Cape Cod (30 page)

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 snapped, “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.

Those in favor of the article held up their voting cards first. Sixty or so, including Rake Hilyard. Not a bad showing, but not good enough.

“Geoff,” whispered Janice, “Rake is holding up your aunt’s hand. She isn’t doing it herself.”

“It’s the arthritis,” said Geoff.

“Are you sure?”

Geoff glanced over at Emily. Her hands worked steadily at her knitting. Her husband Arnie nodded off in the heat.
“They’re
not worried.”