“It does look kind of grungy.” Jesse takes a closer look at the piece of history she’s cradling. The fabric rolled around the two-by-fours is cracked and grimy, so stiff with layers of leathery gray paint it looks like dried elephant skin.
“They repair and repaint it every year,” Esther explains. “And they change the lumber whenever it gets warped. Archbishop Desmond Tutu once held that banner. This way. Come on.”
Esther turns and clanks toward the side of the Town Hall building, laden with tote and chairs and signs. Jesse follows.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” Esther calls to Jesse over her shoulder.
“Thanks.” Jesse feels that same small sense of warm recognition she felt when Esther first complimented her manifestos.
“Usually, it’s just me trying to haul all this stuff around myself. It’s nice to have another set of hands.”
“Oh.” Jesse thinks to herself, Glad I could be of service. But she doesn’t say it out loud.
When they round the corner of the Town Hall, there’s already a guy waiting for them on the sidewalk about twenty yards down.
“Oh, good, Arlo’s here. We set up over there, where Arlo’s standing.” Esther points to the waiting guy and follows her own finger in his direction.
Arlo is tall, slim, and undulant, like a giant reed in a river. He’s clearly a grown-up but dressed like a kid—red Che T-shirt peeking out from under his army jacket, artlessly ripped jeans, a newsboy cap perched atop his narrow face. A sparse but silky mustache and beard ripple around his mouth and chin. He has a bundle of newspapers clamped under one arm and sips from a paper coffee cup. When he waves to Esther, his whole body seems to sway along with his hand as it arcs fluidly through the air.
“Arlo,” Esther calls to him.
“Comrade,” Arlo calls back.
“This is Jesse Halberstam. She’s new.”
“Excellent.” Arlo looks briefly at Jesse with little interest, then takes a precise sip from his coffee, his lips extending toward the cup like a giraffe’s.
Esther drops her armful of equipment on a patch of grass between the Town Hall and the sidewalk and begins busily but clumsily setting up for the vigil.
“Mary Catherine called,” Arlo informs Esther as she struggles to open one of the folding chairs. “Paul’s sick so she can’t make it today. Aurora’s in Burlington doing a muscular dystrophy walk, Louis has a men’s group thing, and Elise is at her cousin’s bar mitzvah in Keene. And Phyllis has work. So I guess it’s just you, me, and Margaret and Charlie today.”
“And Jesse,” Esther reminds him through gritted teeth as she bears down on the stubborn folding chair, trying to force it open. It snaps into position at last with a pop, and she sighs with relief.
“And Jesse,” Arlo repeats.
Esther walks ten feet down the sidewalk to plant the chair in the grass facing the street and the row of shops across it. It’s the main drag of the town, and the place is humming with sunny-weekend activity; cars are driving by in a steady stream in both directions, and the stores across the street—Blue Planet Global Gifts, Beverly Coffee, Jansen’s Stationery Store, Murray and Sons Hardware—are alive with people coming and going. This is a good spot, visibility-wise, for a demo, though it also occurs to Jesse now to wonder how she could have lived in this town for fifteen years and never noticed that there was a peace vigil going on in the center of town every Sunday.
“Can someone help with the other chair?” Esther calls.
Jesse looks at Arlo to see if he’s going to respond to this, but he’s peering into his BlackBerry now, reading something with one eyebrow arched. Jesse grabs the second folding chair—it’s as light as a piece of balsa wood and opens smoothly to her touch. She holds it up with one hand.
“Where do you want it?”
Esther takes the chair and places it on the ground near where Arlo’s standing. Then she turns back to the cardboard signs, arranging them faceup on the grass, fanned out so they’re clearly readable. NO TO WAR. WAR IS OVER—IF YOU WANT IT. WAR IS NOT GOOD FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING THINGS. WAR: WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR? There are about ten signs, all hand-lettered in Sharpie marker on brightly colored card stock. Some are taped to rulers, some to broomsticks, some to scraps of wood. They’ve clearly been through some inclement weather, these signs—they’re a little the worse for wear. Pretty soon, Jesse realizes, she’s going to be expected to choose one to hold.
“Hang on to this end of the banner,” Esther commands Jesse abruptly, pointing, “and I’ll unroll it.”