A Fountain Filled With Blood by Julia Spencer-Fleming

Millers Kill behind.
    “Mom, get down from there!” she heard Russ order.
    Mrs. Van Alstyne lowered her megaphone. “You’ll have to come and get me,” she said. The crowd nearby roared with laughter, and Clare could see Russ’s cheeks and ears turn pink.
    “I know some of you think we’re doomed to be exposed to PCBs because we’re near Hudson Falls,” Mrs. Van Alstyne said through her megaphone. “I know some of you think the jobs that’ll come out of the new spa are worth a few extra chemicals in the groundwater.”
    The eager watchers behind Clare pushed her steadily forward toward the center knot of protestors. Around her, faces were amused, incredulous, angry. She could see one…two…three video cameras in the crowd, pointed at Margy Van Alstyne, the chief of police, the demonstrators. This thing was going to be better documented than a Rose Garden speech. A young woman slipped between spectators, thrust one flyer from a ream of photocopied papers into Clare’s hand, and disappeared, working her way through the crowd. In the press of bodies around her, Clare had to hold the paper close to her face. STOP BWI DEVELOPMENT NOW! the heading screamed. On one side, it was a broadside against BWI; on the other, a gruesome list of the effects of PCB exposure. She tuned back in to Margy Van Alstyne’s speech.
    “PCBs are known to cause cancer! PCBs are known to increase aggression!” Clare could see Russ’s head above the crowd as he made his way to the platform.
    “Baltimore-based BWI stands to make millions from this development! Meanwhile, we get minimum-wage service-industry jobs and enough PCBs in the water to cause cancer in thirty percent of our population!”
    “Any job’s better’n no job!” someone shouted from the crowd.
    “They’re promising to pay eight dollars an hour,” a woman yelled.
    Bill Ingraham was moving purposefully toward Mrs. Van Alstyne. Russ vaulted onto the platform’s edge and waved him off.
    “Look around you at your friends and neighbors!” Margy Van Alstyne shouted. “One out of every four people you see could be dead from cancer within a decade. How many dollars an hour is that worth? No! Get your hands off me!”
    Russ had wrapped his arms around his mother’s waist and lifted her bodily off the platform. She waved her megaphone out of his reach. “I have a right to speak! I have First Amendment rights!”
    Russ grunted from the effort of pulling her away from the platform’s edge. “No permit,” he managed to gasp out. His mother flailed and twisted, and he staggered back, sending the mayor and several top runners scrambling to get out of his way. Boos erupted from the crowd.
    “Let her speak!”
    “What’re you afraid of?”
    Russ put his mother down. “No permit for public demonstration,” he said more firmly. “Disturbing the peace, resisting an officer, and possible battery. Cuff her, Officer Flynn.”
    “Me?” said Flynn.
    Another protestor, the redheaded nurse Clare had seen at the town meeting, launched herself over the edge of the platform. Mrs. Van Alstyne tossed her the megaphone. “Ask yourself why the police and the mayor don’t want us to speak to you,” she shouted.
    “Damn it, Laura, get down off there. Don’t make me write you up again.” Russ turned to drag her away from the impromptu podium. She danced out of reach.
    “The government of this town is too blinded by the thought of the tax income from this development to look after your health,” the nurse shouted. “But you can demand the DEP stop this spa! You can demand new testing of the Landry site! You can demand—oof!”
    Russ picked her up with considerably less effort than it had taken to move his mother. Boos mixed with cheers. The central knot of protestors took up the chant again, reinforced by other voices chiming in. To Clare’s right, someone called out, “Development means jobs! Development means jobs!” and the cry instantly spread into a ragged countercall.