Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
There are twenty-four candidates presenting their positions tonight.
More than that are running, but not everyone gets invited to these town halls.
It’s a pretty big deal that Sid scored an invite, so I really should pay attention.
But man, this shit is boring. My eyes glaze over as one person after another takes their turn.
As a well-respected incumbent member of council, Tom Sullivan is given one of the first slots of the night.
He hobbles up to the podium to applause.
“Good evening. It has been my pleasure to serve this island for thirty-five years and with your blessing, I would be honoured to do so for another four.”
Thirty-five? His tenure predates the Quake.
Indeed, his speech reveals that he served the island when it was a tiny regional office affiliated with the capital of British Columbia.
Back then, he was an unelected civil servant, since there were enough people to separate out governments into those who administered the law from those who voted on its policies.
With the Quake, things had to change, but he adjusted.
He served the island through its transition to earthquake decimated danger zone, to defending its borders from TNS after Canada’s collapse, to prosperous final bastion of civilization.
His leg was wounded during his time in the navy, back when TNS tried to invade Salt Spring.
He oversaw the Land Redistribution Act, that turned most private property into farmland.
He was on the committee that drafted the first sanctuary laws, reopening Salt Spring’s borders twenty-three years ago. He is the Council.
He doesn’t say much about his upcoming platform. He doesn’t have to, with a lifetime of service behind him. I’m one of the few people who doesn’t clap at the end.
Sid’s turn is right after his, as if to signal their alignment, but there is markedly less applause when he takes the stage.
This is his first time addressing an audience of this size and he’s an unknown.
But he’s well prepared, not even looking at his notes as he gives a carefully rehearsed speech.
“As someone who wasn’t born here, there is no doubt in my mind that Salt Spring Island is a special place,” he begins.
“When I came here, I felt for the first time in my life that I had control over what happened to me. That I had the potential to lead a good, long life. To me, there is nothing that is more important than to offer that opportunity both to our citizens and to those who are seeking refuge within our borders.”
He manages to weave in all sorts of positives as he talks about immigration and sanctuary laws: how welcoming policies encourage newcomers to share their knowledge with our community; how population growth is aided, encouraging faster recovery; how we become more secure when members of groups like TNS defect to us.
It stuns me, hearing him mention them so casually, as if he isn’t knotted up over their role in his life.
He ends by reiterating his first point. Where we are is special.
Being safe and being free—those are special things. But they shouldn’t have to be.
He’s said this to me so many times, but hearing him voice these ideas in a public forum, I wonder more than ever: can it be true?
Are we, collectively, safe? Not a single person in this room can control whether our island is rocked by another megaquake.
Or if TNS attacks tomorrow. No matter what we want to believe, life doesn’t offer guarantees.
But people need to believe their choices matter, I guess, or they aren’t likely to vote.
The speeches wear on. Some of the other candidates do okay. Honestly, I start to zone out. I do notice when Bradley Patterson gets up, because his hair is waxed into a ridiculous pompadour and his speech consists of name-dropping relatives who have told him all about “what this island needs.”
There’s another name I vaguely recognize—Wayne Donlon—though I can’t place why for the longest time. His speech starts off as boring as anyone else’s, but my ears prick when he suddenly breaks into a rant about how lenient our government has become.
“We aren’t doing enough,” he says, “to protect ourselves against the threat of TNS. There are people out there who want to destroy everything we’ve worked for.”
And then he has the nerve to look directly at Sid before carrying on.
So this is the guy Doctor Tremblay likes.
He’s damn lucky I don’t have my slingshot anymore, standing boldly in front of me like that, throwing insults at my husband.
Once he finishes, I don’t hear a lot of people clapping, but the few who do are enthusiastic. It makes my toes curl.
The very last candidate to participate is Amy Sullivan, looking as perfect as the day I met her. Her shoes are made of new leather. Her nails are buffed to the luster of an oyster shell. She flashes the audience a dazzling smile and begins her speech.
“I am pleased to announce my candidacy for Council of Salt Spring Island and her Gulf Island Territories. I offer a proven record in public service, beginning with my tenure as Chief Logistical Officer of the Reinventor’s Guild.
During my time there, our island saw a seventeen per cent increase in available electricity, a thirty per cent expansion in our water catchment facilities, and the development of modular designs for residence construction that have since been implemented throughout the islands. ”
She really is a lot like Tom. Tom, with a glaze of honey to make her more digestible.
When her speech ends, she gets more applause than anyone else, ending the evening on a high note.
I’m clapping too, mostly because I don’t have to listen to any more speeches.
Not that this is over. My job has just begun.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Buckerfield.” I bid goodbye to my companion, who is still frowning at the stage.
“You can tell your husband he did well enough,” she says—words in the form of a compliment, while lacking the substance thereof. No wonder Carlos left her as soon as he could.
“Thank you, I will.”
As I reach the stage, Sid is shaking hands with the other candidates.
Gradually, others join the mix, including the stenographer.
I spot a woman kissing one of the speakers on the cheek and decide to make that my line of attack too.
Sid is deep in conversation with a woman of about Tom’s age.
I think she’s a current council member—something I would probably know with certainty if I had paid better attention. Whatever.
I wait until there’s a natural break in what they’re saying about crop yields, then slide my hand along his arm. He twists to look at me and I grin like a woman in love. That’s what I’m here for, right? I’m so good at this.
“I have it on excellent authority that you exceeded expectations.”
His smile is so sincere. “Really?”
“Not mine, though. I always knew you would be perfect.” I go up on my toes, intending to hit his cheek, but Sid leans in as well so I end up pecking him right on the mouth.
He’s barely there—long enough for me to get a whiff of his earlier cigarette—and yet my damn stomach still somersaults. I wobble as I sink back to my heels.
Luckily, Sid takes over, because my brain is busy leaking out my ears. “Rachel, have you met my wife? Kayla, this is Rachel Bromley. She serves in the Department of Fisheries and Natural Resources.”
“Lovely to meet you.” She extends a hand, which I barely have the presence of mind to shake. I’m busy fighting with a fantasy where I drag this man outside and flatten his body against a wall with mine.