Gwen, in Green

The pain was over, but it had been so vast, so extended, that her nerves were raw, tingling. She ached with the memory of it, dreamed it was back, thought with fierce satisfaction of the four decomposing bodies hidden in her woods, covered with dirt and sand and leaves, filling the empty sockets, of trees blown down, in past storms, returning something to the earth which they had torn and ravaged.

There were still sounds, but now it was the sounds made by the diggers and earth movers and that was bearable. Inside, with the air conditioner running, she could scarcely hear them. One by one, she told the visitors not to return. Some of them were not convinced, came to stand beside the pond, whistling, until, she supposed, their whistlers got tired and they went away. The danger of one of them coming kept her from the pond. Now it was only in the early morning, with the sun red and the heat of the day still ahead, that she could stand, feet wet, buried in sand, and feel the peace. Soon, however, only the youngest came. She, in pity, called him inside, padded nakedly ahead of him to the living room couch, gave him pleasure.

“You’re very sweet,” she said, “but you mustn’t come again.”

“Why?”

“If you come again, I’ll scream and tell my husband,” she said, wanting it ended.

Well, Tommy thought, walking slowly away toward his hidden bike, now he knew how. And there were still a lot of summer girls down along the strand.

15

The editor of the Ocean City Weekly was a fourth generation native of the area. Back in the days when land had been priced at fifty cents an acre, and large plots had often been sold for back taxes, one of his forebears had built large holdings which had remained largely intact down through the years, mainly because no one wanted to pay good money for bays, sand-­hill pines, and scrubby oak. The good timber had long since been sold off. Aside from a few twisted trees unsuited for lumber, the largest longleaf pine in the county wouldn’t have made three good two-­by-­fours. Fast-­growing loblolly pine had replaced the longleaf, and about every twenty years a landowner could sell enough loblolly for pulpwood to pay a few years’ taxes. For decades, Ocean County was a depressed area. But there was the river, a large one in its lower stages, with enough water to take the untreated sewage of Port City, absorb the mercury and other wastes of the upstream industries, and still be liquid enough to be suitable for cooling large atomic reactors. The editor had politicked openly for the power plant, and not solely because he owned a few hundred acres of land unsuited for much save industry. He had a true interest in the people of the county, and was of the opinion that industry was the one hope. He worked with the newly hired industrial consultant, whose salary was paid with county funds, to bring the power company officials down for oyster roasts and tours of the county.

Never had there been, in modern times, a place more open to development. Land values were low. There was a surplus labor supply, as witness the crowds at the courthouse every week on unemployment-­check day. Of course, a large influx of people would strain the antiquated school system severely, but the property taxes paid by industry would build new schools.

Just incidentally, the editor sold five hundred acres of riverside bays and sand for a price which set a new record in the county. Just incidentally, he owned a plot of the most beautiful residential development land on the lower river, just outside of town. Taxes cut into his profit, but by taking the long term capital gain he still was able to hold onto a respectable chunk of cash. The houses were going up three and four at a time in his housing development and doing well, selling almost as fast as they were laid out.

The prime contractor of the nuclear generating plant brought in a couple of thousand outside workers and their families and took off the slack in the local labor market. Bills were being paid for the first time by people who had, in the past, depended on fishing for their income. Merchants were building new buildings to handle the increase. When the job let off a shift at four in the afternoon, it was a thirty minute stop-­and-­go drive from Main Street to the edge of town. The local law enforcement agencies were worked to the breaking point, but that was a price to be paid for progress. The editor’s circulation had jumped by several hundred, and he knew the source of the increase. As a result, he had at least one story a week about the new plant and did his best to mention as many names as possible, concentrating on the supervisors and power company people. Meanwhile, he was talking to the representatives of a large chemical company about an industrial site of four hundred acres adjacent to the raw cut in the landscape made by the power plant. The price per acre was roughly equivalent to the cost of producing Florida citrus land.