My father came in next, tall and gruff with mirrored sunglasses hooked in the neckline of his uniform. Sometimes he skipped the city council meetings because he couldn’t stand the bickering and wheel-spinning, but I guess he didn’t want to miss my debut as the ringmaster of this particular circus. I felt a little flutter of appreciation, since he wasn’t one to make a fuss about such things. Sentimentality was not his strong suit. In fact, I’d never even dared to ask if he’d voted for me.
Semiretired and leathery-skinned Sudsy Robertson of no-bike-helmet fame came in next, wearing plaid pants and a pink cashmere sweater. He owned a dozen businesses on the island and only left his golf game to attend these meetings to ensure that no new laws, regulations, ordinances, guidelines, edicts, rulings, statutes, directives, or even suggestions interfered with any of his moneymaking ventures. He loved the island, but he was a capitalist first and foremost. The rest of the council, excluding my father, were more like a homeowners association hulked-out on mega-steroids and fueled by Red Bull. They considered it their sacred duty to micromanage every aspect of island life. We had bylaws about everything from the size of window boxes allowed on people’s houses to what color the storefronts on Main Street can be. There are rules about flowerbeds and flagpoles and chicken coops and sheds. Rules about pub hours, speed limits for bikes, and even laws about where it’s okay to feed the ducks and where it isn’t. Managing such minutiae was about to become my job.
I walked into our private meeting room as everyone called out drink orders to Leo.
“Let’s keep those drinks nonalcoholic, please,” I said loudly. There was dead silence for a moment, then everyone burst into a loud, unanimous guffaw. So much for my power play. Apparently, I’d have to make it an official bylaw if I wanted everyone’s drinking habits curtailed in the future.
As we settled down around the rectangular table, we were joined by Monty Price, our town lawyer; Ben Hawthorne, who ran the cemetery board; and Maggie Webster, president of the chamber of commerce.
“Welcome, everyone. I’m sure Gertie will be along any moment,” I said, standing up at the end of the table. “I’d like to call this meeting to order.”
“But we need the pickles,” Sudsy said. “We can’t start the meeting without the fried pickles.”
“I think we can,” I said. They all exchanged horrified glances, as if I’d said let’s start the meeting by first removing our clothes. “Gertie has the printed agenda, but since I emailed it to each of you in advance, you should all have it on your phones.” Another round-robin exchange of blank expressions, and my heart sank just a little bit. “Does anyone have the agenda on their phone?”
“How on earth am I supposed to bring my phone, Brooke?” June Mahoney asked. “It’s attached to the wall of my kitchen, and the cord isn’t that long.”
My heart dropped again and rattled in my chest, like an elevator with the cables snapping one by one. I’d thought my experience as a teacher would be an advantage in this new role, but I hadn’t considered that my demographic had shifted significantly. These were not a bunch of kids, well versed in and wholly dependent on their electronic devices. These people were old. Old people who’d grown up on an island where movies were still watched on VHS tapes. Time to recalibrate my messaging.
I heard the pub door slam just then, and seconds later Gertie came flying around the corner, a bundle of papers in her hands.
“Sorry I’m late, everyone. I had a little trouble with the printer.” She rushed around the room, her track shoes squeaking on the wood floor as she passed out the agendas; then she plopped down into a chair and demanded breathlessly, “Where the hell are the pickles?”
“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Leo said after everyone else had left and I remained seated in the small meeting room holding my aching head in my hands. “But it sounds like you have your work cut out for you.”
Wow. Did I ever. I’d just spent the past two hours listening to so-called adults bickering about a litany of arbitrary topics. Should Polly’s Popcorn Shop be allowed to sell day-old products? Could the street sweepers add five minutes to their afternoon break? Who was going to play Santa during the Christmas Parade if Harry didn’t