Tom took the steps in the office by placing his knobbed cane on a cement step and then bringing his left foot up to the next step. He’d looked for a handicap access when he drove his truck to the small office on Main Street, and it wasn't there. In fact, there wasn’t any parking at all. He’d had to leave his raincusi colleagues in the trailer hooked to his truck a fair distance down Main Street.
In big yellow letters, the window declared the brick-faced office was the Draper Law Office. Tom entered. There was a reception counter to his left, a short hallway in front of him and a closed office to the right. A woman about his own age sat behind the desk.
“Can I help you?”
Tom turned to the woman and planted his left foot and suddenly four-footed quad cane on the floor. “Yes. I am here to see Mr. Draper. I'm Tom Fiddle and..”
“Mr. Fiddle?” A loud voice interrupted behind him.
Tom looked to his right, but the owner of the voice did not come around. He grasped the cane, which was again a straight stick, and put his good foot behind him and spun around before planting his cane once again, keeping the weight off his withered right leg.
The office door had opened, and a portly man stood there. He wore a tie. “You must be Draper.” Tom said.
The man nodded, apparently a little breathless from getting up from his desk.
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I received a letter from you, and it said a bunch of nonsense about my land, and you insisted on meeting in person.”
“Yes. Yes. Please come into my office.” The man stepped back against the open door, though his bulk still blocked the entrance, and gestured to the interior of his office. A person would have to turn sideways to ease past the lawyer, a feat that would be difficult for someone with a single working leg.
Tom stepped forward with his cane until his right hand came close to Mr. Draper's stomach. He paused, dark eyes moving from his hand to the lawyer’s protruding stomach, then to the lawyer's eyes. Draper wasn't getting the message.
Tom finally coughed. “I have a disability with my spine and my leg. I find it difficult to move sideways. Please step back so I can pass.”
“Of course.” Draper stepped back and scuttled into the room and behind a large desk, allowing Tom to pass into his office. Tom sat at the edge of a straight-backed chair. If it weren't for the tired pain in his eyes and the rigid set of his jaw, he would have appeared prim. Instead, he manifested a near military rigidness.
The lawyer typed on his keyboard, bringing up some information on a screen. When Draper faced Tom again, the older man began before he could speak. “What's this all about?”
Draper blinked. Usually people would wait patiently and with respect while he began explaining lawyer things. He had seen Tom in Chester Lake over the years, but had never personally interacted with him. He was supposed to be a bit odd, but not a threat.
“Well, first of all, I want to thank you for coming in. We've sent numerous letters to your address, and I've driven out there to deliver a few personally, but I can never find your home. You do live at 22 Island Road?”
Tom nodded.
“I saw your letters. Who puts a picture of himself on lawyer stationary? I thought they were advertisements until I opened one the other day. Someone had written “final notice” on the front of the envelope. Final had two Ns.”
Tom squinted his eyes at Draper. “Have you even heard of a spell checker? No. Whatever.” Tom adjusted his grip on his cane. “So what’s the big fuss? You said the state wanted my land, and my answer is no. I also don’t want to talk to any developers or buyers.”
Draper leaned forward, putting his hands together.
“That’s not what this is all about. We’ve been trying to proceed on this matter for years, Mr. Fiddle, and matters have moved beyond sending notices to you. Mr. Fiddle, Sam Cooke Island is technically classified as wilderness and undeveloped stumpage. As I said in the letter, the state has filed its intent to retain ownership of the land through their imminent domain law.
We..they have made a fair offer to compensate you, but you need to move out.”
“I don't accept your offer. It's my land, and it belongs in my family.”
“You don't understand.” Draper opened the folder and removed a check. “This is what we will pay for Sam Cooke Island. If you refuse to accept it, the State of Maine has authorized me to place this check into an escrow account in your name, until you transfer the funds or you die.”
“I don’t care what you do with that piece of paper. I’ll just refuse to move. ”
Draper’s spelling might be off, but he apparently memorized things well, for it sounded like he was reciting text. “Should you choose not to vacate the residence, the court has authorized the state to begin park development work on the Sam Cooke Island Park and tourism project, avoiding your residence and 1 acre of surrounding land. We don’t know exactly where your house is, but the Parks and Rec people are mostly interested in the Overlook.”
“Well I won't let you on my land. I’ll block the bridge.”
“Should you interfere with our project, we will bring the full force of law enforcement to interdict and apprehend you.”
Tom sat rigid in his chair. The glassy surface of the wood of his cane darkened, as if a shadow fell across the room. Then he sighed and spoke almost to himself.
“So that's how it goes.” He tapped his cane to the floor and then stood up with effort and a grimace before once again, settling into his usual expression of incredulous annoyance.
“Well, I'll have to give this some thought. When can I expect the state to be on my island?”
“A survey team arrived this morning.”
“This morn- A survey team?”
“Yes. They're using drones and survey equipment to create an accurate picture of the terrain and plant life on the island. Apparently I’m not the only one who can’t find anything on that road. It was in the news.”
“I make it a point not to read the news.”
“Well, the state’s going to make Sam Cooke Island into a state park, and it looks like our town will be part of it. It's a great opportunity and most of the town is finding it all quite exciting. Perhaps you can find a way to look at things that isn’t so horrible.”
“Well, they can all “quite exciting” out my ass and get off my land. I mean…”
“I must remind you that interfering-”
“Yes. I know.” Tom paused before adding,”This isn’t over, Mr. Draper. My family has owned that land for generations, and it has been my home the majority of my life. I have resources you cannot imagine.” He turned, a slight man standing on his one good leg.
“Good day, Mr Draper.”