“But aren’t there other places they can build the reservoir?” one of Ma’s friends asks.
“I suspect there are plenty,” Mr. Halleck replies. “Why they insist on flooding you out, I have no idea.”
Pastor Fenton clears his throat. “Look, we live in town, and this whole reservoir is being billed as more water for us—and lower utility bills, I might add. But I don’t like bullies. People have a right to their land, their property. If I remember correctly, God made a whole commandment against stealing. But whether they believe in God or not, I think a good number of people in town will feel the same way. You might not have to fight this thing alone, just country folk against Kemper and his cronies, is what I mean to say.”
Heads nod around the room. For the first time, I begin to feel a bit of hope.
Mr. Glattfelder shrugs. “But how are any of us supposed to fight somebody’s got the law in his pocket?”
Mr. Halleck pulls a silver flask from his linen jacket, unscrews the cap, and takes a sip. “That is the whole question. When the hearing ends, the council will vote. Seven people sit on that council. You need four of them to vote against flooding. At this moment, Kemper has five who will vote for it.”
Our parlor is silent as the old man takes another sip.
“You must persuade two of them to switch their votes.”
There’s a murmuring of voices then. From our place on the stairs, we hear snatches of phrases—“Then it’s rigged; the whole thing’s already decided”—“How we going to get two to switch if their minds are made up?”—“Must be money for them in it somehow.”
The talk is cut off when Mr. Madliner raps his knuckles on the mantel and speaks directly to Mr. Halleck.
“You seem to know plenty about this business. And your house is on high enough ground. You won’t lose so much as a flagstone if the county floods the rest of us out. Matter of fact, I expect you’d have lakeside property.”
“Matter of fact, I probably would,” Mr. Halleck agrees.
“Then my only question is this: Why are you here?” Mr. Madliner fixes his burning eyes on the old man in the rocker, and the whole room goes silent.
Mr. Halleck leans back.
“That’s a fair question. I haven’t bothered with politics since Truman beat Dewey in 1948. I don’t have the stomach for it. But”—and here the old man lifts a bony finger and points to my father—“I admire that man. Very much so, as another matter of fact. And he asked me to come tonight.”
All eyes fall upon my father, as Ma puts an arm around him.
But it ain’t good enough for Mr. Madliner. “Easy to say. But you still stand to come out all right if we lose. And I’ll tell you all something else,” he goes on, looking around the room now. “Those council members mean to have our homes. There’s some folk only answer to power. And this Kemper fella, he’s that way. And unless we figure a way to get more power over him than he’s got over us, we might as well all buy canoes.”
The parlor is silent after Mr. Madliner’s speech. And much as I hate to admit it, I believe he’s right. Kemper will never stop. Not unless something more powerful than him makes him.
Ma answers him in an even voice: “You make a strong point, Arthur. If it comes down to power, then we’ll get as many voters into that hearing as we can. This country is still a democracy, last I reckoned, and a push from good and honest people who won’t back down is the best kind of power there is.”
There’s another murmur of voices in agreement with her. Around the room I see more heads nodding and even a few smiles. Dad grabs a pad of paper and a pencil. He passes them around the room and asks everyone to write down the names of friends and family they can ask to come to the council meeting.
“I think that’s a wise suggestion,” Mr. Halleck says when their talk has quieted down. “And may I make one more: our group should choose someone to speak for them at the hearing. It is a hearing, after all. Council members are supposed to listen to what the public has to say before they vote. I would like to nominate Gene Elliot.” Mr. Halleck looks to Dad. “Of any of us, I think he has the best chance of getting them to listen.”
“Hear, hear,” says Mr. Glattfelder.
The others around the room all nod in agreement.
With the decision reached, we can feel the meeting drawing to a close. Someone asks Pastor Fenton to close with a prayer. When he finishes, people rise and begin carrying dishes to the sink or stepping out to smoke. Pete gets more pie. Old Sam slips a bit of dip into his cheek and makes for the porch.