“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. Not 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?”