Riptide

'How do you eat these things?' Wopner cried, buttonholing a confused lobsterman.

'What's that?' the lobsterman said, inclining his head as if he hadn't heard properly.

'We didn't have lobsters where I grew up.'

'No lobsters?' the man said, as if considering this.

'Yeah. In Brooklyn. It's part of America. You should visit the country some time. Anyway, I never learned how to eat one.' Wopner's loud drawl echoed up and down the pavilion. 'I mean, how do you open the shells?'

With a stolid face, the lobsterman replied. 'You sit on 'em real hard.'

There was a guffaw of laughter from nearby townspeople.

'Very funny,' said Wopner.

'Well, now,' the lobsterman said in a gentler tone. 'You need crackers.'

'I got crackers,' Wopner replied eagerly, waving the plate heaped with oyster crackers under the man's nose. There was another round of laughter from the locals.

'Crackers to crack the shells, see?' the lobsterman said. 'Or you can use a hammer.' He held up a boat hammer, covered with lobster juice, tomalley, and bits of pink shell.

'Eat with a dirty hammer?' Wopner cried. 'Hepatitis city, here we come.'

Hatch moved in. 'I'll give him a hand,' he said to the lobsterman, who went off shaking his head. Hatch ushered Wopner to one of the tables, sat him down, and gave him a quick lesson in lobster consumption: how to crack open the shells, what to eat, what not to eat. Then he went off to get some food himself, stopping along the way to fill a pint cup at an enormous keg. The beer, from a small brewery in Camden, was cold and malty; he gulped it down, feeling the tightness in his chest unraveling, and refilled the cup before getting in line.

The lobsters and corn had been steamed in piles of seaweed heaped over burning oak, sending clouds of fragrant smoke spiraling into the blue sky. Three cooks were busily at work behind the mounds of seaweed, checking the fires, dumping bright red lobsters onto paper plates.

'Dr. Hatch!' came a voice. Hatch turned to see Doris Bowditch, another splendid muumuu billowing behind her like a purple parachute. Her husband stood to one side, small, razor-burned, and silent. 'How did you find the house?'

'Wonderful,' said Hatch with genuine warmth. 'Thanks for tuning the piano.'

'You're certainly welcome. No problems with the power or the water, I expect? Good. You know, I wondered if you'd had a chance to think about that nice couple from Manchester—'

'Yes,' said Hatch quickly, ready now. 'I won't be selling.'

'Oh,' said Doris, her face falling. 'They were so counting on—'

'Yes, but Doris, it's the house I grew up in,' Hatch said gently but firmly.

The woman gave a start, as if remembering the circumstances of Hatch's childhood and departure from the town. 'Of course,' she said, with an attempt at a smile, laying her hand on his arm.

'I understand. It's hard to give up the family home. We'll say no more about it.' She gave his arm a squeeze. 'For now.'

Hatch reached the front of the line, and turned his attention to the enormous, steaming piles of seaweed. The nearest cook flipped over one of the piles, exposing a row of red lobsters, some ears of corn, and a scattering of eggs. He picked up an egg with a mitted hand, chopped it in half with a knife, and peered inside to see if it was hard. That, Hatch remembered, was how they judged when the lobsters were cooked.

'Perfecto!' the cook said. The voice was distantly familiar, and Hatch suddenly recognized his old high-school classmate Donny Truitt. He braced himself.

'Why, if it ain't Mally Hatch!' said Truitt, recognizing him. 'I was wondering when I'd run into you. Damn it to hell, how are you?'

'Donny,' Hatch cried, grasping his hand. 'I'm not bad. You?'

'The same. Four kids. Looking for a new job since Martin's Marine went under.'

'Four kids?' Hatch whistled. 'You've been busy.'

'Busier than you think. Divorced twice, too. What the hell. You hitched?'

'Not yet,' Hatch said.

Donny smirked. 'Seen Claire yet?'

'No.' Hatch felt a sudden swell of irritation.

As Donny slipped a lobster onto his plate, Hatch looked at his old classmate. He'd grown paunchy, a little slow. But otherwise, they'd picked up right where they left off, twenty-five years before. The talkative kid with few brains but a big heart had obviously grown up into the adult equivalent.

Donny gave Hatch a suggestive leer.

'Come on, Donny,' Hatch said. 'Claire and I were just friends.'

'Oh, yeah. Friends. I didn't think friends were caught kissing in Squeaker's Glen. It was just kissing, Mal... wasn't it?'

'That was a long time ago. I don't remember every detail of my every romance.'

'Nothing like first love, though, eh, Mal?' Donny chuckled, one goggle eye winking below the mop of carrot- colored hair. 'She's around here somewhere. Anyway, you'll have to look elsewhere, 'cause she ended up—'