Maybe There Isn't A Good Answer
Chapter 1 of Mercy
“Oh, who are the people in your neighborhood?...The people that you meet, when you’re walking down the street, they’re the people that you meet each day.” Sesame Street
“I meant to write something beautiful, but instead I’ve written this.”
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Isla absentmindedly slid the bright wooden beads on her pipe cleaner necklace back and forth as she studied the wine list, clicking them against each other. She bounced her knee slightly and shifted the orange folder from one side of the plate to the other. Picking up the silverware, she tested its good, solid weight. It was plain, but tasteful and refined, like the crisp white tablecloths, the wordless music that you couldn’t quite hear, the tinkle of the water and wine goblets, the murmured conversations. A pair of businessmen were on her right. Their skinny ankles in dress socks showed between the hems of their creased pants and their big shiny shoes. A slim woman with a leather briefcase under her arm glided in to join them; she was wearing navy pants with a crisp white blouse, diamond stud earrings. Their eyes met and Isla nodded stiffly; she was a casual acquaintance, a lawyer who had occasional business at City Hall.
The door opened on the far side of the restaurant; ah, that must be the mark. She knew him from his Facebook picture. She raised a hand but didn’t wave. The man indicated her to the maître d’ and came towards her. He had sort of a peppy energy that made you feel he might prefer to jog across the room, if it was appropriate.
“Elsa Campbell?” He approached, smiling.
“Eye-luh,” she said, laughing, “Elsa is a cow’s name.”
“Is it? I’m sorry!” Taking the chair across from her, he said, “Nice to meet you, Miss Campbell.”
“I’m sorry. It’s nice to meet you too, Mr. Abbatescianni.” Her pronunciation was flawless as she shook his hand.
“Call me Dave.”
“Call me Isla, if you think you can handle it.” She made a saucy grimace.
“I never get things wrong more than thirteen or fourteen times in a row,” he grinned.
“Then Miss Campbell will do.” She winked.
A stocky, clean-shaven waiter approached, tiny black apron tied beneath his slightly protruding belly. “Can I get you a beverage?”
Isla put down the wine list. “Just a water.”
“And for you?”
“A hot water.” With a slight raise of his eyebrow, the waiter nodded and walked away.
“I thought you were ordering wine.” Dave said, nodding at the list in her hand.
“Oh, I just like to read about it. It’s like poetry: ‘smoky notes,’ ‘redolent of toasted almonds and tangerine,’ ‘hints of cocoa and dried plums.’ Too bad it tastes like rotten grapes. Although . . . I did try a white out of New Hampshire, of all places, that I thought had a buttered toast finish. But I’d rather just have actual buttered toast. I don’t need an expensive vice.”
Dave laughed and pulled an herbal tea bag from his pocket, placing it on the table in anticipation of his hot water. “They never have this kind at restaurants,” he explained, shrugging, “so I bring my own.”
“Ah.” Isla furtively glanced at him, sizing him up while he looked at the menu. He was slight, average or slightly below average in height, thin and wiry in build. His longish brown hair was held back from his face by an elastic. It curled a little bit at the ends. He wore wire framed glasses. None of his features were prominent. It was a nice face, not arrestingly attractive, but gentle and friendly. She realized for the first time that, unlike the business people and lunching ladies, Dave was wearing a light red heathered t-shirt and dark gray jogging pants. Jogging pants to a business meeting? But she hadn’t noticed because they were so neat, not tight or baggy, probably ironed this morning before he put them on. She sat up as straight as she could to minimize her love handles.
Isla looked nice in a drapey, cream-colored cowl-neck blouse and black pants with a silk tuxedo stripe running down the sides, black patent leather Doc Martens, dangly jet-black earrings, and a small nose ring. But she was always conscious of the woman at the next table, her subtle jewelry, her slender gracefulness. She found the lawyer’s look boring, but Isla knew that what she considered self-expression a certain demographic would see as “not knowing how to dress appropriately.” Or worse, not being able to.
“What looks good to you?” Dave broke in. She was flummoxed until she realized that he meant the menu. He continued, “I was thinking a salad. You can’t go wrong with a salad.”
“You can’t go right with a salad. I’ll have the alfredo.”
Isla was starting to think about getting down to official business when Dave said, “You must be a mom,” nodding towards the brightly colored pipe cleaner necklace she was fiddling with again.
“My niece made it. Well, she’s like a niece . . . my cousin’s daughter.”
“It’s nice of you to wear it.”
“I don’t do it to be nice. I do it because I like it. It’s one of my favorites.”
Dave smiled. No matter how terse she was, Dave seemed to smile. If she started being nicer, would he still smile? Or was he just being contrary?
“Nice place,” he said just before a lag in conversation could become awkward, glancing around at the big windows, brickwork, and wrought iron.
“Yes,” Isla said, looking around, “my mom used to work here.”
“Oh, is she a . . . is she a chef?”
Isla laughed, “Oh no . . . I mean when it was a mill.”
“Oh . . . oh, I see.”
“See this?” She slid a menu across the table, tapping the front of it where “White Linen” was typed in a stately serifed font on a woven background. “A reference to the textile industry that built our fine town. You know what we really made in these mills?”
“What?” Dave shook his head.
“Horse blankets!” Isla chortled. Dave smiled and picked up the menu.
“Not in your mom’s day?”
“Well, no . . . it was a dress factory back then. And my dad worked in a shoe shop. They’re the real deal.”
Before Dave could ask what a “real deal” meant in this context, the waiter was back for their order. When he’d gone, Isla slid the orange folder across the table.
“Here’s some initial paperwork that you may turn in at your earliest convenience at my office in City Hall. I’m here to answer any questions you may have about entering this bustling world of commerce.”
Responding to the ironic twist in her voice, he noted, “This place seems to be doing ok.”
“Doubt it. It cost a fortune to renovate this mill. The rent must be sky high, and this is the lunch-time rush.” Six tables were full, but another ten were vacant. Dave nodded thoughtfully.
“I’m afraid I’m so clueless that I don’t even know what to ask.”
“That’s a bad beginning, but I’ll start you off. Why start a business, and why here?”
“I want to start a business because . . . I need to make a living?”
“You’d probably make more at McDonald’s.”
“I want to make a living in a way that is good for people.”
“The grocery store, then.” Her direct gaze challenged him.
“Aren’t you supposed to help people start businesses?”
“I am. What City Hall doesn’t know is that I’m good at my job because I try to talk people out of starting businesses. Only the strong survive.”
Dave nodded. “Well, it may sound cliché, but I want to make a living helping people. Healing people. But yoga is also really my only marketable skill.”
“But is it marketable?”
“Well . . . I hope.” He shrugged.
“Me too. You won’t be the only yoga game in town, though. Adult Ed has yoga. The Y has yoga. The health store has yoga. The church even does free chair yoga once a week. We might not be as yoga saturated as other cities, but people are downward dogging all over the place.”
“So, you think I should forget about it?”
“Hey, if you’re ready to give up that easily, then definitely yes.” Isla leaned back in her chair, waiting for him to make the call.
“I’m not quite ready.”
“Well then, I’ll tell you this. There is a population that I’m not sure is being served by all this stretching who could use some healthy habits. Maybe there’s a niche for you there.”
“Oh?”
“Behind this building and the other mills is the residential heart of the city, and it’s full of people who don’t think they can afford to come in here.” She gestured down through an alley full of broken glass and graffiti.
“Don’t think?”
“I mean, everyone makes choices about where to spend their money; some people choose nice restaurants and some people choose big-screen TVs and expensive cable packages, and some people choose pot and some people choose opioids.”
“Ah . . . well to be honest, I’m not sure that you’re describing my target demographic.”
“It’s no one’s target demographic. Businesses only cater to people with money.”
“I mean, it’s a bit of a logistical obstacle if they don’t.” Dave was puzzled.
Isla sighed. “Of course, you’re right. But I’m tired of branding that says, ‘You can’t afford to come in here.’ That feels exclusive and is meant to. Nobody likes to be excluded.’
“And everyone likes to feel included in something exclusive.”
“You’re not wrong,” she conceded.
“I haven’t noticed an upscale trend in the city in general, though. It’s one reason I thought I might be able to afford it.”
“Well, again, you’re not wrong. There’s more fast food and cheap retail than anything else, and not even a ton of that. Everything needed to keep poor people poor, and fat.”
Dave smiled, “I’m not sure I ever got a Christmas present that wasn’t ‘cheap retail’ and it was still pretty magical. Life isn’t about a price tag. Still . . . I’m not sure what all this means for me. I will say that I don’t think I have the capital to create a business that feels exclusive, anyway, but that’s probably not one of your predictors of success.”
“Not really,” Isla laughed. “Let’s talk a little bit about where. First of all, why here? And don’t tell me how quaint Maine is, I don’t even want to hear it.”
Dave stared at the ceiling, thinking.
“You have family in the area? You used to take your vacations here? The cost of living is less? You’re looking for a simpler way of life? A slower pace? Those are the usual reasons.” Isla’s face said that she didn’t think too highly of the usual reasons.
“What makes you think I’m not from here?”
“Because I’m from here. I’d know if you were from here.”
“Oh . . . oh, of course.”
She scowled a bit. “I’m not quaint enough or I’m not trashy enough? I’ve heard both . . .” Dave was silent again, and she tapped the table impatiently, then sighed. “Ok, well anyway . . . where in town are you thinking of locating?”
“There’s a vacancy in this building next to the masseuse.”
Isla shook her head. “Can you afford it?”
“Well, I . . .”
“If you don’t have much capital, you probably can’t. And anyway, you shouldn’t. None of these businesses are going to last. They’re not right for this grubby little town. Like I said, it was too expensive to renovate this dinosaur; they have to charge too much rent.” Isla looked hard at the polished floor for a few moments.
“Do you have another thought?”
“Sure. Several. If you want, I can get us some appointments to see them. Maybe some time next week?”
“Let’s do that,” Dave said. Isla nodded and made a note as the waiter set their plates in front of them.
“Will there be anything else?”
“I think we’re all set,” Isla dismissed him.
“So, you don’t like it here?” Dave asked when the waiter had gone.
“Of course I do. Why would you say that?”
“You called it a ‘grubby little town.’”
“Who says grubby is bad?”
“Well, I . . .”
“I’ll tell you who. Massholes.”
“Oh! I . . .”
“They love to tell you how grubby you are. How your yard full of old cars is ugly and they shouldn’t have to see your clothesline and the neighborhood houses should all be one color and you need to weed your garden and they have a million other ideas about what your life should be like when it’s none of their damn business. Do you know why people have old cars?”
“Um . . . maybe because . . .”
“I’ll tell you why. Because they can’t afford a new one and they need parts to keep the old rust bucket going.”
Dave considered this. “Or maybe because they think it’s wasteful to keep buying new cars if the old ones can be fixed?”
“That’s a fancied-up explanation for people ashamed of their bank account.”
“Well, surely some people are sincere . . .”
“Of course they’re sincere. They sincerely mean it AFTER the economic necessity.” Isla rolled her eyes.
“So . . . do you like living here?” Dave attempted to steer them back on track.
“It’s my home. It’s me.”
“How did you end up in your line of work?”
“My mom was a schoolteacher. After the dress factory. She knew a guy at City Hall.” Dave looked at her, waiting for more. “Well, it wasn’t just that. I was qualified. I went to business school in Orono because I wanted to help people here, because there aren’t enough jobs and people don’t have enough money.”
“What’s enough?”
“‘Just one dollar more,’ right? But I was thinking like enough for basic dental care. Enough for food other than pasta. Enough to be able to buy gas for your car so you can get to work. Luxuries like that.”
“Seems reasonable.”
“Yeah, I thought so.”
“Is it working out like you hoped?”
“I don’t know, Dave, what do you think?” She gestured again towards the windows, the broken sidewalks, the scruffy strip mall.
Though she was being sarcastic, he said simply, “I haven’t been here long enough to know. Or to compare it to the past and see if it’s getting better.”
To his surprise, she smiled. “Hmmm. You might work out here after all. Most people breeze in with all the answers. How long have you been here, anyway?”
“Not long at all. About six weeks.”
“And you came up here to start a business? Had you been here before?”
“I don’t know. Been through here maybe. Saw Maine as a kid, yeah, like you said. But no, I just threw my stuff in my car and started driving. Slept in it until I saw a ‘For Rent’ sign in a house down the street from here. Sat on my landlord’s old couch for a few weeks wondering what to do with my life, and then she—Kim—gave me your email.”
Isla smiled. Kim Bilodeau had been her best friend since second grade, a quiet, wise foil to Isla’s intensity. “Kim’s always wanting to help people. But you . . . you seem a bit impulsive.”
“Why not? You can plan everything down to the minute and then as soon as something goes wrong, your whole trajectory is off.”
“You speak from experience?” Isla ate the last piece of chicken out of her pasta.
“It’s not that I was ever a big planner. But yeah, I thought I was on a good path, working in a swanky studio for clients that were willing and able to pay well. But it turned out the owner . . . well, I wasn’t comfortable with the demands of the job. Leave it at that.” She raised an eyebrow but left it.
“So, you came here from where? What about your family?”
“Where? Can’t you guess? You’re not going to like it.” Dave smiled and nodded towards the south.
“Oh . . . Mass? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you.”
“No, no. Not me, of course not.” He laughed a little.
“A Masshole is a certain kind of person. It’s not everyone from Mass.”
“Just 95%?” She shrugged. “Anyway . . . yes, my dad is still there. My mom died. I was raised by my dad and my Nonna, but now she’s gone, too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too. I miss Dad. I worry about him. Maybe someday I’ll have a nice house and he can come up here to retire.”
“If that’s your goal, then take my advice and work at Domino’s. Don’t start a yoga studio.”
“But aren’t you supposed to help create jobs?”
“Would this help create jobs? I hardly think so. Not many, and not for a while. Anyway, as a person I think I should care about your personal well-being, right, not just the numbers that justify my pay.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that.”
Isla sighed. “To be honest, one thing I’ve learned in this position that I didn’t learn in business school is that jobs aren’t the answer, or at least not jobs alone.”
“The answer to poverty?”
“Poverty, yes, but even more . . . to despair? To the crippling sadness that makes people not get up and change their lives for the better, or whatever it is that makes them self-destruct.”
“So, what is the answer?”
“I wish I knew . . .”
Dave chewed a bite of lettuce for a few moments. “Maybe there isn’t a good answer. Maybe the world and people are too messy for that. Maybe it doesn’t take City Hall; maybe it takes each person doing their best to truly value and nurture the few individuals that they can make a difference for. I don’t know,” he shook his head, “that’s just what I think could be true.”
“You’re a philosopher, Dave.” He shook his head sheepishly. “There’s something in what you’re saying. But it’s too slow; you’ll never save the world that way.”
“I’m under no illusion of saving the world; I’m barely afloat myself. I could say, ‘But if everyone did it, we could save the world.’ But everyone won’t. Despite my best intentions, maybe even I won’t. My own prejudices or laziness or other flaws will get in the way. But I have to keep believing that the times I get it right matter.”
Isla took a sip of her ice water, chewed the plastic straw for a moment, then said, “You’re a radical, Dave.”
He laughed, “Am I? I hardly think so.”
“Well, you are. At least if you practice what you preach. I appreciate it, but I have to say, there’s some people that it’s damned hard to value.”
“Massholes?”
“Among others. I guess it sounds too harsh; I believe that all people are valuable. But it’s hard to feel that way when they don’t value you or themselves.” Isla looked tired, but then rallied, “To show you my good-faith effort to ‘value and nurture’ you and your kind, I’ll pick up the bill.” She handed the waiter the fake leather folder with her credit card inside.
“You didn’t have to do that!”
“Haha, well . . . I do have a budget line at work for business lunches. We even get a discount here by standing arrangement.”
“Ahh, I see. But still, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Isla signed the slip, saved her copy, and rose to go. Dave quickly rose, too, and grabbed the folder.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Abbatescianni. You’ll be hearing more from me soon. And hopefully, I’ll be hearing from you.” She nodded at the folder of paperwork.
“Absolutely,” he said, “I enjoyed meeting you, too.”
Copyright 2025 Jennie Robertson