Bernard lounges on the unmade bed, no doubt overjoyed at the lack of rules. Cece looks over what she has for an opening statement on Rayburn’s behalf. Her more composed thoughts are barely enough to fill two flash cards. On the muted television, a man in oil-slicked overalls is being interviewed. He keeps pointing to the horizon. The camera zooms in on his wiry mustache. Cece recognizes the next interviewee, the long-haired guy with the bullhorn from the protest in Noank. He’s holding up a sign:KEEP MAMACOKE COVE CLEAN!Cece turns the TV off and sits in the musty room, the synthetic comforter rough on her palms. The instant coffee she’d brewed an hour ago is already burning a hole in her stomach. She knows she should eat something else, but the idea of taking her chances with the continental breakfast in the lobby is enough to make her queasy. Sunlight pries through the yellowed track blinds. Phone unplugged from the frayed charger, Cece decides to text Morgan (what dignity does she have left to maintain?) before she heads out.
Hope to see you at the town hall. Could really use some of that trademark nonchalance. I’m terrified of public speaking!
Cece can hearthe tumult behind the heavy oak doors before she enters, a maelstrom of concerned citizens: NPR-loving neighborhood advocates, representatives from the Teamsters Local 493, nature enthusiasts, and ornery dockworkers. She’s arrived exactly five minutes late to avoid any awkward conversations, but mostly just Lorraine. The Beaux Arts–styled room, with its grand coffered ceiling inlaid with gold leaf motifs and imposing columns, teems with a nervous energy. News cameras line the back wall, lenses trained on the dais; three empty chairs sit behind an impressive oak table where three microphones are neatly arranged. For the masses, a sad-looking microphone stands resolutely near the front of the room, ready to absorb the plentiful threats, pleas, and protestations of the crowd. Someone’s used red tape to make a giant X on the floor, indicating where the good citizens of New London should stand if they want to be heard.
Cece looks frantically for Richie with some mad hope that he’ll arrive just in time to save her from complete humiliation, but no such luck. Reluctantly, she snakes her way through the jumbled mass, a haze of axle grease and patchouli oil. Murmurs ripple through the crowd, necks crane, and heads turn as members of the commission enter from a side door and take their seats at the front of the room. Cece is sandwiched between a burly man with steel-toed boots and a gray-haired woman in a forest-green tank top. Her breath comes quick, her throat burns. She looks up and focuses on the ceiling, with all its ostentatious detail to quell the panic attack. An elbow, a shove, and she’s moving, pushing through the mass, quaking with anticipation.
Cece scans the room surreptitiously. Lorraine is standing in the crowd, arms crossed over her enormous bosom, a red bandana struggling to contain her curls. She’s not so much looking at Cece as burning a hole through her chest.
If the panel is taken aback by the turnout, they don’t show it, pulling eyeglasses from the insides of their jackets and handbag, opening spiraled notebooks, and clearing their phlegmy throats. The spokesperson, a tall, wiry man with a mop of white hair, leans close to his microphone and calls the meeting to order. The crowd settles into a resentful silence.
“The town hall concerning Rayburn Oyster Company’s proposal to expand their business operation into Mamacoke Cove is now in session,” the man says in a plodding tone. “Now, it seems we have a few more attendees than usual, so it behooves this body to remind everyone in attendance the purpose of this town hall.”
“You’re bought and paid for!” a man shouts from somewhere, his voice sonorous and venomous.
An uproar swells through the crowd. Clenched fists menace. Veins bulge. Lorraine, in the middle of it all, seems to be relishing the civil disobedience. Unphased, the wiry man taps the microphone with a slender finger, sending pops through the speakers. “May I remind you…May I remind you that this commission has voluntarily opened our doors to the public. If you cannot be civil, we will simply conduct our business behind closed doors.”
As he speaks, two state troopers in neatly pressed gray uniforms filter in from a side door and position themselves not so inconspicuously in view of everyone, their gray campaign hatscomically large. Cece works hard to suppress a nervous giggle. The rest of the room—taking them more seriously—settles down and grumbles among themselves.
“The purpose of this town hall is to allow residents to express their opinions regarding the current project before this commission. And while the public does not possess the power to approve or deny the project, the commission is charged with carrying out the will of New Londoners in good faith. In addition, the opposition to the project has obtained more than two hundred authentic signatures; as a result, their spokesperson will be allowed extended time to speak.”
A woman in her seventies wearing a canary yellow cardigan much too heavy for summer leans over and whispers something in the chairman’s ear, who raises a prickly eyebrow and nods solemnly. “Having received more than two hundred authentic signatures in support of their expansion, we will also be hearing from a Rayburn representative.”
A chorus of whoops rises into the steamy air. Something like guilt wells in Cece’s chest. She hadn’t done much. Most of the credit belongs to Santiago, Davi, and Morgan—especially Morgan. Where would she be without him? Cece wonders. Nowhere good, it seems. Cece wishes he were here to witness their success, even if he just glowered at her. An appearance would at least mean he still cares. The big doors crack open, and Cece’s heart bounces into her throat; she cranes her neck, expectant and hopeful, but it’s only another cameraman.
“We’ll first hear from”—the chairman checks a piece of paper that has just been slid to him—“Lorraine Fields and those whooppose the Rayburn expansion. Richard Rayburn and thoseforthe project will follow. Please keep your comments to three minutes long. Everyone who wants to speak should have picked up a number when they entered. If you don’t have a number, please do not get up to speak. Going forward, I expect this to be a civil dialogue. If at any time this commission feels that the conversation is counterproductive, we reserve the right to close the meeting to the public. As usual, our scribe, Ms. Williams, will take meeting notes, which will be posted within seventy-two hours. Are there any questions before we proceed?”
A voice booms from somewhere in the far corner of the crowd: “Where can a man find a decent job around here?!”
Hands on their duty belts, the state troopers peer into the crowd, their beady eyes glinting beneath their wide-brimmed hats.
“The commission calls Lorraine Fields.”
The crowd parts for Lorraine as she makes her way to the microphone, Crocs squeaking with each step. A collective hush shrouds the room. Lorraine defiantly holds aloft a yellow legal pad. “In my hand are the voices of more than two hundred residents of New London who do not wish to see the last remaining vestiges of our county’s natural beauty destroyed by industry and corporate greed. In my hand are the names of people in our community who care about the air we breathe and the water we drink. In my hand are the names of people who are rightly concerned about increased traffic on their roads and waterways.”
“You’d think we were building a nuclear power plant,” a man says in Cece’s ear. It’s Santiago. He must have just arrived.
“Any news on Richie?” Cece whispers.
Santiago shakes his head but gives her a thumbs-up, like he’s always been her biggest champion.
“As a collective,” Lorraine continues, “we are prepared to present this commission with numerous data points and findings regarding the following: environmental concerns in accordance with the Clean Air Act, Clean Water Act, and Migratory Bird Treaty Act, as well as concerns about traffic patterns and home values.”
“The commission asks that you save all presentations of data for another date, Ms. Fields,” the chairman says, his voice tinged with annoyance.
“Should this commission fail to stop Rayburn’s expansion, we are prepared to file a lawsuit to halt any construction.”
A tumult rises from the audience: chairs scraping, hands clapping, muttered swears and threats.
“This kind of escalation is unnecessary, Ms. Fields. The commission has yet to render a decision.”
“Nevertheless, we are prepared to protect what is ours. We will not sit by idly while a panel of bureaucrats decide the fate of our town. We will fight and we will win!” Lorraine shouts, before sitting down to a mingled roar of boos and cheers.
A flurry of residents follow, none as vociferous as Lorraine but all equally aligned in their mission to stop Rayburn’s expansion. There’s the avid birder who claims that oyster boats will scare away the native wildlife; the kayaker who maintains that oyster baskets pose a danger to the waterways; the retired pharmaceutical executive who believes the entire operation will be an eyesore, a blight on the cove. There are others, less articulateresidents who are just happy to have an audience for the public airing of their grievances. The elderly man who wants to bring back coin-operated parking meters; the grumpy sanitation worker who reprimands everyone for throwing trash in the town’s new recycling bins; the opinionated barista who takes the opportunity to shame everyone for their poor tipping habits. The chairman does his best to move them along. Cece reviews the notes she’s jotted down for her speech. Her handwriting suddenly seems unintelligible, and she decides to ditch them. If she’s going to lose to Lorraine, she might as well go down speaking from the heart.
Cece hears the chairman call Richie’s name. The microphone suddenly seems very far as Cece makes her way to the front of the room. The audience eyes her with suspicion and optimism, a hundred hopes and recriminations The panel regards her with confusion over their reading glasses. This is some kind of mistake, Cece thinks. Has it really come down to her? Surely there must be someone more qualified. She looks to Santiago in one final plea, but all he does is give her an enthusiastic fist pump, his plaid shirt and greasy hair in stark contrast to the grandeur of the room. Cece imagines she’s crouched on the platform, swim cap squeezing her skull, goggles snug around her eyes, the water, glossy and inviting. Before the gun, she does like her father tells her and visualizes her start, slowly uncorking her body like a spring; her body bending like an arrow loosed from a bow and piercing the surface, arms out, fingers pressed together—the tip of the spear, fearless and unforgiving, leading her to victory.
The microphone pops, and Cece begins, her voice foreign andnew. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman. Mr. Rayburn apologizes for his absence this morning. He’s attending to another matter.”
