“Who’d you say you were with?”
“I’m collecting signatures on behalf of Rayburn Oyster Company. We’re trying to expand our business into New London.”
From across the street, Cece hears Morgan’s hearty laugh. From the sounds of it, he’s already ahead of her by one.
“I don’t want to put my name down on any kind of list,” the old woman says. Before Cece can reply, the door crunches closed.
Undaunted, Cece heads to the next home where a young mother in a velour jumpsuit answers the door angrily. “I was just putting my kids down for a nap.” She points to a laminated sign below the mailbox.Infants May Be Napping. Don’t Ring Doorbell!“Can’t you read?”
Cece apologizes profusely through the din of wailing infants and hurries off. After stopping at every home and apartment on the block, Cece is dismayed to find she’s only managed to collect a single signature from a teenager who was supposed to be in summer school and signed his name only after Cece promised not to tell his mother. Back on the sunbaked sidewalk, sweat dappling her upper lip, Cece can’t help but be impressed by Lorraine’s determination. The woman had gotten something like two hundred signatures—a feat and testament to her maniacalzeal. Not helping matters is the fact that Morgan appears infinitely more adept at this than her, holding up a hand and shouting, “Five already!”
The next line of homes over proves more fertile ground, and Cece gets three signatures in a row. At the mention of new jobs, people nod and sign their names. “I remember when a man could make a decent living for his family around here,” says an elderly man seated on his porch. “I used to build subs down at General Dynamics. Nowadays, folks are working two, three jobs to make ends meet. Driving for Uber and all that nonsense.”
“We’re hoping our project will create more jobs.”
“Where’d you say you’re putting this farm?”
“Mamacoke Cove.”
“Mamacoke?” The man removes his Red Sox hat and scratches his head. “You’ve got about as much luck building a riverboat casino as you do putting anything up in Mamacoke. White folk up there won’t abide it.”
“That’s why we’re collecting signatures to present to the zoning commission.”
The man chuckles. “They do love their kayaking.”
Cece thanks the man and encourages him to attend the town hall. With each signature, her steps grow lighter. There is something invigorating about being out in the community and speaking to people, even those who don’t want to sign their name. Then there are those who don’t answer the door at all, those who would prefer to look through a peephole or stare down at Cece through a gauzy curtain. But no matter! There are always more she can rally to the cause! Her script tightens. Her delivery sharpens. She highlights the benefits Rayburn will bring to NewLondon while laying out the opposition, those who are weaponizing well-intentioned zoning laws, historical preservation, and environmental policies to stop the city from growing. It’s hard going, and after her fifth block, Cece’s losing her voice and her cheeks ache from smiling. For all her efforts, she’s only collected twenty-five signatures. How would they ever get a high enough number to rival Lorraine’s efforts?
Dejected, she makes her way back to Morgan’s truck. Losing their bet is the least of her worries. Inexplicably, Morgan’s doubled her number.
“What did you tell them?”
He starts the truck. “The truth.”
“And what’s that?”
“I told them we need more here. More jobs, more opportunity, more everything, and people who oppose this project, people like Lorraine, those college old heads—they’re standing in our way. They’re all about free love and reminding you where they were when MLK and Kennedy were assassinated, but when it comes to growing this city and creating jobs, half-decent jobs for hardworking folks, a lot of Black folks, mind you—well. They’d rather not. Not in their backyard at least. Civil rights are well and good, as long as they don’t fuck up your property value.”
Cece is taken aback by this flash of anger. She remembers what Lorraine told her about the incident at his house back in January, when the cops were called. As quickly as it enters her mind, she pushes it down. “Did something happen?”
Morgan shakes his head. “Work’s been slow. A few guys got laid off.”
“Did I meet them?”
“Mickey and Wesley? No idea.”
“Wasn’t Mickey the guy who fixed the engine for me?”
“Sure,” Morgan says, already battening down the hatches, his eyes still and unblinking. “We’ve known it was coming for a while. Building boats, fixing boats. It’s not exactly a booming business. It’s just…this place, this city, they used to build things here, things they could be proud of. And now, not so much.”
“If we get enough signatures, we can do something about it. The zoning commission will have no choice but to listen to us. I’m knocking on doors from now until the meeting. And I’ll get Davi and Santiago to help. Two hundred names is doable.”
In the cab, Morgan lunges for his pack of cigarettes on the dashboard, then seems to think better of it. “Why do you care so much?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re going back to your old life, applying for that actuary job in the city. What’s it to you if Rayburn can’t expand or the boatyard goes belly-up?”
Cece chooses to ignore the opaque reference to Jonathan. If it’s just plain old jealousy, she can handle it, but what she isn’t prepared for are Morgan’s opinions on her career. The actuary position is long gone, not hers even if she wanted it (which she doesn’t)—Cece’s self-sabotage had seen to that. She hadn’t said anything to Morgan about it, her change of heart and commitment to Rayburn, she realizes.
