Tuesday Evening
They’d sat for dinner at the Yacht Club, though Cissy hardly touched her plate.
Her small appetite is customary, a byproduct of the time and effort expended planning and scheming. Cissy’s one of those people who proclaims, “I forgot to eat today!” And genuinely means it.
“Cis, are you sure you had enough?” Bess asks as they tromp along the road toward the Public Safety Building, where the Board of Selectmen meets. “It could be a long night.”
“Oh, sure! Plenty! That sea bass smelled great, didn’t it?”
“What about your clothes?” Bess says. “I’m not sure we have time to run home and change.”
Cissy’s in her chambray shirt and Red Sox cap and though this is her standard getup, Bess can’t help but think her presentation attire needs a boost. Or else she looks fine and the problem is that Bess has enough jitters for both of them.
“Change?” Cissy says. “Why would I want to do that?”
“You look great, but I was thinking of something a little less … everyday? It’s an important meeting.”
“You don’t say.”
Decidedly peeved with Bess’s fashion advice, Cissy accelerates.
“Mom! Hey! Slow down!”
Bess is about to get outrun, she’s sure of it. The throngs of people don’t help. It isn’t even summer and there are already bands of tourists buying whale T-shirts and streams of twenty-year-old drunk dudes lurching out of bars.
“And what do you suggest?” Cissy asks as Bess puffs up behind her. “That I don a loud, colorful tunic and white jeans? No thanks. People know who I am.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“Not that you won’t try.”
Cissy stops in front of the Public Safety Building. Hands on hips, she surveys the two-story brick structure, top to bottom. As Bess joins her, she detects the distinct scent of … buffet?
“Do you smell something meaty?” Bess asks.
“What?” Cissy turns to her. “Oh, is it the lamb meatballs?” She pops open her knapsack. “I threw in a few, plus a dinner roll. This meeting might run long. I was worried you could get hungry.”
“Lamb meatballs? In your purse?”
“Just trying to be prepared. You’re so darn testy when you haven’t eaten.” Cissy wallops Bess on the back. “So. You ready to do this?”
“Do what? I’m simply along for the ride.”
“You keep telling yourself that.”
Cissy pivots on a Ked and takes three skips forward. Bess straggles up behind her and together they walk through the white wooden door and up the stairs to the second floor, where the meeting will be held.
It’s a public hearing and the room is already packed with fifty or sixty Nantucketers, by Bess’s estimation. The eight rows of plastic chairs are occupied and spectators have resorted to setting up small encampments throughout the room. At once Bess remembers how blond and pink Nantucket can be. It’s a crazy place where a college kid and his grandfather can show up in the same outfit with zero embarrassment. And of course Cissy was right about the caftans.
As the meeting is called to order, nerves rumble through Bess’s belly. Just along for the ride? Hardly.
“Hello,” says a man, a pink-pants-wearer. “Today we’re here to vote on the Sankaty Bluff Storm Damage Prevention Project. The proposal includes the construction of a revetment, a shore-parallel structure designed to protect the land behind it.”
The man points to a diagram, which hangs from a nearby wall.
“The structure under consideration is a stone seawall that would extend forty-two hundred feet, or approximately three-quarters of a mile. The project’s purpose would be to protect the homes and public infrastructure along Baxter Road and to preserve the historic residential community on Sconset Bluff.
“We have two scheduled speakers today. Mrs. Caroline Codman, president of the Sankaty Bluff Preservation Fund, and coastal geologist Morton Schempler. After they finish we will open the floor to questions and comments. Then we’ll dismiss the public, and the Board of Selectmen will vote. Cissy, would you care to start?”
“I’d be delighted!” Cissy says, and jumps to her feet.
She scrambles to the front of the room like she’s chasing after a tennis ball. At the podium, she tightens the ponytail poking out through her cap.
“Well, there’s not a person in this room who hasn’t heard me yammering on about preserving our beautiful bluff. But just in case, my assistant will pass out flyers detailing the pertinent information.”
Cissy pauses. Blond and gray heads bounce about, trying to locate the flyers, though most have probably read them. After all, Cissy spent Easter weekend tacking one onto every door on the island.
“My assistant!” Cissy booms, and gives Bess a look.
“Oh, me?”
Bess pats her stomach as if the information might be on her.
“In my knapsack, dear.”
“Okay. Got it.”
Bess retrieves the flyers—which are meat-sauce-free, thank God—and stands to pass them out. Suddenly a body materializes beside her. Without asking, Evan Mayhew takes half the papers from her hand.
“Thanks,” Bess mutters.
“And what do we have here?” Cissy warbles. “Even Chappy Mayhew’s son is on my side!”
“Uh, I’m only helping Bess.”
“Oh I’ll bet you’re helping her all right. Where’s your girl—?”
“Cis!” Bess warns, and then waggles her fingers. “Get on with it. We’ll pass out the sheets.”
“Fine.” Cissy exhales as Bess and Evan make their way around the room. “The other members of the Preservation Fund and I truly believe that the historical and natural beauty of the bluff can and should be protected to benefit future generations. Our mission is to do this in a scientifically sound and financially viable way.”
“Hi Bess,” people whisper as she wends her way through old classmates and teachers and Yacht Club pals.
“You look great.”
“How’s your sister?”
“Baxter Road is the very soul of the bluff,” Cissy goes on. “And it’s also the road that leads to the iconic Sankaty Head Lighthouse. The street is lined with historic homes and is a crucial part of the island’s identity.”
“How’s the ER business?”
“Your dad still alive and well?”
“As the bluff continues to erode,” Cissy says, fixing her glasses so they are more firmly on her face, “Baxter Road is in grave danger. In addition to threatening the homes that are the very fabric of this island’s character, the erosion undermines the infrastructure of Sconset itself, putting at risk our water supply and sewage lines.”
Bess drops off the last flyer with the manager of their favorite restaurant, the Chanticleer, and backs up against the wall, arms crossed. She watches Evan distribute the rest of his.
“On top of this is the decline in revenue,” Cissy says. “Erosion has already caused the loss of over sixty million dollars’ worth of property. Sixty millions’ worth of this island’s tax base. And the number is increasing as we speak. Every day we lose more cubic feet of our beloved land.”
Bess’s head jolts up. Every day? As in all the days? Cissy glossed over this key detail. Damn that woman. So good at what she does. Professional rabble-rouser and sneaky, sly fox.
“Nantucket is a special place,” Cissy continues, “and Sconset is a major reason why. Picture the narrow lanes. The charm of the rose-covered cottages. Beautiful Sankaty Head Light. Not to mention the houses, the historic homes with stories to tell. Homes with family memories, island memories locked inside.”
As Cissy’s voice bubbles with emotion, Bess finds herself growing weepy-eyed, too. She pushes away her tears and looks up to find Evan watching her. Bess glances away, pretending not to see.
At last Cissy wraps up her speech with a few more mentions of “character fabric,” followed by a slide show featuring the homes that could be lost if they don’t act. She hasn’t put Cliff House in the show but the Mayhew place is “best for last,” which elicits a brief Cissy-Chappy fracas until someone removes them from the floor.
“My house isn’t going anywhere,” Chappy calls, his parting shot. “Except up in value when it has a panoramic ocean view!”
“I’m surprised you’re paid by pound of fish, and not by pound of horseshit.”
Checkmate, Chappy Mayhew. Cissy got the last word after all.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be concise.”
Geologist Morton Schempler appears at the podium, shuffling along like a prison warden or the losing football coach. It’s evident he doesn’t have the patience for town rivalries or neighbors with agendas. No thanks on shrill grandmothers, either. These people paid for a study, not a speech, and he’s not keen to stick around.
“This revetment project is a horrible idea,” he says, straight off, from the spot where Cissy stood minutes before. “You’ll see on the screen dozens of projects that have used walls exactly like those proposed by the Preservation Fund. And every single one has failed. Hard armoring has been proven ineffective multiple times, in a variety of situations. All it does is give a false sense of security to property owners and create further deterioration of the surrounding beaches.”
“Well, this is uplifting,” Bess mumbles to Evan, who is now beside her.
He replies with a snicker, an almost-secret laugh, like he doesn’t want to be caught.
“Constructs like these,” Schempler continues, “protect only the land immediately behind them, with no protection offered to the fronting beach. Ultimately, this causes ever more erosion and you’d have to keep building more walls to buttress the beaches. The beaches would continue to worsen, therefore necessitating—you guessed it—more walls. It’s a vicious cycle and the long-term costs would far exceed the funds of any public or private sponsors. I won’t bore you with a bunch of scientific gobbledygook as the formula is really quite basic. Hard structures plus water equals no beach. Thank you for your time.”
Morton folds up a piece of paper, then tucks it into the back of his Dockers before advancing straight out the door. He’s not going to stick around, because what could anyone say? The look on his face is this: Either you’re with him, or you’re dumb as a seawall.
Approximately ninety seconds later, the selectmen dismiss the public from the meeting. Everyone files outside.
In front of the building, islanders exchange hellos. Cissy makes a snide comment about Morton Schempler’s skin tone and throws her car keys at Bess. She’ll hoof it the eight miles home, through the mist and the chill. She needs time to think.
Back at the Public Safety Building, away from the eyes of the townsfolk, the selectmen sit down to vote on the Sankaty Bluff Storm Damage Prevention Project, revetment version. They’ve promised to announce the decision by midnight. Bess doesn’t even stay up, because the result seems clear. Poor Cis. If your own daughter won’t buy what you’re selling, it doesn’t look good.