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Previous Chapter: The Many and Varied Ways to be Awkward
The phone on Isla’s desk rang. “Someone to see you, Isla. Your aunt,” Doreen said.
Dad’s sister was a teacher and sometimes stopped by when she’d had reason to visit the Department of Education. “Great, ask her to give me a minute. I’m just winding up a meeting.”
“Sure thing.”
“So, I’ll review these,” Isla placed her hand on the bulging folder the client had returned to her. “You’re going to get that lease signed and start cracking on anything you can. Once you sign that lease, it’s not too soon to start spreading the word.”
“Ok, sounds good. Thanks so much for your help.”
“My pleasure. Your tax dollars at work. Or they will be your tax dollars, by this time next year. If you make any money. I can promise nothing,” Isla smiled and displayed her empty hands, “except my own best effort. But you have that.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you.”
“Bye. Go ahead and leave the door open.”
A few moments later, Aunt Dottie ambled in with her awkward, painful gait.
“Aunt Dot!” Isla was startled that it wasn’t Aunt Marie’s dignified form in the doorway.
“Hi Lala!” she wheezed, tapping her chest with a wrinkled hand. Isla noticed the salmon pink artificial nails. “Whew. Long walk up from the car.”
“You should have taken the elevator.”
“I did,” Dottie smiled, “I’m just old.”
“You should stop smoking.”
“I have, Isla, honest.” She hadn’t and they both knew it. Isla shook her head.
“Anyway, I thought you were at work.”
“Well, don’t roll out the welcome mat for me or anything. Short shift today—just four hours. I was filling in. It’s ‘bout long enough for me, though.” Dot sat down heavily in one of Isla’s chairs with a sigh. “Mike had some errands in town, so I thought I’d bring you a nice surprise, little lunch. Little thank you for everything you do for me.”
“You didn’t need to do that. You know I’m happy to help you out.”
“You’re right, I do know. It’s just an excuse to see you, sweetie. Can I . . .” Dot motioned towards the stacks of papers on the desk.
“Hold up, I’ve got it.” Isla began clearing a spot.
“Damn.” Dottie was looking at a spot of marinara on the floor, “It’s leaking.” The plastic Subway bag had a tear at the corner.
“Ah,” Isla said urgently, “here,” and thrust a box of tissues at Aunt Dot since she didn’t see anything better at hand. Dot groaned as she tried to get down to wipe it up. “No, don’t, I’ll get it!” Isla came around the desk and knelt on the floor. The tissue she was scrubbing with left white linty balls in the carpet instead of picking up the sauce. There was a gentle rap on the door.
“Hello? Ah, Isla, I’m sorry, I see you have a guest. I was just stopping in to remind you about the meeting this afternoon.” Bill betrayed no surprise at her being on the floor.
“I remember,” Isla said, as Aunt Dot said, “And who is this handsome young man?”
Isla rolled her eyes while Bill smiled and said, “Thank you, ma’am, Bill Morris.” He put out his hand. Aunt Dot enveloped it in both of hers.
“I’m Lala’s Aunt Dot.”
“Great-aunt,” Isla jumped in, “Lala is a childhood nickname.”
“I can see the resemblance,” Bill said, leaving Isla to wonder exactly where he saw it. “It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. . . .?”
“Dottie is fine.”
“It’s lovely to meet you, Ms. Dottie.” Aunt Dot giggled and may have blushed as Bill left the office.
“What a nice young man.”
“He’s like 50.”
“Half a lifetime ago.”
“Not really, Aunt Dot. You have a ways to go to 100.”
“Who is he?”
“He’s the town manager.”
“Really? I wonder if I voted for him.”
“It’s not an elected position.”
“It’s not? Well, I’ll vote for him next time.” Isla just shook her head as Aunt Dot carefully spread napkins on the blotter and laid out a foil-wrapped sub for each of them. “You still like meatball?”
“I do.” Isla was about to take a bite when Aunt Dot put her hands on her shoulders and said, “Chilly in here with that AC.”
Isla sighed and looked around until she spied a cardigan on the rack in the outer office that had been hanging ownerless for some months. She retrieved it and handed it to Aunt Dot. The arms would only go partway up Dottie’s loose, ample biceps. “Thanks, deah,” she smiled, “that’s better.”
Isla took a bite of the steam-moistened bun.
“Good?” Aunt Dot looked for assurance before tasting her own. Isla nodded and Dot smiled. “Oh, good. It’s so nice to be able to do something for you.” She took a generous bite of her own sandwich.
Two subs cost almost an hour’s worth of Aunt Dot’s pay, Isla thought, and suddenly she had a lump in her throat. For better or worse, or both, her great-aunt wouldn’t have thought about that. Somebody had to count the cost of things, but for a moment, Isla wished that task hadn’t fallen to her.
“I wish you had more light in here,” Aunt Dot was saying, “the old offices had nice big windows.”
“Yes,” Isla agreed, “it would be nice. It’s a long day with only the fluorescent lights. It’s not too bad now, but in winter I barely catch any daylight.”
“I still like winter, though. I guess I should be off to Florida by my age, but I just can’t let go of a woodfire and snow falling outside.”
Isla smiled. “Chore getting that wood in, though.”
“Austin gets it for me. I don’t know what I’ll do when he’s gone to the service.” Aunt Dot was clearly proud of him at the mere suggestion.
“Hmmm,” the paper on Isla’s sub crinkled as she pulled it back for another bite, “that might be a good choice for him. He could go to school on the GI Bill.”
“Well, I don’t know about that. Austin’s not much for school.” Aunt Dot shook her jowly face doubtfully.
“Yeah, maybe not. Maybe a trade school, though. Tradesmen are needed.”
“Maybe, maybe. Or maybe he’ll make a career in the service. Time will tell.”
“Indeed.”
Isla’s cell phone vibrated. “It’s Uncle Mike,” she said, glancing at it, “he’s leaving the post office and wants to pick you up.”
“Oh, I’d better get moving then. This was a treat.” Dottie smiled so big that Isla could see her old gray fillings. She was so proud that she still had her own teeth.
“It was, Aunt Dot. Thank you so much.” Isla gave her a hug.
“Oh! I almost forgot! I added the cookies! I think they’re still in the bag.” Dottie pulled the bag out of the trash and extracted two cookies. “Thank goodness they’re wrapped.” She grabbed another tissue to wipe sauce off the paper sleeve. “I got drinks with the meal deal, too, but I gave Mike yours because I didn’t think I could juggle all that. My balance isn’t what it was . . .”
Isla smiled and accepted a cookie.
“I love you, Lala.”
“I love you, too, Aunt Dot.”
Isla walked her out of the office and into the hall. Becky, the codes enforcement officer that Isla shared a receptionist with, was just coming back from lunch.
“Client?”
“Why not?” Isla’s tone was defensive.
“I didn’t know you had lunch meetings in the office.”
“Oh. Well, no, in fact. She’s my aunt. She surprised me with Subway.”
“Nice,” they both walked back into the outer office. “You ready for the meeting?”
“I just need to grab my stuff.”
Isla was one of the first in the conference room, but others started showing up soon after. Bill was early too, and felt the need to make small talk.
“Well, Isla, doing anything this weekend?” As with everything Bill did, Isla wondered what book on business he had read or podcast he had listened to was influencing his actions. There was always a whiff of strategy, she thought, and she tried to figure it out. In this case, casual friendliness to loosen people up, get their guard down?
“Oh, we haven’t talked about it, really, maybe a little cookout with my parents.”
“Nice, nice. Where do they live again?”
“Up on the hill towards the lakes. I live with them.”
“Oh, that’s right. Nice area. Up towards the horse farm?”
“No. Other end.” Isla’s home was on a part of the road surrounded by trailers and modest ranches, lots that had been sold off one by one through the decades when times got tight or, like Mike’s, had been broken up when a senior member died and the land was divided. Isla was told it was once a large, prosperous dairy farm, just on the outer edge of the oldest generation’s memory. But those days were long gone.
Bill waited expectantly and Isla realized she was going to have to play the small-talk game. “So, uh . . . you?”
“My dad’s down on the Cape. I’ll go down, take him to lunch, stroll those pretty little towns. I’ll be out a few days, actually.” Bill smiled his shallow smile.
Ah, so that was it. The quaint-town theme. “This will never be Hyannis, Bill.”
“Isla, Isla, always business . . . I wasn’t hinting anything.”
“We’re literally here for a meeting about downtown development.”
“I’m looking forward to my vacation, that’s all.” Bill smiled as usual, a reflex, but his spirits seemed to dip by just one or two degrees.
The four other people they were expecting had shown up. Bill stood to call the meeting to order.
“So great to have you all together today! I’m so excited to see what we’re going to do for this great little town.” It’s not that little, Isla thought, it’s one of the biggest in the state. “I know you are all full of great ideas for spiffing up our downtown area. I’d like to let Isla take the floor first since she will play such a pivotal role in getting some great new businesses into our storefronts.”
“Yes, thanks Bill.” Isla stood and very seriously intoned, “We have another nice cannabis dispensary going in at the center of town and the pawn shop need should be more or less met when all permits are approved for the third one that has recently applied.” She sat. Bill smiled, undeterred.
“Does anyone else smell opportunity here? I think it’s time to get out the white board and brainstorm!” Isla rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair with crossed arms. “Now what kind of businesses could we be on the lookout for or even suggest for our downtown? Wait, let me put it another way,” Bill’s face almost glowed with inspiration. “What kind of businesses does a great little city like ours deserve? How can we finally give our citizens the kind of place they should live in?”
Andrea, Bill’s second-in-command, raised her hand right away. “Jazz bar?”
Bill pointed the tip of his marker at her. “Great idea, great idea.”
“Boutiques?”
“Of course!”
“Art gallery and art supply store.”
“Green dry cleaning and laundry service.”
“Pet salon. With scented shampoos and ribbons!”
“A museum?”
“More diverse ethnic restaurants?”
“A fine chocolatier.”
“Ooh, yes, keep in coming, keep it coming,” Bill enthused in a way that Isla found very vulgar. She remained silent.
“Masseuse.”
“Bookstore.”
“High-end shoe store. Maybe even with a proper cobbler.”
“That’s right, guys think big, think big! Isla, are you getting this?” Isla picked up a pen and clicked it open.
“A bakery.”
“A stationer.”
“Imported specialty groceries.”
The suggestions had slowed slightly and Bill wouldn’t let them end with anything but a bang, so he interrupted. “Wow, this is just amazing. Look at this list. And this is just the beginning. Isla, what do you think?” Although he surely knew by now what Isla thought in general, it was his policy to assume enthusiasm at any and all times.
Isla allowed the silence to grow a bit heavy and awkward before she stood again. “It’s a great list,” she said. “Really great. I’d love to live in this place you’re describing, I really would. But I have a couple of comments, and a couple of questions. First off . . . I’ve seen many of these things come and go in my time. The town couldn’t or didn’t support them. We had a real cobbler and a bookstore until not long ago, for example. Second, guys, come on . . . we have some of these now. We have Chinese, Mexican, Indian, Thai, Vietnamese, Jamaican, Somali food. We have a bookstore . . .”
“A used bookstore,” Andrea interrupted.
“Sure. We have a bakery . . .”
“Donuts. Cookies. Muffins. Not fine pastries.”
“We have a freakin’ art gallery next door. Are you trying to tell me that you haven’t even noticed it? What is it that all of these places aren’t that you want them to be?”
“Yes,” Bill affirmed, “yes, Isla. That’s good. We need to figure out what that certain je ne sais quoi is.”
“Or be content without it,” Isla suggested. “Maybe the things that have survived here are already what’s right for this town. No one’s going to take their flip-flops from Walmart to a freakin’ cobbler. So, unless you move in a population that wants to write a letter on scented stationery about their imported anchovies and the new saxophone player at the jazz bar . . . who is this for?”
“But you’d enjoy it, you said?”
“Sure.”
“Then why not other people in town?”
Bill had touched a sore spot with no inkling that his words were fraught, and no idea why Isla bristled.
“Look, city employees aren’t what I’d call well paid, but it’s not minimum wage.”
“Oh, I see. You don’t think people can afford these things. But you see, Isla, it would bring more money and better jobs into town.”
“First of all, I’m not sure that’s true. Second of all, they’re the sort of places I’d frequent once or twice a year, not where I’d do my regular shopping. Is that enough? And I’d feel bad about spending that kind of money on luxury. I don’t think I’m alone in that sentiment.”
Bill’s glance was laced with saccharine compassion. “We need to teach you to treat yourself well. You deserve better, you and the rest of the town.”
“No. I don’t want you teaching anyone that. I don’t want you teaching me that. It’s not a bad thing to treat this stuff as luxuries. That’s what they are. So I just don’t know if we can support them. Like I said, several of them have come and gone and others we have now, they just don’t look like what you’re picturing. I’m just trying to do my job.”
“Isn’t there anything you can get excited about?” Bill nodded towards the board.
“I’m not sure it would be a draw, and the historical society DOES already have one, but I could get enthused about a museum. In the mills, maybe, get local folks to tell their stories while they’re still living. It’s probably not the money maker you want, but it’s still a worthy endeavor.”
“Ok, ok. Well, that’s something. I guess we’ll move on . . .”
“Wait, I did have another question. Supposing we do try to lure some of these things into town? What am I supposed to do? Hang out a sign, take out an ad in the paper, ‘Fine chocolatier wanted for downtown Scottsville’? If people wanted to do these things, wouldn’t I have heard from them already?”
Bill made a note on his legal pad. “Here’s what I’m going to do, Isla. I’m going to send you to a conference or two. Boston, maybe New York. Some other downtowns. We can make up some pamphlets about what we’re trying to do, see if anyone wants to move or open a second branch. You see something you like, you give them information. It’s fun and easy, right? Maybe I’ll come along.”
Isla made a face into her notepad. “But what about the people here? Can’t we do the things they want to do?”
“Do they want to do anything?” Bill asked.
Isla sighed, feeling that Bill had finally revealed what he really thought about the “fine citizenry” of Scottsville. Surely they held no dreams or aspirations. She waved her hand wearily. “Go on, go on, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Awesome, just perfect. Ok.” Bill looked at the agenda, “Ah, Lori, how are we coming along with the beautification projects?”
A petite, bubbly woman in a pink sweater and khakis came to the front of the table and placed a sketch against the white board.
“We’re thinking some nice planters with flowers along the sidewalk here,” she indicated with her pencil. “And I’ve already found a local carpenter to build them.”
“There you go, Isla,” Bill said, turning to see her gratified face.
He was disappointed. “Great place to leave your needles,” Isla muttered, giving Bill a pointed glance.
“What’s that?” Bill asked, unsuspecting.
“I said maybe we should have some safe needle disposal boxes in them. Since that’s what they’re going to get used for anyway.”
“Not a bad idea. I’ll mention it to the illegal substances task force,” Bill said thoughtfully, making a note. Lori was crestfallen and took her seat.
“Why do you always have to be so cynical, Isla? Can’t you see anything good in this town? Everyone can enjoy these flowers, they’re free to them, you should be happy.” Andrea crossed her arms and scowled.
“It’s not the flowers, the flowers are lovely, it’s . . .” Isla struggled, “. . . I do see plenty that’s good in this town. I didn’t mention the needles because I hate this town and I don’t hate the people who put them there; the needles are just a fact. I love this town and want us to actually help where there are problems, instead of just putting on a different shade of lipstick. I was here before most of you; my family was building these buildings that you want to tear down. We’re sad because there are needles, not because there aren’t planters. All this ‘the town isn’t good enough’ the way it is, ‘the town is a dump’, ‘the town needs to court tourists.’ It’s a slap in the face to everyone that lives here, everyone that’s making their life and planting their memories here instead of just passing through. It’s saying that they aren’t good enough. Yes, we have problems, we have BIG problems. People everywhere do. And their lives and the ways they lead them—the healthy parts, the creative overcoming of adversity—when it’s good, it’s very good. But that never comes up, it’s always change, change, change, we need to be something different, the people here are no good as they are. And that’s no way to treat people.”
“They say it themselves, and you know it,” Andrea challenged her.
“That’s different. That’s because we’ve been told it over and over, and I’m sick of everyone here saying it, too.”
“No, it’s not different. They think it because it’s true. This town isn’t good enough. This town is impoverished and overrun with bums. People can’t take care of their kids. If you gave a damn, you’d get out of the way of progress and help these people.”
Not good enough, not good enough.
“Now, now, give Isla a break,” Bill said to the room in general. Then to Isla directly, gently, he said, “It’s completely understandable that you are sensitive about all this.”
Isla looked hard at him. Her heart started pounding; adrenaline demanded action.
“What do you mean?” She didn’t know and yet she was afraid she knew.
“Well, I just mean . . .” Bill floundered.
“No, what DO you MEAN?”
“I just mean with your background . . .”
“What background?” She stared into his eyes longer than she ever had before.
“Your, I mean, your, I don’t know, your family and . . .”
“What about my family? There’s nothing wrong with my family.”
“No, certainly, certainly, no, nothing wrong, but I just thought . . .”
“What, you thought what?” Isla was on her feet and beginning to be shrill. Bill looked slightly gray without his smile.
“I mean, I just meant, you know . . . financially, maybe . . . educationally, I don’t know . . . you talk about these things, the drugs, the jobs, I don’t know where you might be coming from . . . I just thought . . .”
“No, you DON’T know, and I don’t know WHAT you thought or are thinking. But you can quit it.” Isla picked up her papers and pens. She stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind her.
Next Chapter: What Trailer Park Did You Fall Out Of?
Copyright 2025 Jennie Robertson