“Let me crack those claws for you,” she would say, taking a small toll for the service. Or even better, one of them would be on a humanitarian kick and wouldn’t be able to stand the thing on their plate looking at them, and she would end up with an entire second lobster. She would scavenge anyone’s plate; she was not squeamish or picky—legs, tail fins, even antennae, like gnawing on fishy Twizzlers—she ate it all, the tomalley, the roe. If she could chew up the shell she would have. Gwen twisted the tail from the body of her lobster and let the liquid drain into the Royal Copenhagen punch bowl in the center of the table. The bowl was one of the few pieces left from their parents’ wedding china.
“Ewww, gross, it’s throwing up,” said Tom.
Libby had said this as a kid, a visceral reaction that she always had despite adoring lobster. And now it had to be uttered whenever someone drained their lobster—it was automatic, a compulsion, like the second half of “Shave and a haircut.”
Melissa was not a natural with her lobster, but Gwen admired her commitment. Having grown up in Ohio, seven hundred miles from the coast, Melissa hadn’t had proper lobster until she was in college. Once Tom started to bring her to the house, she became a true convert. She’d tear into her dinner, using both hands, always changing into a ratty T-shirt before dinner.
“You’re in my favorite outfit,” said Gwen.
“It’s my full-body bib,” Melissa explained. A scattering of shell bits lay around her plate. “I came up with this system when the kids were little. Bibs are inefficient, and what is a shirt, if not a full-body bib. This way, I can just toss it in the wash when I’m done. Easy.” Melissa was practical in all the best ways.
“Really you should patent the idea, just put a lobster on it and a slogan, and you’ll make a million selling it on Route 1 next to those lawn ornaments of the lady bending over showing her bloomers. You know, classy,” said Gwen.
“Like, bibs are for shrimps,” said Libby. “T-shirt bibs are for lobsters.”
“No, it’s got to be catchy. Get it?” said Tom. The table let out a collective groan.
“It should be something like: ‘Get Boiled,’” said Danny. “You know, like you’re getting wasted on lobster.”
“I like Tom’s idea,” said Melissa. “The shirt would read ‘Catch it!’, and the tagline can be, ‘For what misses the bib.’ Although that sort of makes it sound like an STD.”
“A delicious STD,” said Gwen.
“But, really, how is it different from a regular T-shirt?” asked Tom. “Aside from the marketing.”
“God, Tom, how is a stick up the ass different from a dildo?” said Gwen. “It just depends on how much you enjoy it.” Gwen saw Libby put a hand over her mouth as if willing a sip of wine not to come out of her nose. “I’m just kidding, T. I know we can’t make marketing jokes around you. Besides, I’m sure someone’s already beaten us to the full-body-bib punch. Bodybibs.com.”
“Probably. I’m sure ass-sticks.com is taken too,” said Tom. “You’ve got to get those domain names early if you want to control your brand.”
This degenerated quickly into a contest for who could come up with the most ridiculous domain name possible. Eventually the conversation circled back to the age-old question of making, but always forgetting, to eat the salad with their lobster dinner. Gwen felt salad was just a distraction.
“I think now is as good a time as any to talk about our finances,” said Tom.
“Leave it ’til later,” said Melissa quietly. She reached a hand toward him, but he sat back in his chair.
“I don’t think talking money is really how our forefathers wanted us to celebrate this day,” said Libby.
“Booze and lobster, on the other hand . . . ,” said Danny.
“Those are basically the building blocks of any good nation,” said Gwen. She and Danny clinked glasses across the table. Maybe she could fend off the topic; maybe they could derail Tom.
“I’m not saying we need to balance our budgets, but I do think we have some decisions to make,” said Tom. Libby refilled everyone’s wineglass. Gwen didn’t have one. Tom tried to wave her away.
“I’ll just top you off.”
Gwen watched Libby wink at Danny. Gwen had a low tumbler full of iced tea and mint, which she hoped looked like a rum cocktail.
“Melissa, how is Kerry doing at school, is she still going to tutoring or has that stopped?” said Gwen. She twisted a claw from her lobster and snapped it open at the knuckle.
“This is her first year without it. Dyslexia’s a bitch, but she’s figuring out her strategies.” Melissa used a tiny fork to dunk a sliver of meat into a butter dish.
“There is one piece of our inheritance that we haven’t nailed down,” said Tom. Even the subject of his own daughter wouldn’t deter him.
“That’s an unfortunate choice of words,” said Melissa.
“It’s time for us to consider selling the house.” Using a cracker, he crushed open his claws but looked up at each of them as he talked. “I know this is tough, but we need to be realistic.”
Libby and Danny looked at each other. Gwen had known this was coming. Tom wasn’t one to hide his feelings or string them along, but she had been hopeful. Hopeful that he would be too busy, too distracted, to bring this up now. Hopeful he would give them one more summer before they had to lose something else, or struggle to keep it.
She was tired of struggling. She wanted a true vacation, one from her struggles, her decisions, her insecurities. She wanted to be the reed in the river, rooted but flexible. Here in this house she would not be washed away by questions, here was a still point while the rest of the world drifted by: the torn roster for a 1959 Ping-Pong tournament tacked to the wall in the great room, the winner one Edmund Muskie. The black-and-orange battalion of the Social Registers from 1943 to 1972 sitting, frayed and mildewing, on a shelf beside a jar of dried sea urchins.
“I love this place”—Gwen waved her lobster tail—“and I can’t imagine someone else having it, but how much would it cost us if we split it? How much would we be spending for however many weeks a year?”
Tom looked slightly shocked. Good.
“That is exactly the type of practical question we need to be asking ourselves,” he said.
Gwen could see Danny crunching up his napkin and then smoothing it out only to crunch it up again. Stay cool, Dan.
“It could be more than just a few weeks,” Libby suggested. She had barely begun her lobster, still sucking on its legs. She had the reverse philosophy of Gwen. Libby liked to be the last one to finish, as if by virtue of being last she could actually eat more lobster. This infuriated Gwen, one of the few ways Libby could truly get to her. Libby savored her lobster while Gwen perched at the edge of her chair, a vulture on a dead tree.
Their mother’s chair at the end of the table was empty.
Tom sat in their father’s chair at the head of the table, a heavy chair with thick, wooden arms and a woven seat. He rested his elbows on the edge of the table, holding up his lobster-covered hands, looking a bit like a freshly scrubbed surgeon, afraid to touch anything. His lobster fully dismembered on his plate.
“Bibs, I know you love this place. Look, you’ve put more work into it than any of us. But you can’t afford this on your salary. Danny’s still got a year of school left, and we need to pay for that—”
“I can handle the tuition on my own,” Danny objected. “I don’t need you guys to pay my way.” Danny was mashing lobster bits into his potato with a fork.
“Shut up, Dan.” Gwen sighed. She was hunched over her plate, coming up for air with each sentence. “Mom left some money. Your tuition is covered. Don’t scare them, Tom. The house is its own issue.” And then she went under again, miniature fork in hand.
“Take it easy, G,” Dan whispered across the table at her. “Shellfish isn’t good for everyone.” Gwen narrowed her eyes for a moment but said nothing. No one else seemed to notice. No one is wrecking this lobbie for me. Not Tom. N
ot Dan. And not this goddamn baby.
“What you all need to figure out is what you can each afford,” said Melissa. “And if that’s enough to keep it up.” Tom looked at her for a moment, his wife sitting next to him. Her plate was a pool of lobster juice that periodically sloshed over the plate’s lip. Good thing she’s got her shirt bib on, thought Gwen.
“I think what Melissa means,” he said, gesturing at her as though she were a showcase, “is maybe we could pull it off—maybe—but, for me, for us”—he looked at Melissa here—“the sacrifice isn’t worth it. We’ve got kids. College tuition on the horizon. We’ve got other places we need to spend that money. You really want to dump all your inheritance into this house, Dan? Even if it will only buy you a few more years?”
“Hell, yeah, I do,” said Danny, grabbing a fistful of paper towel off the roll that sat on the table and wiping his hands. “You might be pretty comfortable sitting at the head of the table, Tom, but switching seats doesn’t mean you’re in charge.”
The table was quiet, the cracking of shells ceased for a moment. Gwen cheered silently in her head. She wasn’t sure she had ever heard Danny speak to anyone like that, let alone Tom. Danny looked pale and shaky. He dropped his fork, then picked it up. He scratched at his arm.
“Can I please just eat my lobster and then make any life decisions after dinner?” said Gwen, raising a hand to them as if to wave away an unsatisfactory dish.
Libby, who’d finally begun working on her claws, was struggling with the cracker, turning the lobster around on her plate, flipping it over, and then back again. Struggling, Gwen thought, to find the most efficient and yet time-consuming way to dismember her meal.
“Who has a knife?” Libby asked. Tom, sitting to her right, took her lobster from her plate, and with merciless efficiency, broke off both claws and the tail, drained the juice, and put the pieces back on her plate.
“Ewww, gross, it’s throwing up,” whispered Danny.
“Christ, Tom, you gonna feed it to me, too?” said Libby.
“Well, I knew you’d just end up spraying me if I let you wrestle with it any longer.” Tom got up and went into the kitchen.
Danny and Melissa started talking about wine versus beer as the correct pairing with lobster.
“He treats me like a goddamn kid,” Libby whispered to Gwen. “He’s got his own kids; he can act out with them. Of course, they’d rather be home with Grandma, who can’t keep their names straight. He’s always stepping over the line, taking the boat without asking, leaving the lights on at night, referring to Patricia as ‘your friend.’ Like a blind old man. She’s not my fucking friend. She’s the woman I fuck. Important distinction.”
“Maybe if you actually told him that, he might be able to make the distinction more easily,” said Gwen.
Tom came back in with the saucer of lemon wedges. Gwen, tipping the last of her empty shells into the Royal Copenhagen bowl, took a lemon wedge from the saucer now at the center of the table and began scrubbing her fingers with it.
“We’re not going to decide this in one night. Melissa’s right. Much as I loathe the idea, maybe we all need to do a little math. Nothing,” Gwen said, looking pointedly at Tom, “is out of the question. Let’s all relax and enjoy our vacation. No matter what we decide, this”—she pointed into the bowl—“is not the last lobster we’ll eat in this house.”
“Fair enough,” said Tom. “I appreciate you not wanting to make any decisions lightly, but by the same token, we need to consider the timing. We need to keep in mind good selling markets, investment strategies, school vacations, personal days. You name it. And the sad thing is, there are not an infinite number of days that we can be here together, make decisions, sign papers. Some of us actually want to retire someday.”
“We sold the sloop already,” said Libby. “I think that should be enough for now. Let’s just take this one step at a time. Boat by boat.”
“This is bullshit. Why are you all pussyfooting around him?” said Danny. “Look, a decision has been made, Tom. You’ve been outvoted.”
“Dan, that’s just not practical. We don’t even know if we can afford to keep it. Imagine what we could get for this place. Imagine what having that kind of financial security would be like,” said Tom.
Gwen already saw it in Danny’s face. Don’t do it, Dan.
“I don’t have to imagine. Libby’s got an offer for three mil sitting in her pocket. And we’re saying no.”
“God, Gwen, you told him?” said Libby.
“Was I not supposed to?”
Libby rolled her eyes.
“An offer?” Tom looked at Libby, who looked at her lobster. “Why is this the first I’m hearing of it?”
“It’s not the offer to accept, Tom,” said Gwen. “It’s some developer who would just bulldoze the place. I know you don’t want that.”
“No, of course not. But you know what I do want? To send both my kids to college. I want to give them the same debt-free education that we spoiled brats had. God, you three don’t even know how lucky we are. You want to say no to that money? You want Kerry and Buster living with me ’til they’re thirty because they can’t afford rent on top of student loans?” He was on his feet now. “Fine, then just give me seven hundred thousand dollars, and this place is all yours. You want to exist in your own walled-off little world, the three of you? Go right ahead. You’ll be buried alive in this place.” Tom slammed his napkin down on the table.
“Tom.” Melissa looked at her husband. “Loans can be paid back. We can work this all through. Libby’s right, you’ve got what you need for now.” She stood up beside him and put her hand on his arm. “If this guy wants the house, I’m sure there will be a whole slew of people just like him.”
“It was a handwritten note,” said Gwen. “Who knows if the guy was serious or even sober when he wrote it.”
“There’s one way to find out,” said Tom. He went into the china closet between the dining room and the kitchen, and returned with the rotary phone, its cord trailing behind it. He set the phone on the table next to his place and held his hand out to Libby. “The note, please.”
“Tom, you can’t be serious,” Gwen said. Libby didn’t move, but she looked at the sideboard. Tom followed her gaze, walked over, picked up her wallet, and opened it. The note was wrinkled and missing a corner. Tom dialed the phone, the sound of the rotary spooling out each number. He didn’t look at any of them.
“Voice mail,” he whispered. “Yes, my name is Tom Willoughby, you made an inquiry about our house on Vinalhaven. If you’d like to come and take a look at the place, we can discuss this further. We will be here until the twelfth. Again, this is Tom Willoughby, w-i-l-l-o-u-g-h-b-y. Thank you.” He hung up the phone. His color matched the lobster shells.
“Way to go, Tom, very respectful,” said Gwen, shaking her head.
“You are unbelievable,” said Libby. Had she not been elbow deep in lobster juice, Gwen thought Libby would’ve stormed out. “Danny is right. You’re not in control here. No matter what you think. You can’t do anything without all of our consent. Being the executor doesn’t mean anything,” said Libby.
Danny was silent, staring at his plate. Gwen was fairly sure he was crying. Melissa slid her napkin under the edge of Danny’s plate and stood up next to Tom.
“None of you need to make this decision now,” she said, rubbing Tom’s back absently. “You shouldn’t. Tom. Scarlet has only been gone for six months. You don’t need to lose this house in the same year. Give yourselves some time.”
This is how it must go at home. Melissa always talking him down, defusing his prickly, wired heart. Tom sat down. Melissa did too. He nodded. He reached for her hand.
“Sorry,” he said. “I just think this is an opportunity we need to seriously consider. I need us to. I need things too.” He coughed and scrubbed his nose for a second.
Libby bent over her lobster in concentration, working out the tail fins like loose teeth.
“We
’ll think about it, Tom. Everyone’s opinion matters,” Gwen said, looking at Danny. “We’ll make this decision together.”
Danny started to eat his baked potato fast, breathing heavily through his nose. The only one who’d wanted a potato, he’d cooked it in the microwave right before dinner.
“I like how the potato soaks up the lobster juice,” Danny said to Melissa, trying his best, “like a poor man’s shepherd’s pie, but with lobster.”
“A rich poor man,” said Melissa.
Tom leaned back in his chair, sighed. Libby held her lobster tail pinched in her fingers and dunked it liberally in the butter dish. Gwen watched her as usual, poised on her gnarled branch. Soon they would be done with dinner, and she could hide from this decision, from all decisions, in the dark of the porch, while the boys set off fireworks. Maybe it was time for a real cocktail.
SEVEN
DANNY
July 4
It was dark. They had waited almost too long, the neighbors’ weak fireworks long since faded from the sky. Their smoke was somewhere over Rockland now, mixing in with the city-funded pyrotechnics. Danny and Tom stood together on the float facing the house, both with hands on hips. Danny bent down and repositioned the colorful tube in a coffee can half filled with sand. Tom shook his head, pulled the thing from the sand or pushed it deeper. Back and forth. Danny couldn’t believe he had to stand next to Tom, to follow his instructions.
“Insert stay firmly in fireproof foundation,” Tom read.
Danny found that each direction did its part to remind the reader of the fireworks’ ancestral origins, coming off more like a koan or a haiku than anything remotely instructional. Danny was more of the light-it-and-run-like-hell school of thought. But for Tom it was always a slog, always take-it-slow and let’s-just-go-over-it-one-more-time.
This wasn’t rocket science, not exactly. It was mini rocket science, much like Libby’s Easy-Bake Oven, passed down to Danny in some hope of reversing centuries of gender profiling. He had used it as a parking garage for his fire engine collection. No, this rocket, like the oven, would not live up to its full-size version. It would fly but not terribly high.
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