“Godspell,” said Tom and Libby together.
Tom grudgingly left to fill the pot with seawater. When he returned Gwen stood in the kitchen doorway. Gwen was too hungry to wait for them to decide how to cook dinner. She took the pot from him, water sloshing, saying, “We got it from here. You’re in charge of cocktails. I’d like a Shirley Temple.” While the water boiled Gwen and Libby watched the lobsters stumble and clunk in the sink. Danny spread the inside of a baguette with garlic and butter. Carole King felt the earth move.
The five of them sat at the dinner table. At first there was just the cracking of shells as everyone tucked into their plates. Gwen wished that Kerry and Buster were here. One of them usually got full, or lazy, partway through the meal. She always sat between them.
“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.