What You Owe the Penny
by Robert P. Barsanti
The hurricane came, knocked out the power, and then left with the rest of summer. In its wake, the leaves have fallen, the hydrangea have browned, and the Bartlett’s tomatoes come pre-salted. Afterwards, September turned and the island slipped into the silence of fall. We walked up Centre Street in the early evening, dragging our feet in the early drifts of leaves until the departing ferry horn surprised us. A moment later, the wind rattled the nearly bare branches and Autumn rose.
September glistens. You wake up to cool, but cloudless Canadian skies, rolling waist-high swells, blackberries, corn, stripers, and empty bike paths. When you are lucky enough to stay, you get to loll about on the Admiralty porch and avoid the troubles and tribulations of Steamship Wharf and Route 6. The puffs of fog raced over head, the beverage warmed in my hand, and fish chowder cried its first breath in the back kitchen. There are worse ways to spend a morning. Most of them are on the mainland.
Nantucket doesn’t let you slip out the door in the fall. In July or August, the boat travels through continents of fog. You toss the penny at the lighthouse and then emerge from the curtains within easy distance of the Hyannis channel. By September, the air is clear, crisp, and glowing. You stand on the weather deck and watch the houses on Cliff Road and Lincoln Circle shrink as you back into the future. If you squint, you can almost see the golf balls leave the tee, the surfers stand on the wave, and the parking places on Main Street. After another few moments, Great Point Light is all that remains of the island until you hit the traffic lights and Back To School Sales of Hyannis.
On Labor Day, I stood on top deck of the Eagle and tossed my penny at the required moment. Next to me, a recent graduate had shattered into tears. There was a boy. There was a job. There was a party. And there was an airplane ticket, an apartment, and her senior year, in Boulder, Colorado. But she wouldn’t throw the penny. She wasn’t going to go.
You have to leave Nantucket; it is the ugly truth of island living. At best, you leave for a weekend or so, in order to watch the Red Sox, buy some clothes, and stop by Home Quarters for a new trash can. The island, although it has much, doesn’t have everything. We all need doctors and roller coasters.
At worst, you could be gone for some time. You could learn the rhythm of the lights and the rules of the shopping mall. The far-off roar of the surf becomes the buzz of I-90, the stars fade in the streetlights, and the air dulls and congeals. The island hides in your t-shirt drawer and lurks among the photographs. And it has to be that way.
We make a small world for our children. They will travel through school with their Wee Whalers classmates up until they cross the stage, shake with the right, take with the left. They play baseball with the same little boys that they broke pinatas with. They are the best their parents have; our finest work in this sandbox. But we need so much more than that.
For one thing, we no longer have the jobs we once did. After the last echoes of the boom have faded, the island has neither the construction work, nor the back office work that it once did. To stay out here is to starve. The familiar names and friendly faces at the banks and the utilities have been replaced with phones and binders. The doors to the entry level jobs are in New Haven and Plymouth, not on Old South Road. Contractors have contracted from flying hammer squads to one well-trained odd job man (and a shed full of aging tools.) There are no jobs for a boy with a broom. Meanwhile, the island demands rent, and it won’t take scallops and pebbles. Hungry babies prioritize your life and put you on the boat with a penny in your hand.
For another, we can’t teach you what you need. We have yet to build a college on Nantucket, although we have many frat houses. The secrets of chemical engineering and neuroscience can’t be collected on our sand. Further, we don’t have all of those eager, competitive thinkers and tinkerers clumped and clustered out here. The mind requires a hot-house for growth, whether it is in the rich compost of a law book or the acidic loam of mathematics. Out here, we can’t teach you how Beethoven sounds under the pines, what Winslow Homer’s brushstrokes look like, or how a ballerina can land a leap silently. We can’t even teach you how to ski or ride an elevator. The mainland offers a broad buffet, while Nantucket only offers a nice sandwich.
In six months, you are not who you were. Off-island, you can leave the box you grew up in. Anonymity wraps you in a pleasant blanket, No one will know you sing Beyonce on the subway, run in the rain, or buy Ring Dings at the Korean store on the corner. The shame of Wee Whalers and Junior Miss Talent remain out here in the sand and scrub, while your legal reputation climbs in New York. And the years go by.
Finally, there will be a night. You will look out the window into the orange suburban night, when the Honda gleams in the street light and the traffic has been dulled to a far off buzz. At the corner of your eye, you will catch the flash of light, then, five seconds later, another.
And you will know, deep in the salt of your blood, the five second flash of Great Point Light points the way back into time. You promised the penny you would be back. We need you. We need you smart and we need you sharp and we need you to carry forth into a future full of gray men who don’t understand the pleasure of sledding down Orange Street or sleeping on the beach at Madaquecham. Nantucket sends her children away after lodging the promise of home in their hearts. Come back, and take your pictures. Come back and write your novel. Come back and raise your children, and vote, and reshingle the roof. Come back, and mend what we have broken.
