“You’re a good salesman, but truly I am thinking about it.” I glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late, Ted. Let’s talk again in the morning.”
“Love you,” he said.
Smiling, I replied, “Love you too.”
The next morning, I was on my way up the stairs to my office when Betty Buttz, who was going down, stopped me. She was wearing her usual uniform—oversized red-and black-checked flannel shirt, jeans with three-inch cuffs, and scuffed leather boots.
“Talk to an old oceanographer, Mara, while she catches her breath.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I joked, “Old oceanographer?”
She grabbed the handrail and slid down onto the stair. “I turn eighty next month. Feels like a hundred.” She patted the step. “Sit.”
I sat.
“To be honest, it’s hard to believe I’m that old,” she said. “Seems like last year I was on Knorr’s fantail bringing up deep-sea sediment cores.”
“Knorr was a WHOI ship, wasn’t she?” I asked.
“She was a workhouse of WHOI’s research fleet for many years. They eventually sold to the Mexican navy, but I’m not sure just when.”
“Ted’s down in Woods Hole right now. He’s working with the glider research team. In fact, he’d like me to join him.”
“So what are you doin’ here?” she asked.
“Believe me,” I said, “you’re not the first person to ask. You were at WHOI for, what, thirty years? What was it like?”
“Thirty-five,” she said. “I absolutely loved it. Months at sea studying everything from ocean currents to deep-sea sediments? Early on, I could’ve done without the anti-female stuff though.”
“Like what?”
She snorted. “There was the time when Knorr’s bosun wouldn’t let me assist with deployment of the coring gear because women, he said, were a distraction on the fantail. He drew a chalk line across the deck and told me to stay behind it, if you can believe that.”
Picturing a much younger Betty glaring at the crewmate, I asked, “So what did you do?”
“Rubbed out the chalk with my foot, of course, and took charge of the coring operation.”
“But besides dealing that type of thing,” I asked, “Woods Hole was an exciting place for you, wasn’t it?”
“None better for a marine scientist, in my view. Little village that looks out over Vineyard Sound, with the Marine Biological Laboratory and NOAA Fisheries Lab on one side of the drawbridge, and WHOI on the other side? Some days there were three lunchtime lectures I couldn’t choose between. And if you’ve got a question, dollars to donuts there’s a scientist in town who’d be happy to help you.”
“So I hear, Betty. So I hear.”
60
Waiting in my office for Alise, I shot off a quick email to Ted. “Just talked to Betty who said ‘there’s no better place for a marine scientist’ than Woods Hole.”
Ted, who I guessed was catching up on his messages, instantly got back to me. “I always said she was one smart lady. Eccentric but awfully smart. So does this mean…?”
My reply consisted of a dozen question marks.
Alise breezed in. “How’re you doin’?” As usual, her T-shirt had an environmental message.
“Nice shirt,” I said. “I see the word ‘climate’ but can’t make out the rest.”
She grinned. “Climate 101: 1. It’s Getting Warmer: 2. It’s Us: 3. We Are Sure: 4. It’s Bad: 5. We Can Fix It.”
“The positive note at the end is really good,” I said. “If scientists want to reach the public, it can’t be all gloom and doom.”
“Yeah, that’s why I liked it.” She handed me a typed list. “Speaking of the public, here’s the schedule for this afternoon’s Eel Symposium. I doubt many nonscientists will stay for the whole thing.”
I scanned the list. “See what you mean. ‘Behavioral Response of Glass Eels to Amino Acids’ and ‘Otolith Microstructure of Glass Eels from Iceland’ isn’t going to keep them there.”
It was the students who saved the day at the Eel Symposium. Intentionally, I was sure, Nick Fisher had scheduled early presentations about eels in the Sargasso Sea that would appeal to Spruce Harbor science fans. Sure enough, his students thoroughly engaged the audience with terrific photos from the Intrepid cruise—sunsets, deployments off the fantail, snorkeling around seaweed mats, and porpoises riding the boat’s wake. In between, they talked about their research on eel spawning and migration, with just enough data to inform but not overwhelm.
The audience thinned after the break, but enough MOI scientists returned so presenters didn’t feel as if they were only speaking to each other.
After the last talk, Nick Fisher walked up to the podium and said, “Thanks to all of you—participants and audience—for making our first American Eel Symposium a success. Before you go, Maine Oceanographic Institute director Dr. Frederick Dixon has an important announcement.”
As Nick stepped away from the podium, I was amazed to see both Harvey and Dixon walk across the stage.
Dixon, a good half-foot taller than Nick Fisher, adjusted the microphone before he spoke. Then, beaming, he said, “I have delightful news to share with you. Dr. Harvina Allison has agreed to take on the prestigious and challenging position of MOI chair. The present chair, Seymour Hull, will begin a well-deserved sabbatical at the end of the month. At that time, Dr. Allison will take over as chair. I invite you to congratulate her now.”
As Dixon stepped aside and lowered the microphone for Harvey, everyone in the auditorium stood. The clapping and whoops were deafening.
A little dazed, Harvey smiled and nodded her head. It looked like she was also saying, “Thank you, thank you,” but I couldn’t hear her above the applause. Finally, the audience sat down as we waited for her to speak.
Her gray eyes shining, Harvey said, “Thank you all. No one could have a warmer welcome than that. This isn’t the time for speeches—you’ll hear enough from me later, I’m sure. The next few weeks is a transition time, and I invite you—in fact, I ask you—to talk to me. MOI is a remarkable institution, but we all have ideas about how things could be even better. What are yours? Is funding the only thing holding you back? Do grad students need more support? There’s been talk of more engagement with the public. Does that interest you? What facilities need upgrading? So, please, and I’m serious, talk to me.”
And with that, Harvey strode off the stage as the scientists, students, and staff jumped to their feet once more.
As the crowd filed out, their grins, thumbs-up, and happy chatter clearly conveyed delight about their soon-to-be chair. The one person who I guessed was somewhere between unhinged and bewildered by the situation—Seymour himself—seemed to already be out of the picture. If he hadn’t been consistently nasty and mean-spirited, I would have felt sorry for the man.
On my way out of the auditorium, someone from behind tapped me on the shoulder. Turning, I was amazed to look straight into navy-blue eyes I knew so well.
“Ted! What are you doing here?”
He snorted and said, “Mara, it’s great to see you too.”
“Um, this isn’t the best place to share hugs,” I said.
He led me into an empty row of seats to let people pass. “Dixon knows I’m Harvey’s half brother, so he emailed me about the announcement at today’s symposium.”
“When was that?”
“Yesterday. After our phone call, I decided to get up early, drive back to Maine, and surprise both Harvey and you.”
“She’ll be delighted. Of course, I am too.”
He took both my hands in his. “I’ve really missed you, Mara. Is there any way…?
Given the crowd walking by I could only finish the thought. “That we can work this out? I’m getting there, Ted. I really am getting there.”
THE END
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Several mystery writers, including Connie Berry, Lynn Denley-Bussard, and Judy Copek, continue to help me with encourageme
nt and editorial comments. Former detective sergeant and mystery author Bruce Robert Coffin offered suggestions about police procedures. I thank author Kim Camery Millick and writer and outdoorsman George Smith for blurbs, plus artist Sarah Blair for suggestions about the book cover. The good folks at Maine Authors Publishing continue to be immensely helpful.
I refer readers to my website for information about eel trafficking, plus climate change impacts in the Sargasso Sea and elsewhere. Teachers may find questions on the website useful in their classrooms.
I am so grateful for the enthusiasm and support of the Briggs family. Finally, the patience, wit, and ongoing support of my husband, John Briggs, continues to be a glorious gift.
Glass Eels, Shattered Sea Page 22