by K. S. Lindsay
“Have you signed in yet? You must sign in.” The old woman thrust the pad of yellow lined paper and pen at Meg, for the second time.
“Yes, I’ve signed in,” Meg said, gritting her teeth and consciously trying not to snap. She managed a rictus smile at the woman, swallowing to avoid breathing in the noxious odor coming from her.
However, Meg’s real resentment was at the way the old woman’s demand made it impossible to hear the composed, thin woman at the front of the room. The thin woman – she’d introduced herself, but Meg hadn’t caught it and nothing short of violence would compel her to interrupt the meeting and ask – spoke with a deliberate, authoritative manner that intimidated Meg on many levels.
The old woman obviously felt no such restraint. “Are you sure?” she demanded brusquely.
Meg scanned the page thrust inches from her face, and spotted her own scrawl among the rest, near the top. “There,” she said, letting the smile drop, “you told me about your operation while I signed.”
The old woman brought the page close to her face, glanced at it, and immediately started to toddle away. “Oh, yes,” she muttered, as she passed behind Meg, “You mentioned the trees…”
Meg let her nose curl and her arms cross her chest as the old woman moved out of her sight, her demands still audible however. “Did you sign in? You have to sign in,” she barked.
The fuss the old woman continued to make made it difficult to hear the moderator, but it was the smell, and other things, that really pissed Meg off. When she’d finished her first round of signature gathering, the old woman had retreated to a seat at the end of the table up front – where the thin woman and other Orange Community Council Board members sat. The old woman had sat there, surrounded by a collection of bags that she constantly touched and rearranged at the foot of her chair, without adding or subtracting anything from their contents. The conspicuous, compulsive hoarding disgusted Meg, but she’d also been irritated at her own inability to look away.
As the meeting began, Meg had seen, in surprise and annoyance, that the OCC Board not only deferred to the old woman (they called her Mrs. Stokes even though everyone else used first names,) but they encouraged her relentless collection of signatures. However, as Mrs. Stokes completed her sign-in sheet, she also forced her own story on each person and demanded to know why they’d come.
The repetitiveness of these sharings spiked Meg’s impatience, particularly as each person said something like ‘I just want to know what’s going on,’ while she’d blathered on about her wish for street trees… She’d felt even more stupid when she scanned the agenda Mrs. Stokes had thrust at her (only after she signed) and didn’t see anything about the trees on it.
So, Meg listened closely, hoping to hear something about a sign-up list for the street trees, in spite of the agenda. She’d never attended one of these meetings before, and she wouldn’t have this time except that her boyfriend, Tommy, kept saying she couldn’t do it. Under his ‘reassuring’, she’d grown stubborn and forced herself to show him. Now, watching the thin woman – Meg liked desserts, and she found women who had the self-control to avoid extra pounds very daunting – she knew she’d never overcome herself enough to do more than listen.
She did listen, through three speakers and several agenda items – minutes from the last meeting, committee reports, and a treasurer’s report – bored, and growing more and more irritated by Mrs. Stokes.
The thin woman, with her no-nonsense haircut and outfit made of natural fibers, kept the agenda moving along, cutting off extra talk rather abruptly at times. She introduced people from the City, who talked about sewer systems or crosswalks, with a casualness and authority that impressed Meg even more. Then the moderator, and all the Board Members, hammered the presenters with questions Meg hadn’t even considered. And, each time, Mrs. Stokes would also speak up, with an odd, often irrelevant, observation, that slowed the whole meeting down to a crawl that Meg felt in her skin.
“Where I came from,” Mrs. Stokes said about the replacement of the sewer system, “we didn’t worry about the kind of water or where it went any way. It’s a sewer. We didn’t call it anything else.”
“We’re lucky to have that bus,” Mrs. Stokes said about an effort to restore bus service on Lake Street – something everyone had already agreed was necessary – “and I think we need to do something to keep it.” Meg glared at the old woman then, trying to figure out if the woman was that obtuse, or simply not listening. According to the moderator and the presenter, the service had been cancelled months ago.
“I’ve been known to go to The Buckaroo a time or two,” Mrs. Stokes said, laughing at what was probably meant to be a humorous reference to the iconic dive bar. Meg scowled when others laughed politely with the old woman. “I think a crosswalk there could be a very good idea.”
Meg watched the clock slowly advance, but when the thin woman said, “I think we can end there,” it still took her by surprise. She shocked herself more when her hand shot up, and her mind whirled without a thought as to what she might say. She needn’t have worried.
“No,” the old woman boomed, “we haven’t discussed the trees.”
Everyone turned to Mrs. Stokes, and Meg – her hand still stuck in the air – saw the looks of derision, impatience, and concern that flittered across faces as they looked at the old woman. Meg’s fear told her to yank down her hand, and run from the room, but her stubbornness kept her glued in place.
“What trees, Mrs. Stokes?” the thin woman asked, a thin, awkward-looking smile pasted on her face.
Mrs. Stokes glanced in irritation at the moderator, and motioned to the back of the room. “Hers! She want’s ‘em.”
Meg’s arm then did slide down, fear morphing into terror as everyone turned her way. She tried to face them down, while she figured out what she could say. She focused on the moderator, and there saw a smile that looked as patronizing as the one Tommy had given her when she left the house tonight. Irritation overrode terror.
“You want trees?” the moderator asked, sounding confused.
“I came to the meeting to ask about street trees,” Meg said so quietly that she had to repeat herself. “I want to know about how to get street trees for the front of my house. I heard you have some, and I want to know how they are being distributed.”
The thin woman spoke authoritatively, “I’m sorry. We already took on that matter last month. The trees are already distributed.” Maybe Meg’s darkening features made her add, “We might have another opportunity for street trees in the future, though.”
Meg opened her mouth to speak, but another voice boomed across the room. “How were they picked?” the old woman asked.
The moderator now turned to look down the table to Mrs. Stokes, sharing that same smile she’d given Meg with the old woman, “We selected the sites last month.”
“Yea, but how?” Mrs. Stokes asked.
Meg listened, but she also noticed rolling eyes and smirks spreading among the people sitting around the room.
“We held a, um, an, uh, like a lottery,” the thin woman said, her words no longer so deliberate, “We picked the places based on the submitted asks,” she finished.
“How did you get the submissions?” Meg asked, her question coming out surprisingly loud and clear.
The moderator turned to look in Meg’s direction in surprise. “We just asked for submissions,” she said, no longer smiling. “We asked for submissions, and we picked the best places,” she said, her gaze turning to the other Board Members who nodded and echoed her statement – except the one on the end.
“How?” the old woman asked. “Where did we get the places? And why can’t she be added?”
Meg looked at the old woman, who didn’t look back – she kept her gaze on the once-again stuttering moderator. She sat at the end of the table, still surrounded by her bags of stuff, and for the first time Meg noticed the empty seat between her and the nearest other person at the table.
“We’ve already decided,” the moderator explained.
“So, decide again,” the old woman said, “This one didn’t know about it.”
As Meg sat, saying nothing, the moderator struggled, and gave in. She didn’t give Meg a street tree, but she did agree, under the scowl of Mrs. Stokes, to review of the decision at next month’s meeting.
And, just like that, everyone started to pack up papers and pens, purses and car keys. Meg shuddered inwardly at the thought of another meeting, and the consideration she knew she must give…
Nearing the head table, Meg addressed the straggly haired head bent over her bags beneath the table, “Thank you, ma’am, for your help.”
After what looked like a count, Mrs. Stokes glanced up at Meg. “You need to speak up better,” the old woman barked, “You need to ask if you want something!”
Meg was struck speechless. She wanted to defend herself – she’d raised her hand, hadn’t she – but she didn’t have to respond.
A Board Member walked up then – Meg knew he was Tim, and she was proud of knowing it since, an hour and a half later, she still didn’t know the name of the moderator – and spoke to Mrs. Stokes. “Do you need help to your car tonight?”
Mrs. Stokes began to pick up her bags – Meg counted five – and she thrust one at Tim. “Yes. I thought you’d forgotten this old woman,” she snapped at him, but with a smile, like it was some kind of joke.
Tim smiled back, and took the bag, and three others, and started to walk outside. Another Board Member then stepped in and offered to take the other two bags.
“Well, yes you can,” Mrs. Stokes said, “I came early and got the space at the curb, but since my operation I can’t go much further. You young people need to help us oldsters, you know.”
Meg escaped then, as politely but as quickly as possible circumnavigating the small parade of the still odiferous Mrs. Stokes – “I can’t do anything for myself any more, you know. You are going to have to help more, you know.” – and the others, to reach the outside.
Turning at the sidewalk, she tried not to notice the overloaded Honda parked at the curb. She focused on home, and how to tell Tommy what had happened. Had she won, or lost? She didn’t know. She knew Mrs. Stokes had won, though, and that the old woman would never even know it.
This story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living, dead, or at play in the Center of the Universe, is entirely coincidental.
©2014 Kirby Lindsay. This column is protected by intellectual property laws, including U.S. copyright laws. Reproduction, adaptation or distribution without permission is prohibited.