“June, huh?” he asked, making a mental note. “What day?”
“June sixteenth.”
“I’m November seventh.” He picked the beard out of the oyster shell. “How old are you? If you don’t mind my asking.”
She glanced over her far shoulder rather than the near side, still trying not to watch what he was doing. “I’m thirty. You?”
He hesitated, as if he either had to stop and think about how old he was, or was debating what age to tell her. “I’m thirty-five.” He slid the knife in between the shells and applied pressure. Denise heard the soft crack of the two shells parting. She winced slightly.
“So you’re an old man,” she teased.
“Compared to you, I am.” He looked over to gauge her progress and saw that he was now ahead of her. “I’ll just set these down on the counter until you’re ready,” he told her, setting split shells, one with a couchant oyster, by her elbow.
She tried not to look. “Between you and Diane, who’s older?”
“I am. By three years. Almost the same difference as Mattie and Marie. Where do you fall in your family?” He reached for a second oyster, the short knife still in his hand as he reached to pull out the beard.
“It’s me, then my brothers Steve and Danny, and finally Julie. She‘s the baby.”
“Are you close to them?”
“About normal I guess. I don’t see them as much as you see yours, though, I don’t think.”
“Do they live near Cambridge?”
“No. Julie’s just out of nursing school and took a job on a cruise ship and — ”
“God
damn
it!” Dave shouted from behind her. Startled, she turned to see him holding one hand with the other, the shucking knife still between his fingers. As she watched, blood welled up in the gash that had just been sliced into the fleshy part of his hand just below his left thumb. “What happened?” she exclaimed, dropping the head of lettuce.
“The knife slipped.
Fuck
! It stings like a bitch.”
Denise stared in fascinated horror as the welling blood began to drip onto the floor. The fact that Dave was swearing gave her some inkling of just how much he was hurting. Dave had never cursed in front of her before.
“Shit!” he exclaimed.
For no logical reason, that last exclamation propelled Denise into action. She reached up to pull the knife out of his fingers, then grabbed his wrist and pulled him over to the sink, turning on the cold water and thrusting his hand underneath it. She wasn’t particularly efficient as a nurse, but she knew that the sink would be a better place to bleed onto than the kitchen floor. She glanced at him, staring at the injured hand with his lips pressed tightly closed. He looked a little pale, but he wasn’t swearing any more. “Keep holding it under the water,” she told him grimly. “I’m going to go get a towel.”
She left him quickly, finding the towel closet down the hall, just opposite the bathroom door. She opened the door hastily, barely registered where the towels were, grabbed one off the top of the pile, and ran back to the kitchen. “Here,” she said, pulling his hand out of the running stream and wrapping the towel around it. “Put your free hand over it and press down,” she said. “I’d do it, but I’m afraid I’ll hurt you more.”
He drew in a sharp breath and did as she said. “Damn!” he said. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
“Well, believe it,” she said. She trolled her memory to come up with what she’d learned way back in first aid class. “Here. Bend your elbow and hold your hand so that it’s higher than your heart.” She glanced up into his face. “I’m really sorry, Dave.”
He looked back into her eyes. “Not your fault.”
“That was sympathy, not an apology. Here, let me bring in a chair. You should probably sit down or something. Do you feel faint?”
He shook his head. “Just stupid.”
“It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.”
He scowled but she ignored it and went to fetch a chair from his elegantly laid table. She plunked it on the floor in front of him, pushed him down, then squatted down in front of him. “Keep pressing on the wound. You need to stop the bleeding.”
“I know.”
“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.
“Just wait with me for a bit to see if the bleeding stops.”
She laid her hand on his knee, both for balance and for comfort. “Guess dinner will be a little late, huh?”
“Mmm. Hope you weren’t hungry.”
“I’ll keep.” She saw spots of blood beginning to seep through the folded layers of towel. That wasn’t a good sign. “Am I supposed to keep you talking or something?”
The corners of his lips twitched. “I think that’s a concussion. Can’t say for sure that there’s nothing wrong with my head, but at least I know that I don’t have a concussion.” He looked down into her worried face. “You talk to me. I’ll listen.”
“Do you think you’ll need stitches?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I hope not. I really wanted everything to be perfect tonight, you know?”
“I know,” she told him softly. She reached up to stroke the side of his face. “And I was already impressed. Honest.”
He gave her a half a smile. “You’re a good kid.”
“I know. Have you ever had stitches before?”
“I had my tonsils out when I was a little kid. You?”
“No. Never.”
He glanced ruefully at the bag full of mollusks on the counter. “I guess after this I’d better not ask you to finish shucking the oysters for me, huh?”
“I guess not,” she said with just a touch of sarcasm. “That towel’s getting pretty bloody. I don’t think it’s stopping.”
“No.” He unwrapped it to look. The blood was still welling steadily in the gash. He blew out a hard breath. “I hate to ask, but can you drive me to the hospital?”
She squeezed his knee even as she used it to push herself upright. “I’ll get our coats and another towel.”
• • •
Three hours later Denise unlocked the door to Dave’s apartment, then stepped aside to let him precede her into the room. Eight stitches in a neatly curved row, right across the fleshy pad beneath his thumb. She hadn’t seen the stitches — she’d stayed in the waiting room holding a cup of coffee while he was in the examining room getting his hand sewn back together. He hadn’t complained much after that first round of swearing, and she thought that maybe that outburst had been about shock and anger as much as physical pain. Now he seemed to be more embarrassed than anything else and she could sympathize. It wasn’t hard to see the effort he’d gone to in order to impress her, and she knew that he was feeling badly about more than just his stitches. She’d held his good hand in the waiting room, trying to convey that she thought his well being was more important than the spoiled dinner, and had hugged him gingerly when he emerged from the exam room, but she knew that he was still feeling terrible, and not just physically.
Denise watched as Dave wandered sadly into the kitchen. The ice bucket in the living room was only half full now, most of the ice having melted to water. She followed him slowly, coming up behind him as he stood there, surveying the remains of his first course.
“Don’t suppose it’s safe to eat the oysters,” he observed dully.
“Don’t suppose it is,” she agreed.
He picked up the oyster that he had dropped earlier as well as the one he had succeeded in opening and slipped them both back into the bag they’d come in. “I’m going to take these downstairs before they start to stink,” he told her. She nodded. “Can you do me a favor? There’s a big pot under the sink. Take it out and fill it about three quarters of the way with water, then get the bag of lobsters out of the fridge.”
She looked at him in surprise. “You still want to eat?”
He shrugged. “Might as well salvage what we can out of the evening. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Denise stared at him in dismay as he carried the spoiled oysters out of the apartment and down toward the office. She didn’t want to be the one to have to cook the lobsters alive. She didn’t even want to be implicated to the point of being the one to set the pot on to boil. She went to the fridge and found a large insulated bag with two big, red lobsters printed on the sides under the words “New England Lobster Co.,” Against her better judgment, she took it out of the fridge and opened it to peer inside. Eyeballs on stalks swiveled her way, claws waved and tails tucked as the two crustaceans tried to retreat to the far corner of the bag. Even without faces that could change expression, she thought that they looked frightened. “Hi, guys,” she said lamely. Then she sighed. How was she going to get them out of this?
She was still contemplating the lobsters when Dave came back in. He seemed surprised that she didn’t have the pot on the stove. “Couldn’t you find the pot?” he asked.
She looked from the contents of the bag to him. “I’m afraid we’re bonding. I know you probably paid a ton for these, they’re huge, but … I thought about telling you that I was allergic to shellfish, but that would have been a lie. And it’s probably one of your favorite foods and all, but … ”
“But … ” he prompted.
“Could I just buy mine off of you? I’d buy both of them, but I know you probably really want to eat yours. But I’d kind of like it if you’d wait until after I go home to do it.”
He kept his face and his voice both absolutely blank as he said, “What are you planning to do with it if I do let you buy it — which I wouldn’t, by the way. I bought it for you. I guess that makes it yours either way.”
She hadn’t processed the idea all the way through yet. “Well … ”
“You can’t keep it as a pet. It would be dead in just a little while.”
“I know.” She put her hands on her hips and blew out a puff of air. “I guess I’ll just have to drive him up to the beach and let him go.”
He studied her quite seriously for a minute, still standing there in his winter jacket. “You’d have to do it tonight. If you let it go during the day, someone will probably see you and go after it as soon as you were gone.” He glanced at the box. “And the sooner you do it, the better, I guess. I’m not sure how long they can survive out of water, and they’ve been in that bag since late this afternoon.” He glanced at the clock to see if he should have said yesterday afternoon instead, but it was still Saturday - just past eleven.
She drew in a breath. “Would you mind?” she asked. “I know you had big plans for tonight.”
“Yeah, well … ” He glanced at his bandaged hand. “Plans sometimes have a way of changing.” He looked at her. “And if you want to know the truth, I wasn’t too keen about cooking them alive myself. I mean, I’d do it. People say that lobsters don’t feel pain the same way we do, but it’s always in the back of my mind — how would they know that, anyway?” He gave her a tired smile. “But we’re taking them in your car.”
She threw her arms around him and kissed him hard on the mouth. “You’re great,” she told him. “Do you know that?”
He smiled. “Yeah, well … Come on, let’s go liberate some lobsters.”
They ended up driving to Ipswich. He had suggested Gloucester, but she told him that Gloucester made her think of the Gorton’s fisherman and little shanties with lobster traps stacked up against them, and she didn’t think that that would be a safe place for them. They drove to a place called Crane’s beach and got out of the car, Denise carrying the precious cargo in her arms. They had forgotten something to take the rubber bands off of their claws with, and were afraid that if they released them by hand, they’d get nailed by the first claw while they worked to remove the second, so they worked together. Taking one lobster between them, they removed the bands simultaneously, each holding a claw with one hand while they worked the band off with the other.
They freed the first lobster and Denise carried it, legs waving wildly, down to the water line. She didn’t put it in the water — it was still January, after all — but as soon as its body hit the sand, it lunged its way forward in a mad dash for home. She turned in the moonlight and smiled at Dave, who stood watching her, then they unbound the second lobster and Dave carried it to the water and let it go. Denise leaned heavily against Dave, who slid his arm around her for both comfort and warmth. It was bitingly cold, but he didn’t much mind it. “Think they’ll make it?” she asked, watching the waves ebb and flow.
He shrugged. “Maybe. Either that or we’ve just upset the whole ecological balance of the area.”
She turned to look at him hard. “No, lobstermen fish for them not far from here. This is their natural environment. I think.”
He smiled. “I think they’ll be fine.”
She stayed standing close to him. “It sure is pretty out here late at night.”
He made a noncommittal sound.
“But it would probably be just as pretty from inside the Saturn.”
He laughed and took her hand and started back toward her car. “Cold, are you?”
“Freezing!” she exclaimed. “I’m surprised you can’t feel me shaking.”
“Probably because I’m shaking myself. I didn’t notice.”
“How’s your hand?”
“Numb. But that could be from the anesthetic or the cold, take your pick.”
“Probably both.”
“Probably.”
He went to the driver’s side door and opened it, holding it open for her like a gentleman, then went over to the passenger’s side door and let himself in while she turned over the engine and fired up the heater. “Well,” he said briskly, setting himself in his seat. “That was an adventure.”
She smiled at him. “You’re a really nice person, you know that?”
“I try to be. I’m just glad that there wasn’t a game warden around. I don’t suppose he’d believe that we were putting them back instead of taking them out.”
She laughed and then reached for his hand. “Thank you,” she said softly. Then she leaned forward and kissed him. His lips were soft and just a little chapped; chilled from being outside, but as she pressed, his lips parted and she basked in his internal warmth. She slid her tongue into his mouth and stroked his gently with her own. His arms came up around her and she began to forget all about the iciness of her own skin. She pulled back and kissed him softly on the lips, once, twice, and then again before saying, “We’re going to fog up the windshield but good, this way.”