The crab scuttled along the trail of food until it arrived to where Penny was sitting by the stove. It reached out its claws to beg for more, its antennae quivering in the air. Penny’s face lit up the way it does when she sees a baby. It used to be that she only looked that way at small children who were dressed in bow ties or patent leather shoes, but since we’d been trying to get pregnant, Penny had rechanneled her maternal desires to anything small and helpless. She cooed at small dogs dressed up in Halloween outfits. Babies, even funny looking ones with cone-shaped heads, were all greeted with squeals. She even kept a book, in her closet, of babies dressed up as fairies and day lilies and swaddled in the petals of a giant fake rose. I found it by accident, hidden away in a box of retired pumps which she meant to take to Goodwill. Penny clucked her tongue. “Oh! You are just a hungry little fellow,” she chirped.
“It’s not a pet,” I said. “That’s dinner.” I remembered, more or less Mimi telling me the same thing when I was ten years old and she brought home a rare and expensive delicacy—four lobsters handpicked from the salt tank at the grocery store. They resembled giant insects, and eating them was just about as appetizing to me as eating a cockroach. When released upon the kitchen floor, their claws bound tightly with rubber bands, they headed straight to the refrigerator, attracted to its oceanic green color and the drone that sounded like breaking waves. Mimi told me and my brother to go play outside. When we returned, the four lobsters were on a plate in the center of the kitchen table and boiled to a blister red. The fourth lobster, the smallest one—the one we for some reason dubbed Cupid—was to be split between my brother and me. I could only eat mine because Mimi broke into the shell with a pair of nutcrackers. Tom, a future vegetarian, refused his. I was invited to go fishing the next day with Mimi and Pappy while Tom fed the ducks with our mother.
The chatter crab, having been offered food, cheered empathetically. “Cynthia, those new bifocals are just darling!” The crab had less words for pleasure than it had for complaint, and so it began reciting its few expressions of joy over and over again, in the same intonation, so it sounded as though it were chanting. “Marvelous sunset. Marvelous sunset. Marvelous sunset.”
After the crab devoured a half-pound of prawns, I showed Penny how the crab would fall asleep it you stroked its head, just like it said in the cookbook. The crab hummed tunelessly in a human voice before drifting off to sleep, its claw resting in a pose of supplication on Penny’s knee.
Penny raised an eyebrow and gestured to my stomach. “You still hungry?”
“Yes!” I said, but didn’t really mean it. As a last ditch effort to persuade Penny of the ethical soundness of eating the crab, I went to Mimi’s bookshelf and grabbed a book about coastal history, and went to the page with the tin types from the late 1800s. A grizzled fisherman held up an arm without a hand to the camera to demonstrate the force of a the giant crab’s claw, which could cut through the wrist bone like it was nothing more than frayed rope.
I presented my case: If there was one giant chatter crab, there had to be more, therefore, there was little probability that we would be solely responsible for the extinction of a species. Secondly, chatter crab meat was legendary, so powerfully delicious that it had once served as a replacement for opium among the wealthy. Lastly, Mimi was going to die. Not any time soon, we hoped, but it could be any day now. Who knew how long it would take for the crabs to multiply enough for fishing? This was her last chance, and perhaps our last chance, to provide Mimi with the beloved dish of her childhood.
Penny’s face was motionless as she got up from the floor and brought out a giant pot from under the sink, which she filled with water and sat above two burners on the stove. She turned to me, hands on her hips, and cleared her throat. Her point capsized my flimsy argument: if we were going to eat this crab, then we would have to cook it. We would have to kill it, and it wouldn’t be at all like letting a mess of bluegill stiffen in a plastic bucket. For an instant, I heard the sounds Mrs. McCullen would make if tossed into a vat of boiling water.
The crab, oblivious that its life was on trial, had scuttled back under the table, where it was whistling in its sleep. The lobsters, I later learned, had tried to form a chain with their bodies in order to escape the pot boiling water.
“You wouldn’t eat a cocker spaniel,” I said. Penny smiled and kissed me on the cheek.
Mrs. McCullen (it’s what we began to call the crab—we couldn’t help it) was put in the garage, where we filled an old kiddy pool with ocean water. She splashed around in the water, and then submerged. The water was just high enough to come over her head and for her to blow water bubbles.
“Mama loves you, Conrad!” she squealed. “Who’s the best puppy dog in the whole world? Is it you? Is it you? Yes sir!”
“Is she waving to us?” asked Penny. The crab had lifted a claw above the water and, truthfully, it did look like she was waving goodbye.
“We’ll have to explain this to Mimi,” I said, as we got into the car to pick up Mimi’s cake from the grocery store. We figured it wouldn’t be that hard to convince Mimi that we shouldn’t eat the chatter crab. My grandmother was a law-abiding citizen, one who’d once given herself whiplash to avoid running a yellow light. Once she learned that chatter crabs were actually friendly and cute—perhaps even possessing a spark of intelligence—she would see that eating one was akin to eating one of the kittens on her Humane Society Calendar.
We’d be in the papers, surely. Maybe even on the local news—maybe even on the Today Show. We’d have to mow the lawn before the reporters came and I’d take down those broken planters off the front porch. We’d wait a few days before reporting it to the National Guard or whoever (we weren’t exactly sure who to report it to) since Mimi would definitely want to get her hair done if she was going to be on TV. Penny would cancel her appointments on Monday. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if anyone would miss me at the office, and to my own astonishment I no longer seemed to care about the six condos I had to sell by the end of this month. Life had a bigger purpose for me. The discovery of a previously extinct species was substantial. Almost as substantial as bringing new life into world. In a way, our discovery was more important to the future of the world than having a baby (although I never would tell this to Penny).
On the way back from the grocery store, Penny held Mimi’s cake on her lap, and was smiling and giggling as she talked about the legality of the contract she wanted to write up—one that would ensure Mrs. McCullen’s release back into the wild so that she would not be put into a Sea World aquarium. Penny tried to think of a legal precedent, but she couldn’t remember any. She counted the eighty small yellow flowers on Mimi’s birthday cake. There was so much anticipation about what was to come. I realized that this was probably what having a baby felt like—like there was something miraculous waiting for you at home.
We parked the car on the gravel road and walked towards Mimi’s freshly painted blue house. My heart lunged when I saw Mimi’s white Pontiac parked on the gravel driveway. She had come home from Bridge Club early. Penny grasped my arm. We looked at each other and ran. Penny held Mimi’s cake box in front of her and tripped as she flew up the stairs.
Through the door we could hear the TV blaring the Weather Channel, which Mimi watched religiously. Dread weakened my hand around the keys. I looked at Penny, who shoved the cake box into my arms and grabbed the keys from me.
When the door opened we could smell the lemon and garlic. “Mimi?” Penny called out, and bolted to the kitchen. I made a detour to turn down the TV and then stepped into the kitchen, where I saw Penny, white as bone and covering her nose with her hand. Mimi was at the counter, still wearing the heels she only wore to bridge club, chopping wedges of lemon and humming loudly above the sound of the Weather Channel. On the stove boiled the pot that Penny had used to prove her point earlier, so large and deep that it sat upon two grates. Steam escaped through the sides of the lid. It emitted no sound except for the steady gurgle of boilin
g water.
We both began to scream Mimi’s name, yelling and madly waving our arms like two castaways to a roaring plane. Finally, some noise must have penetrated through Mimi’s earplugs because she cocked her head to the side, then turned around. Her face brightened, and then dimmed. “Oh, Lordy. You heard the crab talk, didn’t you?”
“What have you done with her?” Penny said. She sobbed.
Mimi put down the knife and wiped her brow with her apron. “This happened to my cousin Ruthie once. Found a chatter crab on the beach, heard it say pretty things, and picked the darn thing up like it was a kitten.” Mimi waddled into the pantry, bent over to the floor, and picked up Mrs. McCullen, whose claws and mouth had been wrapped with so much duct tape that she was mostly silver. “Poor Ruthie didn’t get half way home before the crab went and cut off her right ear. Lucky it didn’t kill her.” Mrs. McCullen waved her arms like mad and muffled, high pitched cries escaped through the tape. She looked so helpless. It wasn’t fair.
I swallowed. “Mimi, this isn’t right. You need to let her go.”
Mimi frowned at me. “Son, are you out of your mind? Haven’t I told you enough about the crab and their sneaky ways? Now, don’t go nancy on me. You’re lucky this one’s a soft shell. She would have had you for a snack.”
“There’d be money involved,” I said. “People would pay to see her.”
“We’d be on the news!” Penny added. “Wouldn’t you like that Mimi?”
“Oh Lord,” Mimi sighed, “this darn thing is heavy.” She placed the crab back down on the kitchen floor, putting her sandaled foot atop of the crab’s back so that it wouldn’t get away. “I’m eighty years old, Danny. You think money matters a bit to me? I got a place to live, a place to eat, and a good view comes with it. What I don’t have,” she glared us both in the eye, “is a great-grand baby.” Mimi looked down at Penny’s stomach and nodded. “This meat will help those issues you’ve been having.” Penny straightened herself up and lifted her chin, a defensive coldness growing over her face.
“This crab is what’s responsible for my mother’s eight children,” said Mimi.
Penny snorted. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Ridiculous?” Mimi said. She looked tired all of a sudden. The wrinkles under her makeup looked like carvings on a tree. The skin under her eyes was purple and drooping. “Listen here. I might be an old lady, but I know a thing or two about having babies. Every woman on the coast knew that eating the roe of a chatter crab is what would do if you were having trouble.”
We waited for Mimi to elaborate.
She waved her hand in the air. “It’s probably got those hormones in it.”
Penny looked at me. We hadn’t tried all of our options yet. It’d only been a year and three months since we first even bought an ovulation thermometer. Each time we made love it seemed more hopeless. I sometimes felt like I was in a boat rowing as fast as I could to a slice of land that kept on moving farther and farther away.
“You’ve got to believe me, sweetheart,” Mimi said to Penny, “When it comes down to it, this is just an animal.”
All this time, the crab had continued making sounds from under her gag. Low and pathetic sounds. I wondered about our neighbor, Mrs. McCullen, and what must have given her reason to cry like that. It was the sort of crying you only make when you think nobody’s watching.
Penny turned away from Mimi. “Fine. Just do it.” She brought her hand to her face and covered her eyes. “I’ll be waiting outside.”
“Penny—” I started.
“Come get me when it’s over.” Her voice disappeared with the clap of the screen door.
“You young people,” said Mimi, bending over, “You’re all so soft. Won’t you help with this, baby?” Mimi picked up the crab but its wiggling made her lose her grip. “I’m not as strong as I used to be.” She walked over and plopped on a chair, taking a tissue from out of her apron and dabbing her face.
It should have been easy. The crab was cold and clammy and smelled like fish bait—it wasn’t soft or smooth or warm, and it didn’t have big expressive eyes or a dopey, trusting grin. Before I picked it up off the floor, I looked at it, and felt relieved that its inky eyes didn’t express any sort feelings, just a blank, pure blackness, a singular hunger to exist, and nothing else. But when I picked it up it whimpered and my heart flipped over again.
Mimi, perhaps sensing my hesitation, took the crab from my hands and in one smooth motion slipped it in the giant pot that was simmering over the grates of two burners.
“Cover your ears,” she told me.
I could still hear it, even though its mouth was covered, even though it was closed inside a pot, even though my hands pressed into my ears and I went into the living room and turned on the TV full volume. I could still hear the sounds it was making. They were no longer human sounds.
And then something strange happened. It didn’t take very long. Penny came back up to the house, her eyes red and her expression dazed. She said that she could smell it, all the way from outside—a mélange of scents. There was a flowery sweetness, like saffron and rose petals, and then something low and smoky holding it altogether. We had stopped crying by then and I swear Mimi looked younger, slicing lemon and onion on the counter. The room filled with steam from the pot, and the windows over the sink began to sweat with moisture. Mimi sat a bowl on the table that was filled with bright amber orbs. Inside each one was a dark speck, like a pupil.
“You all eat that roe, and feel better than you ever have.” She let out a huff of air as she sat down.
I can’t explain what happened next except to say that we were so, so hungry. We knew it was wrong but we couldn’t help ourselves. It was better than anything we’d ever tasted. We ate every bite.
Two and a half weeks later, Penny’s pregnancy test was positive. We can date the conception to a night of tense lovemaking on the squeaky guest bed. We don’t talk about it very much, but I know we both think the same thing. That our child’s life is indebted to the crab. Mimi herself only ate a morsel or two, insisting that it was better for young people to have it than her.
We’re doing just fine. Penny craves durian and sardines and I think the neighbors hate us more than ever. Sometimes she’ll have these night terrors and she’ll wake up screaming. The doctor says it’s all the hormones and indigestion. She says she doesn’t remember what the dreams are about, which leaves me to imagine them. All those jewels of roe, blossoming into hardened claws.
It’s been six months and there have been no reports of the extinct chatter crab. I’ve been trying to make it up to the world. We bought a hybrid, and I’ve made a few contributions to the World Wildlife Foundation. Sometimes I look at Penny and wonder if the small being inside her was worth the extinction of a species. And I tell myself, of course it was worth it! And I know I’ll believe it too, once I meet her for the first time in person, once she takes that first, human scream of air. There are plenty of wonders left in the world.
* * * *
The Silent Ones
Erica L. Satifka
The year travel opens up between alternate Earths is the first year you fall in love, with a strapping farm boy from one of the rural worlds named Paul. He takes you to a barn dance thrown by his people, where you learn to smoke a corncob pipe. His sister, a tiny girl with saucer eyes and dirty hair, steals your purse. You’re too hammered to mind.
You get drunk on apple wine and fuck Paul behind a haystack while a band of his cousins screeches on their fiddles and moans in that unintelligible alternate-world dialect of theirs. At the pale green Formica kitchen table, Paul gives you a stick-and-poke tattoo of his initials inside a heart.
But when your six days are up, it’s back through the travel gate with you, and no more Paul. You mope for weeks, watching but not performing the calisthenics exercises on television, alternating handfuls of candy and amphetamines. Finally, your two best girl friends drag you from your home—“Don’t be such a drag!”—and bri
ng you to the club.
And that’s when you see your first silent one. With the robes and everything. Shit. He’s sipping a martini, looking totally out of place, bopping his head to a spastic electroclash beat. Club soda rises up your nose, coming close to spilling out.
“Hey, get a load of that,” Sydney says, poking you in the ribs.
You laugh. It’s pretty hilarious.
“Rocks pretty hard for someone who dresses like a Druid.”
“Shut up,” you say. “He’ll hear you.” But when you look over again, he’s already left the bar area, his martini abandoned.
“Beam me up, Scotty,” Sydney jeers through gulps of rum and Coke.
You’re disappointed. You wanted to watch him more; it’s a new thing to you. But already you can tell that the band’s as weak as the club soda. No wonder he left. Bum scene.
“Hey, I’m out of here. Tell Randa.” You escape Sydney’s talons and light up in the parking lot. Thirty yards away a glowing red orb that pulses like your cigarette’s tip hangs at crop duster level. You turn away, vaguely ashamed. It’s like when you were seven and accidentally spilled milk into the aquarium, becoming an instant murderer. Your parents didn’t really care, but you did.
Not everything happens all the time, everywhere.
That’s the first line on every bit of literature dealing with the alternate worlds. Want to visit a world where the triple World Wars never happened? You can. Want to see a place where computers run on steam power and even the horses wear corsets? Go for it.
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