Serendipity Green (2 page)

There are two people on the Squaw Days Committee from the new housing developments north, south, east and west of the village. One is Paula Varney, owner of Just Giraffes. Paula Varney hardly sells enough stuffed giraffes to pay the shop's light bill, let alone the rent. But making money isn't the objective. The objective is something for Paula Varney to do now that her twin sons Sean and Jarrod are away at Kenyon College, one studying anthropology, the other modern dance. Her husband Dave's enormous salary as comptroller for Zedonk Industries Inc. easily covers Just Giraffe's light bill and rent, just as it easily covers two tuitions and the mortgage on their five-bedroom
faux
-Georgian in the new Mallard Lakes Estates, built on the rolling hills of Bud Paddaway's old two-hundred-cow dairy farm.

“I see Zedonk's stock has bounced back a bit after that takeover rumor,” D. William Aitchbone says to Paula Varney, his courtroom smile in full flower.

The smile she returns is little more than a twitch. “That takeover was just a rumor, Bill.”

The other committee member from the new developments is Kevin Hassock. Kevin Hassock does not want to be at this meeting. He does not want to be on the Squaw Days Committee. He wants to spend this evening and every evening full-tilt in his black leather recliner, flipping between ESPN and ESPN-2, in the sunken family room of his
faux
-French country house in Woodchuck Ridge, where old Norm Umplebee used to raise a lot of corn and soybeans. But Kevin Hassock's employer, DWP America Ltd., likes its young executives to get involved in their communities, even if they are likely to be transferred or downsized within twenty-four months. “How you like these Ohio winters of ours?” D. William Aitchbone asks him.

“They keep you awake, that's for sure,” Kevin Hassock answers in his native North Carolinian. He does not know that his unhappy wife just that morning called D. William Aitchbone's office for an appointment.

So everyone is there. D. William Aitchbone had spent much of his hour and five minutes at the Daydream Beanery assessing how to handle each of them.

Some have to be handled with respect.

Donald Grinspoon certainly has to be. The former mayor is a fellow Republican, and a successful businessman to boot—successful, that is, until the mall opened at the I-491 interchange. Grinspoon's Department Store had been a fixture on the village square since 1893. It had survived the Great Depression and Tuttwyler Mills' decision in 1975 to close the snack cake line. It even survived the explosion of shopping plazas on West Wooseman. But the new mall was another matter and Grinspoon's was forced to close just two weeks before the same November election that ended Donald Grinspoon's twenty-six year stint as mayor. Most of the village's political insiders, D. William Aitchbone among them, had expected him to retreat to the family condo in Key Largo after those back-to-back defeats. But Donald Grinspoon is a genetically optimistic man. He not only remained in his big impressive Victorian Gothic on South Mill Street, he also held onto his chairmanship of the Squaw Days Committee. And he still would be chairman if his wife of fifty-two years, Penelope (nee Tuttwyler) Grinspoon, finally hadn't surrendered to the hat trick of emphysema, osteoporosis and Alzheimer's creeping respectively through her lungs, bones, and brain since Reagan's first term. Now Donald Grinspoon's days are filled with long visits to the Sparrow Hill Nursing Home forty miles north in Strongsville. And although he is happy to stay on the Squaw Days Committee as long as the others will have him, he has turned the chairmanship over to younger blood. In particular, the younger blood of his personal lawyer and political protégé, one D. William Aitchbone. So a certain amount respect for Donald Grinspoon is in order.

A certain amount of respect also is in order for the new mayor, Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne. Public respect anyway. Woody Sadlebyrne not only is Tuttwyler's first Democratic mayor since the Civil War, he also is Tuttwyler's youngest mayor ever, just twenty-eight on election day, just twenty-nine now. Woody has big plans for the village. But Woody also has a big problem—a big problem named D. William Aitchbone, president of the village council, vice-chairman of the Wyssock County Republican Party, and now, chairman of the Squaw Days Committee. D. William Aitchbone also is the man certain to unseat him in the next mayoral election. Everybody understands the inevitability of that. Even Woody Sadlebyrne himself surely understands the inevitability of that.

Other members of the committee simply can be tolerated.

Dick Mueller and Delores Poltruski fall into that category. Paula Varney, too. As the months whittle toward August they will have plenty to say at these meetings, but in the end nothing at all to say about the big changes D. William Aitchbone has in mind.

One member of the committee can be ignored completely.

That member, of course, is Kevin Hassock. He is there because his résumé requires it. He will appreciate the new chairman's inattention.

That leaves Katherine Hardihood. She must be handled with oven mitts.

“Well,” D. William Aitchbone says, “what do you say we get started.”

2

“I suppose the first thing we need to do,” begins D. William Aitchbone, “is to make sure everybody is happy with their subcommittee assignments.”

This is the customary way to begin the year's first meeting of the Squaw Days Committee; not just the actual discussion of subcommittee assignments, but the words “make sure everybody is happy.” Those are the exact words Donald Grinspoon used every year since the first Squaw Days was planned, thirteen years ago. Now it is D. William Aitchbone's turn to use those words, to simultaneously pay homage to his predecessor while stealing away his power and prestige. “Dick, you'll coordinate the parade again, won't you? And the memorial services?”

Dick Mueller nods. Of course he will coordinate the parade and the memorial services. And, and always, Delores Poltruski will coordinate the craft show and the food tents. And Paula Varney, as president of the Chamber of Commerce, will coordinate merchant contributions and the big sidewalk sale. And former Mayor Grinspoon will continue to coordinate his three favorite events: the pie-eating contest, the tobacco-spitting competition, and the closing night fireworks. And present Mayor Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne will coordinate participation by the various village service departments: the police for traffic control, fire engines for the parade, paramedics standing by, clean-up by the village's maintenance engineer when it's all over for another year.

“And Kevin, I know this is your first year on the committee, but could you coordinate the carnival rides?”

The dread of responsibility races through Kevin Hassock like embalming fluid through a corpse. Runaway tilt-a-whirls. Blood on the parking lot. Unbathed carnies from New Jersey and Alabama drugging and buggering junior high school kids. Lawsuits up the wazoo. “I'd be happy to,” Kevin Hassock says.

“Just make sure they bring the big Ferris wheel,” D. William Aitchbone says. “They always try to sneak the little one in.”

“Gotcha,” says Kevin Hassock.

Finally, Katherine Hardihood again will coordinate the historical display at the library, the band concert at the gazebo, and, most importantly, the Re-Enactment.

“And I'll coordinate the coordination,” D. William Aitchbone says. It is another old Donald Grinspoon line. Everyone laughs, just as they had always laughed when Donald Grinspoon said it. Another homage to the old man's authority and respect.

D. William Aitchbone now listens intently as each of them, for a few minutes permitted to feel important, go over their checklists:

Dick Mueller says the parade units, as usual, will line up at the old snack cake plant, proceed up East Wooseman to the square, go once around, then proceed out South Mill to the cemetery for the memorial services. Both the high school and junior high bands have agreed to march again, he says, and the Chirpy Chipmunks unicycle troupe from Akron also has expressed interest in returning, though he hasn't talked to them since October. “But I will real soon,” he pledges.

Delores Poltruski says that the food tents again will be set up on the north side of the square, and the craft booths on the east side, “making a nice convenient
L
,” she says. She warns of one potential problem. “Howie Dornick still hasn't cut that dead limb out of the box elder. The Knights of Columbus are afraid if there's any wind at all, that limb could come down right through the sloppy joe tent.”

“We'll get the limb cut,” Donald Grinspoon assures her, forgetting he is no longer mayor.

The new mayor handles this awkward moment graciously. “We might just take the whole tree down,” Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne says. “There really aren't that many limbs left anyway.”

“It's the only box elder left on the square,” Katherine Hardihood reminds everyone.

The unanticipated dead-limb-debate delights D. William Aitchbone. “If you've noticed, Howie Dornick still hasn't removed the Christmas decorations from the gazebo either,” he says. “So whether it's just the one limb or the entire tree, Woody, you need to get Howie popping.”

“I'll talk to him in the morning,” Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne promises.

“You might mention his house again,” D. William Aitchbone says.

“Oh yes, please,” Paula Varney says. “Mention his house.”

“His house is a disgrace,” Dick Mueller says.

“And right on the parade route,” Delores Poltruski says.

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” says Dick Mueller, his head going up and down like a rocking chair. “People from all over the Ohio line up on South Mill for the parade. Television crews, too.”

“I'll talk to Howie about painting his house,” Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne assures everyone.

D. William Aitchbone now makes sure there is just the right amount of bristle in his voice. “We need more than talk, Woody.”

Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne does not appreciate the bristle. He weakly bristles back. “I'll handle it, Bill.”

D. William Aitchbone fakes a nod of contrition and moves on to the next subcommittee report. “So, Donald, what you got planned for the pie-eating contest this year? Blueberry? Cherry?”

Former Mayor Donald Grinspoon brightens. “Nothing makes a mess like blueberry.”

Paula Varney rests her plump palm on the old man's knuckles. “That reminds me, Donald. Tom Winkler at Denny's says he'll give us the pies at cost again.”

Now it's Katherine Hardihood's turn to bristle. “I'm not sure what sticking your face in a blueberry pie has to do with remembering what happened to Princess Pogawedka.”

D. William Aitchbone lets Katherine Hardihood's dig slide. The subcommittee reports go on. Donald Grinspoon has a second cup of coffee. Three or four times Dick Mueller slips and called Delores Poltruski “Dee Dee.” Before the meeting ends D. William Aitchbone gives Kevin Hassock the phone number for the Happy Landings Ride Company; he also gives him a folder containing the already-signed contacts, permits, and insurance documents. “Looks easy enough,” Kevin Hassock says, greatly relieved that most of his work is already done.

“Pretty cut and dried, really,” says D. William Aitchbone. “Just remember: Big Ferris wheel.”

The year's first meeting of the Squaw Days Committee ends. Members disappear like movie ghosts into the horizontal February snow. D. William Aitchbone catches up with Mayor Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne half way across the square. “Woody! Wait a sec!”

The mayor stiffens and stops and turns into the goose-shitting snow.

“Sorry if I got a little gruff before,” D. William Aitchbone says.

The mayor bats the flakes away from his eyes. He doesn't want to have this conversation. He wants to go home and have a bowl of raisin bran. He wants to watch Letterman. “I'll talk to Howie in the morning.”

D. William Aitchbone puts his hand on the mayor's shoulder and swivels him about. They walk. “We've been talking to him for years, Woody. Talking to Howie Dornick is like trying to fart a rainbow.”

“I think I can get Howie to cut down one box elder limb by August.”

“Who cares about the box elder limb? The house, Woody. I want his goddamn house painted.”

“Everybody wants his house painted. But you can't order someone to paint their house.”

“Not in so many words you can't.”

Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne stops and turns his face back into the snow and lets the flakes land where they may. “You want me to threaten him with his job? He's Civil Service. And don't forget he's also the son of Artie Brown.”

“The
illegitimate
son of Artie Brown,” D. William Aitchbone points out.

“Well, he's legitimately protected by Civil Service.”

They walk on, to the top of the square. D. William Aitchbone's American-made Japanese luxury sedan is parked across the street, four or five spaces down from Woodrow Wilson Sadlebyrne's red Ford Tempo. “I just want Squaw Days to go well, Woody. It's my first year as chairman. Just like it's your first year as mayor. We both want things to go well, right?”

“That we do.”

D. William Aitchbone grins and extends his hand. “See you at the council meeting. I've got some interesting new ideas about plugging that budget shortfall.” He crosses the street and brushes the snow off his windshield. As he brushes, he shakes his head at the expensive giraffes in the window of Paula Varney's something-to-do shop. One giraffe is dressed in a top hat and tails. Another wears a scarf and Russian fur hat. Most of the other giraffes are naked except for the pastel silk ribbons around their endless necks. “Who in their right mind would pay that kind of money for a stuffed animal?” he asks himself.

Paula Varney is not the only something-to-do shopkeeper on the square. Something-to-do is the objective of most of the shops on the square these days. These days the real retail action is along the ever-expanding strip on West Wooseman, where Wal-mart and Kmart do battle 24 hours a day; where McDonald's and Burger King and Denny's and Pizza Hut and Taco Bell do battle; where the two quick-stop oil-change shops and the two fully automated car washes do battle; where four Chinese take-outs and three sub shops do battle; where two national supermarket chains, three national convenience-store chains and four national gas-mart chains do battle; where a national hardware chain battles with a national home improvement chain; where five national banks and their handy 24-hour ATMs do battle; where three car dealerships do battle; where a national drug store chain with “always-low” prices battles a national drugstore chain offering “everyday prices”; where local paychecks are surrendered to faraway corporate stockholders; where criminals all the way from Cleveland gather to steal CD players from cars, if not the cars themselves.