The Maine Mutiny (7 page)

“Even if it keeps food from our tables?”

“Your family’s not going to starve, Ike.”

“Not everyone lives high like you, Linc.”

Linc came away from the pile of traps he was leaning against. “I work hard for that money,” he said. “No man better say otherwise.”

“Not sayin’ you don’t. But I work hard, too. Either he pays me the going price or I’ll sail up the coast and sell my catch in the next harbor that’s not his.”

“And the festival?”

“Let the festival buy its lobsters from the market and pay market price like everyone else.”

A rumble of voices filled the room, but I couldn’t tell if the majority were in agreement or not. I tried not to look too interested in the proceedings, and stole a glance at Levi. His aggravated expression suggested he was uncomfortable that this argument was taking place in front of an outsider—me.

Linc raised the gavel and banged it on the woodblock until the voices died down. “All right. Give us a day or two. I’ll talk to Henry again.”

“You can talk to him longer than a hard winter and it ain’t gonna do any good,” Ike said, his voice rising. “We want action. And if you won’t do it, we can do it ourselves. There are plenty of men here ready to make a move. We don’t need the association if you’re not goin’ to stand up for us.” He looked around for support, but the room had grown very quiet.

There was venom in Linc’s eyes. “This association has represented Cabot Cove lobstermen for generations, Bower,” he said. “Don’t tell me we don’t have the best interests of our men at heart. You want to go off and form your own group, go. Anyone else here want to leave with him?”

Not a soul moved. It was clear no one else would side with Ike Bower against Linc Williams. Bower sat down, breathing heavily and shaking his head. “Can’t believe you guys,” he muttered.

There was a long pause. Linc’s voice broke the silence. “Now let’s move on.” He tilted his head in my direction. “You all know who Mrs. Fletcher is,” he said. “She wants to do an article on us for the
Gazette
. The question on the floor is: Assuming we want an article on the lobstermen to appear in that rag, who’s going to be the one to put her right? Carver, you have something to add?”

Levi straightened. “You said it right, Linc,” he said.

A man of few words,
I thought. I’d hoped Levi would champion my cause. Obviously, I’d been wrong. I raised my hand. “I’d like to add something, if I may,” I said.

“That’s not necessary,” Linc said. “We know what you want.”

“Nevertheless,” I said, standing and turning to face the audience, hoping I could move them past the grim mood that had taken hold, “I’d like to make a statement.” Without waiting for Linc to interrupt me, and without glancing at the scowl I knew was on his face, I went on. “Cabot Cove is my hometown, and I’m very proud of it, as I’m sure you are. We have an opportunity with the upcoming festival to let visitors see what a charming and welcoming village we live in. What’s more important is that we’ll be helping the Main Street merchants in their quest to draw more customers.”

“What’s that got to do with us?” a voice said from the back of the room.

“I’m glad you asked,” I replied, looking from face to face, trying to see who had asked the question. “The merchants are as much a part of Cabot Cove as you and I are.” I ignored the snorts that greeted this remark. “They live here, pay taxes, and contribute to our community’s life.”

As I spoke, I scanned the faces looking back at me. There were about thirty people in the store. Chairs had been set between rows of display cases, some of which had been haphazardly shoved to the side of the room. A potbelly stove, the only source of heat in three seasons, sat to one side. There was no fire in it, the weather being too warm to justify wasting wood, but a group of older men, their faces weathered from years of challenging the sea for a livelihood, gathered around it in seats they probably claimed all winter long. Spencer was among them.

Most of the lobstermen were family men, like Ike Bower and Levi Carver; a few had children standing between their knees or sitting next to them. There may have been some women who accompanied them to sea, perhaps even one or two who piloted their own boats, but they obviously didn’t feel the need to attend the association’s meeting. I recognized fathers of students I’d taught years before, and many whose names I didn’t know but whose familiar faces I’d seen around town. In the back of the room was a row of young men, who were obviously uninterested in my speech, and who began whispering to each other while I spoke. I recognized Levi’s son, Evan, whose photograph I’d seen in his mother’s kitchen. And another boy who might be Linc’s son, he looked so much like the association president.

“The success of our business district has a direct effect on the prosperity of the town as a whole, on all of our lives,” I continued, hoping to recapture their interest. “If the merchants fail, you and I will have to travel out of town to purchase goods and services that are conveniently nearby right now. But if they do well, Cabot Cove as a community will have greater means to help safeguard, perhaps even improve, our quality of life, our schools, parks, libraries, and cultural and recreation services.”

I saw I wasn’t convincing them. They were getting restless, looking away, tapping their feet impatiently. What would persuade them? I tried another point of view.

“We’re so used to seeing lobsters,” I said, “we don’t think of them as anything exotic. But they’re a delicacy the world over. The article I’m hoping to write will show how Cabot Cove’s lobstermen work to provide the meal that Maine is famous for. You’re the heroes of the coming festivities. It’s the lobster festival, after all.”

One of the young men, who wore a red plaid shirt under a brown leather vest, gave a loud yawn and stretched his arms over his head. I was grateful to see several of the fathers turn around to glare at his rudeness. Evan, who sat at the end of the row, reached over to poke the heckler on the knee.

“What?” he said, poking back. “I’m tired. I’ve been up since dawn. And this is a waste of time. I got places to be.”

“I won’t take up more of your time,” I said, “but I imagine your families would be very proud to see your work profiled in the newspaper for everyone to see, neighbors and visitors alike.”

“Okay, Mrs. Fletcher, we get the point,” Linc said from behind me. “We don’t care what’s in the paper—well, most of the time—but the real question is, who’s willing to take Mrs. Fletcher aboard for a day so she can get the facts straight for her story?”

Silence greeted Linc’s question.

I was afraid my petition was going to be tabled. I’d had enough experience in local organizations to know that if that happened, it would mean the request would never get voted on in time to do the
Gazette
and the festival any good. I don’t know why the article had become important to me. True, I didn’t want to disappoint Gwen—or Evelyn Phillips, for that matter. And it wasn’t just a matter of pride in dealing with a less than enthusiastic response to my little speech. But as I’d mustered my arguments, I began to see the validity of them. If the lobstermen declined to participate, even in so small an undertaking as cooperating with the local newspaper, our town would be the less for it. Of course, if they sold their lobsters ahead of the festival and we didn’t have enough to feed our visitors, that would be a lot worse.

“We’re all in this together,” I said. “We’re a community, putting on a community event.”

I looked at Spencer Durkee. He was bent forward, his elbows on his knees, rolling and unrolling the unknotted twine. I was sure Spencer would agree to host me if I appealed to him. But if I did, the malicious people who’d victimized him already would torture him again. I couldn’t take the chance of making his life more difficult than it already was.

I pointed to the rude young man in the back. “Perhaps you’d like to volunteer?” I said. My remark succeeded in evoking a laugh and breaking the tension that pervaded the meeting. Cries of “Yeah, Holland, you do it,” echoed in the room.

Holland colored but wasn’t cowed. “Me? Not in this life. Anyway, we don’t need any more stupid stories in the
Gazette
.”

“Pipe down, Holland,” Levi said. “This is a senior decision.”

“Brady just don’t want no one to find out why his other slicker stinks from rotten bait,” called out one of Holland’s companions. He pushed Holland in the shoulder, then giggled, elbowing another young man in the ribs.

“Shut up, Maynard,” Holland said. “Or you’ll step in it tomorrow.”

Spencer frowned, but said nothing.

“Benjamin Press, what about you?” Levi said to a fisherman sitting next to the ten year old I’d seen outside.

“Nah, Levi. Women’s bad luck on board.”

“Who’re you kidding, Ben?” Levi said. “Didn’t your wife use to fish with you?”

“Yeah, and I never had any luck,” Press replied, setting off another wave of laughter. The atmosphere in the room was relaxed now, but still, I had no takers.

“Alex Paynter. Can you do it?” Levi asked.

“I would, Levi, but my motor catched up on me. Gotta get me a new part tomorrow.”

“Okay, we don’t have all night for this,” Linc said.

My heart sank. I glanced at Levi, hoping he’d say something. But he was looking at Linc. I saw his shoulders rise and fall.

“Sorry, Levi, you’re stuck with her,” Linc said, and my heart soared.

A couple of the men snickered. I thought I knew who they were. I gave Levi a grateful smile, but he didn’t respond.

“There’s not a lot of room on my boat, Linc. Plus I’ve got Evan as sternman.”

“That’s my ruling,” Linc said. “Your idea, your project.” He raised his left hand and rapped his gavel on the woodblock. “Any new business? No? Remember, what’s said here stays here. This meeting is over.”

I was surprised at the way Linc Williams ran the association. Plainly his word was law, and few would buck him. Ike Bower must have been expecting others to join his mutiny. Perhaps privately they’d rally to the cause. But in public, the support never materialized. Williams was still the king. No votes were taken. No one raised
Robert’s Rules of Order
. The association simply ruled.

As the meeting broke up, several people came up to greet me or to apologize for the rudeness of Holland and his friends, for which I thanked them. When they departed, I looked around for the association president. There was still a crowd of people lingering in Nudd’s, but I managed to spot him across the room and headed in his direction. I wanted to express my gratitude for his aid.

Evelyn Phillips had elbowed her way inside the shop and was advancing on Linc as well. She reached him before I did. “Mr. Williams, do you have a statement on the meeting for the
Gazette
?” she asked.

“No comment,” Linc said.

“Come on now, Mr. Williams. The village wants to know if the association is still supporting the festival.”

“The lobstermen don’t break their word. We’ll do what has to be done, and that’s all I have to say.” He pushed his way into the crowd headed for the door.

Evelyn winked at me and looked around for another likely candidate to interview, but when the men spied her, they turned their backs or hurried toward the exit.

Spencer saw her coming and ducked past me to get away. “I talk to her,” he murmured to himself, “and it’ll get worse.”

“Hey, lady, want a comment from me?” Holland said. He stood with a small knot of his friends, who grinned at his cheekiness. I was sorry to see Evan Carver among them.

“I’ll give you a comment,” Maynard said, rocking his pelvis at her.

“Aren’t you a scurvy-looking group?” Evelyn said, her pen poised above her pad. “But I’ll bet you know where to find rotten bait, don’t you, boys?”

“I smell something rotten in here right now,” Holland said, sniffing at her.

“What’re you talking about, Brady?” Maynard said. “This lady’s a honker. You like ’em big, don’t you?” He put his arms out to Evelyn. “Want to go to a party? We could party some with you.”

“Knock it off, sonny, or I’ll tell your mother,” Evelyn shot back. “And don’t think I don’t know who she is.”

“C’mon, Maynard, let’s get out of here,” Evan said.

“Don’t be so spleeny, Carver,” Maynard said to him. “She’s not gonna hit you.”

“Suit yourself,” Evan said, and headed for the door.

Confident Evelyn could handle herself with the young toughs, I followed Evan and made my way through the crowd of lobstermen outside to the dock. I didn’t see where Evan went, but Levi was waiting for me.

“I’m very grateful—” I began.

Tapping the crystal on his watch, he interrupted, “We’ll meet here at five A.M. tomorrow. The forecast looks good. Bring lunch for yourself. You have any waterproof gear?”

“I do,” I said. “And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. It’s Mary deserves the thanks.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“I have to find someone inside. I’ll see you at first light.”

“I’ll be here,” I said.

“We’ll leave if you aren’t,” he said, and pushed back into Nudd’s, past the men exiting the meeting.

Spencer stepped to the side to let Levi pass, just as Brady Holland and his friend Maynard came out the door. Holland put his shoulder into the old man and knocked him to his knees. The contact was a deliberate attempt to humiliate Spencer Durkee. Outraged, I stepped forward, prepared to give Holland a piece of my mind and to assist Spencer to his feet, but a hard look from Benjamin Press stopped me where I was. This was not my business, his eyes said. He looped a hand under Spencer’s arm and hauled him to his feet. “You okay, Spencer?” he asked.

“Sure, Ben. Thanks.”

“Can’t even keep your legs on land. How ya gonna stay upright to fish?” Holland said over his shoulder as he passed the men.

“Clumsy kids,” Ben said, steadying Spencer.