A collective snicker rolls through the room.
“For the record, my name is Cece Downing. I’m an employee at Rayburn Oyster Company. As noted, we too have collected more than two hundred authentic signatures. These signatures represent the will of a significant number of New Londoners who recognize the jobs and opportunities a Rayburn expansion will bring to the area. The truth is, the latest GDP numbers for the county show a significant downturn, something locals are feeling acutely. I’ve been going door to door and speaking to residents, and there is a deep sense of unease and resignation about the city’s chances for an economic rebound.”
Cece can’t see the crowd behind her, but she’s aware that the energy is flagging. When Lorraine had spoken, there’d been muttered agreements and the silent pumping of fists. But now, as she leans on her old skills as an actuary, citing statistics and numbers, evidence and fact, she feels the wind die, her sails fall slack. Even the chairman seems disinterested, doodling on the printed agenda and glancing at his wristwatch. Things are slipping away. She pauses, her tongue pressed against her teeth. The audience waits. What would her father say? If you’re behind, if your stroke is off, if you’re getting your ass kicked, beat them at the turn—get it back! Underwater, the wall approaches, Cece flips, curls her body inward; she anticipates the wall perfectly, feet against tile, and then she’s uncorking, pushing off, lengthening her back, powering up to the surface.
Cece leans closer to the microphone, mouth dry, lips chapped. She remembers what Richie told her, about his family, about howhe came to be here, in this place. She remembers the conversations she’s had going door to door; she remembers the way the men talked at Morgan’s shipyard; she remembers everything she’s learned about this place she’s called home for the last three months, a place she wants to call home for a long time to come.
“While I am sympathetic to those who share Ms. Fields’s perspective, I cannot say I find her arguments to be in good faith or in the best interests of this community. I would ask this commission, this collection of residents who claim to care about this town and its people, when was the last time you heard about jobs getting created around here? When was the last time you heard of a company adding jobs instead of sending them overseas? When was the last time we were proud to call ourselves New Londoners? And I’m not talking about those liberals up at the college or those self-righteous cadets at the Coast Guard Academy! I’m sure as hell not talking about the white-collar bastards at Pfizer and the politicians in Hartford who stole land right out from under your feet—land belonging to a number of folks in this room, I’m willing to bet—in the name of economic development! I’m talking about residents I met while gathering signatures. Good people. Hardworking people. People like Richie Rayburn. His family goes back six generations in New London. Back to when the whaling industry built this town. His great-great-great-grandfather earned his way as a lamp keeper on the Niantic, and his wife worked as a seamstress and volunteered at the Seamen’s Friend Society. For nearly two hundred years, the Rayburns have worked as fishermen, boatbuilders, and eventually oystermen. That’s their legacy. Riche’s trying to build something. Now, I’m not a CEO or a politician. And we’renot promising revitalization miracles or magical economic growth, but we promise you this: We will make sure Rayburn creates jobs, good jobs, decent jobs, and we’ll do it sustainably. You’ve heard a lot about all the negatives of the business, but none of these folks want to talk about the benefits. We’re going to grow this company, and when we get this approved, Rayburn plans on hiring as many New Londoners as possible!”
Cece is breathless, blood thudding in her ears.
The room erupts with deafening cheers and whoops. Boos are sprinkled throughout, but they’re quickly drowned out by applause. The floor quakes under thunderous boot stomps, and Cece can only smile. The chairman taps his microphone and calls for order but to no avail. Among the sea of chaos, Cece catches sight of Lorraine standing stunned, clipboard clutched to her chest, bodies jostling around her. On the left side of the room, Cece recognizes a few guys from the shipyard standing on a bench high-fiving one another. She wonders if Morgan made it after all.
When the chairman finally regains order, he informs the crowd that they will deliver a decision tomorrow by 4 p.m. “The commission would like to reiterate that our decision, while informed by these hearings, is not decided by public opinion.”
“If you don’t stop it, we will!” Lorraine shouts. “We’ll sue!”
People are already shuffling out the door. They came for a show and are leaving satisfied.
“That is your right, Ms. Fields,” the chairman says, “although I would note that suing to stop a project that has significant public support would certainly hurt your standing in the community.”
With a disgusted wave and something that looks like a middle finger, Lorraine is gone.
Walking down thefront steps, the midday air surprisingly cool for August, Cece feels as if she’s accomplished something, which is foolish, she knows—all she did was listen to the community and to Richie. Still, it’s like she’s a part of something now, something that’s bigger than her.
Taking the marble stairs two at a time, she spots Morgan, she’s certain, a few steps ahead. She bounds forward, shouting his name. She wants to revel with him in their most certain victory. But when Morgan turns around, his face is darkened in a grim frown. He hears Cece. He sees Cece, of that she is most certain, but instead of waiting for her to catch up, or breaking into one of those smiles, the ones where his teeth glint through his thick beard, he simply turns and keeps on walking. There is a moment when Cece almost calls out again. Perhaps there’s been some error. He thinks she’s someone else, he misheard her, but she quickly understands this is no mistake.
By the time she catches up to him in the parking lot, he’s halfway in his truck.
“What’s with the silent treatment?”
Morgan doesn’t move, one foot on the hot pavement, the other in the cab. He drums out a rhythm on the top of the rusting cab. His shoulders heave, and then both feet on the ground and he’s facing her. He’s gotten more color since the last time Cece’s seen him.
“We agreed to see less of each other.”
“By less you mean not at all.”
“There just didn’t seem much use in carrying on like we were.”
“What do you mean?”
“Don’t do that…play dumb. You’re smarter than that.”
Cece can feel her face reddening, shame spreading like wildfire. “So why did you come?”
Morgan tugs a purple handkerchief from his pocket and cleans imaginary grime from his big hands. “Guys from the shipyard asked me to tag along. Moral support.”
“I see,” Cece says, trying to quell the anger she has no right feeling.
“I gotta get back,” Morgan says. “I’m on my lunch break.”
“Let’s grab a sandwich, then. I know a killer place. Richie showed it to me.”
“I’m good, Cece,” he says and gets into his truck.
“I know what happened,” she says, because it’s the only thing she can think that will keep him here, if only for a few more seconds. “I know what happened at Deerfield. I know Jonathan was a part of it.”
Morgan’s face is stony and tight. “He told you?”
