Gwen and Libby looked at each other quickly in shared awkwardness and guilt, lounging in their bikinis while Remy’s daughter, muscled and mud smeared, had just literally brought their dinner up from the bottom of the harbor. As the boat putted away to join the circles of other lobstermen chugging from pot to pot, Gwen and Libby shook their heads and laughed. It was just part of being summer folk, embarrassing themselves like that in front of the locals.
Gwen had always wished Remy had a son. She loved lobstermen. The way they talked; the way they looked in short sleeves and waders, hauling on lines; the way they watched her motor in too fast to the town dock before throwing the thing into reverse at the last moment.
“Gonna drop an engine one day, Gwen. That ain’t no sports car.”
“Yeah, but it sure drives like one,” she’d say with a wink.
She liked the way, after spending an afternoon anchored in a cove with a lobsterman, she’d smell of salt and mud, streaks of it up her back, down her legs. She didn’t need to go in the cabin like the local girls; she’d do it right there on the engine cap, on the pulpit. To them she was spoiled and beautiful and on the fast track to nothing good. They’d say this to her, as she led them up the back steps. “You’re nothin’ but trouble.” Despite her leaps off the ferry tower, her drinking with the locals on someone’s boat, bringing those locals into her house, her bed, she knew she’d always be a bit of a joke, a bit of a legend.
That evening, Tom and Libby stood in front of the soapstone sink full of lobsters and seaweed. Melissa hid out in the rug room, taking refuge in a crossword. Gwen was beside them at the stove while Danny sat at the kitchen table messing with an old tape deck. The whir of the deck fast-forwarding changed pitch with the varying strength of the ancient motor. Libby and Tom argued. They reminded Gwen of their parents, of their parents before Danny came along. It was silly and sad, but also soothing.
“You must get the water to a rolling boil and then drop them in,” said Libby slowly, as if giving instructions to a caterer.
“No, you have to start them off in cold seawater, then bring it to a boil. It’s the humane way to go,” said Tom.
“Are we cooking lobsters or are we euthanizing them?” said Libby.
Gwen laughed as she changed one large pot for an even bigger one. Libby, so straightlaced, could always be counted on for the unexpected zinger.
“You got an opinion there, G?” said Tom.
“Nope, I’m just the sous-chef. I do as I’m told, though I don’t think it matters if you use seawater or not.” She wasn’t about to get involved in their age-old lobster fight.
“Of course it matters,” Tom and Libby said together.
“Why don’t you hypnotize them?” Danny suggested. Tom and Libby ignored him. Gwen picked up a lobster from the sink and brought it over to Danny, setting it next to the tape recorder.
“God, this isn’t even the right pot.” Libby stormed out of the kitchen and into the pantry. They heard the rattle of pot and lid, the crunching of paper, and the skittering of kibble across the painted wood floor.
“Why do we still have dog food?” said Gwen.
“Aw, Beardsley,” said Danny. He stuck out a pouted lip. Gwen mirrored him.
Tom tried to convince Gwen of his system; she nodded, an expression of utter seriousness on her face.
“Just like frogs, if you throw them into boiling water they jump out. If you put them in cold water and slowly bring up the heat, they won’t even know they’re being boiled to death.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward Gwen. “She’s being such a child, always wanting to have things her way. Half the time she acts as if we’re all guests in her house. Like she’s the hostess in charge of who sleeps where and which boats can be used on what days, and how to cook—”
But here was Libby again, marching forth with the largest pot. Handing it off to Gwen, she pushed up her sleeves and gripped the rim of the soapstone sink as if about to jump into it. They continued to snap back and forth, “They’ll cook unevenly if you put them in one at a time,” “But you’ll run the risk of overcooking them if you start from zero.” Libby pulled a beaten and stained copy of The Joy of Cooking down from a wooden shelf and held it open toward Tom. He rolled his eyes; he had seen that page dozens of times. Gwen wished she had popcorn. She sat down next to Danny, holding the pot in her lap like a great oval cat.
“They’re really channeling the B.O.B. on this one,” she whispered.
“She went for the cookbook too early,” Danny whispered back. “She should’ve built up to it.”
“Lobstermen don’t use cookbooks, Libby,” said Tom.
“So now you represent the masses for us? How nice. I’m glad you can keep us in touch with the people, Tom. Are those Teamster loafers you’re wearing?”
Libby spent six weeks a year in this house, cooked lobster at least twice every summer. She had complained to Gwen for years that Tom thought he understood the task better. That he was somehow more in touch with this place than she was. Gwen thought it was hilarious that it all mattered so much to her sister. Cooking lobsters and tying up boats; how hard could it be? As long as you didn’t poison anyone, and the boats were still there in the morning, job done.
“How is cooking lobster a class issue?” Tom demanded. Gwen had seen this fight many times before, but it was always different. Like a photograph of the same spot at different times of day. Maybe she should go back to photography. It was all so much simpler—click, capture, done. Painting was visceral, all emotion and misunderstanding. Maybe that was why she resisted acrylics as her medium, too much mess. Watercolor gave her the strokes without the heaviness, the colors without the texture of the medium itself, though certainly still visceral.
The rest of them couldn’t see the picture they were part of, except Danny. She sometimes thought Danny could see through time, deep into the universe to some dark star. He was still a kid, after all, and kids have magic and vision. She watched Danny as he held the lobster upside down on the table, balancing on the tripod of its head and claws. Danny slowly rubbed its green back, and its flapping tail calmed and its claws relaxed. He smiled up at Gwen and she took the now limp lobster from him and placed it on a bed of seaweed in the sink.
She heard the tape deck click, Carole King suddenly sounding bright and strong through the kitchen for a second. Then Danny stopped it, the music replaced with a whirring. Gwen took sticks of butter from the freezer and stacked them on the kitchen table. Just keep things rolling. Libby slammed a saucepan down on the stove, and Tom leaned on the counter watching her and aggressively bit his nails. Danny pressed play again, more Carole, then click and whir, then play again.
“Dear God, Dan, just play it or don’t,” said Gwen as she took the lobster pot from the stove and shoved it at Tom.
“I was just hoping there was something else on this tape. Guess it’s this or Godspell.”