Revenge of the Lobster

by Hilary MacLeod

  “Well, yes, and if they didn’t mate, where would we be?” Annabelle called out. It was meant as a good-humoured jibe, but in this group it had a deeper resonance. There was hardly a woman in the room who didn’t owe her living to the lobster industry. Annabelle fished lobster with her husband Ben. You’d never know it. She wore dresses with plunging necklines, used bright red lipstick and nail polish and wore high heels whenever she could. They looked great on her long, shapely legs. When lobster season began, she shoved her thick blonde hair into a baseball cap and put on jeans. She cut her fingernails, kicked off her heels, and put on rubber boots. She still looked great.

  Click. The image changed to a hand holding a blue-green lobster, poised over a kettle of boiling water. Hy relaxed. Now, surely, the woman would start talking about cooking.

  “And they feel pain. That high-pitched sound you hear when you drop a lobster in boiling water is a scream of pain. That clunking sound is not just the hard bodies knocking against the side of the pot, it’s living creatures clawing desperately to get out. To get out of hell.”

  Click. To an image of a giant lobster claw holding a housewife in an apron over a pot of steaming water.

  “How would you like to be dropped, headfirst, into a vat of boiling water?”

  Headfirst. April Dewey had always wondered if that was the right way to do it. She was the best cook in the village. Some people swore that the air of The Shores was scented, not just with the grasses and grains and tang of the ocean, but with the sweet, sweet smell of April Dewey’s blueberry muffins. April was always in demand for her wedding and anniversary cakes, which she topped with an all-butter icing that teenagers dubbed “to die for.” One elderly villager had done just that—died when he ate a slice, but he had died happy, a smile on his face and the half-eaten piece of cake clutched in his hand. It was no wonder Abel Mack said she cooked like an angel, praise she was too modest to fully accept. She’d go red every time he said it.

  “They are living breathing creatures. God’s creatures. Like you and I.”

  Click. A man inside a trap.

  Click. Two children struggling to get out of a trap.

  Click. A couple of human-sized lobsters standing on their tails, tossing naked humans into a bin in front of a fish shed on a wharf.

  Hy had to admit it was well done. It was also beginning to rival the Friday the Thirteenth fiasco.

  “Just imagine. You, your husband and your children, tempted into a new restaurant. Suddenly, the door closes on you. You’re trapped inside. You can’t get out. Your small children escape, but you are left—desperate.

  “A large claw comes and yanks you out, wraps your hands in thick elastic bands, drops you in a plastic bin, on ice. Shoves you in a truck and throws you in a tank, where you swim around until someone drops you in boiling water—headfirst, if you’re lucky.”

  So headfirst was best, thought April.

  Gladys Fraser glared at Hy.

  Worse, it was worse than Friday the Thirteenth.

  “Ladies, I am not here to tell you how to cook a lobster. You know how.”

  There were murmurs of assent. Hy was suddenly hopeful. Maybe things were getting back on track.

  “I could not begin to tell you how to cook lobster. You have loads more experience than I do. The fact is, I’ve never cooked a lobster. The reason is, I don’t think we should be cooking lobster at all.”

  “Should we be eating it raw?” Gladys whispered to Moira Toombs. Gladys, President of The Shores chapter of the Institute, was square and solid in build and nature. Some of the women were afraid of her because she always looked pissed off. She usually was. She certainly was right now.

  Moira tittered politely, but she hadn’t really been listening to what Gladys—or Miss Samson—was saying. She’d been staring at the guest, admiring her outfit. It was better than her own—and she was wearing the best Sears had on offer. She smoothed the wrinkle-free polyester dress. She put a hand to her hair. It was perfectly coiffed. Moira noted with satisfaction that she was, as usual, the best-turned-out woman in the Hall, guest included. The woman’s clothes didn’t fit right, Moira concluded, and would have looked much better on her.

  Moira thought April Dewey was a disgrace. Between her baking and her six children, she had little time for her personal appearance and could often be seen with flour in her hair or on her clothing. Today there was a smudge on her cheek. She couldn’t afford to be less than meticulous with her appearance, thought Moira. Neither could Moira, but she tried not to think about that. No matter how she primped, she couldn’t escape the misfortune of her looks. It’s what made her so critical of other people’s appearances—self-defence.

  When Camilla Samson said: “We should not be eating it at all,” April looked confused. Then why were they here?

  Gus, usually Hy’s staunchest ally, nudged her. “She’s right there, you know.”

  “Just because they’re ugly, doesn’t mean it’s okay to eat them. Don’t be fooled into thinking there are humane ways to kill them. It’s still killing.”

  Annabelle frowned at Hy. They were friends, but she wasn’t looking friendly now. Annabelle was going to be trapping lobsters herself in just a few days.

  This was making Friday the Thirteenth look good.

  When Hy had organized the program last February, she’d invited a Professor of Women’s Studies from the University of Toronto to convince the women that thirteen was a lucky number. Many of them thought having thirteen members was a jinx. They were always trying to recruit more, but whenever they signed up a new one, they’d lose one—someone got too old, too ill or died. They were constantly sending out condolence and get-well cards. They couldn’t get away from the number thirteen.

  The professor, Eleanore Walpole, had had a long Modigliani face and was draped in a black dress and shawl. She was the author of several books, including The Goddess in You, The Moon and the Matriarch and The Menstrual Earth. She’d told the women that the number thirteen was lucky for them because the thirteen lunar cycles represent women’s monthly rhythms, a sacred act. That had made a few of them squirm in their seats. Friday the Thirteenth was especially lucky, she’d told them, because the day’s name comes from Freitag, the Goddess of All Creation before male Christianity began burning and looting and killing in the name of God. That had made a few more women shift in their seats, Rose Rose among them.

  “So celebrate your womanhood—for you are all goddesses!” She had raised her arms in triumph. Everyone had looked at Rose. She was the one who’d been chosen to thank the day’s guest. She had done so with as few words as possible, her expression careful not to betray her real thoughts.

  “Interesting,” said Annabelle.

  “Different,” said Estelle Joudry, which is what she usually said.

  The neutral comments were the women’s way of saying they weren’t sure they liked what the professor had to say, but they were always polite to guests who took the time to come to speak to them. When they filled out their Institute booklets that day, under the heading: “What did I learn from the program?” most of the women dutifully wrote: “Thirteen is a lucky number.”

  Gus wrote: “We’re lucky to have thirteen.”

  It was true. Institute chapters all over the country were closing down as members got old and no young ones joined. The women of The Shores felt they had to keep the Institute going to keep the Hall going, so the village itself didn’t disappear.

  “Murderers!”

  The sound echoed through the hall and snapped Hy back to the awful mess today’s meeting had become. Camilla Samson moved from the podium to the front of the stage. She leaned forward.

  “If you have ever cooked a lobster, you are a murderer!”

  The ladies looked at Hy in varying degrees of shock, dismay, disgust and anger—even Moira’s sister, little Madeline Toombs. She barely scraped five feet i
n shoes, shopped in the children’s department, and was usually entirely unsure of what her opinion was or how it might be received. The way she was looking at Hy now was the closest she got to expressing her point of view—it wasn’t positive. Hy felt the tips of her ears burning red in embarrassment. This meeting was certainly not going to resurrect her reputation in the village. This woman hadn’t turned out one bit like her name or clothes suggested.

  “Shame, shame on you—murderers, all. Killers every one. You—” The woman pointed at Gladys.

  “And you.” Pointing at Madeline.

  “A murderer.” Her finger aimed at Moira.

  “And you. A killer.” Estelle.

  “And you.” Annabelle. “A slayer of innocent creatures.”

  “And you.” The accusing finger swept along the line of ladies.

  “Killers every one of you.”

  Yes. Much worse than Friday the Thirteenth.

  It was one thing to be called goddesses, quite another to be called murderers.

  The screen went dark and with it the room. Madeline, Estelle and Harold’s wife, Olive, scrambled over to the windows to pull up the blinds—anything to avoid that woman. That Woman was how the Institute members would always refer to Camilla Samson in the future. In the end, she turned out to have so many names, they didn’t know what else to call her.

  She was frozen there, her arm still outstretched, finger pointing at them. Each woman felt it was aimed at her, but Hy felt it most. It was all her fault. Madeline, Estelle and Olive stayed where they were; the rest sat still, looking anywhere but at the stage and the accusing finger. There was silence. Gladys was the one who was supposed to thank the guest. She turned to Hy, slid her forefinger across her neck in a slicing motion, shook her head, crossed her arms and turned back. Hy had to do it. She stood up and spoke—words she didn’t remember afterwards. There had been a lot of stuttering. She had not been able to look Miss Samson in the eye.

  The meeting broke up quickly. The women didn’t stay around longer than it took for the obligatory lunch—a snack of assorted sandwiches, cheese and crackers, homemade cookies, brownies and squares and a cuppa tea. They didn’t know what to say to someone who had just called them killers. They had filled out their Institute booklets, and under the section “What I learned today…” wrote:

  “Lobsters have feelings too.” Madeline Toombs.

  “Fishermen have feelings too.” Annabelle Mack.

  “Guest lecturers shouldn’t swear.” Rose Rose.

  “Guest lecturers should wear clothes that fit.” Moira.

  “Lobsters like to be thrown headfirst into boiling water.” April Dewey.

  And Gus: “Don’t eat lobster.”

  It turned out there was canned lobster meat in some of the sandwiches. Their guest bit into one by mistake and spat it out. It didn’t take long for the Hall to clear after that.

  Hy and Camilla Samson were left alone. Hy felt she should say something, but she didn’t know what, after the woman’s appalling rudeness. Was it cowardice or politeness that choked her words? Cowardice, she decided, plain cowardice. When she and the woman were back-to-back—Camilla putting away her slides and Hy stuffing her Institute booklet into her purse—she finally managed to speak.

  “I thanked you before, but I was just being polite. I take it back.”

  The woman turned. “I’m sorry—but it had to be done.”

  Now Hy turned around, still not able to look her in the eye.

  “But you lied. I thought—”

  “I know what you thought, but I didn’t lie, did I? What did I say?”

  Hy remembered the email had been abrupt, but she couldn’t remember exactly what it said.

  “I said I’d be happy to talk to the Institute about lobster. That wasn’t a lie. I’m happy every chance I get to promote the cause. That’s what I did.”

  It was true.

  “But the link to the website—”

  “All the link said was—”

  She pulled a piece of paper out of her leather portfolio and handed it to Hy.

  Lobster Lover? Catch us first. Cooking Lobster? Let our expert speakers fill you in.

  She had to agree—nowhere did it say that Camilla Samson would give cooking tips. That was Hy’s assumption. Even so—

  “You knew what you were doing.”

  Camilla closed up her portfolio and came down off the stage.

  “I’m a member of the Lobster Liberation Legion. We’re a militant animal rights group. We’re fighting a war, and in wars people get hurt. Worse than you.” She looked directly at Hy. Her eyes were intense—oddly so. Hy had never thought of light eyes as anything but cold, but these were burning with purpose. Hy’s own were slightly moist with tears of frustration. A series of emotions flickered across Camilla Samson’s face. Suddenly she looked younger, softer.

  “Look, it’s nothing personal,” she said. “Just tactics. It was—” she paused, “a group decision. I can’t change that.” Camilla didn’t usually offer explanations or apologies for her actions. She had become hardened to her purpose, but there was something about this Hy McAllister. Maybe it was the stuttering way she thanked her. Maybe it was the feeling that she and Hy had been alone even when all the other women were there. Camilla had seen the looks the women shot at the two of them. They were both outsiders, a different species.

  “These tactics are agreed on by our members. That website has got the word out to more people—”

  Hy pursed her lips, looking doubtful. “It’s dishonest—and you’re so strident. Don’t you think you could get your message across some other way?”

  “No.” Camilla’s eyes hardened. “You wouldn’t have invited me at all. And if I had just presented the scientific facts, these women would have fallen asleep.”

  “You could have given them a chance…”

  “Look at it this way. There’s nothing else those ladies will be talking about for the rest of the day, face it, the rest of the week. By tomorrow morning, it’s going to be all over the village. By this time next week, it’ll be all over The Island. All I had to do was take half an hour with thirteen people.”

  “Thirteen decent people whom you’ve offended.”

  “Even if I’ve offended them, I’ve got them thinking. I’ve got them thinking in a way that will get the message across much more loudly and much more clearly than if I’d come here and—” she’d seen what the minister’s wife had written in her booklet—“spoken politely.”

  Hy shrugged. She couldn’t really argue. People would certainly be talking, talking about Hy’s latest disaster. She would never be accepted if she kept pulling stunts like this. It was lucky she didn’t have to organize another program until next June. When she did, she swore it would be basket weaving. With her luck, someone would come to argue the rights of ornamental grass and corn leaves.

  Camilla was digging into her laptop case. She pulled out a DVD.

  “Here, have a look at this when you get the chance. Then maybe you’ll understand us better. Why we do what we do.”

  More propaganda, thought Hy, but she took it with as much grace as she could muster. “How will I get it back to you?”

  “Keep it. I have more. Besides, we may bump into each other again.”

  Hy let out a heavy sigh, fear and frustration bundled up in it. She hoped not.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “That would be telling.” Camilla smiled like someone hugging a secret, or teasing her.

  Hy had every reason to dislike her, but she couldn’t help smiling back. Camilla looked like she might be interesting to know in different circumstances, different clothes and on a different mission. She supposed her cause was admirable, if misguided.

  Camilla pulled out her cellphone and ordered a cab from Nathan. Hy was relieved. That meant she’d be taking t
he ferry out of here. So she had been teasing.

  There were a few moments of uncomfortable silence, but Nathan arrived quickly and honked his horn. Camilla left the Hall and Hy looked at the DVD. Its title was Liberating the Lobsters. Yup, definitely propaganda. More of the same she’d heard today. She threw it in her red leather shoulder bag, and forgot about it by the time she got outside where Gus was waiting for her.

  “Thought you might want a few words with her.” She smiled softly. Her eyes twinkled. Gus was an odd mix. She was a real old-timer with strong ideas about what was “fittin’” and what wasn’t, but she also liked seeing things “shook up a bit.” They’d sure been “shook up” today.

  “The look on Gladys Fraser’s face,” she said now. “So help me Hannah, I thought she was going to have a stroke.” She slapped her thigh and began to laugh.

  Hy grinned. Laughed in relief. Gus was great that way.

  “You’ll get some hard looks,” she warned. “Murderers is worse than goddesses. Much worse.”

  Hy remembered the real end to that other disastrous meeting. The professor had claimed goddess-given powers of perception. She had pulled Hy aside and said to her, “I see danger for you, in the night. I see water and dark and light.”

  Annabelle had overheard and given it a lighthearted spin.

  “Danger always comes in the night,” she said.

  But it was like the dream, Hy thought. Had the professor seen that? About the water and the light? Flashing? Was she seeing the past—or foretelling the future? Hy had felt faint and had needed to sit down.

  Now, she felt suddenly breathless.

  “Anything wrong?” Gus put a hand on Hy’s shoulder.

  “Nothing,” Hy shook off the memory. Nothing had happened, had it?

  “I guess I’m going to be on my own with ‘Ten Ways to Cook Lobster.’”

  Her tone was light, a lightness she didn’t feel.