inquired.
“Well,” Keith said lamely, “I like to feel needed.”
“Then feel needed, you widdy, but go ahead and have your job. I’m sure it’ll be more interesting than hanging about watching me change diapers.”
“Oh, no,” Keith said. “That’d be very interesting. In fact, I ought to make a complete photo record. That way, you’ll remember this time of her life long after she’s grown up and has boyfriends.”
Holl gaped at him openmouthed, knocked speechless. Keith was delighted.
“Quoth the Maven, nevermore,” Keith said with glee.
“Will you let me worry about one year at a time without raising the spectre of times to come?” Holl demanded, when he had recovered his voice. “Isn’t it enough …”
Holl’s reply was cut off by staccato tooting. The Little Folk looked around curiously for its source. Keith stood up hastily.
“Thanks for the hospitality, Holl. I’ve got to go. That’s my ride!”
***
C HAPTER F OUR
The next morning, Mona Gilbreth opened to the editorial page of the Central Illinois Farmer with a mixture of dread and disgust. The ongoing battle between environmental interests and business—her business—had become an embarrassment. She hadn’t even known there were environmentalists in Sullivan before the paper-borne tirade had begun, about a year back. It had started with a letter about dumping of industrial waste in the local watershed, and gone on from there to veiled and then not-so-veiled suggestions of guilt. Customers were asking pointed questions about whether the allegations against Gilbreth concerning dumping and toxic waste were true. This wasn’t national politics, where the querists were reporters she’d never see again who could be put off with a press release from one of her assistants. She was forced to make expensive changes in her business practices, though she could hardly spare it from her campaign. She had won the nomination for Representative, but it would take careful management and a lot of fundraising to see her all the way through the November election. There was a chronic shortage of donations for the smaller candidacies. None of the big sponsors seemed to be interested in getting behind a single Democrat from Central Illinois. Mona Gilbreth yearned for the day when her political dreams would be realized, she would be elected to her House seat in Washington, and she could shake off the stinking dust of her father’s business and her hometown. After she left, she could disavow any knowledge of how the business was being run.
At first she wondered if her political opponent was behind the mudslinging. Nastier people were beginning to call them Kill-breath Feed. It was hard to get a stereotype out of people’s mind once it was set. Small towns had long memories, she thought, remembering her grammar school nickname of “Treetop.” Once a year, someone from her year at Sullivan High School was sure to bring that up again. It wasn’t her fault she grew taller than anyone else in fifth grade, finishing up at a quarter inch short of six feet before her thirteenth birthday. It was enough to make any sane person take to the top of a church steeple with an M-16.
“Has anyone in the plant been talking to anyone from Hollow Tree Farm?” Mona asked her manager, Jake Williamson.
“You know us,” Williamson assured her, leaning back with his thumbs in his hip pockets. The khaki overalls that was the company uniform looked like a prison guard’s on his bulky, well-muscled body. Mona was comfortable with him because he was one of the few people at the plant who was taller than she was. “We don’t talk to strangers.”
“Then how are they so sure the stuff’s coming from here?” Mona wondered, folding over the page and creasing it with her fingernail.
“It is, isn’t it?” Williamson asked, showing his teeth in amusement.
She ignored him. “These results couldn’t have come from an EPA analysis, because we’d have been notified,
“Well,” Keith said lamely, “I like to feel needed.”
“Then feel needed, you widdy, but go ahead and have your job. I’m sure it’ll be more interesting than hanging about watching me change diapers.”
“Oh, no,” Keith said. “That’d be very interesting. In fact, I ought to make a complete photo record. That way, you’ll remember this time of her life long after she’s grown up and has boyfriends.”
Holl gaped at him openmouthed, knocked speechless. Keith was delighted.
“Quoth the Maven, nevermore,” Keith said with glee.
“Will you let me worry about one year at a time without raising the spectre of times to come?” Holl demanded, when he had recovered his voice. “Isn’t it enough …”
Holl’s reply was cut off by staccato tooting. The Little Folk looked around curiously for its source. Keith stood up hastily.
“Thanks for the hospitality, Holl. I’ve got to go. That’s my ride!”
***
C HAPTER F OUR
The next morning, Mona Gilbreth opened to the editorial page of the Central Illinois Farmer with a mixture of dread and disgust. The ongoing battle between environmental interests and business—her business—had become an embarrassment. She hadn’t even known there were environmentalists in Sullivan before the paper-borne tirade had begun, about a year back. It had started with a letter about dumping of industrial waste in the local watershed, and gone on from there to veiled and then not-so-veiled suggestions of guilt. Customers were asking pointed questions about whether the allegations against Gilbreth concerning dumping and toxic waste were true. This wasn’t national politics, where the querists were reporters she’d never see again who could be put off with a press release from one of her assistants. She was forced to make expensive changes in her business practices, though she could hardly spare it from her campaign. She had won the nomination for Representative, but it would take careful management and a lot of fundraising to see her all the way through the November election. There was a chronic shortage of donations for the smaller candidacies. None of the big sponsors seemed to be interested in getting behind a single Democrat from Central Illinois. Mona Gilbreth yearned for the day when her political dreams would be realized, she would be elected to her House seat in Washington, and she could shake off the stinking dust of her father’s business and her hometown. After she left, she could disavow any knowledge of how the business was being run.
At first she wondered if her political opponent was behind the mudslinging. Nastier people were beginning to call them Kill-breath Feed. It was hard to get a stereotype out of people’s mind once it was set. Small towns had long memories, she thought, remembering her grammar school nickname of “Treetop.” Once a year, someone from her year at Sullivan High School was sure to bring that up again. It wasn’t her fault she grew taller than anyone else in fifth grade, finishing up at a quarter inch short of six feet before her thirteenth birthday. It was enough to make any sane person take to the top of a church steeple with an M-16.
“Has anyone in the plant been talking to anyone from Hollow Tree Farm?” Mona asked her manager, Jake Williamson.
“You know us,” Williamson assured her, leaning back with his thumbs in his hip pockets. The khaki overalls that was the company uniform looked like a prison guard’s on his bulky, well-muscled body. Mona was comfortable with him because he was one of the few people at the plant who was taller than she was. “We don’t talk to strangers.”
“Then how are they so sure the stuff’s coming from here?” Mona wondered, folding over the page and creasing it with her fingernail.
“It is, isn’t it?” Williamson asked, showing his teeth in amusement.
She ignored him. “These results couldn’t have come from an EPA analysis, because we’d have been notified,
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