“So you are devaluing their homes because you’re snatching them all up at once, since the baseline on your project can’t exceed your profit margins. And the school down the street? The Church? The library? All those will be quick-saled at bottom dollar so you can come through and raze the whole place, build up the Oasis Village, and fill it with billionaires from Dubai who will come every three years and stay a week on vacation. It will be teeming with singletons focused on work and earning that dollar. Tech geeks and bit coin mavericks will be piling in line for a triple-blended oat milk Dubai Matcha macchiato. Meanwhile Mr. and Mrs. Jones who’ve lived here for fifty years are headed to a nursing home to pound back frozen peas and plan for their weekend trip to the store for a can of soda.” Fuck him.
“This is how the world works, Juliet,” Marcel is calm, almost condescending and a little mean.
We make it to the library just as a group of kids in matching scarves assemble for a Christmas concert. Their tinybundled bodies amble up the stairs while Marcel and I wait for them all to make it up like little ducks following their mother.
“This place has the best hot chocolate in all of Rhode Island,” I say to Marcel and he gives me a pained grin.
“I know what you’re doing, Juliet,” he tells me like he’s a spy for the CIA.
“I’m sure you do, but like I said, I promised hot chocolate and in here you’ll find the best.” I start my ascent up the stairs and he follows me.
The library smells like old books, cinnamon, and chocolate. Gran is working at the concessions booth and she was up at five in the morning making batch after batch of her famous cinnamon butterscotch hot chocolate. It might sound weird, but it tastes like heaven. The secret ingredient is oat milk instead of real milk; no one knows it’s vegan.
“Alright, everyone take your seats, please.” A woman with gray hair wearing the loudest Christmas sweater I’ve ever seen stands up on a tiny raised stage if front of where little kiddos are seated fidgeting and shuffling in pretty holiday dresses and suits. “We are happy to welcome Cypress Valley Elementary School’s first grade class to the Eaton Library. Today they will be singing a selection of Christmas classics.”
“Come on,” I whisper as I drag Marcel to the concession stand where there are still a few people picking up items.
There, wearing her prettiest green dress and a matching light up holly pin, is Gran, doling out her hot chocolate. She rushes out from behind the table and scoops me into a hug.
“What a wonderful surprise, Jules. I’m so excited you’re here,” she says with her signature Grandma joy. “Who do we have here?” She looks over at Marcel who offers her a sweet smile.
“I’m Marcel Dubois. I work with Juliet.” He’s polite and kind, but this is Gran, I can be real with her.
“Gran, Mr. Dubois,” I say brightly, “Is the man planning on tearing down the library.”
Suddenly Gran’s face goes white as she ladles two big cups of chocolate.
Her eyes sharpen. “I see. So he’s the enemy.”
“Keep your eyes open, Gran. Don’t turn your back on him.” She gives me a wink and a smile.
“Never let the enemy win.” She fist pumps and sees Marcel flinch, just one pained little tik that says we got to him.
He takes a cup from Gran as do I and thanks her graciously before pulling me aside.
“I am not the enemy,” he snaps. “This project benefits the greater community at large.”
He is about to launch into a whole thing, but I tug on his jacket and direct him to one of the chairs.
As the teacher replaces the MC who has just gone over the week's announcements, I lay into Marcel. “The greater community? What about the people who actually live here? You’re pricing them out. Do you know their names? What their lives are like?”
His jaw tightens.
Just as I’m about to launch into the research I’ve collected, the kids start singing. Their first song is “O Little Town of Bethlehem” and I start to cry. Marcel, the freak, strokes my back as if comforting me changes the fact that he’s planning on torching the little town of Bethlehem. Or more precisely, Eaton. The little town of Eaton, Rhode Island.
The kids are sweet and their voices are angelic and pure. Marcel sits quietly throughout the concert and when it’s done he looks at me. For one second he looks like a mature man, perhaps even a dad, ready to scold a toddler.
I stare him down and wave at Gran as we leave and make our way back to the office.
“Some of the families might want a change. Not everyone likes to stay in a run-down house.” He has a fair point, but they aren’t giving the kind of money one would need to live in a historical house with value in its history and architecture.
I rattle off the numbers, the average income for this neighborhood, what rent hikes look like in surrounding areas, and eviction stats. I list the families who’ll be forced out. By the time we return to the office, my voice is shaking.
“Merry Christmas, Marcel. Everyone here will be homeless. I hope you’re proud.” I turn to leave and return to my office to proofread a very messy document.
“You can’t just walk off,” he says, with his voice very low.
“Fire me,” I shoot back. “I’ll go work for the city and fight you. Either way, I’m saving the library and this community.”
