.

Gussie turned away from the mirror to get a glimpse of herself from the rear. She was very impressed with what she saw. The skirt was gathered high in the back to fall with great breadth over her wire bustle, making her backside appear stylishly enormous. In fact, she looked so good, she felt almost conspicuous.

The creak of the front gate intruded into her inner fashion debate and she glanced out the window to see Rome coming up the walk. He looked very dapper and handsome himself, she thought. It seemed that the two of them would actually make a rather attractive couple in the park. Which was, Gussie thought, amazing for two people so obviously unsuited to each other.

“Good afternoon,” she called out to him.

He stopped in the path and gazed up at her. He was smiling and so very handsome.

“Good afternoon to you, ma’am,” he called out.

He left the path and walked to the ground beneath her window, placing his hand on the white-painted rose trellis that was secured from the ground to the eaves at the side of her window. Red climbers grew there in great abundance. She loved being able to catch the scent on a warm spring morning.

“It’s a lovely afternoon for a courting couple to take a promenade in the park,” he said. “Are you ready?”

“Just let me get my hat,” she told him, smiling as she left the window.

In front of the mirror once more, she pinned on her new straw-brimmed leghorn with silk lilies in pale blue. She gave herself one more long, assessing glance at the complete ensemble. Yes, indeed, Miss Ima had outdone herself.

Cheerfully, Gussie hurried down the stairs and then regretted her haste immediately. Due to her tight lacing and inability to breathe properly, she was light-headed before she reached the bottom step.

Again she mused on the intelligence of such tight cinching. Certainly fashion was not as important as health. And nothing that was this binding could be healthy. There was still time for her to change into something a good deal more comfortable.

She went to the door with the intention of telling Rome that in fact she was not ready and that he should wait on the porch.

He was standing there holding a perfect little rosebud that he had obviously pilfered from her trellis. Apparently hearing the sound of her footfalls, he turned his gaze in Gussie’s direction.

His expression changed immediately. His eyes widened. His mouth opened.

“Damn!” was his comment.

“I beg your pardon!” Miss Gussie responded.

“I—I’m sorry,” he managed to stutter. “I … you … I mean that dress …” He cleared his throat needlessly as if hoping that delay would give him an opportunity to regain his composure.

“Miss Gussie,” he said finally, “I have never seen you looking lovelier.”

She felt the warmth of a blush stain her cheeks.

“Oh,” she said. “Why, thank you, Mr. Akers.”

All thought of changing to a more comfortable costume completely fled her mind.