Chapter 26
Twenty-Six
nimble (adj.): marked by quick, alert, clever resourcefulness
Lucy
“Your mom is a hoot,” Dot says on Monday morning, giggling about the selfie Mom sent out over the family text thread. In the photo, Mom and her assistant, Yvonne, are smashed cheek to cheek with a rather large elderly Black woman in a tiny kitchen.
Mom’s caption: “Gettin’ our souls topped off with love and soul food!”
I don’t mention to Dot that I also received a private text from Mom yesterday gushing about the piece I wrote about Nana.
Oh sweetie. It made me happy and weepy and all the things. Nana would love it. Permission to share?
It’s possible her praise scrambled my good sense, prompting me to respond with “I don’t see why not.” Until this moment, it hasn’t occurred to me to question with whom she intended to share my writing.
And by the way, since when has texting with my mom become a thing? It feels natural, almost like we’re . . . friends. I find it comforting. Maybe the time for proving I can stand on my own two feet and make a go of things has passed.
Our roots have always been mingled—by divine design, no less—and forever will be.
I rap my knuckles on our editor in chief’s door.
Sam stops typing and peers over his readers.
“Got any advice for me before I head over to interview Matt Hickey?” I ask.
Between the proposed bypass, which would divert through-traffic away from the downtown business corridor, and the new housing development meant to address our local housing shortage, Charity Falls is experiencing growing pains.
On every corner, strong opinions are being bandied about.
City planning meetings often descend into quarrelsome, standing-room-only affairs.
And until certain city officials abandon their attempts to curry favor with both sides of the issues, nothing will be decided.
Sam sneers, but there’s a smile behind his eyes. “Here’s some advice. Tell Hickey to stop being such a mugwump.” He swigs on his coffee. “No, don’t say that. But good luck. That man’s a hard nut to crack.”
I move to leave. Turn back. “I’ll bite. What exactly is a mugwump?”
He arches a single shaggy brow playfully. “A mugwump is someone with his mug on one side of the fence and his wump on the other.”
I snicker. “Alrighty then.”
It’s good to see the big kahuna more good-natured. Today I have the express privilege of knowing I’ve contributed to his slightly less curmudgeonly countenance. Because over the weekend, I dashed off an email responding to his job proposition.
A single word.
Yes.
What I said yes to is the chance of a lifetime to commit myself to purposeful work. But it’s also a stretch. This yes promises periods of mediocrity. Challenges that make my pulse race. And a million new ways to fall on my face.
But the truth is, if I were to draw a Venn diagram of things that excite me and things that scare me, this new challenge falls squarely in the overlap. It’s a good yes.
Not an obligatory yes. A pure, liquid-gold yes. No sludge about it.
Besides, I’m beginning to sense that God cares more about who we’re becoming than what we accomplish.
It’s also nice to be viewed as a team player for a change. Well, with the exception of Brad. The conditions of his layoff mean he’ll be working through the rest of the week. Heaven help us.
***
City Manager Matt Hickey sits on the corner of his desk wearing a half smirk, as if he finds me in some way amusing. I don’t appreciate this seating arrangement, which allows him to look down on me.
Also, if this interview gets any drier, I’m gonna have to dig out my Chapstick.
When I ask Hickey where he stands on the new housing development and in which direction he plans to advise the city council after their split vote, I get nothing but circular sentences delivered in a buttered voice.
I need an inroad. A way to get more to the heart of things.
I click my pen twice. “Mayor Lester is quoted as saying you’re more concerned with personal interests than the good of the town.” Everyone knows Hickey’s property abuts the proposed development. “Would you like to respond?”
Where did that come from?
The city manager’s neck reddens. He clenches his jaw. After a pause, he says, “Yes. Yes, I would like to respond. I’d like to pour her a tall glass of get over it. And you can print that.”
We will not print that.
“It’s simply false,” he continues. “There is no conflict of interest. I care deeply about this town. We raised our kids here, all the way up through high school. Charity Falls has been good to us. This is a thankless job, Ms. Montgomery. I left the private sector and took this on because I care.”
“Of course,” I say, pausing from my note-taking to smile and make eye contact. “How many kids?”
Hickey’s shoulders relax, I notice. He pauses to take a sip from his bottle of kombucha. “Two. Our oldest graduated in June. We moved Leah into a residence hall at U of O two weeks ago.”
“You must be so proud.”
His eyes smile. “Very.”
“What’s she studying?”
“Elementary education. From the time she was just a little thing, Leah has always known she wanted to be a teacher.”
“That’s wonderful. I have a third grader, and believe me, good teachers are everything. Do you think your daughter might someday want to return and teach here in Charity Falls?”
Hickey sighs. “Man, wouldn’t that be something? Leah has expressed that it’s her dream. Obviously her mother and I would like to see it happen, not just for us but for her.”
I sit up a little in my chair. Now we’re getting somewhere. “Why ‘for her’?”
“For her to have the opportunity to experience this community as a grown woman, as a citizen, and maybe, someday, raising a family . . .”
With all gentleness I say, “Well, the way things are going, it will be hard to settle here on a teacher’s salary.
But I don’t need to tell you that.” What I don’t say is that I wouldn’t still be here five years later if I hadn’t locked in one of the last remaining affordable apartments.
Not to mention receiving occasional help from my folks.
There are no guarantees Chase and I have a long-term future here.
Hickey lowers his eyes, picks absently at the label on his bottle. “That is true. Housing prices will continue to escalate with demand.”
“Mmm. That’ll make it tough,” I say.
“Indeed.”
“Inevitably people of means will always want to live here.”
“Inevitably.”
I lean in. “With that in mind, I’ll let you fill in the blank. More housing is . . . ?”
Hickey draws a breath and his nose flares. He stands, then circles around and sits down behind his desk.
Oh, dang. That’s it? Does this mean I’m done here?
But then the city manager pins me with a look.
“The real problem, Ms. Montgomery, and I hope you’re taking notes, is that thirty percent of the homes in Charity Falls sit unoccupied.
Thirty percent of homeowners are either snowbirds or out-of-town investors.
We can’t solve this problem overnight, but we must work together toward a solution.
Meanwhile, we have got ourselves a serious housing crunch.
” Hickey leans back in his chair. Taps his desk with a pen.
“So. To answer your question, more housing is . . . way overdue. It’s the right thing to do. ”
“Sooner or later?”
“Sooner rather than later.”
“So then, in light of all this, would you say you’re in favor of the proposed development?”
Hickey laces his hands, lays them on the desk. “I am in favor of the new development . . . with certain caveats.”
That’s it, Montgomery, I think, with a little thrill in my chest as I close my notebook. You got it. Standing, I extend a hand to thank our city manager.
***
Several new emails await my return, but only one that needs immediate attention. The one with the subject line that reads “Sheriff’s Calls.” Two things about this strike me as unusual. First, Wyatt typically sends those to our editor in chief on Mondays. Not to me.
The other weird thing is the physical sensation elicited by seeing Wyatt’s name in my inbox. A fluttering in my abdomen. This has to stop. Put on your professional cap, Lucy.
I open the email.
Sam instructed me to send these directly to you now. Sounds like congratulations are in order for a promotion? Congrats!
Also, you should probably know that your son invited me over to watch Star Trek. I’ll leave it to your discretion. But for the record, most nights I’m available if you two would like to beam me over.
Thrumming my fingers across my lips, I wait for the butterflies to fly away, back to wherever they came from. They don’t.
Instead, they bring friends.