It ruined Neil's day.

When Carla Spagnoli came into the museum that morning and said haughtily, "I will be so sorry to see you have to leave this institution, Mister Wright," Neil snapped back, "I also will be sorry when you're gone." An old man came in, just in the nick of time, nicely dressed in a three-piece suit. He looked like a banker who wrote poetry on the side -- calculating and compassionate. "I regret the botched job some of our town officials are doing," he apologized. He told Neil how it was a shame the museum potentially faced zero-funding. He'd been hearing what an excellent place the museum had become since Neil had come aboard. He was praising the services of the museum's helpful staff and....

Neil could see Carla Spagnoli couldn't stand it. She was turning purple. She suddenly intruded, "We do our best. We...".

The sweet man looked at her as at a bad abstract painting. "Who are you?" he asked. "I was talking to Mr. Wright."

"I am Carla Spagnoli, a distinguished Corporator of this museum -- a direct decendant of its founders."

"Ah," the man said, sizing her up as he reached out a hand to shake Neil's. "You will see to it Mr. Wright keeps his job?"

Spagnoli looked like she wanted to put the man into a bottle and throw him in the ocean. She left in a huff.

Later that day, Julia Semour-Stanton arrived and took Neil aside, asking, "Do we have, or have we ever had, anything in the library indicating in any way that Barton Driscoll is a 'tyrant'? Mayor Driscoll told me this morning that his son told him we'd posted materials here that say his father, Mr. Driscoll, is a 'tyrant'."

Neil called Mr. Driscoll's office. Babs, one of his two secretaries, informed Neil, "The mayor is at a meeting." When Neil called later, Babs said, "The Mayor has gone out of his office. He'll be back at 4:15." Neil left a the message, "We need to clear up a misunderstanding, should you want to clear it up." Then Neil sat down and typed a letter. Minna came in at 4:00 to fetch Neil home for dinner. They stopped by the bank to cash his pay check, then crossed the street to enter Town Hall, where Neil put his letter to Mayor Driscoll right on his desk.

"Mayor Driscoll," Neil had written, "Qualified professional people are needed to run the Museum of the Year 1912. We are dedicated, and cost-effective. Any political constituency can afford what it really wants to have. Professional curators play a key role in dealing with the increasing complexity of an education- and information-conscious society. I'm sad to see the difficult situation we are in together degenerate into a losing situation for our townspeople. My conduct has not included maligning you; it has included being kind and patient."

Mayor Driscoll called Neil the next morning, saying "Neil, you're making a Goddamn mountain out of a molehill."

"Maybe," Neil said, and invited the Mayor to go in and actually see the museum some time.

Wheel Barrow showed up and took Neil aside, asking, "What's this I hear about you being a tyrant? I was just downtown and somebody came up and told me there's a rumor going around that you're a tyrant." And Barrow had other concerns: "Neil, I'm also hearing that some of the people in the library Friends group are talking about getting into the Museum Association." His voice was now quaking. He was shaking visibly.

"I was myself thinking that would be a good by-product of the present difficult situation -- wouldn't it? There could be some good people coming up, concerned people who might be of help to the Association."

"Have you mentioned this to anyone else?"

"Maybe. Just in expressing my hope that some good may come of our present plight."

"Don't go any further in that," Barrow commanded. "The Association takes care of itself. Don't get mixed up about this. It's our domain, not yours. You got that? Don't you go and make me angry on this."

"You misunderstand me," Neil said. "I'm saying you should keep your eyes open, you know, keep an eye out for good people coming up. Tap them for the Museum Association. That's straightforward. That's a good thing."

"We'll tap them as we see fit. You just stay out of the Association's business."

A few days later, on a blue and sunny warm morning, while Minna was out looking at houses for sale -- optimistically in search of a Wright family home, despite their very precarious financial prospects -- Neil was in the backyard with Jillian and little Ethan from next-door, pulling them around in Mark's red wooden wagon while Mark was busy working in a little Chinese moss garden behind the apartment, the phone rang. The head of the Massachusetts chapter of the Guild of Bookcrafters, Arthur Westcott, was frantic. He had received word from somebody named Bowlegged Cottageham, or something like that, that the Guild of Bookcrafters was being turned down for their meeting at the museum, which Neil had himself scheduled, months before, for a Saturday in mid-April. Art was all apologies, believing it was the Guild's fault. He just had to have the meeting at the museum. What would he do if he couldn't get permission to use the museum at this late date? It had all been printed up, announced in the Guild newsletter, and on and on. Neil assured Westcott, "I'll find out what's going on and I'll get back to you."

Neil phoned Wallace Barrow and explained that, apparently, Captain Cunningham was intervening against the use of the museum for an event which Neil had scheduled months before. Neil said he needed Barrow's approval for the Guild of Bookcrafters to meet at the museum.

"Wait," Barrow said. "Who -- who wants to use the museum?"

"The Massachusetts chapter of the Guild of Bookcrafters."

"Bookcrafters? Who are they? Where are these people coming from?"

"Worcester."

"So what do they want with Camperdene?"

"Well, you know we have this community of book arts people in Camperdene, Nicholas Wentworth, for one -- the President of the Friends."

"Oh yeah. Wentworth. What day?"

"Saturday, mid-April, at 2:00 p.m."

"You want to be there and open and close the museum for them?"

"Sure, I wouldn't mind."

"You know you're going to owe me big time if I do this for you?"

"I understand."

"Well, okay. Go ahead. You have my word. It's okay. But just remember. You owe me."

Again, a few days leter, Neil called Wallace Barrow. He was not at the funeral home, but at his gravestone shop on Banyan Street. Neil asked him if he would sign the payroll that week. Barrow promised he'd swing by later. But Neil had some errands to run anyway, and it was a beautiful day, so he took a chance and just showed up at Barrow Monuments.

Peering in through the front windows, he could see Barrow in his office, feet up, reading the newspaper. He looked up, saw Neil, got his feet off the desk, folded the paper, and jumped up. "Neil," he said flatly, and started talking away just like some caught-out schoolboy eagerly aiming to influence a discussion in his favor. Standing, he said he wanted Neil to see a beautiful tombstone decorated with a Fawn in a Glen scene. "This would look good on you," Barrow said.

"Wallace," Neil quietly declared, "I'm not going to let you bury me."

"Fine," Barrow said. "I'll cremate you instead."