To Helen Back by Susan McBride

I could ever make that oversight.”
    The noisy growl of an engine came into her earshot, and Ida edged around the Jeep, squinting at the van that approached.
    “Ah-ha.” It was the boys from the Telegraph . She held her sign up and nudged Dot, who raised hers high as well.
    The van pulled off the road and onto the shoulder ahead of the Jeep. Its doors came open and two men emerged. A big black camera hung from the neck of one, a tall sort in blue jeans and ponytail; the other, fat and freckled, flipped open a notepad.
    “Hey, look who it is, Tom,” the reporter said to his buddy. “Nice ta see you again, Miss Bell. It is Bell, isn’t it?” he asked, scribbling across the paper. He glanced up at her, the grin unhidden on his mouth. “B-e-l-l,” he spelled out, “as in ding-dong?”
    Ida stiffened.
    The men laughed.
    “Please, don’t attack him like the last time,” Dot whispered, and Ida tightened her grip on the two-by-four.
    A thunderous noise rent the air, drowning out Ida’s dark thoughts. She turned toward the sound, as did the others, and saw a dirt-splattered bulldozer moving up the highway toward them. A fellow in an orange hard hat sat at its helm, working the gears.
    The ground shook beneath Ida’s feet as the tractor came nearer, finally veering off the road and onto a spot very near her jeep. Behind it, a black Mercedes sedan glided onto the shoulder and parked.
    The air vibrated as the bulldozer idled, the cacophony nearly drowning out the voices of the men who got out of the car. The driver rolled down his window and lit up a cigarette, but otherwise stayed put.
    “Let’s make it quick, all right?” a thin man in a boxy gray suit and red tie loudly barked to the younger chap at his elbow.
    “Yes, sir, will do. As fast as we can.” His assistant bobbed his head and scurried around to the trunk to withdraw a shovel. Then he led the way for the impatient executive, picking a path through the knee-high weeds toward the billboard.
    The reporter and photographer followed.
    Sign in her hand, Ida went after them, Dot bringing up the rear.
    Red Tie snarled when he saw the two females. “What’re they doing here?” he shouted at the man with the shovel. “Where’d they come from?”
    Ida took a step forward. “We’re from God’s green earth,” she said before the young fellow could reply. “We’re to protect what’s rightfully ours.”
    “Rightfully yours?” The suit stared at Ida, eyes narrowed in disgust. He turned to his assistant and jerked a thumb. “Who’n the hell’s that?”
    “She’s a protestor, Mr. Ridgely.”
    “I can see that, Johnson.”
    “It’s best to ignore them, sir.”
    Cheeks flushed, Ridgely nodded and reached up to fiddle with the knot of his tie. “Yes, ignore them,” he repeated. “How much damage could two little old ladies cause?” He snapped his fingers at the pair from the Telegraph , and they hurried to his side like anxious pups.
    Ida lowered her sign and stood in silence, fuming as she watched the Wet ’n’ Woolly executive pose for a picture, his grin as wide as the Cheshire cat, the large blue and pink sign a backdrop behind him as he pressed the tip of the shovel to the dirt. He propped the toe of a leather oxford gingerly atop the metal spade, as if about to push the blade into the ground.
    Several yards away, the bulldozer waited for the go-ahead, the groan of its motor like a growling pit bull straining at its leash.
    The reporter jotted down whatever Ridgely’s assistant was telling him, while the photographer moved from one spot to the next, getting shots from all possible angles.
    At Ida’s elbow, Dot sighed noisily. “I guess he’s right,” she said. “What could a couple of antiques like us do to a big corporation like Wet ’n’ Woolly? We might as well go on home now. It is time for lunch.”
    Ida didn’t answer.
    She held her head high and the sign even higher. She fixed her gaze dead-ahead on one man in particular,