From the marsh, Autumnsquam watched Jack Hilyard and his son shake hands. It made him glad. He had saved his friends and their land another week. But it was their land now, not his or his children’s.
He had let the procession go by, let them continue to sing the white men’s song even after Barlow was gone, and as he watched them going up from the marsh, he knew that they were all lost to him now, Amapoo and all the praying Nausets. They were all bloody Christians. They had forgotten Kautantowit. But none of them knew that it was Kautantowit who had saved the island, Kautantowit who had sent the shitting gull to warn him.
The old Nausets had believed a man could know the way of life by watching the passage of the seasons. In October, while the sun still warmed the earth, mellow reds came into the oaks and crept through the bear grass and bogs. Old age came to the year, and serenity descended on the land.
Autumnsquam had seen sixty cycles pass. The landscape had turned red around him. But the sky had turned to smoke above him, because in October the white farmers burned off the tall trees to widen their fields. Autumnsquam felt no serenity, nor was he a part of anything, not even of Jack Hilyard’s little island. And the gull was circling above him once more, crying its lonely cry.
Jack wondered why Autumnsquam was still standing like a scarecrow out on the marsh. He waved, but Autumnsquam did not move.
“Chris,” said Jack, “go tell him we be butcherin’ one of the swine. That’ll get him up here.”
Christopher loped down onto the marsh. “Autie—”
Suddenly the Indian’s hand shot into the air, and the whalebone bracelet rattled at his wrist. “So long, stupid bloody Quaker!”
“Autie!” Christopher started after him.
But Autumnsquam turned and ran toward the mainland. When he reached the edge of the marsh, he waved again. “Go back. Plenty good bloody Christian squaw back there now. They no care what color their god. They no care what color their babies!”
“Autie, wait!”
“Me follow gull.” Autumnsquam glanced again at the bird, which had wheeled west, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER 15
July 9
Town Meeting
Conceived by the Pilgrims, idealized by Jefferson, admired the world over… Geoff Hilyard sometimes thought the town meeting had as much in common with Franz Kafka as it did with the Founding Fathers.
In the old days, it had been held in the Victorian town hall, an intricate filigree of rooflines and turrets, delicately shingled and painted in warm tones of cream and yellow, a perfect symbol for the mingling of Gothic complexity and American optimism in small-town politics.
But small towns got bigger, and now the meeting was held in the gymnasium of the new school up in the scrub pine. There was nothing wrong with it, as school buildings went—a lot of interconnected brick boxes with big casement windows and plenty of parking—but it could have been anywhere in America. After it got dark and the quartz lamps threw that vibrating orange light onto the grounds, it could have been anywhere in the solar system. And the gym smelled of jock-straps.
The only town official expected to support Rake was Bill Rains, a member of the Conservation Commission.
“Hello, Geoff.” Rains was standing at a table on which were piled pamphlets: Don’t Let This One Get Away! “Where do you stand?”
“On the floor.”
“This development is going to meet some stiff opposition, Geoff. I’m going to lead it.”
Rains was a sixties radical from Chicago, with a potbelly and a little Cape ancestry. He had come in the mid-seventies to paint driftwood and mellow out and had seen, even then, that development was turning parts of the Cape into a giant suburb. Now he made his living as a naturalist on a Provincetown whale watch vessel and spent the rest of his time, so Dickerson Bigelow said, stopping other people from making their living. Geoff knew that was a bit strong. He liked Bill Rains, but he thought the nature-boy beard and flannel shirt were as much of an affectation as the new look on Doug Bigelow, who was just coming in the door.
Doug wore a dark shirt, a dark sport coat, and a silver-buckled western belt, and whatever he put on his hair made it shine like the hood of the black BMW he had bought after his divorce. There was no question that he looked better in his mid-forties than he had ten years before. Was it the golf-course casual by day and the Mel Gibson—cool by night? Or his second wife, the blonde with the attention span that did not distinguish between a town meeting and Moby Dick. Doug had come alone.
He picked up one of the pamphlets. “You can throw these out, because we’re going to win, Bill.”
Rains kept his eyes on Geoff. “If you refuse to sell, it will put a very big crimp in this project.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Geoff left environmentalist and developer to bicker and caught up to Rake in the registration line. “We have to talk.”
“Got nothin’ to say.” The old man rolled his sister ahead of him in her wheelchair.
The poor old bastard. He’d gone and dragged her out of her sickroom, as though one more vote might turn the tide.
“Name and address,” said the woman at the desk. “Address first.”
“Jack’s Island Road. John ‘Rake’ Hilyard and Clara.”
“Evenin’, Rake.” The woman crossed the names off the voting list. “I haven’t seen you in a dog’s age, Clara.”
“That’s because she lives a dog’s life,” said Rake.
“How are you, Clara?” Geoff knelt in front of her.
She didn’t seem to know him. “Huh?”
“How are you?”
“What do you care?” Rake rolled the wheelchair over Geoff’s toes.
Janice was sitting in the front row of the non-voting section, beneath the west backboard.
A few rows behind her sat Jimmy Little and Ma. What the hell were they doing there? Jimmy shrugged, as if to say that he didn’t know, either.
Geoff also noticed Hiram Bigelow, senior partner of Bigelow, Holden, and Hoar, the law firm that would fight every obstacle put before the development. Uncle Hiram nodded.
Behind him was one of those people who could spoil a night, a face so nondescript it would leave you wondering for hours if you knew him, and then where the hell you knew him from. He shoved a stick of gum into his mouth and threw the wrapper on the floor.
Geoff settled in beside Janice. “I can’t believe Rake brought Clara.”
“Neither can her daughter.”
Emily Burr had just finished giving Rake hell in a stage whisper that could be heard all the way to the ladies’ room, where she was now headed with a cigarette.
“Mad enough to need a smoke,” said Geoff.
“If I smoked, I’d join her,” said Janice.
“Sell any houses today?”
“No. Make any decisions?”
“Did you know Quakers held meetings in Rake’s barn?”
“Does that mean no?”
The gavel fell, which was good, because they didn’t have anything else to say.
A town meeting was supposed to be a democratic thing. But why was it that the ones who owned the waterfront property always went for the chairs on the floor, while the ones in the sweat-stained caps, who lived back in the hills, as hand-to-mouth proud as their ancestors, always took to the stands at the sides? What counted, Geoff knew, was that out of forty-seven hundred registered voters, these two hundred or so gave enough of a damn to come out and debate an issue in the July heat.
There was a process for this as time-honored as the Mayflower Compact. The moderator read a proposal. The sponsor spoke. The Board of Selectmen, the Finance Committee, and the Planning Board had a say, then anyone else who had an opinion, pro or con.
Sometimes it worked with enough simplicity to warm the rockiest Yankee rib. Propose, debate, amend, vote in the open so everyone knew where you stood, then get on to the next issue because there were fields to clear and fish to catch in the morning and everyone had to get home to bed.
And sometimes it was like life in the world that most of the Off-Capers had come to escape. A pro said his piece and was answered by a con, who was then rebutted by the pro. The con might have consorts con the pro, who would then call for proponents to the pro to pro the con, who would then get sick of the whole thing and shout “Move the question.” Then they’d vote to see if they would vote or keep up with the pros and cons, and then… It was easy to understand why people elected legislators to go through this torture.
The first article was an appropriation of $180,000 for a class-A pumper to replace the one the fire department had been using since 1957. Passed without opposition.
The second: “To see if the Town will vote to approve the first week of October as Brewster Black Locust Week.” This was the kind of issue that got more attention than it deserved, but the debate gave you an idea of how people were thinking.
For the pro, a bookstore owner transplanted from New Jersey, in rumpled seersucker sport coat and old-fashioned boat sneakers, altogether reminiscent of Fred Rogers: “We who live on Cape Cod know autumn as the most beautiful season. We lack the foliage of Vermont or New Hampshire, but that’s no reason why the discerning tourist shouldn’t be encouraged to see the mellow reds of our marshes and the golden yellow of our black locust groves. This tree isn’t native to Cape Cod, but like so many of us who aren’t, it thrives here. It was brought from the South in the 1800s, to grow in the nitrogen-poor soil, and Cape Cod would be a bleak place without it. The black locust deserves honor, especially at a season when the guest houses are putting up their Vacancy signs and could use the business.”
Geoff squirmed. Janice twitched. Over on the middle aisle, Rake and Clara sat and listened.
For the con, an old matron whose family had held a pew in the First Church since the War of 1812: “I don’t care if the locust is a tree. The first thing it is is a bug. You can look it up… in the Bible. A bug, always bringin’ the plague and whatnot. If tourists aren’t smart enough to come down here in the fall, I don’t think we should honor a bug just to get their attention. How many tourists would come if it was Brewster Bug Week? Or Cape Cod Cock-a-roach Week? Who wants tourists in the fall, anyway?”
Article 2 failed. Geoff was a little disappointed. He thought it might have been good for a laugh.
The warm-up was over. On to the main event, Article 3: “To see if the Town will vote to authorize the Board of Selectmen to acquire by purchase or by gift or to take by eminent domain under Massachusetts General Laws, Chapter Seventy-nine, and to commit to the control of the Town of Brewster Conservation Commission for conservation, recreation, and watershed protection purposes,” et cetera, et cetera…
The warrant listed Jack’s Island as it appeared in the assessor’s map, twenty-five acres of which would be purchased in a friendly taking at a cost of two million dollars. Thirty-five acres taken by eminent domain for four million more. The Finance Committee report: eight to nothing against. There were better ways to spend the town’s money.
The first speaker was Bill Rains. As he came to the microphone, Geoff heard a little undertow of noise, as though a lot of people had heard too much from him already. He ignored them and made his pitch, concluding: “The protection of Jack’s Island is as important as protecting Nauset Marsh. If we keep losing threads of our past, if we keep letting more woodlots be plowed up and turned into condominiums, if we always surrender to the almighty dollar, we lose a sense of who we are.”
“I know who I am,” shouted Humpback Bigelow. “I drive a bulldozer.”
The moderator banged his gavel and said speakers were to be recognized before they spoke.
Rains looked up at the Humpster. “It’s people like you who give inbreeding a bad name.”
The moderator banged his gavel again. The Humpster got a confused look on his face. He turned to his father, and his lips formed the words “What’s inbreeding?”
And the debate wore on. We don’t have the right, just because we’re here, to close the bridge and say no one else can come. But this is a fragile place. But we’ve spent enough money. But if we don’t spend more, it lowers the value of all our property. But… But… But…
Across the gym, warrant pamphlets flapped back and forth in the heat. Geoff couldn’t see his aunt’s face, but even she was fanning herself, sore joints and all.
The taxpayers had acquired hundreds of acres in recent years to protect the open space, watershed, and character of the town. Some considered it too little too late. Others wanted all land to remain in private hands. But this was certain: with each purchase, tax rates went up, and at some point, people said enough. Some argued that development demanded more services, which caused taxes to rise even more, but that was a hard one to put over.
A selectman, speaking for himself as a builder, warned that if there was no more construction, there would be no more jobs, then no more retail sales, no more cash flow. “Then we sink back into the magnificent rural poverty from which we came.”
Good point, thought Geoff, and maybe a good idea.
“People before plants,” said someone from the other side.
The two gray heads on the center aisle shook in disagreement. The makeshift fan flapped away in front of Clara’s face.
Someone asked about the Cape Cod Commission.
“They’ll have their say if the developers get past us, the Conservation Commission, the Planning Board, and the Zoning Board of Appeals,” shouted Bill Rains. “I say cut it off right now. Send a message. We’ve given up enough of this place. Cape Cod is no longer for sale.”
“He’s getting strident,” whispered Geoff.
That brought Doug Bigelow to the microphone, and Geoff sensed Hiram Bigelow, Doug’s uncle, twitching nervously nearby. Dickerson had shown the sense to stay away. It was not good strategy to reveal yourself too soon. But Doug liked to talk.
“My wife and I live on Jack’s Island,” he said.
A voice in the crowd corrected him: “Your second wife.”
That brought a few snickers, and someone whispered, “The mother of his children lives in Boston now.”
Doug smoothed his hair and kept talking. “We won’t foul our own nest or feather it at the expense of our town. After all, my family has owned that island since the Pilgrims.”
And Rake Hilyard jumped up. “So has mine!”
The moderator banged his gavel. “You have not been recognized. Respect the civility of the process, please. If anyone else speaks out of turn, I’ll have him removed.”
Rake had always been a stubborn old fighter, but he had always believed in the civility of the process. He sank into his chair like an old house collapsing into its foundation hole.
Douglas continued as though Rake had not even spoken. “You can’t stop development. You can’t stop people from having kids and needing places to live. So trust someone who’s been here as long as… almost as long as the Indians.”
That brought a clearing of Ma Little’s throat. Heads turned and the moderator raised his gavel. Ma simply looked at the ceiling as though she’d farted and wanted to seem casual.
“Vote against this article,” Doug said. “Leave private property in the hands of private people, just as our forefathers did.”
Geoff wiped the sweat from his forehead. “These July meetings get hot… windy, too.”
“About to get windier,” said Janice.
Rake shuffled to the microphone. Clara’s fan stopped moving.
“Lived on Jack’s Island for most of my life, too.” His voice was weaker than usual, as though he could smell defeat. “My sister and me can remember all the way back when the hotel burned down. And we want this done. Buy our land. Keep it for the future, for the kids and the wildlife. Make the sailing camp a community center. I was a big supporter of the National Seashore thirty years ago. And…” He lost his place and began to fumble with his papers.
Someone else asked for the floor.
Old Rake pulled himself up and sna
pped, “Got the floor, and no one takes it till I’m finished.”
That made Geoff feel better. He hated to see the old man losing the edge.
“So why don’t you just give the town the land?” called out Blue Bigelow.
The gavel banged. “Out of order.”
“Yes, yes, guess I’ve thought of that. But we’ve lived on the land for three centuries. Land’s everything. Always has been. Can’t just give it away. Besides, if we give our piece, it don’t stop the Bigelows from doin’ this all around us—”
And with a flair for the dramatic that Geoff would never have expected from Rake, the old man unrolled a copy of the 1904 subdivision. And that raised holy hell.
A lot of people hadn’t heard about it, or had heard only rumors, but there it was, a nightmare vision for a well-zoned town, drawn in tiny eighth-of-an-acre lots across the waterfront.
“If you don’t pass this article,” said Rake, “the Bigelows can cover that island in egg crates, make the whole place look like a cheap motel.”
Someone said the town had successfully fought these grandfathered plans in the past and they would fight this one. Someone else responded that the only way to guarantee the island’s survival was to buy it. Someone else said it was still too much money. And Douglas promised that his family would construe the plan as liberally as possible. To which someone whispered, “Like you construed your first marriage?”
Finally, someone called, “Move the question!” and the voice vote was taken: A resounding no to the article, 1904 plot plan notwithstanding.
“My ear tells me the measure has been defeated,” said the moderator. “We’ll count only if there is a motion.”
“So moved!” cried Rake Hilyard.
“Stubborn old bastard.” Geoff had to laugh in admiration.
And the crowd groaned. It was hot. Fans were flapping, and the mosquitoes had picked up the scent of two hundred sweating bodies wafting out the open doors of the gym. But Rake Hilyard never quit.
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