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Authors: Jody Lynn Nye
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and that would mean reporters all over the place. Are they following our trucks?”
“Couldn’t be. Some of them county routes are as flat as an ironing board. We’d have seen anybody. What’s wrong? This H. Doyle write another letter full of insults to the editor?”
Without looking up, Mona nodded. She crumpled the edge with her fingertips, began to tear scraps of paper loose and scoot them around the desktop. She hated keeping up the discussion in public. Always protesting that Gilbreth was innocent of any wrongdoing, that the management was interested and involved in environmental issues. All the petitions were signed and the national convention was over, but she still needed the grassroots support to keep her campaign alive. She just wanted to win the election so she could go to Washington and stop worrying about her constituents. It would have been easier if there were two of her, one to pound the campaign trail and tell lies to voters, and the other to stay here and crack nitrogen.
The election was timely, so that was where she turned her attention. In the meantime, the business was running badly without her continuous intervention. She wished again her father hadn’t died. His timing was so inconvenient. The last thing she needed was to be involved with a business whose waste products pushed so many buttons among her constituency. There were loud supporters on both sides of the issue, pro-farm and pro-environment, and sometimes they were the same people, but silence was better than noisy debate any time.
She ran her finger down the page to the end of the letter. There was the signature Mona had been dreading: H. Doyle. The gist of the letter above it was typical and predictable. Unnatural growths of algae had been observed in artesian ponds and marsh water, suggesting that phosphates and other organics had been dumped in the sensitive headwaters, giving rise to explosive and unwanted growth. H. Doyle was angry about the pollution of the groundwater, suggesting that if organic pollutants were disposed of with so much secrecy, might not PCBs and dioxins have been dumped as well? Didn’t the name Times Beach render any reaction?
Mona ground her teeth. It did. It was true, Gilbreth Feed and Fertilizer had dumped a lot of its waste on abandoned property. Money was the problem. If for no other reason than to keep her nose clean for the inspection of her political foes, she would cheerfully have paid for proper dumping sites and disposal. As it was, the Gilbreth Company couldn’t afford it and still take care of payroll, advertising, and all the other expenses it took to run a company. H. Doyle of Hollow Tree was exacerbating her troubles by humiliating her in public. Mona could feel her temper rising, getting her dander up, as her old grandmother used to say.
“We’ve got a load of stuff, and the bills aren’t paid yet,” Williamson said, almost as if he could read her mind. “Got to get rid of it. There’s no more room in the tanks, and Browning-Ferris won’t make a pickup until we pay.”
“Empty the tanks into our trucks. There’s a dumping site I want you to use,” Ms. Gilbreth said, without looking up from the Op-ed page.
Dola appeared at the door of Holl and Maura’s cottage. “ There now,” she said disapprovingly, drowning out the unhappy cries. Holl turned toward her, his face full of undisguised relief, his arms full of wet, bare-bottomed baby. “You can hear her nearly all the way to the barn!”
“Bless you, lass, can you do something with her? She’s soaked through, I’ve got a full day of tasks to finish, and I can’t put her down!”
The girl’s hands were on her hips, and the expression on her face was an echo of her great-grandmother Keva’s. “She’s all to pieces, and you’re no help, are you?” she asked. She took the wailing baby in her arms, and whispered a little song to her. Asrai, recognizing Dola’s voice, stopped crying and gurgled. Holl, amused, stood back
“Couldn’t be. Some of them county routes are as flat as an ironing board. We’d have seen anybody. What’s wrong? This H. Doyle write another letter full of insults to the editor?”
Without looking up, Mona nodded. She crumpled the edge with her fingertips, began to tear scraps of paper loose and scoot them around the desktop. She hated keeping up the discussion in public. Always protesting that Gilbreth was innocent of any wrongdoing, that the management was interested and involved in environmental issues. All the petitions were signed and the national convention was over, but she still needed the grassroots support to keep her campaign alive. She just wanted to win the election so she could go to Washington and stop worrying about her constituents. It would have been easier if there were two of her, one to pound the campaign trail and tell lies to voters, and the other to stay here and crack nitrogen.
The election was timely, so that was where she turned her attention. In the meantime, the business was running badly without her continuous intervention. She wished again her father hadn’t died. His timing was so inconvenient. The last thing she needed was to be involved with a business whose waste products pushed so many buttons among her constituency. There were loud supporters on both sides of the issue, pro-farm and pro-environment, and sometimes they were the same people, but silence was better than noisy debate any time.
She ran her finger down the page to the end of the letter. There was the signature Mona had been dreading: H. Doyle. The gist of the letter above it was typical and predictable. Unnatural growths of algae had been observed in artesian ponds and marsh water, suggesting that phosphates and other organics had been dumped in the sensitive headwaters, giving rise to explosive and unwanted growth. H. Doyle was angry about the pollution of the groundwater, suggesting that if organic pollutants were disposed of with so much secrecy, might not PCBs and dioxins have been dumped as well? Didn’t the name Times Beach render any reaction?
Mona ground her teeth. It did. It was true, Gilbreth Feed and Fertilizer had dumped a lot of its waste on abandoned property. Money was the problem. If for no other reason than to keep her nose clean for the inspection of her political foes, she would cheerfully have paid for proper dumping sites and disposal. As it was, the Gilbreth Company couldn’t afford it and still take care of payroll, advertising, and all the other expenses it took to run a company. H. Doyle of Hollow Tree was exacerbating her troubles by humiliating her in public. Mona could feel her temper rising, getting her dander up, as her old grandmother used to say.
“We’ve got a load of stuff, and the bills aren’t paid yet,” Williamson said, almost as if he could read her mind. “Got to get rid of it. There’s no more room in the tanks, and Browning-Ferris won’t make a pickup until we pay.”
“Empty the tanks into our trucks. There’s a dumping site I want you to use,” Ms. Gilbreth said, without looking up from the Op-ed page.
Dola appeared at the door of Holl and Maura’s cottage. “ There now,” she said disapprovingly, drowning out the unhappy cries. Holl turned toward her, his face full of undisguised relief, his arms full of wet, bare-bottomed baby. “You can hear her nearly all the way to the barn!”
“Bless you, lass, can you do something with her? She’s soaked through, I’ve got a full day of tasks to finish, and I can’t put her down!”
The girl’s hands were on her hips, and the expression on her face was an echo of her great-grandmother Keva’s. “She’s all to pieces, and you’re no help, are you?” she asked. She took the wailing baby in her arms, and whispered a little song to her. Asrai, recognizing Dola’s voice, stopped crying and gurgled. Holl, amused, stood back
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