Hell, I thought they were just sorry about how tough it was getting to make ends meet.
So I sat and I waited for Monday. And I fumed. And I decided to fight the rezoning and “truncating” as hard as I possibly could. There's nothing like being hoodwinked to piss a guy off.
Looking back on it I should've known it would be a short fight. I got to the township offices at 8:30 on Monday morning. I sat in the foyer and watched a frumpy woman I'd never seen before open up the switchboard in between sips of coffee. At exactly 8:45 she looked at me and said, “Can I help you, sir?”
I asked if I could see Mayor Bascomb. She studied me like I was insane, as if I'd asked to speak to the Prime Minister. It used to be I could wander into the old town hall and go straight to Chuck Dent's office, sit with him and shoot the shit for ten minutes. The new offices were larger, no doubt built with the idea that the township would become a town, and maybe even city one day. The receptionist had a little headset on. She'd taken the mouthpiece and pushed it closer to her lips. I couldn't hear what she was saying, but she eventually looked at me and said, “Can I tell the mayor your name?”
“Bert Commerford.”
The mayor's assistant came to fetch me and led me to his office. I didn't know her, either. She walked like she was late for a train, and I followed her down a long tunnel of wallpapered hallway. There was lots of art on the walls, ugly stuff that looked like someone had drunk paint and then puked it all over a canvas. The old town hall had some nice Group of Seven prints on the walls. I wondered what happened to those paintings as we neared the mayor's office.
Gavin Bascomb's father had been an accountant who moved in from Toronto and set up shop in town. He was a typical city man. He liked to talk and had an opinion on everything. When your turn came to talk he would glaze over and pretty much ignore you until you stopped and he could shoot his mouth off some more. Gavin was more polite and — I had thought — more patient than his old man. He'd moved out of Toronto when he was a boy, helping to shed the city habits and arrogance. Gavin was a grade-A student in both elementary and high school. He came back to town after he graduated university. He worked for the local paper for a while, took over his father's business when the old windbag died. He ran for mayor at the tender age of thirty-two. He was quick on his feet and had promised to revitalize the area if he was granted a chance in the mayor's seat. Once he took office he immediately began inviting businesses to set up in town, enticing builders to plan subdivisions, fast-tracking their permits. He'd already made some enemies, especially among the old-timers.
He invited me to sit down. A quick but firm handshake, no offer of a coffee or glass of water. He wanted to keep it business, so I did the same. I told him I'd never received the notices. He dug his chin into his neck and frowned, as if this were impossible. It wasn't long before we were arguing. His angle was to lecture about the small changes and adjustments I had to make for the long-term economic good of the community. He spoke to me like I was a dumb-ass. He assumed that because I fixed cars and pumped gas for a living I was simple, maybe plain stupid. He stood and asked me to leave when I pointed out that they were all in bed together: him, Crandy Manufacturing, the builders, and the newcomers to town. He said the municipality had done its due diligence in sending out the notices, and if I hadn't received them it was too bad; construction was set to begin within two weeks. We continued to squabble about it, but I could see his father in him. I saw that he wasn't even listening. He played with the cord to his telephone while I spoke. Checked his watch often. And probably peered across his big mahogany desk and saw a used-up old fool. Old Bert, sitting in his office demanding a say when it was too late. There's a new factory in town, new modern road, new subdivision for all the workers, convenience stores, hamburger joints. And then there's Bert and his aging service station with the old-fashioned service bays and two lousy gas pumps, and neither of them pump diesel.
I went to see Marc Savard the following day. Savard ran the little newspaper in town. He was scared of me, I could tell. He squirmed in his chair as I talked. I handed him something for his Letters to the Editor section. He read the first few lines and his fingers began to tremble. He waved the letter around as he spoke, his voice all shaky.
“Bert, I can't print this. It's not that I don't empathize, really. Look, I can't publish a scathing letter that rips apart the very people who are trying to create jobs —”
“You mean the factory folks who are promising you all kinds of advertising, huh, Savard?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed like woman. He insisted that that was not the case and that he understood my position. He said that if he printed my letter, Bascomb and his people would just take out space and reply that they'd followed the Planning and Municipal Acts. Everyone had been notified. There had even been a hearing that hardly anyone showed up for.
“Why don't you go and speak to the head guy up at Crandy? He's looking to fill jobs,” said Savard.
I got up and left, flung his door shut. It was light as balsam wood. A lightweight door for a lightweight journalist.
“Hey, don't be mad at me, Bert,” he called.
Wanda and Rusty were in it together. He loved the idea of living someplace where he could be footloose and fancy-free. The bigger the town the more trouble he'd find. And she wanted out. Her dad had been a farmer, and when we were dating she'd often become quiet, suddenly depressed. I'd ask her what was wrong, and she'd giggle nervously and say, “Oh, I always saw myself meeting a man from outside of here. If we get serious, I'll never leave. I suppose you'll be taking over your father's business.”
I never really confronted Wanda any further. There was no big shit storm of a fight over the whole thing. And I'm glad that I left her alone in the days that followed. Here's the thing: the worry and stress of taking those letters sealed her fate in the end. Her already feeble heart caved under it all. She had the boys and me and all the headaches that came with us. Travis was a promising hockey player and ate up a lot of her time; Rusty was wild, and she spent untold effort covering for him and his bullshit. She struggled to balance the books; I'll be the first to admit that. We kept making a little bit less each year, and she did wonders at making that money go far. She'd spent years as the peacemaker between Russ and me. And on top of all that, she took those notices, knowing that the shit would eventually hit the fan. She kept too much inside of her and tried to stop it all from exploding.
It messes with my head to remember the night she passed away. There's not much to remember, no big deathbed scene, but there are tiny images burned into my mind. Little things that should have tipped me off and had me on the phone to the doctor, maybe. The way she shuffled around the kitchen that evening, like she was completely exhausted. The way she was out of breath when she talked. The lack of colour in her face, and the line of misty sweat on her upper lip and forehead as she washed up after supper. Hockey Night in Canada was on the TV, but she turned in before the end of the first period, said she was feeling under the weather. Travis knew something was up. He went to check on her around a quarter