Antrim, Donald - Elect Mr. Robinson for a Better World

Jerry motioned to close the floor to further nominations. Though not before Helen Mooney raised her hand and declared, “I nominate my daughter.”

“Second,” many people shouted.

So it was that Meredith came to be part of a select commission authorized to engineer social programs and allocate funds. She won more votes than any other candidate. I wasn’t jealous, exactly. After all, I already held a civic post. Though mine was, of course, voluntary, not elected. I felt, well, strange — a mild case of territorial anxiety mixed with healthy domestic competitiveness. Also, I was proud of Meredith’s new popularity. What can be said about that? A lot of folks were enthralled by her ability to become a fish.

Other worthies elected to the task force were Simone, Barbara, and, as luck would have it, Abe, who bellowed, “All right!” when his name was called.

“Order,” demanded the chair. I still hadn’t managed to get myself a clam roll, which was probably a good thing because another plate on the table would’ve made it very difficult to write minutes. I turned to a clean notebook page and scrawled down Jerry’s call for “ten-minute recess, after which we’ll reconvene to discuss interfamilial strife and also, if time allows, the matter of a multipurpose public school / indoor sports complex to be located at Freedom Field and headmastered by our own Mr. Scrivener.”

Down came Jerry’s gavel on the tabletop. Down plummeted my mood with it. What a rude turn of events. When had I consented to this? I turned to address Henderson but he was already up and gone. I spotted him leaning over the bar with a gaggle of town hall types. Was it time for the drinking to begin? Already? I heard Rita shout, “Could I please see the library task force over by the ice machine?”

I sat alone. Across the room Barbara and Meredith embraced, gently patting one another on shoulder and back, like chums or sweethearts — teammates! Barbara said something and Meredith laughed. Rita orbited Abe like a minor planet. Abe looked like a biker — if it weren’t for that golf shirt. Beyond de Leon: the sea, faintly, blackly visible through a decorative “porthole” installed near the men’s room door.

“Well, Pete Robinson.”

It was my mother-in-law. I rose, and, because form dictated it, we hugged. Helen’s bristly hair tickled my face, and I thought I might sneeze, when she said, “How wonderful, a new school. I’ve always found it so gratifying that my daughter should choose a husband who values education.”

“Our children are our future.”

“Indeed they are. Tell me, son-in-law, do you anticipate a traditional curriculum?”

“Uh, could be. Too early to tell. Lots of problems to be worked out and all.”

“It’s high time we got back to solid values of fundamental learning and common human decency.”

“I agree.”

“Do you? Do you? I believe evil has found a home in your heart, Pete.”

Before I could say, Excuse me? Tom Thompson came over and smiled. “Hi guys.”

At which point I finally sneezed, not once but serially, causing nearby people to pause in their conversations and take turns saying, “God bless you, God bless you.”

I have to admit, I kind of like Tom. His politics are unsophisticated but his heart’s in the right place.

Take his speech, once recess was over and the meeting resumed: “The Bensons and Websters are waging private war on public land!”

“That’s right, that’s the issue exactly,” observed assenting voices. Tom was well known for his enthusiasm. Crowds excite him. That night at Terry’s he gave a memorable performance, stepping into the center of the room and holding aloft his arms and claiming, “I for one am prepared to make a nonviolent gesture of protest and self-sacrifice. Who’ll join me on a walking tour of the park to locate and deactivate those mines?”

No hands went up. Jerry said, “Noble gesture, Tom, but I don’t think it’s that simple.” I sneezed again. “You’re catching a little bug, aren’t you?” whispered Barbara, and I felt her breath on my ear. Wow. I imagined the feeling of her mouth, its warmth. And I saw an opportunity to integrate a lot of issues into one action; I blew my nose into an oversized paper napkin, folded the napkin into a pocketable square, pocketed it, and said, “Okay. A Turtle Pond Park initiative is desirable. I deem it appropriate to take decisive action in the form of removing obstacles to enjoyment of the park, and suggest an alternative to walking through it, thus risking grave injury. What if Rita’s soon-to-be-redundant large-format library reference editions were simply hurled into park grounds? The World Book, Columbia, and Britannica encyclopedias could possess the heft required to depress the claymore’s trigger.”

After that things got out of hand. Why, I ask, should a mere suggestion incite divisive bickering leading to vehement altercation? A simple no vote is all that’s required, not yelling things like “You’re crazy, Pete Robinson, you don’t give a damn about education!” which was what Helen shouted at me, repeatedly, so that finally Bill Nixon got fed up and went steamrolling unsteadily across the room — nearly flattening a child who was roaming innocently between tables with a milk-filled jelly glass that wound up inverted — getting right up in her, Helen’s, face. Granted, Bill’s tactic of swatting at Meredith’s mother like a fly was imprudent. He didn’t appear to intend actual harm. The mother of the milk-doused child shrieked, “That man hurt my baby!” Which wasn’t true, because, after all, it was only milk. Blood did not flow until Abe, presumably resolved to uphold the peace, imposed himself between Helen and Bill. Abe counseled his friend, “Take it easy, chief.” Too late. Abe’s nose got whacked by Bill’s hand. It’s a good thing there was a nurse in the house.

And there was Meredith. The crowd parted to let her through. She stood bathed in Terry Heinemann’s Clam Castle’s amber mood lighting, cautioning, “Boys, boys.”

It was a thing to see, the way everyone fell quiet and turned to look at her. Even the little children stopped their crying.

Meredith offered Abe a napkin, then gave her right hand to the person on her right, her left to the person on her left. She said, “Let’s all join hands for a minute.”

Well, everyone did. It was kind of a chore for me, holding Jerry’s hand, but this was more than made up for by Barbara’s cool palm pressing mine. Meredith said, “Why don’t we go outside and breathe the night air.”

In the parking lot we all formed a large circle. People I knew held hands with people I didn’t: an unbroken chain beneath the Big Dipper. Light winds carried sweet ocean salt on a mist that rose from slow waves breaking against the jetty. Lifeguard stands loomed. In the harbor: moored day sailors equipped with aluminum masts and homemade cannon, clinking with tackle and line, making bell sounds; and the deeper, melancholy pitch of the distant bell buoy, rocking beneath the moon.

“Look at the moon,” said Meredith. We looked. It hovered yellow and large above the sea. Yellow moonlight skipped off white sand and turned the flickering wave tips silver-gold. Looking farther out, the eye followed a shining highway of moonlight traveling over deep water to the horizon. Meredith said, “The light of the moon makes a shining path to each of us. Wherever we stand, the path will cross the water to find us. Go up or down the beach, and it will follow.”

“Yes,” said people in the circle. And, “That’s right.” In this way, a vision we’d seen and taken for granted all our lives, simple reflected light, became miraculous.

Later, after the meeting was over and everyone had gone home, Meredith said to me, “Let’s go out on the jetty and take off our clothes, like we used to. Want to?”