“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.
22
Island ACKtion
TOWN SELECTMEN KNOCK DOWN HARD ARMOR PROJECT
May 21, 2013
Well, damn it. Cissy Codman couldn’t work her magic. There’s a first for everything.
After a year’s worth of work, a year’s worth of research, and hired experts, and God knows how many millions of dollars, the Board of Selectmen struck down Cissy Codman’s Damage Prevention Project by a vote of 4–1.
Both sides presented compelling cases. There was charm and history and storied homes on one hand, erosion on the other. The proposed measures will do more harm than good, a geologist told the group. And so the no’s prevailed.
“Sounds like one seawall really means two, which means ten or more,” says one selectman, who wishes to remain anonymous. “Where does it end?”
Where does it end, indeed. According to Cissy, not here.
“The battle isn’t over,” she says. “There are other options.”
More options. Fantastic. Can we go back to reporting on celebrity sightings and white parties?
As for Cissy, rumor has it she will finally move out of Cliff House, within the next twenty-four hours no less. It’s a temporary situation, she claims, until she has a chance to relocate the home a few yards off the bluff.
To date, we here at Island ACKtion have not expressed a viewpoint on the proposal but let’s say this. We love living in a place where a fired-up Cissy Codman exists. But it does seem like the most logical conclusion was reached. RIP Cliff House. You will be missed.
* * *
ABOUT ME:
Corkie Tarbox, lifelong Nantucketer, steadfast flibbertigibbet. Married with one ankle-biter. Views expressed on the Island ACKtion blog (Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, et al.) are hers alone. Usually.
* * *
23
The Book of Summer
Harriet E. Rutter
June 30, 1941
The Venerable Cliff House
I found this darling book today as I brambled about Cliff House, waiting for Ruby to conclude some verbal dust-up with her little brother, the erstwhile “Topper.” They were haggling about the war or some such. Those two. Like twins, without the telepathy or mutual understanding.
I’ve had grand fun ticking through these pages, reading about guests past. It’s so quaint, so charming, so very New World. It makes me adore these people all the more. I hope they write in this book for a hundred years to come.
Anyhow, these days everyone’s all a-flutter about the upcoming 4th of July theatrics. There’ll be no fireworks this year, more’s the pity, but I suppose enough bombs are going off for now. Instead they’ll host some sort of water carnival and a sky parade. The paper said they plan to drop animals, clowns, and fish from a plane. Clowns from a plane? This must be a typesetter’s error but oh how I pray that it’s not!
The spectacle will be followed by a Yacht Club dance, which Ruby expects me to attend with her brother, provided tomorrow’s dinner goes as she dreams. Oh that Topper Young. Poor kid. Rumor does paint him as a suave and handsome sort but I doubt he’ll relish his big sister’s assistance in matters of the heart. Either way, I’ll make sure we all enjoy some fun this summer. That much I can guar-an-tee.
Until later, I remain, yours
truly,
Hattie R.
24
RUBY
July 1941
As they sat in the dining room of the Yacht Club, Hattie Rutter glowed and crackled like a blaze. Her hair, her cheeks, her lips, all a fireball brand of red. She had on a dress, God love her, a maize Parisian number so impeccably tailored she’d make a military fella look a wreck. And beneath it all, breasts that were high and full like a moon over water. Ruby longed to quiz Hattie about the specifics of her foundations—she could do with a little perk-up herself—but it was too crass, even for the summer and the beach.
Plus, there were things more pressing than the pertness of one’s breasts. For all of Ruby’s talk about Topper’s dash, his suave bewitchery, the man was seriously rough. Possibly hungover. Like he was going to capsize.
Topper’s hair was greasy and matted, his face sweaty and pale. He spoke in the rambling, slurred manner of a drunken vagrant as he smoked cigarette after cigarette, barely letting one extinguish before taking flame to the next. Not even Ruby could ferret out the handsome devil within him and she always saw the best in her brother, as a rule. It was a wonder Hattie hadn’t excused herself to the ladies’ and wiggled out the window.
“I can’t believe FDR still thinks we can stay out of this war,” Topper said.
“He doesn’t think we can, he hopes we can,” Sam returned. “Two different things.”
Ruby’s husband and brother were pecking at each other like a couple of roosters. Something about the recently announced Russian invasion. Bolsheviks. Two equally hateful countries duking it out until their deaths. Ruby took a few slugs of her sloe gin fizz to stave off an encroaching headache.
“Nothing,” Topper said, mindlessly tapping his fingers as he stared out at the harbor. “We’re doing nothing. Bunch of yellow-bellied pansies.”
“Speaking of yellow, what’s that color you’re wearing, Hattie?” Ruby asked, trying to direct the conversation back toward the prettiest dame in the room. “Would you call it a Naples yellow? It sure is nifty!”
She was awkward as hell, but Ruby had to do something.
“Huh.” Hattie shrugged. “Never thought to check. I just call it my yellow dress from France.”
“Well, you look sensational,” Ruby said, and meant it.
Hattie Rutter’s fashion sense was bar none, yet she always seemed desperately clueless about it. “My yellow dress,” for Pete’s sake. Hattie had a gift, an innate gift. Style spilled right onto her.
“Whaddya think, fellas?” Ruby asked. “Isn’t Hattie just beyond?”
“Now’s the time to strike,” Topper said. “While Hitler’s focused on Russia.”
“Boys.”
Ruby slammed both palms on the table and rose to partial standing. The men startled, and every adjacent party turned to stare. With a mad blush, Ruby slowly lowered herself back down. Mother would hear about this within the hour and likely have her head.
“Can you please,” Ruby said between gritted teeth. “Can you please, for the love of all that is holy, shut up about Hitler and pay our new friend the slightest respect? Every man in this cotton-pickin’ joint developed a puppy crush on her before the salads were out. What’s wrong with you two? Communists and Nazis, when this stunner’s at our table. For the love of God.”
“Oh, golly, Ruby,” Hattie said after a giggle and a gulp of gin. “You’re sweet as hell, but you don’t need to come to my defense.”
“It’s not about your defense. The point is…”
Ruby sighed. What was the point, exactly?
“I just wish these two imbeciles would stop jawing for a second and appreciate the scene that’s in front of them.”
“Honey,” Sam said, and placed a hand gently on Ruby’s knee. “I appreciate you like nothing else. No two ways about it.”
“Yeah, Red. Don’t take it so personal.” Topper’s eyes zipped all over the table, every which way but up. “Your friend’s a real doll. A dish times two. Sorry, Miss Rutter. We’re a mite single-minded at present. When the entire world is on the precipice…”
“Don’t think a bug about it,” Hattie said. “These are serious times.”
Topper gave her a quick salute and turned to get a better shot at Sam.
“We can’t wait around for Russia and Germany to destroy each other,” Topper said.
“No use getting emotional about it, old sport. FDR will dip his toes into this pool, by and by. But we need to be rational. Measured.”
“Measured?” Topper balked. “Wrong. We should send every goddamned tank, bomber, and able-bodied man overseas tomorrow. Hitler’s already wiped out an entire generation. He’s bankrupted the art and culture of Paris, London, and Rome. Fifty million people are starving, and that doesn’t even count the ones dying in forced labor camps. How many more countries will we let fall? How many people will die before we step in?”
“I’m telling you, we’ll step in,” Sam said. “Eventually. But it has nothing to do with saving folks halfway across the globe and everything to do with saving ourselves.”
“It must hurt to be that cynical and dead inside.”
“Topper!” Ruby chirped.
“No, no, it’s fine.” Sam patted Ruby’s knee again. “Your brother likes to shoot off. That’s his entire persona. Robert. You have to understand, this is about dominance and clout. The balance of power in Europe is the very reason the United States has reached its superpower status. And now that it’s threatened?” Sam blubbered his lips and took a drag of his cigarette. “We’re all up shit creek. Even Thomas Jefferson once fretted about what might happen if Europe operated under a single hand. This isn’t about ideals. It’s about maintaining our strength. And any action that threatens our formidable military force must be carefully considered.”
“Maybe to save the world we need to sacrifice our own.”
“Honestly Topper,” Ruby said. “Is this appropriate dinner conversation? Killing our countrymen?”
“You can’t look away,” Topper said. “Not even for a good meal, especially when others are going hungry.”
Ruby glowered at him.
“Half the stuff they print about the starvation and labor camps is fabricated,” Sam said. “Yellow journalism through and through, designed to tug at the heartstrings of impressionable students such as yourself. This country’s education system is turning out a bunch of pantywaists.”
“Good grief, Sam,” Ruby said. “You only graduated two years ago.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Sam went on, ignoring his wife. “Things aren’t peachy, but the papers embellish.”
With a scoff, Topper chucked his napkin onto his plate, which was still piled with meat. Ruby went to remove the discarded linen but found it already mottled with gravy. She glanced at Hattie and detected the hint of a smile, one eyebrow ever-so-slightly raised. What must she be thinking? Nothing good. She hadn’t said a word.
“Well, I’ve read,” Ruby said, trying to remove the stains from Topper’s napkin with the corner of hers, “the folks in the camps are being treated well. They’re even allowed to observe their religious practices without harassment.”
Topper snorted.
“I’m sure reports from Der Führer are as reliable as a drunk.”
He turned back toward Sam.
“We are all of us humans in this world. We should protect each other, not worry about arbitrary lines drawn by dead men or our own preeminence. Hitler is pure evil. He must be eradicated.”
“He is evil, I agree, but…”
“Stop it, you two!” Ruby barked, letting go of the last smidgen of pretense that the night could be saved. “We’re supposed to be having a nice dinner but you blockheads ruined it. Bolsheviks. A war we’re not even in. Hitler—at the dinner table! You boys are the worst! The positive end of good manners! Good Lord, Hattie, I am so very sorry. They are not normally this repellent.”
“Aw, don’t sweat it, Ruby,” Hattie said with a chuckle.
She leaned
over and snaffled a smoke from Topper’s pack. Hattie preferred French cigarettes, always at the ready with a package of Gauloises, but a lowbrow American brand could do in a pinch.
“I don’t mind talk of war,” Hattie said. “It’s more real than a Yacht Club romance, that’s for certain.”
“You shred it, wheat,” Topper said in approval.
Ruby blushed furiously and set to attacking her salad.
“But I have a question for you, our dear and oh-so-educated menfolk,” Hattie said.
She gave a cute smirk, and then sucked deeply on her cigarette. They all waited as Hattie exhaled over her shoulder, the smoke curling away in a seductive dance. As Ruby scanned the room, she noted every man in the place trying to catch a peek of this magnificent and rare bird.
“What about the Iceland rumors?” Hattie asked, honoring the table with her attentions once again.
“Iceland?” Ruby said, thoroughly flummoxed.
“Sorry if I sound ivory-tower about the whole deal, but I’ve been cut off from the real world these days, truth be told.”
“That’s exactly how it’s supposed to be on Nantucket,” Ruby groused.
Anyway, women weren’t supposed to be so politically charged. At Smith the only ones who moaned about politics were the bespectacled, down-at-the-heels pinko types. The gals with no beaux and tragic hair.
“Why would we send troops to Iceland?” Hattie asked. “Seems like a real crummy place to me. What would Nazis want with it, if the gossip’s true?”
“Iceland is a stepping-stone,” Sam explained. “An important stop between Europe and the States, as the Vikings demonstrated.”
“The Germans are Vikings,” Hattie said. “Got it.”
“But Hitler says he has no interest in our part of the world!” Ruby blurted out.
“Oh, Jesus H.,” Topper said. “Ruby. Please stop taking Hitler at his word.”
“It’s not that I believe him, it’s only that he must have his hands full so why…”
The Book of Summer Page 11
