Gourdfellas Read Free

tolerance for other points of view? This roomful of ordinarily respectable—and respectful—citizens was behaving like a mob driven by bloodlust. I half expected to see Sydney Carton kneeling in front of the guillotine as the crowd cheered.
    “When other people spoke, I was quiet. Now I want you to give me my two minutes.” Marjorie’s back was erect and her face stern. “I may be a cleaning woman, but I know a thing or two about business around here.”
    As she paused and scanned the crowd, I looked around too. Marjorie ran the only commercial cleaning service in town, which meant that the business climate in Walden Corners was of great importance to her.
    “I know we need to build a new wing on the elementary school and buy two new snowplows. We need some kind of recreation center so that our children have something to do besides playing around with drugs and each other. Our police force has three computers that break down every other day and two cruisers with over one hundred thousand miles on them. The tax base of Walden Corners won’t even support those crucial things. Plus, with the cost of natural gas going out of sight, you all are going to have to send your kids to school in their parkas and mittens because where we’ll find the money to cover the heating bills is a big mystery. So one alternative for paying for these essentials is to raise the taxes of every single citizen in this town.”
    Now Marjorie was the one who sounded like a preacher, but a call of yeses and a reply of hisses were the only responses to her sermon. I’d just paid the second installment of my annual property tax, and it shocked me to realize that it had taken me three weeks of hard work to earn that money. I was one of the lucky ones, with training and skills and enough energy to scramble for work that allowed me to make more than the minimum wage—usually.
    “Nope, didn’t think you’d like that. So the other way is to let this one casino come in, and bring jobs and tourist money and new revenues. We can put clauses in the agreement to make sure it stays respectable and we can solve our money problems for years to come. Or we can raise property taxes. Pretty simple decision, I’d say.” Marjorie straightened her spine and leaned over the podium, making eye contact with key members of the crowd. Her pause was almost past the point of dramatic emphasis when she boomed, “I invite anyone who agrees with my way of thinking to join me in forming a consortium to make sure we get what we need around here. And what we need is that casino.”
    A roar, whether in agreement or disapproval, filled the room.
    “Like I need a cow with two heads!” a voice called from the rear.
    “We have to keep this meeting orderly.” Bespectacled Joseph Trent spoke with surprising vigor. I’d only seen him in his day job behind the prescription counter at Trent Pharmacy, where he sported a perpetually worried look and a mild manner. “You want a civilized town, you have to behave civilly to each other.”
    A woman two rows from the stage looked ready to leap over the seats and commandeer the mike. She shouted, “We need to keep our town safe. No gambling, no whores, no—”
    A gabble of voices drowned her out and bodies blocked her way. People were on their feet, surging forward, placards bobbing dangerously close to heads and limbs. How had a town meeting about Oneida Gaming’s plan to build a casino turned into this cacophony of greed and guilt? From my spot near the far left aisle I felt my own anger grow. This wasn’t why I moved from Brooklyn to a small town one hundred miles to the north.
    “I need some fresh air, you know, to clear my head,” I said. “If I don’t come back inside, I’ll wait for you at the car.”
    Nora shook her head. “You go ahead. Melissa can drive me home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
    I shouldered my way past three overall-clad women and pushed toward the side exit. But knots of people, jabbering and