by Lynne Hugo
It was predictable that people had been greedy and shortsighted. So many oysters were harvested in the 1700s that they became almost extinct. Cultch was being scraped up too, then, for lime and mortar, so there was nothing to catch spat from the remaining oysters. The town forests were overcut for lumber and grazing, clogging the harbor with silt. They’d actually passed environmental protection laws as early as 1742 because it looked as if the harbor might become too blocked for shipping, let alone oysters and quahogs. Oysters had to be imported from the Chesapeake Bay to redevelop the beds that had once teemed, an abundant birthright for natives.
And the 19th century brought more misguided development: construction of a railroad embankment across Duck Creek, a breakwater, and the enlargement of Shirt Tail Point to make a place for the town marina. Those projects, by slowing and diverting the tidal currents, lessened the inflow of nutrients that fed the harbor’s food chain. Caroline read, captivated, about how oysters and clams actually eat the little microscopic stuff that floats in the water by sucking it in, filtering the algae nutrients, and spitting out the rest. Wellfleet harbor is a junk food haven for shellfish—twenty-five thousand varieties of edible microbes come in and the animals go berserk on them. How had she grown up here and not known that? The 20th added pollution from road runoff and defective septic systems that produced a black muck, rank with hydrocarbons—what the hell are hydrocarbons? she wondered—and heavy metals and bacterial pollutants. Back in the ’80s, already task forces and shellfish constables and shellfishers were studying how this history of abuse had affected each species, trying to restore the harbor’s ecosystem. Sometimes Caroline got lost in reading and would forget to observe Terry. Twice she went to the library when Terry wasn’t there and because there was nothing else to do until the tide, she just stayed and picked up where she’d left off her bogus study.
Caroline got into a rhythm based on the tides and library hours. If, for example, it was a double tide day, an hour before the first daylight low tide, she’d set herself like an old-time sea wife to watch for Rid’s arrival and track his movements. Now she could tell when he was picking oysters as opposed to when he was digging clams. Sometimes his silhouette would be bent over a rack like a question mark for an hour at a time, picking in a two-handed rapid fire, slowing only briefly to inspect an animal. If it was too small, it went back in the rack; if it was damaged or the shell was empty, it was tossed into the shallows, more cultch to catch seed. Every little bit helps. The good, legal oysters went into a plastic milk crate, and when one was filled, he’d straighten and carry it to the bed of the truck and trudge back with another empty crate. He must have a huge order to fill, she’d thought several times. But, then, it was still a month that ended with R—fall, the traditional best shellfish harvest months—and he’d want to pull every legal size animal he could sell because there was no telling what he might lose over the winter. The long-range weather forecast kept talking about a hard winter. She’d read that ice could damage shellfish production, sometimes wipe out whole grants. The better aquaculturists pulled out all their oysters and buried them in specially constructed pits in their yards at home.
When she finished spying on Rid, an hour later, she’d dash to the library to spy on Terry. The only difference was that she spoke to Terry, making up questions if she had to, but usually able to pull something out of her “background research on aquaculture” to ask for help with.
“I love moon snails,” Caroline said one day. She’d flagged Terry down as she passed the table at which Caroline was working, ostensibly to show her a lavish full color plate in a book about shells. “I mean they’re so beautiful, the way they swirl in on themselves in such a pretty circle. Now I feel guilty. Did you know they’re big predators of clams?”
“Actually, I did know that. I’ve got cousins who are licensed. Nobody with a grant though, they pick in the wild. But they know pretty much everything about oysters and quahogs.”
It yanked Caroline back to hear Terry use the lingo so comfortably, as if she and Rid were related. Her separate secret worlds suddenly intersected, and Caroline felt exposed, trapped in the interstice. She covered her discomfort.
“Oh. Gosh. I really do need to interview you! You’ll be a great source.”
“CiCi, if you were from around here, you’d know that everyone knows as much as I do!” Terry laughed. “It’s really nothing special. Most of us know something about it. It’s in our blood.” She walked on, pushing a cart of books she was re-shelving, her plaid skirt swinging around her calves.
It was a good thing Terry had gone back to her task. Caroline couldn’t have hidden her watery eyes. It’s in our blood. Were those her mother’s words or Rid’s—or had they both said it? And yet later, after she calmed herself, it was a very good day for Caroline. She’d discovered that yes, Terry DiPaulo could laugh. Even after everything.
She’d killed two more weeks with this mad routine, promising herself each night that she’d stop, and each morning compelled to repeat it. At the library, she fancied herself Terry’s friend, then a moment later would be sure that Terry had identified her and was, even that moment, calling the police.
Thanksgiving came and went, the first that hadn’t been observed in her mother’s house with the biggest turkey Eleanor could buy, even in the rare years that it was only the three of them for the holiday. She’d freeze whole meals of fragrant leftovers complete with gravy for surprise dinners on frigid January and February nights. Eleanor claimed she saved them for the worst weather nights, “because it’s a hearty cheerful meal,” but CiCi and her father hadn’t been taken in that easily. Eleanor had whipped out those dinners on nights when she’d stayed too long at her wheel, absorbed in the creation her hands raised from it. “It was a good day. Like being God,” she’d said once, then blushed and laughed at herself.
This year, Caroline had had invitations from all her mother’s friends. “I’m not good company right now,” she’d said, at which they’d scoffed. In the end, she’d gone to Noelle’s for dinner and Sharon’s for dessert so that neither would be slighted. Noelle had asked her what her plans were, but didn’t push when she said she didn’t know yet. Sharon didn’t even ask, only wrapped her in a hug. She needed to think about getting them some little thank you present for Christmas, and something for Elsie, too. It crossed her mind: maybe a little gift for Terry? For helping with the research? Who do you think you’re kidding? she scolded herself, ashamed.
That day, the sunset bled ferociously into the water, as if the western sky were the last wound of the world, while Caroline scrambled some eggs for supper, and told herself that seeing Terry laugh once had to be enough. Let it go, now. Please. She might be losing her marbles, between talking to her dead mother and talking to herself. A taco short of a combination plate, Eleanor used to put it. A sandwich short of a picnic. “Mom, I am the whole basket short of a picnic,” she whispered. Tears again.
Her body was changing. She avoided the mirror, even avoided looking down in the shower, as if she were a child who could cover her eyes and make things disappear. But her breasts were bigger, the areolas blooming like big dark flowers, and although she could zip her jeans, she couldn’t button them. She hadn’t been nauseated lately, but sometimes she was so tired she fell asleep sitting up. She’d put her head down on the table at the library more than once, unable to stay awake.
She brought her plate—the eggs, whole wheat toast, a green salad with orange segments—over to the window where she’d created her Rid-watching station. It was twilight, but she knew he’d be at the tide. They were using lights now, which made the upland owners crazy. Pissario had cited the lights in his lawsuit. But no matter. She simply had to stop these games and either tell Rid or not tell him, get the abortion or—well, she just had to get off this train that had no destination. It was December first already. The last R month. The end of the first trimester when it is safe and easy to harvest.
Chapter 13
Rid stood u
p and leaned on the handle of his bullrake. December already. When the winter really hit it would be a slam according to the forecast, but the fall had stretched out like a sleeping dog. Hard frosts, of course, but they softened by mid-morning and the cold in the water didn’t feel like it was cracking his bones yet. He had on multiple layers under his waders and while his feet were frozen, the early afternoon sun had him sweaty above his waist. He flipped back the hood of his sweatshirt and let the air cool him off a moment while he stretched his back, looked around and decided what to do about filling this order.
There was CiCi’s house. He’d gone to her mother’s funeral because it seemed the right thing to do. He’d offered to help and then never had. She hadn’t asked him, though she’d come to the grant that day wanting something, he had to admit that. He felt bad about the whole thing, ashamed and defensive at once. Then she was surrounded by people at the service, and he was embarrassed and it was time to get to the tide anyway, so he’d just slipped out intending to call. He still intended to call her to say he was very sorry about her mother. He thought of it, of her, most every time he noticed her house. Like today. And sometimes he went far enough to remember how she’d helped him the night of the hurricane, the knack she’d shown for anchoring the nets. How gutsy she’d been as the storm lashed its tail across them. She’d put herself in harm’s way. For him. Who’d ever done that before? And the way they’d laughed in his truck, how much he’d liked her the whole night of the hurricane.
For now, though, he couldn’t think about that. He sloshed across his grant, weaving up, across, down and steadily west until he got within easy voice range of Mario, who was picking oysters.
“Where you been? Haven’t seen you in a couple days.”
“Yeah, Bonk and me was picking in the wild. Get ’em free, ya know, why sell my own stock when I can sell stuff I didn’t have to raise, right? Over off Lieutenant Island. Had to come work my own heap today, I figure, can’t let it go too long.” He laughed and shoved his cap brim up and sideways. His teeth flashed white in his grin, his face still tan although not as deeply so as in high summer. It was probably true about picking in the wild since he said Bonk was with him, although whenever Mario disappeared for a couple of days, Rid suspected he was running drugs. He’d asked him straight out once, and Mario had snorted a denial and added, ha, you’re pissed off ’cause nobody’s hired you to!
“Good picking?”
“Great.”
“Listen, can I borrow a couple bushels of steamers off you? I got an order to fill tonight and I’m short. I can have ’em back to you tomorrow—day after tomorrow at the latest. It’s a good customer.” He hated asking Mario, but he’d hate asking anyone and he just wasn’t going to beat the tide, that was obvious.
Mario had the good grace not to miss a beat. “No sweat. There’s a bushel and a half in the truck. You can dig another half bushel in a flash from that front raceway. I’ll give you a hand. Help yourself.” He pointed. “I got a bump rake, might be faster if you want. Tide’s comin’.”
“I got it, thanks.” If his voice sounded gruff, he hadn’t meant it to. “We got that meeting tomorrow morning, ya know.”
“I’ll be there. Hope he ain’t just runnin’ up our bill. Wanna ride down together?”
“Yeah. At the rate I’m going, I’m really hoping that too.”
He felt Mario’s eyes on his back as he moved to dig from Mario’s grant. The difference between Mario’s raceways and his own was that every other quahog wouldn’t be dead. Even Mario, who didn’t pull his stock in the winter but took his chances with ice, even Mario had cleared his nets right away after that hurricane had landed. Or maybe Mario’s nets hadn’t been as badly buried as Rid’s; there were always those vagaries of whose grants happened to take the worst hits in any given weather. Whatever. This time Rid had no one to blame but himself. He should not have let that woman hold him up more, that was for sure.
Rid heard Mario in the water behind him before he felt him catch up. “Hey man. You got problems on your grant? I mean you okay?”
“Yeah. Just short and outta time,” Rid answered without looking at him. It wasn’t like they were close friends. He’d already said more than he’d meant to. “I’ll drive tomorrow. Pick you up at 8:30? We can swing by the Dunkin Donuts in Eastham, grab some coffee.” If he drove, it would even the score some, make him feel better even though Mario would talk incessantly. Tomas would appreciate it, though. One of them had to ride herd, make sure Mario didn’t flip out over something the lawyer said and go off half-cocked on the way home. Usually Tomas got the honor. Rid had been taking advantage and driving his own truck down to Barnstable while Tomas picked up Mario.
“Yeah. All right. Hey, just fill the rest of that basket, take those. You can just give ’em back whenever.” Mario gestured to the bed of his truck, where there were five and a half wire bushel baskets of quahogs and three crates of oysters—a fortune compared to what Rid had harvested today—along with a bump rake and a jumble of other gear. The Ford was parked facing the rock revetment, the tailgate open for ready access as Mario worked. That’s how they all did it, keeping their trucks as close as possible so they wouldn’t have to carry things so far, sometimes moving them two or three times as a tide receded and came back in. Some of the grants were five and six acres, after all. Rid’s was five, and so was Mario’s, if he remembered rightly. Mario ought to be more careful, though. Right now his tires were in a good five or six inches of water. It should be moved to safer ground, Rid thought. Like my whole life.
* * * *
This was a first. The lawyer was smiling. He shook each of their hands in turn, swept a hand unnecessarily toward three chairs and, another first, didn’t sit behind his desk but this time in a fourth chair that completed a sort of three-quarter circle in the small office. Another first; a plate of glazed donuts was on a table newly wedged into the middle. “Who needs coffee?” Lorenz asked as they took the seats he indicated. He himself bounced back up and went to the door, poised to give their orders to a woman who was in the outer office.
“She’s actually an attorney, my partner,” he whispered in a confidential, almost giddy tone. “I can get her to make coffee because mine is so vile that she’s embarrassed for clients to drink it. It’s my System of Studied Incompetence. Women fall for it every time. Try it. No extra charge.”
“I’ll have a cup.” Rid, even though he’d had a big cup on the way down.
“Sure.” Mario.
“Yes, please.” Tomas, the one with the manners.
“All right then, we’ll all have some. Four cups. She’ll make a pot and I’ll just bring it in. Don’t want to push my luck by asking her to serve it, you know. Be right back.”
Once Lorenz had cleared the room, Mario directed a suspicious mutter to Tomas, whose face was unreadable as a foreign newspaper to Rid. “What the hell is going on?”
“For once, it doesn’t look like bad news,” Tomas said. “Let’s stay calm and wait. Could be nothing.”
The three cleaned-up versions of themselves sat uneasily. “Do you think it’s okay to take a donut?” Mario said into the silence minutes later. As if on cue, his stomach growled.
“Jesus, Mario. Go ahead,” Rid answered, then stifled irritation. “Yeah, man, it’s okay. Probably that’s what they’re there for.” He grinned. “Try not to drool on yourself.” He was hungry himself, but held back. He’d follow Tomas’ lead.
Lorenz returned with a tray. “She gave me a dirty look, but she did it.” He set the tray on the table, spread out the Styrofoam cups and said, “I’ll let you help yourselves. There’s creamer and sugar right there. And napkins. Not too fancy, here. Oh, help yourself to donuts. I picked those up myself on the way in.” His glance found Mario, napkin on his lap, half-donut like a crescent moon in hand. “Oh, good, you already did. Great.”
Tomas took a breath, waited a moment and then said quietly, “Mr. Lorenz, it seems clear to us that something has happened. We’d
like to know what it is.” Big hands were quiet in the lap of his overalls, big feet lined up like two shovels on the floor.
David Lorenz got the message. Immediately he leaned forward in his seat and said, “You’re right. I do have news and it’s potentially very good. Relax. Pour some coffee, sit back and prepare to be pleased. I’m sorry. I’ve enjoyed discovering this, and anticipated telling you so much that I got carried away. And by the way, don’t worry about the clock. Celebration time today is on me.” He stood and reached for some files on the top of his desk, then sat back down, all business, opening a file and distributing a copy of one piece of paper to each of them. “Everybody ready?”
“We’re ready, sir,” Tomas said, even as he scanned the piece of paper, but quickly looked back up. “I’m not sure what this means.”
“What it means, Tomas—and by the way, you three should call me Dave—is that Mr. Pissario, while he thinks he owns out to the mean low water mark and under Massachusetts law by all rights he should own out to the mean low water mark, as best I can tell, he doesn’t.
“What?” Mario erupted. “Man, we’re home free!”
“Wait a minute,” Tomas interrupted. “Why doesn’t he? And more importantly, who does?”
