Imperfect Spiral (16 page)

“I would have gone with you if I'd known,” she says.

“It's starting in five minutes. So I think I've made my decision to stay away,” I say.

“Maybe—” Becca begins, then stops.

I wait, but she doesn't say any more.

“Becca,
maybe
what? Just because I don't want you to see a headline every time you look at me doesn't mean I don't want your opinion. What did you start to say?”

“Honestly, nothing,” she says. “So, are we good?”

“We're good.”

“You're not just saying that?”

I promise her we're good and we say good-bye.

Maybe
—I'll just walk over to the community hall, which is less than ten minutes from my house. It's a quaint old building that houses a couple of meeting rooms, a couple of offices, a tiny post office, a rec room with an old Ping-Pong table that is very close to my heart, and, of all things, an indoor basketball court. It might seem a strange combination—
you want stamps with that free throw?
—but it's part of what makes Franklin Grove Franklin Grove.

The meeting has begun and I can ease unnoticed into a chair in the back row. The five people who make up the Franklin Grove Board are sitting, facing the audience, behind a couple of long tables that have been pushed together. Two men are seated at a long table facing the board members, backs to the audience. One of them is speaking into a microphone, and he has one of those voices that alternates between really loud and really soft, so certain words come booming at us—“LUMENS” and “CIRCUITS” and “SCOTOPIC” and “PHOTOPIC”—while others are lost. He finishes up. Then the other guy at the table talks, reading, as far as I can tell, from a study of the traffic on Quarry Road. Peak hour trips. Directional split. Pedestrian facilities.

Next up are some of the neighbors. Mrs. Raskin is first. I slouch way down in my seat so she doesn't see me. She says some nice things about the lumens guy and the traffic guy. But what the Franklin Grove Board mustn't forget, she says, is the need for a sidewalk study. She's not an expert, she says in a voice that suggests she actually thinks she is, but sidewalks along Quarry Road are absolutely necessary to make Franklin Grove safe for our children and families.

Other neighbors say other things about the benefits of streetlights, crossing signals, and sidewalks. Then old Mrs. Joseph, who lives on Quarry Road, and who probably has been there since the beginning of time, has her say. In her quavery voice, she talks about the character of the Franklin Grove neighborhood and the rustic feeling of its streets. We may be a suburb of Washington, D.C., but we've managed to hold on to a smalltown atmosphere and we should be vigilant about maintaining that atmosphere. More artificial light, Mrs. Joseph says, will take away from Franklin Grove's simple charm. More artificial light means we won't be able to see the stars. A sidewalk will mean taking down trees and clearing out the brush alongside Quarry Road, and all that means less wildlife.

Some people are shaking their heads at Mrs. Joseph's comments. I imagine some are rolling their eyes, although I don't really know, since I only see the backs of people's heads. I wonder if anyone agrees with her.

Well, yes, others do agree with her. Another neighbor, a younger man, goes to the microphone and says basically the
same things that Mrs. Joseph did, only shorter. A woman speaks, and says that not everyone knows this, but the first Littleleaf Linden trees on Quarry Road were planted in 1938 on the twentieth anniversary of the end of World War I in honor of Franklin Grove's veterans of that war. Over the years, more of the trees were planted to recognize the neighborhood's World War II and Vietnam War veterans.

“If you go to the archives,” this woman says, “you will see that every tree has a name. A name of a person. Even if you don't agree that the trees deserve our consideration, think about the people behind the trees. I strongly urge the board not to destroy these living monuments.”

Wouldn't Humphrey have thought it was cool that the trees had names? I almost want to say something to this tree lady. But I don't. I just slip home before anyone notices that I'm there.

My understanding is that the family, the Guzmans, are from Colombia, and they've been here nine years. I don't know if they've been illegal the whole time. He works in a medical lab. I think she works in elder care. Two kids, both elementary school age. —Doris Raskin

They live east of Franklin Grove, I believe in Montgomery Heights. That's where you find most of them. —Sonny Green

Sonny, what do you mean by “them”? Undocumented aliens? Foreign-born people?
Working-class people trying for their shot at the American dream? —Dotty Engleman

The logic of what you're saying, Dotty, defending the right of illegals to have their shot at the “American dream,” eludes me. By definition, the American dream belongs to Americans. Come to this country legally, become a citizen, and then you can chase the American dream. —Sonny Green

Legal immigrants, not just citizens, also have the right to work toward this so-called American dream, don't you think? Once we say, okay, you may live here, then why would we draw a distinction between their rights and ours? —Eric Templeton

How about minor details such as voting? Are you saying we should open up the right to vote to immigrants who aren't citizens, who haven't pledged their allegiance to this country? —Nan Kimmel

I was referring to economic rights, Nan. Of course you have to be a citizen to vote. I was saying we don't want to put
economic barriers in front of the immigrant population. We want them to integrate into the economy, contribute to it, and not end up needing public assistance and other costly social services. —Eric Templeton

The plain fact is that they are, overall, a drain on our resources. This is the logical outcome of the clash of cultures that our nation is becoming. Don't learn English, and you can't get a decent job. Don't adopt American culture, including basic things like maintaining your property so it doesn't drag down the neighborhood, and you will remain outsiders, clueless as to how things work in this country. —Sonny Green

Hey, Sonny—who “maintains” your property? Seems to me it's the same brown-skinned men who cut my lawn. They seem to know what they're doing. —Tim Watkins

Hey, Tim—take a drive through beautiful eastern Montgomery Heights. Messy
vegetable patches in front of the houses instead of front lawns. Tacky ceramic statuettes. If you like that kind of “maintenance,” I think I counted eight For Sale signs when I was last there. I'm sure they'd welcome you. —Sonny Green

Sonny, haven't you seen the articles recently about the stupidity of front lawns? They waste precious water, they spread chemicals, and otherwise are a complete waste. Maybe those people in Montgomery Heights have the right idea with their front yard gardens. —Jennifer Hernandez

Maybe lawns aren't a *complete* waste, Jennifer—they allow people like Sonny to display their shameless hypocrisy. Yes, Tim, that is Manuel's truck you see outside Sonny's house every week…. —Michael Hunter

Neighbors, just a friendly reminder from your Franklin Grove Listserv administrator that we keep things civil and respectful
here. Thank you all for your cooperation. —Moira McGillicudy, Listserv administrator

I don't usually lurk on the Franklin Grove e-mail list. But this whole illegal immigration thing has become kind of a hot topic in our neighborhood, and I can't help but want to know what all the heat is about. An article in the
Observer
said that someone brought it up at the community meeting after I left, but the Franklin Grove Board chairman said the subject wasn't on the agenda, and shut down any discussion. By the way, don't you just love it when people (like Sonny Green) use the word “logical” to describe their arguments, as if calling them “logical” settles everything? And how 'bout that sarcasm (Sonny Green, Michael Hunter)? I've never been averse to a good sarcastic jab. But some of this stuff I'm reading seems more mean than anything else.

Actually, the argument is reaching way beyond our neighborhood. The
Washington Post
had an article about it—that is, how the accident is triggering debates in Meigs County and even in the state assembly over undocumented immigrants.

There's a video, too. Not of the accident itself. Jeez, thank the Lord. And not of me sitting in the street, either. The video is of Mr. Stashower, when he was yelling at the kids who gathered on the side of the road to gawk at the disaster. “Stay there!” he yells in the video. He's looking right at the camera. “You kids stay there!” Funny thing is, there are no kids visible in the
video at all. You do hear someone off-camera muttering, “Chill. No one's going anywhere.” And if you listen really carefully, you can hear—at least, I think I can hear—someone saying “Oh my God. Oh my God,” over and over again. That would be Mrs. Stashower.

“Hey, Danny.”

Adrian's come by for dinner again. He looks over my shoulder. “Ah, the infamous Franklin Grove e-mail list.”

“It's infamous?” I say.

“It should be,” he says. “This is a perfect example of why adults should be barred from any communications technology more advanced than the touch-tone phone.”

I smile, although I don't exactly know what a touch-tone phone is.

“Want to cook with me?” Adrian asks.

“Uh …” I'm fairly incompetent in the kitchen.

“I amend my invitation. Want to watch me cook?”

Sure. Adrian isn't just here to eat dinner; he's here to make dinner, which is great. Mom won't be home for another hour. Dad, who almost always gets home from work before Mom, is most often the cook now that Adrian's moved out. He makes edible meals, my father does, but Adrian is the true chef in our family. Tonight's menu includes his famous (to me) Moroccan chicken, couscous, honey-glazed carrots, and a green salad. Dad's in the basement, exercising.

As he browns the chicken in a big pot, Adrian tells me about a restaurant-bar type of place that some guys he knows
want to open. I haven't heard him sound so excited since Guitar Hero first came out.

“It's in the boonies,” he says, “near where I live. There's no decent place around there where people can get good food and listen to live music. So we thought—actually, really,
they
thought, I'm definitely the junior guy on the project—why not open a place that
we'd
want to hang out in? Not a rowdy bar scene. Not a dump, but also not fancy. And definitely not another chain restaurant.”

“Would you—cook?” I ask, watching him chop an onion and a green pepper “And what's that spice you put in this chicken that makes it taste the way it does?”

“Cumin,” he says. “It goes in when I put the pot on simmer. And—would I cook? I'm not really qualified to do anything in the kitchen other than be a helper, but I'd do that. I'd wait tables. And—here's the amazing part—I'd play music.” He adds the onion and green pepper to the pot and stirs them to the bottom.

I give out a whoop. “Really!”

“Yup. Since I took my drum set out to my place over the summer, I've been playing with a group of guys. Some of them are also part of the group that wants to open the restaurant. We wouldn't be the only act to play there, but we'd play there some of the time.” Now Adrian is draining and rinsing a can of chickpeas in the sink.

“Bluegrass?” It's Adrian's favorite. Not exactly what he got to play in high school band class.

“Bluegrass.” He adds the chickpeas, along with crushed
tomatoes and seasonings, to the browned chicken. Once they boil up, he turns the heat down under the pot and covers it.

“Wow,” I say. “It sounds great.”

“I'm really excited about it,” he says.

“What about plumbing?” I ask him.

“Less excited about that,” he says. “It's earned me some money. I don't mind it. But it's not what I want to do with my life. For now, I'll keep doing it. Once the restaurant opens, I'll try to do both. We'll see.”