Chapter 13
Business is booming. At the docks and on the boat, Cece moves with the kind of quiet confidence that only comes from repetition.
A single task—dropping a cage, priming the motors, and sorting oysters—done so many times it’s become an extension of her.
There is no thinking, no second-guessing; there’s only the invisible checklist in her head that needs to get done before the sun slips to other side of the world, where other fishermen, just like her and Santiago, are rising before daylight breaks to push their boats from the shallows and cast their nets.
Some days, Santiago lets Cece take the boat out by herself while he stays on dry land to help Davi with his SAT vocabulary words.
The prep classes aren’t working the miracles they’d expected, and Santiago has promised his wife they’d use whatever free time they could to cram, a condition for Davi joining them again.
Cece is more than happy to work alone, thrilled by this newfound responsibility.
It’s a strange feeling to be trusted by Richie and Santiago to get the job done, and she doubles her efforts, working as fast as she can without cutting corners.
Pretty soon, she’s finding enough time in the day to harvest the day’s catch, sort the oysters, and maintain the equipment on the docks.
“Take it easy,” Santiago says from the shade of the maintenance shed, a stack of oil-stained index cards in front of him. “You’ll put me out of a job.”
Cece runs a forearm across her mouth. “I’m seasonal. Remember?”
“Richie’s gonna need all the help he can get with the expansion over in Mamacoke.”
“I thought that was all tied up in—”
“Bureaucracy,” Davi says with a big smile. “One of my words.”
“Exactly,” Cece says.
“Nah,” Santiago says, and spits onto the hot gravel, “can’t stop progress. It’ll happen. Richie’s got a plan.”
Cece just smiles and heads back to the docks, where she washes down the boat with fresh water and sets up the cages for tomorrow.
There’s a distinct pride she’s beginning to take with the work: the appearance of the boat, the timeliness of their deliveries to the distribution center, and the quality of their oysters.
A few weeks later, Richie calls Cece down to the office.
Her efforts haven’t gone unnoticed. Product is being delivered faster than ever without any complaints about quality.
To boot, Santiago’s put in a good word for her.
Even though Richie is delivering welcomed news from behind his slovenly desk, his dour tone and ragged nails tell a different story.
His face, already wrinkled and worn, is cavernous today, cheeks hollow, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes.
He wants to know if Cece’s willing to see the other side of the business.
“The money and the bullshit,” he says with a weary smile.
Cece looks around at the swollen filing cabinets and stacks of manila folders overflowing, she imagines, with long-forgotten invoices, bank statements, and tax documents. “You mean like secretarial work?”
“Not necessarily. You’d be learning about how the business really functions. The numbers and such.”
“I prefer to be out on the water.”
“I figured,” Richie says, sounding roundly defeated.
“It’s a funny thing. My son was the opposite.
Didn’t want anything to do with the boat or the oysters themselves.
You know…get his hands dirty. Was only willing to putter around the office.
Imagine that. Something like six generations of Rayburns working on the water’s gonna end with me.
It wasn’t always oysters, you know…It was whaling back then, when New London was something to behold.
Those were boom times, but they didn’t last. We hunted sperm whales to near extinction, then kerosene came along.
Those were lean years, or so I’ve heard.
Between then and now, there were other ventures, boatbuilding, some commercial fishing.
My great-grandfather was the one who got us into our current line of business.
You’ve gotta remember, that was when we still had wild oyster beds…
I’ve seen old photographs. Just about the most beautiful thing you could see.
They’ve all mostly disappeared, of course, gone the way of the sperm whale…
but we’re keeping on. That’s why we’ve got to secure this Mamacoke expansion and grow the industry sustainably. ”
“Where’s your son now?”
“Brooklyn. He works for a company down there. Renting out virtual spaces or something. I don’t quite understand it. What even is a virtual space? Doesn’t make sense.”
She wonders if this is how Kim feels about Cece’s current employment ventures, bewildered and flabbergasted at her daughter’s unwillingness to follow the plan, the path she’d laid before her.
Before she can offer Richie comfort, he’s on to the next thing, trying, in vain, to organize reams of opened mail on his desk.
There’s something sad and pathetic about witnessing his attempt to bring order to the chaos of the office, but Cece resists the urge to help.
She can’t be relegated to paper pusher. She won’t allow it.
Something clatters to the floor, envelopes and documents flutter and slide. Richie curses his clumsiness and gets on all fours. Cece helps clean up and spots an official-looking letter.
July 19, 2018
Richard Rayburn
P.O. Box 348
Mystic, CT 06355
Dear Mr. Rayburn,
Pursuant to the bylaws of New London County, the Zoning Commission hereby notifies you of a Town Hall meeting scheduled for noon at City Hall on 8/22/2018, at which the matter of building permit #956718 will be discussed.
This meeting has been convened in response to the collection of at least two hundred signatures (the threshold for convening a public hearing) of residents who oppose the proposed project.
As stipulated by the County’s regulations, residents who have expressed opposition to the issuance of this permit are entitled to a public forum to voice their concerns.
While the majority sentiment expressed by the public may be considered in the Commission’s deliberations, please be advised that the Zoning Commission retains sole and final authority over the approval or denial of the building permit.
We respectfully request your presence at the Town Hall meeting to present any pertinent information or responses to the concerns raised by the public, as this may inform the Commission’s review process.
Sincerely,
Hollis P. Angstrom
Chairperson, Zoning Commission
New London County
“When did this arrive?” Cece says.
“What?”
“This notice about the town hall.”
“Last week, I think,” Richie says through labored breath. “Pain in the ass, really.”
All summer Lorraine had been hard at work building a grassroots opposition.
Now they were running like a well-oiled machine, blanketing neighborhoods with their fearmongering pamphlets and hosting summer barbecue socials with like-minded NIMBY folk.
There were even rumors of a protest at the Rayburn farm in Noank.
There’d be no compromising with Lorraine.
Cece knew she wouldn’t rest until having it out in a public forum.
“What will you do?” Cece says, trying to smother the panic in her voice.
“I’m still working on that. I mean, I knew we’d have to jump through some hoops in terms of permitting.
But I wasn’t really anticipating any serious pushback,” Richie says while he stands and stretches his long legs in their faded blue jeans.
“The build permit was supposed to be granted already, but with all this damn public outcry, the board delayed it and scheduled this town hall instead…The thing is I thought it was a done deal, so I went ahead and secured financing for the project and purchased the necessary equipment…brand-new tumbler, new racks. I even put a down payment on a second boat. If this thing gets pushed back, Cece…maybe I can hold out a few months, but I stand to lose everything.”
So, this isn’t just the Mamacoke expansion, Cece realizes.
The whole business might go under. How could Richie have been so foolish?
Why hadn’t he waited to get final approval before sinking money into the project?
Cece knows that isn’t how it works. He hadn’t done anything wrong—she’s just angry, furious even, at the prospect of losing Rayburn completely, the only job that’s ever truly sustained her.
Just when she’s found her footing, Lorraine and her zealots are going to wipe it all away.
They don’t care about the environment or the historical preservation of the city; the only thing they’re interested in preserving is their property values.
Even though she’s aware of it happening, even though she can identify it, Cece starts to spiral.
Worst-case scenarios loom like rogue waves on the horizon.
Without the oyster farm, without Santiago and Davi, Cece will be forced to take another actuary job, commute to the city, wear pantsuits, eat obscenely priced salads at her desk.
Admit her mother was right…Without this, there’d be nothing tying her to this place.
If Rayburn closes, she’ll be forced to contend with her desire to remain in New London for reasons beyond the job—an act of self-reflection she fears deeply.
“When’s the first payment due on the loan?” Cece asks, the vaguest outline of an idea forming in her head.
“Thirty days, but it’s not the first installment I’m worried about, it’s the second, third, and fourth. These activists could tie this project up for decades. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Why didn’t you mention any of this? Does Santiago know?”
“I thought you said you didn’t want to deal with the money and the bullshit. This is most definitely the bullshit.”
“Maybe I’ve changed my mind. Ballpark. How many payments can you make?”
“Four. Five at the most.”
“Then we have time.”
“For what?”