Glass Eels, Shattered Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  Overweight, with an unruly head of white hair and laughing blue eyes, Sally pronounced “dear” like a true Mainer—“deah.” No matter how busy or crowded her café, she took the time to ask about the health of a lobsterman’s wife or tease an Intrepid crewmate about his own expanding belly. The woman was one of Spruce Harbor’s gems.

  “Thanks, Sally,” I said. “A blueberry muffin would be perfect.”

  As Sally bustled away, Harvey said, “What I got from your call is that Ted’s grant proposal was funded, and he’ll be down in Woods Hole and out at sea a lot. Dixon gave Ted a leave of absence, but Ted didn’t tell you anything before it was a done deal.”

  I blinked back tears. “That’s basically it.”

  She leaned closer. “You and Ted were finally going to live together, so this is a shock for a couple of reasons. That’s completely understandable. His research would be easiest to talk about, so why don’t you start there?”

  I swirled the coffee in my mug, took a sip to see if it had cooled, and drank some. “Okay. Ted will be working with a couple of WHOI oceanographers on robotic samplers called Spray Gliders. They’re about six feet long and rocket-shaped, and they travel up and down the water column on routes you program ahead of time.”

  “Sexy,” Harvey said. “Sounds like they move around like marine animals. What do these Spray Gliders measure?”

  “Pretty much anything an oceanographer would want—temperature, salinity, pressure, chlorophyll, current velocity, oxygen. When the glider surfaces, recorded measurements are transmitted to researchers on the ship via satellites.”

  “Better and better,” Harvey said. “Ted and his colleagues will have real-time access to the data. Boy, that device would be perfect for research on ocean warming. It’d be so much easier than dealing with those clunky rosette samplers like we did on the Sargasso Sea cruise. Spray Glider. Wouldn’t it be a blast to give it a try?”

  “Harvey,” I said, “your enthusiasm about Ted’s research isn’t helping me.”

  51

  “Sorry,” Harvey said. “Um, what was Ted’s reaction when you told him you were upset that he spoke with Dixon before telling you anything?”

  Running my forefinger around the lip of my mug, I said, “Something about wanting to have things worked out before letting me know. He left early for a conference call with the other researchers, so we didn’t have much time to talk this morning.”

  Sally walked up with a loaded tray, slid a plate with an oversized muffin across the table, said “Enjoy!” and scurried off to the next table.

  The muffin was huge, so I cut it in two, put my half on a napkin, and slid the plate across the table. “Harvey, share this with me. I’m not all that hungry.”

  “Sure,” she said. “I basically rolled out of bed, threw on my clothes, and drove here. No time for breakfast.”

  I believed the breakfast part but not the rest. As always, Harvey’s champagne bob was hairdresser-perfect, her eye makeup understated, and her lipstick evident but barely so.

  Harvey is a slow eater, so I had time to fix my own ponytail. A minute later, my unruly hair had been mostly tamed by a rubber band—with the errant bits having their way as usual.

  That done, I waited impatiently as Harvey methodically ate the remaining muffin she had neatly cut into bite-sized portions. Finally finished, she dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Let’s see,” she said. “Ted left before you could talk about anything. Seems like you need to sit down and just tell him that you’re angry and why.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said. “But the effect of all this really worries me. Ted said he wanted to get married over a year ago, and he loved the idea of our living together. Then all of the sudden, he’ll be gone for months at a time, and he speaks with Dixon about that before even telling me?”

  Pushing the plate aside, she leaned toward me. “I agree, the situation doesn’t sound good. But I’d give Ted a chance to make this right. He’s a good guy but pretty dumb when it comes to relationships. I ought to know—he’s my half brother after all.”

  I parked in the MOI lot, entered my building through the back door, took a couple of steps up the stairs, turned around, and headed down instead. It would be smart to stand in front of Homer’s aquarium and practice what I was going to say to Ted.

  Pulling open double doors, I stepped onto the cement floor and took in the briny smell of ocean and the cacophony of running water.

  A lobster’s scientific name is Homarus americanus, but I call the crustacean in the biology building’s marine animal room Homer for short. A big guy, he spends his days in an oversized aquarium. His home is in the basement’s flowing seawater section, where saltwater from Spruce Harbor runs in and out of his tank, keeping it clean. He’s got excellent company in a thundering room that smells of brine—squid in a big, circular pool (those particular cephalopods are not good with corners), plus mussels, clams, oysters, starfish, sea urchins, and crabs in smaller aquaria. A couple of tanks are set aside for some local fish that do well in confinement—like porgies, scup, and killifish. MOI maintains the animals for primary school groups that visit during the school year.

  Homer’s aquarium was in its usual spot, but I was surprised to see another one, just as large, right next to it. Its occupant was facing away from me, and I guessed by the width of her tail that she was a female.

  Because they carry eggs, female lobsters tend to have a wider tail than males.

  I was about to ask Homer about his new neighbor, when a voice from behind startled me. “Mara Tusconi. Haven’t seen you down here for a while.”

  With his white curly hair, clear blue eyes, and cheery temperament, MOI’s marine animal curator, Everett Stevens, would be a shoo-in for Santa in the town’s Christmas play. If Spruce Harbor had one, that is. An old-timer at MOI, he knew my parents, and that made him special in my view.

  I had to raise my voice over the din of rushing water. “Hey, Everett. So Homer has a lady friend?”

  He spoke into my ear. “Let’s hope he doesn’t get too excited, because lobster sex is way too complicated to happen in aquaria like these. She’s already carrying eggs anyway. A lobsterman messed up, brought her home with the rest of his lobsters, then wasn’t sure what to do with her. Guy was pretty upset. Told him I’d take care of her so he could put her back close to where she came from when he went out next. Probably tomorrow.”

  “Bravo for him, I said. “Lobstermen watch out for females with eggs for a real good reason. They’re literally tomorrow’s bread and butter.”

  “Ayuh,” he said. “Got to go. Now you take care, Mara.”

  I waited until Everett had left before tapping Homer’s tank ever so gently. For humans, noise seems very loud underwater because sound waves can vibrate skulls, which are nearly the same density as water. Lobsters don’t “hear” per se, but they can detect low frequency, underwater sounds with sensory hairs on their body.

  Homer obviously “heard” my taps, because he turned away from his lady friend’s tank, glided over to the front of his aquarium, and touched the glass with an antenna.

  “Looking good, handsome,” I said. “Bet that girl next door agrees.”

  A lobster’s eyes are on top of the carapace right above each antenna. I wasn’t sure what a lobster eye-roll looked like but took Homer’s eye squiggle for one.

  “So speaking of the opposite sex, I’m angry with Ted,” I said. “Maybe telling you what’s going on will help me figure out what to do.”

  Homer settled down on his walking legs, which I interpreted as, “Go ahead.”

  It all came out in a tumble—that although I was uncertain about living with Ted, he pressed me to give it a try; my belief that both of us were enjoying the experiment; and his sudden announcement about going to Woods Hole without talking to me ahead of time.

  “That’s pretty much it,” I said. “And right now I feel kind of stuck.”

  Homer shifted his weight from one side to the other.

  �
��That’s right,” I said. “Like I said, it’s hard to know what to do.”

  Homer directed both eyes toward the double door.

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ve got to talk to Ted. No way around it.”

  52

  Ted’s office door was open a little, so I stuck my head in. Seated at his desk, he stared at the computer screen in front of him. Voices of men who spoke over one another filled the room. Ted looked up from the screen, mouthed, “One minute,” and turned back to his online meeting.

  Ted collected popular vintage oceanography books, so I used the time to check out his bookshelf. I had already thumbed through the 1975 volume of The Ocean World of Jacques Cousteau and a collectible version of Rachel Carson’s 1955 The Edge of the Sea, valued for its illustrations. But Tom Swift and His Triphibian Atomicar was a new acquisition. I pulled it out as Ted signed off from the conference call.

  Holding the book, I glanced up at Ted and raised an eyebrow.

  “Hey,” Ted said. “An atomic-powered car that travels on land, water, and along the ocean floor? How could I pass that up?”

  Shifting to weightier issues, I asked, “How did the conference call go?”

  He shrugged. “Good.”

  Ted was usually very keen to talk about his marine research. I took his hesitation as a bad sign.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I have to go down to Woods Hole tomorrow.”

  Knowing more was coming, I just stood there and looked at him.

  “We leave for a research cruise not long after that. For a month,” he said.

  I nearly dropped the book. “A month? Didn’t you say the first trip would be pretty short?”

  Another shrug. “I was wrong.”

  I reshelved the book, walked over to Ted’s desk, and fell into the seat beside it. “I’m pretty confused, Ted. You were so keen about us living together, and now you tell me you’re leaving for a month very soon.”

  He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “If I’d known the cruise was coming up so quickly, I would have told you. Surely you know that. The scientist from WHOI I’m working with somehow got us onto an earlier cruise. I just found out.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Her name. Aliandra Mayfair.”

  Better and better, I thought. Ted’s colleague on the cruise is female.

  Aloud, I said, “Um, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Al isn’t a biological oceanographer. She’s an engineer who specializes in autonomous marine robotics.”

  I nearly said, “Cute—female robot jock named Al,” but caught myself in time.

  Ted’s phone rang. Reaching for it, he said, “I have to get this. We’ll talk tonight.”

  Ted said, “Aliandra, hi,” as I closed the door.

  The usual work on my computer and in the lab—research papers to review, email to sort through, research assistants to check in with—kept me occupied for the rest of the morning. After a quick run at lunchtime, I walked across the parking lot to a bench overlooking the water and sat down to eat my sandwich. The sun did little to temper chilly wind off the harbor, but my running tights and fleece jacket kept me warm.

  When retired MOI oceanographer Betty Buttz fell onto the bench beside me I was happy for the diversion. Squat and sturdy, Betty was short in patience and height. What she lacked in stature she more than made up in smarts, tenacity, and dynamism.

  In other words, Betty was a force to be reckoned with.

  “Mara Tusconi,” she said. “How are you?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  Betty didn’t buy it. “That was a pretty lame ‘okay.’ What’s going on?”

  So Betty heard the whole sad tale—about Ted’s new research with Spray Gliders, that he was leaving for a long research cruise in a couple of days, about Aliandra Mayfair, and that Ted and I were going to live together, but now we weren’t.

  “I see. I see,” she said as I explained one bit and went on to the next.

  When I had finally finished, Betty looked out across the water and said, “Do you remember when Carlos went down to the Caribbean for over a month to work on corals? Instead of going with him, Bridget stayed behind to take care of you. As you know, your parents did some of the earliest research on coral bleaching.”

  “I think so. I was around ten?”

  “Sounds right, Betty said. “That was the first time they’d been separated for so long, and it wasn’t easy for her.”

  “But it comes with the territory,” I said. “Being an oceanographer, I mean.”

  “Bridget understood that, but she was angry that they never discussed who would stay at home. Carlos just assumed she would. Sometimes men get so engrossed in research they forget about folks around them.”

  “Like Ted,” I said.

  “Yeah, Ted blew it. Sounds like excitement of the moment took over.” She eyed me, and I knew why.

  The previous year, Betty had invited me to a dinner given in her honor by the Physical Society of Oceanographers. Naturally, I accepted. The evening of the occasion, Ted’s parents unexpectedly visited, and I went to Ted’s house for dinner instead. I assumed Betty wouldn’t mind—plenty of other people were at her event—but later learned that she was quite disappointed and miffed that I hadn’t bother to tell her.

  Standing, Betty said, “Hang in there, Mara.”

  “Betty, before you go, do you know a WHOI scientist named Aliandra Mayfair? She’s the chief scientist Ted’s working with.”

  “Sure do. Her work with robotics is groundbreaking. But if you’re worried about Ted spending lots of time with Aliandra, don’t be.”

  “Because?”

  “Mara, Al is a lesbian.”

  53

  Despite Betty’s assurances, I still felt edgy at the end of the day. Angelo had just gotten back from a fishing trip in Maine’s north woods, so I called him at home.

  He picked up on the first ring. “So what’d you get?” I asked.

  “Mara, so good to hear from you. Salmon and wild brook trout on my fly pole. I put them back, of course.”

  “And the blackflies?” I asked.

  “Wicked.”

  “I haven’t seen you for a while,” I said. “Can I stop by for a visit?”

  “How about dinner?”

  “Ted is cooking, so I can’t tonight. But a glass of wine would be lovely.”

  Seated at Angelo’s kitchen table, I sipped wine and nibbled antipasto—olives, marinated asparagus, slices of rich cheese, and salami were too tempting to pass up—while Angelo described a couple of fish-that-got-away.

  Finished, he said, “Mara, something’s troubling you. So why don’t you just talk about it?”

  Except for my unwarranted worries about Aliandra, it all came out in a tumble.

  “Well,” Angelo said, “I can certainly understand why Ted is so enthusiastic about robots like the Spray Glider. Understanding the ocean is an enormous task. We’ve mapped Mars at a scale of about fifty feet, but our own seafloor’s resolution is at best three miles or so.”

  Once more, my confidant’s first response was about the exciting Spray Glider. I nearly said as much but thought better of it. Angelo was a retired marine engineer, after all.

  He correctly interpreted my frown. “But you’re not here to talk about autonomous marine robots.”

  “Um, not really. I’m hurt that Ted spoke with Dixon before telling me anything. Besides that, he was so eager to get married, but the long drive down to Cape Cod kind of puts a damper on that idea.”

  “When will you have a chance to hash this all out?”

  Feeling weary of the whole situation, I blew out a long breath. “Probably this evening.” I glanced at the oversized clock on the wall, the one with Roman numerals. A memory flashed through my mind and was gone just as quickly.

  “Mom taught me Roman numerals with that clock,” I said. “She drew them on a piece of paper along with the corresponding Arabic numbers. Funny I’d recall that just no
w.”

  Suddenly a profound sadness washed over me.

  Knowing me so well, Angelo said, “la famigliá e tutto.”

  Nodding, I agreed. “Yes, family is everything, and I was getting used to the idea that Ted and I were family. Guess that was wrong.”

  I bounced down the dirt road to my house, parked next to Ted’s truck, walked across the deck, and stepped into the kitchen. Ted was pulling groceries from a bag.

  “Hey,” I said. “What can I do to help?”

  “Well, if you make a salad, I’ll get chicken and veggies ready for the grill.”

  Opening and closing drawers and cabinets, we busied ourselves with dinner preparations. The salad made and table set, I leaned back against the kitchen counter and said, “I stopped at Angelo’s for a short visit.”

  Dribbling olive oil on sliced potatoes he had softened in the microwave, Ted asked over his shoulder, “Didn’t he go fishing up north someplace?”

  “He did, but we didn’t talk about that much.”

  Catching my mood, Ted turned to look at me. “You told him about Woods Hole.”

  “Ted, we’ve got to talk about this. You must know I’m upset.”

  Ted crossed his arms across his chest and leaned against the counter. “I’m listening.”

  “Well, like I said this morning, it would’ve been nice if you let me know what was going on before talking to Dixon.”

  Arms still crossed, Ted said, “I’m sorry about that. What bothers me is that you don’t seem excited about the robotic research. It’s a whole new direction for me, and I’ll be working with terrific scientists. Surely you understand how important this is for me?”

  Softening, I said, “Let’s sit down to talk about this, okay?”

  “Sure, but let me get a beer first. Want anything?”

  “I had a glass of wine at Angelo’s, so I’m good.”

  Dropping into the seat across from me, Ted held up a tall glass of beer that matched the shade of his straw-colored hair. “A Belgium from a new Belfast brewery. Want to give it a try?”