CHAPTER TWELVE
VICKI’S CONDO
CAMBRIDGE
SAME EVENING
CARSON REMAINED CONFLICTED. He faced Vicki’s front door and looked at a brass knocker in the shape of a polar bear. The two-story brick building was rectangular and rock-solid with a single-membrane flat rubber roof. Her solar panels were ideally situated with no trees or tall buildings blocking the sunlight from any direction. Double windows on the right side of the front door had a planter attached below them filled with hardy chrysanthemums. There was a balcony with sliding glass doors above the windows. Vicki had added masses of purple asters and brown-eyed Susans in brass urns on both sides of the entrance. One of the urns had a big dent in the rim.
Might as well get it over with, Carson decided. He tapped the bear against the door and was rewarded with what sounded like the kind of music a triangle makes when struck by a concert percussionist. Vicki opened the door and let him in. She had changed into jeans and an orange t-shirt with RESIST in black letters and the Greengrove logo below that.
“I don’t suppose you approve of Greengrove either,” she said as they headed into the living room.
“Generally not when they break the law. But I will say they are courageous, seemingly like you. Are you resisting something in particular?”
You, she thought, but she said, “That almost sounds like a backhanded compliment.” She gestured toward the couch and armchairs across from it. “Have a seat. Glass of wine?”
“Thanks.”
She went over to a cabinet and took out a bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet red wine. “This doesn’t need to be chilled. Pop the cork, and I’ll get some glasses.” She handed him the bottle and a corkscrew.
He looked at the label. “Appropriate choice,” he observed.
“I’m pretty sure that’s not a compliment,” she said. “But it’s an American wine, so that might make you happy.” She turned and went into the kitchen, then came back with a plate of cheese, rye crackers and two glasses.
“I don’t necessarily have a problem with screaming,” Carson said. She could make of that whatever she wanted. He changed the subject. “What are you concerned about?”
“Our Governor has been asked again to allow new pipelines costs to be passed on to ratepayers,” she said, taking the glass he handed her. “That’s anyone who pays utility bills. Unfortunately, Chuck Graham, one of the Senators with too much power, is an instigator. People don’t know he wants to force ratepayers to foot the roughly six billion dollar bill by introducing new legislation that will get around the State Supreme Court’s unanimous decision that it would be illegal.”
“Things like that undoubtedly happen in lots of States. So?”
“I’d like to gather enough students and others to form a ring all the way around the State House holding a bunch of new banners. They could say, ENERGY EFFICIENCY, RENEWABLE ENERGY, NOT PIPELINES. I can make the banners and a pipeline out of cardboard in six-foot long sections with a diameter of three feet. Those could be interspersed with the banners. There are still some t-shirts left, but I could have more made up. It takes an offbeat protest to get any traction from the media which can then reach voters.”
Carson was surprised. “You could make all that?”
“You don’t think a woman could do it?” What was he, a chauvinist?
“I don’t think most men or women could do it.”
She shrugged. “I make my living, such as it is, refurbishing furniture that’s worth salvaging. This kind of thing isn’t much of a stretch.”
He looked around at the colorful wooden chairs and tables she must have painted. They were quirky but lovely. He took a sip of wine and considered. “Well maybe if there are enough activists in the group, and no one does anything illegal, there won’t be any arrests. And MIT can’t complain if you have some from Harvard, BU and Northeastern along with any other schools in the area.”
“You would actually support such a demonstration?”
“Possibly, provided you can collect enough supporters and don’t do anything more extreme.”
She was offended. “I just told you what I was planning. You think I was putting you on?”
“No, but with your passion, it would be easy to be carried away.”
“For someone with a supposedly superior brain, you can obviously be a few cards short of a full deck. Need I remind you that I like your students and wouldn’t want to do anything that would harm them?”
“Whoa.” He held up his hands, palms out. “I should probably apologize. Do you think it’s possible to collect a lot of supporters? It would be a huge job.”
“I’m contemplating hosting a free concert with free food for any students or activists who attend it.” She picked up a cracker and added a chunk of goat cheese to it. “I’ll explain what I have in mind before it starts. It’s bound to reach some. The younger generation now knows that climate change could destroy their future.”
“Won’t that be expensive?”
“I was left $100,000 that I’m planning to use to fight pipelines. I know that’s what it was intended for.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Oh?”
She wasn’t going to explain. Instead she said, “I’m lucky. My parents left me this place with the mortgage paid off, and I grow a lot of my own food, so my expenses are low and, as I said, I have some income. That lets me do things I really care about.”
He looked around the room. Most people would use the money to renovate the place. It looked like it hadn’t been updated in the past twenty years although her painted furniture helped a lot. And there was a pretty raspberry purple throw covering a worn out couch. “How soon do you think you could set the concert up?”
“This is Monday. I understand the Boston Marriott on Long Wharf will be available on Saturday. It holds 450 people. With a price tag of something like $20,000, I’m not surprised we can get it on such short notice, although I do plan to see if I can negotiate the price down. Presumably that will work for you.”
“It might.” He picked up a cracker and took a bite. “You certainly are tenacious. Why is that?”
She took a bite of her own cracker but didn’t respond.
He waited.
She put the cracker down. “Do you know much about hurricane Richard?”
He jogged his memory. “It happened in 2010, I think.”
“Right. What people don’t know is that two American tourists were killed in Belize.” She paused. “They were my parents.”
“I had no idea. There are no words of consolation that are adequate.”
“You’ve got that right.” She shook her head. “They were there on a rare vacation. They economized by renting a flimsy car that took a direct hit from a huge palm tree. It crushed them.”
“Good god! How did you find out?”
“Some low-level official called me. He told me my parents had died and asked what I wanted done about their bodies.”
He snapped his cracker in half. “Nothing like breaking news gently.”
She sighed. “I had them brought back and buried in Mt. Auburn cemetery where I can go and talk to them when I’m feeling down.”
“I’ve spent time there, so I can understand why you chose it. It’s a beautiful place. I love its rolling hills and especially the ponds.” He didn’t tell her why he was familiar with the Cemetery.
“I was concerned about climate change before that, but it became an obsession afterwards,” she said. “Obviously you know that hurricanes are becoming more destructive as temperatures rise.”
“Of course. Warmer water feeds them for one thing.”
“I’d just gotten my Master’s. I was aware of the destruction of the Amazon rainforest and knew that the indigenous population desperately needed help to save its land and didn’t care who provided it or where it came from. So I found a tenant for the condo, packed my bags, flew to Brazil and spent years working with an indigenous group and other activists who are trying to prevent well-heeled companies from developing cattle ranches.” She wasn’t going to mention Garon. “When I came back, I started on the pipelines.” She picked up her wine glass, held it in her hand, and looked down at the red liquid. “I’m my parents’ only child. I can’t bear to let them have died in vain. And you’ll find I won’t.”