Water Spies

After chatting with the post mistress in her small town about the weather and upcoming community theater productions, May went to her post office box in the front room to pull out her mail. As she stood there sorting out the junk mail so she could toss it in a nearby bin, an older woman, looking like a grey squirrel who’d just bit into a lemon, came through the door. She squinted at May so intensely May figured her eyes were still adjusting to the dim interior from the bright sunlight, but when May smiled and said, “Good morning,” the woman did not respond. Instead she wrinkled up her nose and continued to stare.

Disconcerted May looked down at the pile of mail in her hands, then realized she needed to buy some stamps, so went back to the counter. As she stepped back into the entryway, the small woman with the large overbite, bumped into her, then, it seemed deliberately, dropped her own stash of junk mail on the floor and stood back indignantly to watch it fall. When May bent down to help her retrieve the circulars and envelopes, the woman brushed her off as if she were an annoying fly and muttered something garbled which sounded like an obscenity.

May quickly fled the scene. What had she done to arouse such ire? Outside in the parking lot she overheard the woman complaining in a loud voice, “That bulldyke practically knocked me down.”

“Now, Edith,” she heard the genial voice of the post mistress. “I’m sure it was an accident."

May felt stung by the encounter. Bulldyke? She had seen this woman before, and noticed her sour expression, but was mystified why it would be aimed at her. She didn’t look any more lesbian than the woman herself did.

She wondered if the post mistress also assumed she was gay. Maybe gay bashing was just a ubiquitous insult for an outsider-- anybody who hadn’t lived in the community from the day she was born. Since 9/11 she might have just as easily been called a “Muslim.” Even so, the hatred left May reeling. And flooded with memories of the mission which had brought her to Vermont in the first place.

Her final assignment as a “spy” had been to serve as a mole (underground investigator) for a civil liberties watchdog organization during the conservative Take Back Vermont movement of the late 90’s. Reluctantly. She thought she had given all that up, once and for all. She was beginning to realize how much her secret life had resulted in a profound isolation. But her dear friend Michael, currently in charge of the organization, persuaded her to undertake this one last “mission.” She took the assignment more out of loyalty to him, one of the few people who shared her clandestine past, than from any desire to continue to spy on others. Since the days when they’d taught together they’d both shifted their allegiances to align with more progressive causes. It was times like these she rued her Catholic upbringing-- where “mission” was sacred and missionaries were heroes--the story of Father Damien on the Hawaiian island of Molokai and his transition from “you lepers” to “we lepers.”

After many years of working together Michael trusted her equilibrium, her ability to see both sides of any issue, to find the middle ground, frequently common ground, as long as she didn’t get trapped inside her own head. He counted on her questioning mind to balance the conflicting claims and counter-attacks which characterized such movements.

Finding the middle way, she’d agreed at the time, was key to the meaning of her life and its purpose which, lately, felt shaky. But she trusted Michael, so despite the complexities of their past connection, she agreed. He’d probably counted also on her restlessness, her “itchy feet,” her need to find new paths.

Vermont, with its rugged independence, progressive social practices, tenacious roots, sharing economy and natural beauty, seemed a good place for further investigation.

She moved to Vermont, as a writer and teacher, to poke around, as best she could see as an outsider, if the anti-civil union movement was being funded and controlled by one of several, potentially dangerous right-wing groups. Her sponsor was particularly eager to know if there were ties to any violent underground organizations. But mostly he wanted to know who was stirring up the opposition and who was paying for it, so he could expose them if necessary, help resolve the tensions if possible. This mission, before she chose to accept it, sounded more like assessing storm damage than standing up to ferocious police dogs.