McMansion (25 page)
Most summers in Newbury we get a brief end-of-July chill. This one arrived August 1, riding a damp, wet, east wind, and lingered. Aunt Connie said if it got any colder the birds would start migrating. When I stopped by for our Tuesday afternoon tea, I found her bundled in a sweater that smelled of mothballs.
We carried our tray into her dining room and settled at a marble tea table in the window that, last week and next week, would be open to the sweet perfume of her rose garden. She poured and stirred and after our first several sips of welcome warmth, I showed her a sheet of paper on which I had drafted a new ad for the
Clarion
and printed a photograph of a house for sale.
“This does not look like a Benjamin Abbott Realty property.”
“The word got around how I sold the Tiller âmanor.' Now Fred and the others are leaning on me to handle some of theirs. I thought maybe I should give it a whirl.”
“Why?”
“For one thing, I need the money to replace my car. Also, I'm taking your advice not to end up like a curmudgeonly bachelor. You know, trying to judge the new with a clear eye, and not automatically decry change.”
Connie looked dubious. “Read it to me, Ben.”
It had all the words. New. Unique. Custom. Colonial. Prestigious. Stunning. I mentioned “granite” twice and ended with the reassuring, “In a neighborhood of comparable homes.”
“Surrounded,” Connie added, “by fellow vulgarians.”
“But you saidâ”
“I meant accept the existence of new worlds. I didn't mean encourage them.”
I scanned the ad for the fifteenth time. “I'm not sure I know what I'm doing.”
Connie reached for it. “Let me see that. Hmmm.” She peered at me over the rim of her reading glasses. “I'm happy to see that your heart was not entirely in it. âGrand, yet invitingly opulent'?”
She handed it back. “I feel a chill. Shall we have a fire?”
Her wood box contained dry seasoned apple and crisp kindling. One match to my ad sent orange flames soaring up the chimney.
“Did I mention,” Connie said casually, “that I called on Caroline Edwards?”
“How is she doing?”
“Holding up remarkably well. Sturdy woman.”
“Give her my best when you see her againâif it seems appropriate.”
“Caroline made a point of saying that she holds nothing against you. More tea, dear?”
“No thanks. I've got to go. There's something I have to do.”
I paused on the sidewalk outside her gate and admired my house across the street. In the gray wet light, black shutters and white clapboards shone like the gun ports of a man-of-war. The barn was empty. The secondhand horse trailer had come and gone. Down Scooter's driveway I could see grass growing in Redman's paddock.
I started up Main and passed the Yankee Drover and the flag pole. A hundred feet above Church Hill the huge summer flag was thundering. The weather vanes on the steeples all pointed north as the wind backed, still cool, but drier.
Across the street, in front of Newbury Savings, Ira Roth was deep in conversation with the region's leading real estate appraiser. Main Street was too broad for me to read their expressions, but body language said a lot: stricken client indicted for scamming the bank with inflated appraisals; grave attorney doing an excellent job of concealing his glee. Ira had one hand concernedly on the crook's elbow, and the other resting lightly on his new Bentley.
A grateful Bruce Kimball, who had sent his sonâunder strict probation for reduced charges of criminal mischief and impeding justiceâto study environmental engineering at Montana Tech, had paid Ira handsomely. My share? The books were clear on the horse. And if I ever needed another one, Ira promised a discount. As for Redman's mascot, Tom, who had wandered back to my place from Frenchtown: no charge.
I walked past the General Store and waved to Tim Hall, who was hurrying up the outside stairs to his office. It looked like he had just had a rare, long lunch with Vicky McLachlan. Vicky was vaulting Town Hall's steps two at a time, chestnut curls flying, summer dress clinging.
I crossed the street, dodging a muddy Range Rover driven by Scooter MacKay, who leapt from it, crouched down on one knee, and carefully aimed his camera at Newbury Volunteer Hook and Ladder Company One's folding sidewalk sign. The one that read,
Volunteer WantedâOne Good Man or Woman.
“Breaking news?” I asked.
“I'm starting a three-part special on the volunteer problem.”
“That sign could be old news.”
“No way. The locals are retiring and there just aren't enough of the new people willing to come out and serve. Fire Department's suffering. Ambulance. Even church. Reverend Owen told me they toss a twenty in the collection plate on Sunday, but don't raise a hand to help all week.”
“Don't say I didn't warn you.”
I waited until Scooter's Range Rover had careened around the flagpole. Then I picked up the volunteer-wanted sign, carried it into the firehouse, and handed it to Jay Meadows, who was emerging from underneath an elderly pumper, covered in oil.
“What are you doing with our sign?”
“I want to join.”
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