“Where’re you originally from?” I asked.
“Virginia.”
“Right,” I said. “The lobster industry is the biggest economic driver in northern Maine’s coastal region. Hundreds of lobster boat captains and their crew drop traps in the areas you listed. That’s a lot of families.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but Ted cut her off. “Okay. Good discussion, folks, which we’ll have to finish later. Mara, Penny’s not here that long and we’ve got lots of work to do.”
I marched back to my office, slammed the door behind me, and fell into my desk chair. What the hell had just happened? Minutes ago I’d been humming along feeling terrific. Now I was clammy with sweat, my heart thumped inside my chest, and I wanted to punch someone or something. The nails of my clenched hands dug into my palms. I relaxed and shook them out.
Calm centeredness had flown out the window like a November robin with the last ticket south.
I needed to vent, talk to someone, step back and assess. At times like that I turn to Homer. He’s patient, an excellent listener, and nonjudgmental. My arthropodal friend resides underwater. Homer—short for Homarus americanus—is an American lobster.
Of course, where I live, we call this critter the Maine lobster.
Homer hangs out in the basement of Maine Oceanographic Institute’s biology building. He’s got lots of company—fish, crabs, jellyfish, squid. There’s even the occasional octopus, although those smart cephalopods usually manage to climb out of whatever they’re in, slink down a pipe, and escape into the ocean.
When I’m upset, just walking through the basement’s double swinging doors lifts my spirits. I slipped out of my office, took the back stairs, and did just that. Two steps into the cavernous room I stopped, closed my eyes, and inhaled the briny balm of seawater-saturated air. Ocean water thundered through pipes into a hundred tanks and aquaria on its way back out to the ocean.
The liquid cacophony drowned my anger the way rain cools granite boulders baking in July’s sun.
My feet crunched decades of accumulated salt crystals as I wove around various-sized tanks, including one the size of a small swimming pool. I stopped to pay my respects to two marine animals unrecognized by most for their vital importance to humanity—horseshoe crabs and squid. Horseshoe crabs, which aren’t crabs at all, have blue-colored blood that can detect human bacterial contamination in the one-part-in-a-trillion range. Its medical application has saved uncountable lives. The squid’s giant axon, a nerve fiber twenty times bigger than a human’s, won several marine scientists Noble Prizes for their research on electrical activity in the nervous system.
I peered into a tank of lumbering horseshoe crabs and another with zipping squid and said, “Hey you guys, thanks for everything you’ve done.”
Homer was nestled on the bottom in the back corner of his tank kingdom, a favorite spot. I tapped gently on the aquarium’s glass, aware that such a tap would sound very loud underwater to a human. Homer doesn’t have ears, of course, but tiny sensory hairs on a lobster’s body appear to detect pressure waves.
Homer tiptoed toward me on his eight walking legs and touched an antenna to the glass. I matched the gesture on my side with an index finger. After this greeting, he backed up and settled down on the swimmerets between his tail and legs.
“You’re looking handsome as always, Homer.”
He bobbed his antennae and rotated his round, ebony eyes upward.
“Be right back.” I returned with a handful of blue mussels, crushed them one by one, and dropped the pink flesh into the tank. Homer grabbed each piece before it hit the bottom, tore it apart with his ripper claw, and moved the food to his mouthparts with his foremost walking legs. After dealing with the last mussel, he settled back on his swimmerets again. I took this as a sign that he was ready to listen.
I began. “Remember how I told you how much better I was? No more anger and resentment, just gratitude and thankfulness?”
Homer waved an antenna up and down, which I interpreted as yes.
“Well, I’ve had a setback. At the moment, I’m really pissed at Ted and angry with myself for feeling that way.”
Homer didn’t stir. He was such as good listener.
“A little while ago I walked into Ted’s office. There was a woman there, a very attractive woman. She and Ted are going down in a tiny submersible to look at deep-sea corals.” I started pacing back and forth. “I can just see it. The two of them crowded together in that tiny space, oohing and aahing at gorgeous sea fans, fish streaming by.” Hands on hips. “It’ll be pitch black of course, just the floodlights outside the vessel. They’ll probably turn off the inside lights and be there in the dark. Together.”
I stopped, dropped my arms to my side, and tried to slow my breathing. The image I’d created out of thin air had turned me into a crazy woman.
Homer noticed, of course. It was embarrassing. After a minute, he rotated his body in a full circle and settled down again.
“You’re right, I know. I’m jumping to conclusions, making assumptions. All the things I say scientists should never do. And I don’t when I’m doing science. But it’s different when it’s me and…Ted.” I bit my lip.
Homer kind of tipped his head-body.
“What am I going to do?” I leaned forward, put both elbows on the table, rested my head on my hands, and peered in at the lobster. “I guess it’s time to talk to Angelo. He’s always so good with stuff like this.”
Homer backed up, turned, and headed toward to his corner.
“Thanks little guy,” I said.
He rotated his body and dipped an antenna.
My godfather Angelo’s home commands an outstanding view of Spruce Harbor from the tip of Seal Point, one of two bluffs at the harbor’s entrance. It’s my home too. Angelo took me in after my parents, both marine biologists, died in a submersible accident when I was nineteen. That’s what godfathers do, and Angelo threw himself into the role of dad, mom, and best friend with Italian verve and passion. It was hard to believe the accident was only twelve years earlier. So much had happened to me—college graduation, PhD from MIT, post-doctoral fellowship, the ideal job at Maine Oceanographic Institute—that Mom and Dad knew nothing about.
They would have been so proud. That loss was an ache never far from the surface.
I climbed the granite steps, tugged open the oak door, paused in the foyer, and eyed the top step. How many evenings had I perched up there, listening to Angelo, my mother Bridget and father Carlos, and a guest—fisherman, scientist, or old-time Mainer—debate all things marine? No topic was too esoteric. I’d learned about the sex life of Crepidula fornicata, the common slipper shell, a sequential hermaphrodite that changed gender with position in the stack of shells. Of course, there were consequential issues too, like the conservation status of humpback whales and whether climate warming could possibly impact the vast ocean.
The voice came from the other side of the house. “Mara, I’m back here.”
My godfather’s kitchen was often a sensory delight. Homemade tomato sauce with basil, wine, garlic, and onions simmering in olive oil greeted me. Angelo, at the gas stove, stirred the bubbling ambrosia.
On tiptoe, I pecked him on the cheek and asked, “What’ve you having tonight?”
“Squid marinara.”
“Perfect. At the moment, I’m squid for brains.”
He chuckled. “Want to stay?”
I shook my head. “I’ll take a rain check but would love some of that sauce.”
“Sure. Have a little wine. White wine’s in the fridge, red on the counter. Help yourself.”
I went for the white. Red felt too hot.
The chat with Angelo at his venerable wooden table in the kitchen was light on angst and heavy on upbeat talk—about how well bluefish were running, whether puttanesca sauce tasted different with anchovies from Peru or Japan, the latest ocean-going technologies.
A retired marine engineer, Angelo described new plans for
ships that wouldn’t dump much or any ballast water.
“Ships that don’t take in unwanted marine organisms from one part of the world and discard them in another. That’d be huge,” I said.
Angelo reached for an olive on the plate between us, popped it in his mouth, and washed it down with a bit of wine. “It would be, but I’m guessing you didn’t come over here to talk about ballast water. You sounded pretty upset on the phone.”
I told him the whole thing. “I’d been doing so well with the whole gratitude thing, then totally lost it in a minute. I’m angry with myself, and embarrassed too.”
Angelo reached over and put his hand—at once rough-weathered and soothing—on mine. “Like I’ve said before, Mara, with an Irish mother and an Italian dad, you’ve inherited a double dose of spirited emotions. Be easy on yourself. You can get back to that peaceful place again.”
The soft kitchen light enhanced specks of blue in Angelo’s grey eyes, blue that warmed me. I let out a long, slow breath.
Angelo patted my hand. “Want to say anything to Ted?”
“Like an apology?”
“Hmm.”
I drummed my fingers on the table, looked to the side, fell back in my chair. “You’re right. I should apologize. I certainly owe him that, and it’d make me feel me a little less like a jerk.”
“Good. Should we talk about Gordy’s mussel raft?”
“So you heard about that.”
“Gordy called last night. Actually, I assumed that’s what you wanted to talk to me about,” he said.
“Yes and no. I’d rather not relive finding the body right now. But Gordy’s convinced somebody on Macomek Island is behind what happened. He wants me to snoop around out there and see what I can learn.”
“Ah, so that’s what he’s up to. I told Gordy to talk to the police, but he said he wanted to wait a few days to get some ‘important’—Angelo air quoted the word—information. I didn’t understand what he was talking about.”
I rubbed my neck. “That’d be me. But there are very good reasons why I shouldn’t go. Work’s top of the list. Also—and excuse the pun—I’d be a fish out of water. Maine fishing communities are usually pretty tight.”
“Fishing is in your blood.”
I tipped my head. “Say that again?”
“Italians have been an essential part of New England fishing for centuries,” he said. “And you’ve got a family connection you don’t even know about.”
5
I leaned toward Angelo. “Um, could you repeat that?” “Let’s start with the history lesson. That’ll help you understand the other part.”
I was super curious about the family link but had to be patient—not my strong suit. “Okay. Ah, Italians? New England? Fishing? I’m a marine ecologist and know nothing about this.”
Anyone else would have given me a believe-it-or-not-you-don’t-know-everything look. Angelo’s kindness prevented him from doing that.
“Sure,” he said. “Before World War Two, immigrants from Italy’s coasts settled in Boston and fished the Grand Banks. Remember the Fishermen’s Feast festival in Boston’s North End?”
A childhood memory flashed by. Crowded, narrow streets. Dad holding my hand tight. Aroma of fried dough, sausage, pizza. Men carrying a lurching statue of the Virgin Mary on their shoulders.
Nodding, I blinked back tears. Angelo didn’t need to ask why. “Yeah. Dad took me when I was a kid. But I don’t remember anything about fishermen.”
“Blessing of the waters happens before the street festival. After that, it’s mostly about the Madonna and celebrating being Italian.”
Anxious to hear about my family, I decided it was time for the history lesson to wrap up. “Anything else about Italian fishermen in New England?”
“Well, some of the history’s sad. During the war, Italians were designated enemy aliens. The Boston Navy Yard guys finally let them leave the harbor to fish, but their radios were locked and boats inspected by the Coast Guard to make sure they weren’t carrying provisions for the Germans.”
“Proud Italian fishermen treated like that. Awful. But German subs were right offshore. People were scared,” I said. My impatience finally bubbled out. “Is that the family connection? In Boston?”
“There’s an Italian wine, a Gavi, I’d like you to try. Let’s go into the living room.”
Angelo slid a cold bottle of Gavi onto the coffee table, wrapped a dishtowel around it, inserted his favorite corkscrew, and slowly twisted it.
I’d settled into my usual armchair in front of the fireplace (not in use, since it was early fall), kicked off my shoes, tucked my feet under me, and tried to convince myself I was interested in the wine ritual. It didn’t work.
The cork finally came out with a satisfying pop. Angelo swirled wine around the bottom of his glass, sniffed, took a sip, and paused. “Good. Excellent white.” He filled both our glasses and handed me mine.
“To unknown Italian ancestors,” he said.
I lifted my glass and waited for him to settle into his chair.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll explain what I know, which isn’t much. Once when we were alone—your mother was off somewhere—Carlos told me a family secret. He never mentioned it again, and I didn’t ask.”
Angelo stared at his glass of wine as if he were looking into the past. “I’d just built this house and a team of Italian masons were constructing the stone wall around the patio. We were inside watching them. Maybe something about those guys made him want to tell me. I don’t know.”
“Tell you…?”
“That his father—your grandfather—left Boston in disgrace and moved up here.”
I spilled half my wine on my jeans, tried to rub it in with one hand, and dropped the glass on the table with the other.
Angelo handed me the dishtowel. “Let me think so I get his exact words.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “Um, he said that his father moved away because everyone on his fishing boat except him died at sea in a storm.”
I frowned. “Fishing’s one of the most dangerous occupations there is. People die in storms. It doesn’t mean the captain’s responsible.”
“That’s right. But the storm cleared quickly and another boat picked up your grandfather. He was intoxicated. I mean, really drunk.”
I put my hand to my throat. “Ah.”
“You can imagine what it was like. The guilt, accusations, anger. So Carlos’s dad and mother decided to leave. They crossed the border into Maine and settled up in Presque Isle.”
“Hours away from the coast,” I said.
“That’s right. He got a job in the lumber industry, and Carlos was born and raised in Presque Isle.”
I twisted the dishtowel around my forefinger. “A sad story, that’s for sure. I feel bad for Dad, but it’s not surprising he never spoke about it. Italians are notorious for keeping secrets.”
“That’s true, and it comes from our history,” he said. “For centuries, Italians had to deceive people who had authority over them—princelings, papal legates, the Austrian military. Do you know the expression ‘acqua in bocca’ ”?
I shook my head.
“Literally, it means ‘Keep the water in your mouth.’ You can guess the real meaning.”
“Something like, ‘Don’t spill the beans’?”
“That’s it. Anyway, now that you know about your fishing ancestor, I hope you won’t feel quite so much an outsider out on Macomek.”
The drive home gave me time to think about Angelo’s prediction. Would knowledge that my grandfather had been a fisherman translate into feeling like a kindred soul on the island? Maybe it was my desperate need for family, but I thought it would. Even if nobody else in the world—except Angelo—knew about my Italian grandfather, I did. Fishing was really and truly in my heritage.
My mother always said I loved the sea because there was extra salt in my blood. Now I realized there was an actual lineage she knew nothing about.
I pulled in
to Maine Oceanographic’s parking lot at five-thirty Friday morning—just as the sun poked out of the sea and painted Spruce Harbor’s horizon blood-red. By noon, most items on my “to-do” list were done. I called Gordy to tell him I was good to go to Macomek. He sounded relieved and said he’d pick me up at my beach in three hours.
“Tide’ll be high,” he said. “Grab yer wellies so you can wade out an’ keep dry.”
One crucial task remained. Ted deserved an apology from me. I ran through my speech a couple of times, walked down the hallway to his door, and stopped. If I were still a practicing Catholic, I would have crossed myself.
The knock was so feeble it was barely audible. My hand was raised for a second try when Ted called out, “It’s open!” I stepped in and shut the door behind me.
He swiveled his office chair away from the computer. “Oh, Mara. Um, nice to see you.”
I glanced at the chair next to his desk—the one Penny had bogarted two days earlier.
Ted gestured toward it. “Want to sit down?”
I wrapped my arms around my chest, shifted my weight to one foot, then the other. “That’s okay. I’ll just be a minute.”
He blinked. “Right, sure.”
I shifted back to other foot. “Ah…that is…um.” The words spilled out. “I want to apologize for how I was with Penny.”
A single nod. “Ah.”
I eyed the offered seat. “Maybe I should sit down.” I pulled the chair away from his desk and settled into it, feet squarely on the floor. “She’s your colleague. I was, ah, ungracious. Really, really sorry.” I studied my hands.
“Mara.” The tone was kind. I looked up. For a moment, I was hypnotized by him—the sly smile, hint of dimples, steel-blue eyes. Loss flowed through me, aching and deep.
The loss I’d brought on myself.
Ted’s fingers twitched, and for a moment I thought he was going to reach over and touch me.
Instead, he cleared his throat. “Penny can be a little, um, forceful. But I do appreciate your saying that.”
We sat in silence. Someone walked by the door. In the harbor, a horn sounded twice. The ping from Ted’s computer announced a new email.
Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea Page 4
