Jeff Abbott: Only Good Yankee

Mirabeau wasn’t exactly lacking in funds, but aside from cotton and peanut farming, cattle, pig raising, a couple of bed-and-breakfasts, a few odd service industries, and some antique stores, there wasn’t much to hold folks. Which made me, in reflection, even more curious as to why Lorna or anyone else would want to build condos. “It’s time for action!” Miss Twyla announced, and if she’d had a walking cane, I’m sure she would have stamped it to emphasize her point. “I’m calling a meeting of all concerned citizens tonight. Those developers might think they can ignore me ‘cause I’m old, but they’re dead wrong!” “It seems to me that the easiest way to stop them is just not to sell them the land.” The fire in her eyes scared me a little; Miss Twyla was one of those old ladies who, once they’ve gotten their dander up, aren’t likely to put it back down until they’ve had their way. Plus most of the Oudelles, while respectable, had turned out crazy in their later years. Miss Twyla had taught chemistry at the high school and it always made us a tad nervous that she had so many poisons at hand. “Of course, Jordy, but we must present a united front. I’ve gone to the county courthouse and found out who all owns the land these Yankees are after. It’s you, me, Bob Don Goertz-” (Here she harrumphed-had the gossip about my relationship with Bob Don reached her? We had made no formal announcements, but Junebug, Candace, and a few others in town knew.) After clearing her throat, she continued: “Dee Loudermilk, and your uncle Bidwell.” I groaned at the thought of meeting with that group. First of all, let me clarify that Bidwell Poteet is no longer my uncle, although I may call him that just for purposes of torture.

Uncle Bid redefines the term small-town shyster. He is possibly the least ethical lawyer produced by the Texas education system, which has never been shortchanged when it comes to producing lousy lawyers. But I liked Dee Loudermilk-she was the mayor’s wife, and although her husband was deadly dull, I enjoyed Dee’s wry sense of humor. I dreaded the thought of Bob Don and Bid together. Bid enjoyed bad-mouthing Bob Don (in his ever so subtle fashion-as subtle as a skeeter bite on the end of your nose). “Is this really necessary, Miss Twyla? Maybe Lorna and this Greg Callahan will change their minds about buying the land if they see the town’s not behind them.” “Hardly.” Miss Twyla huffed.

“They’ve already offered me an obscene sum for my acres.” An obscene sum? I could use that and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I’d given up a lot, career-wise, to return to Mirabeau, and librarians don’t get paid diddly. Sister wasn’t exactly opening up a numbered Swiss bank account with her earnings at the End of the Road truck stop either. I felt uncomfortable enough with letting Bob Don hire a part-time nurse to take care of Mama. Condos on the river didn’t sound so bad. “I have taken further action.” Miss Twyla stood and opened the door to my office. “Nina, please, join us.” She widened the door slightly to admit a young woman. My first thought was: Oh, God, she’s one of those hippie herbalists. Mirabeau’s had their share. These folks (generally women) come out to small towns like Mirabeau and set up shop selling herbs to the few tourists that wander off Highway 71 and stop in Mirabeau. God knows the locals won’t buy their botanicals; those folks who don’t believe in herbal medicine won’t touch them and those who do know where to find them in the surrounding countryside. The woman looked a bit older than me, perhaps in her midthirties. She was plain and her attire didn’t help much in my opinion. Her garb-a long, shapeless beige dress-gave her the look of a modern-day shepherdess. A series of sand dollars, shells, and beads ensconced her thin, dark throat; she could have decorated a beach all by herself. Her coal-black hair was cut short and not stylishly. The dark hue of her complexion suggested Hispanic ancestry, and her black eyes gleamed with intelligence behind wire-rim frames. She greeted me with an earthy smile. “Jordy, this is Nina Hernandez. She’s an environmental activist from Austin. Nina, this is our town librarian, Jordy Poteet.

Jordy also owns some of the land that those Yankees want.” I felt Nina Hernandez’s eyes coolly assessing me, as though measuring me for some internal scale of worth. She gave my hand a two-handed shake. “I hope that you will stand firm, Mr. Poteet. Folks like Intraglobal Development will stop at nothing to get what they want.”

“Intraglobal?” “I take it that Miss Twyla has told you about Wiercinski and Callahan being in town.” “You make them sound like foreign agents,” I said. Nina sank into a chair next to Miss Twyla.

“Don’t underestimate these people. I’ve dealt with Callahan before.

He’s cool, ruthless, and determined to win.” I wondered if she could be described the same way. The intense gleam in her eyes screamed Type-A personality, even if she was a tree hugger. “We already suspect that they’ve been in touch with your uncle and with the mayor’s wife.”

“Already? How long have these folks been in town?” I asked. Lorna stalking Mirabeau, possibly exchanging gossip with my friends and family-horrible thought. I hope she spoke kindly of me. “Wiercinski just arrived this morning. Callahan’s been here two days, staying at the Mirabeau B. Lamar Bed-and-Breakfast” Nina jerked her head toward Miss Twyla like an officer commending a private. “We can thank Miss Twyla here for ferreting out that information.” Miss Twyla looked inordinately pleased with herself. I had to admit that Nina chose her allies well. “Now, Mr. Poteet, we’ll have to mobilize to fight Intraglobal. Callahan will certainly be rallying the forces of irresponsible development to combat us.” The beads around her neck jangled gently, in odd counterpoint to her strident tone. Miss Twyla told Nina that I was to meet with Lorna this evening. Nina eyed me like someone prodding Daniel into the lion’s den. “I don’t know much about Wiercinski,” Nina said, half to herself, “but she’s got to be tough if Callahan hired her. He chews broken glass for dinner. Now, what you’ve got to do, Mr. Poteet, is-” I don’t usually interrupt folks, but for her I made an exception. I smiled. “Look, Ms.

Hernandez. I’m sure your concern for Mirabeau is genuine. But I’ve known Lorna Wiercinski for a long time. I will listen to her business proposition and then make my own decision.” She stared at me like I’d leaned over and spat in her face. “I suppose you want to give them the benefit of the doubt, but let me assure you-” “Ms. Hernandez, I don’t take kindly to outsiders coming into Mirabeau-whether to buy land from us or talk us out of selling it-and then thinking we’re a bunch of hicks who can’t think independently and need to be told what to do.” I stood and nodded at Miss Twyla, who was looking a mite uncomfortable.

“I’ll be glad to talk to you, hear y’all’s side, after I’ve talked to Lorna.” “Lorna? Already on a first-name basis with the enemy, are you, Mr. Poteet?” Nina’s smile faded. “Yes, ma’am, I am.” I wasn’t about to admit to having slept with the enemy. “But that doesn’t mean that I’m not going to evaluate both sides. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have work to do.” Miss Twyla gathered her purse close to her. “Jordy, the meeting’s at eight tonight. At my house. I certainly hope you will be there.” “I’ll consider it, Miss Twyla.” I watched as the two women left, marching arm in arm to defeat the forces of development. That was all Miss Twyla needed: another cause. I sat back down at my desk, but between thoughts of Candace and Lorna, I didn’t get much work done.*** Much to my surprise when I got home, Sister was getting ready to work a rare late shift. She had promised to cover for a friend. At the truck stop, Sister cooks the kind of comfort foods that truckers run speed traps for: chicken-fried steaks, catfish, thick jalapeno cornbread, butter beans with chunks of ham. It’s amazing that her twelve-year-old boy Mark and I aren’t fatter than hogs. I found her in the kitchen, sticking a pan of chicken enchiladas in the stove.