The Rattled Bones(31)

“Where’d you go?” Sam asks.

I shake the memory from my head. “I’m here.”

“Check it.” Sam shows me the hook, the thick rope tucked into its steel claw.

“Well done.” I tie the rope to a metal cleat at the rail. “Normally, we’d set the line into the pulley, but your first pot is a special one. All first pots are pulled by hand on this boat.”

“Like this?” He works the line through his gloves, hand over hand.

“Just like that.”

His back struggles against the weight as the trap nears the surface. His stance widens with the strain of the task. Then the surface of the water changes, pops.

“Holy crap. Is that it?”

“It is.” My breathing waits on its contents, like always.

The corner of the trap peeks out from under the waves, sloughing off water as it rises. Sam pulls the line closer to the boat, and the way the wire cage creeps through the swells reminds me of the one that crawled to me in my dream. My vision. I squint my eyes to the sun, reminding my brain that this trap is real. Being out here is real. “Pull it all the way to the boat,” I instruct.

He does. The metal pot bangs against Rilla’s side, and Sam looks guilty.

“It’s all good. Now bring it up. But don’t bend too far. Remember that balance isn’t the same on a boat.” I stand behind him, ready to yank the back straps of his overalls if he loses his footing on the wet deck.

But he lifts the cage flawlessly. He holds it above his head like a prize. His smile beams as water cascades down his arms. “Christ, this is heavy!”

“You don’t actually have to hoist it over your head.”

“Sure I do. A kid from the desert gets to pull his first lobster trap exactly once.”

I grab at the opposite side, help him carry the cage to the top of the cooler. “Desert’s a long way away.”

“That is kind of the point.”

Something in his response startles me, makes me wonder what he’s running from. Or to.

I want to ask Sam more—know more—but how can I ask that of anyone when I’m not ready to share pieces of my own story? I return to instruction, the concrete and fixed language of hauling. Something I can control. Something that I’ve mastered. “Normally, we’d unload this on the rail. Saves time. But since it’s your first trap, we can do it here.” I tap the cooler. “I’ll walk you through the steps.”

“I appreciate that.” Then he bends to see eye level into the trap. “Holy shit. There are lobsters in there.”

I smile. “That’s a good thing.”

“No, I mean. Real. Lobsters. And they’re all brown and creepy.”

“They are.”

“I’ve only seen them on a”—he looks around and lowers his voice—“a plate before, ya know?”

I laugh. “I do.”

He stares into the trap again, like he’s at an exotic zoo. “Do we take them out?”

“They won’t venture out on their own.”

Sam takes a step back, gestures toward the trap. “Ladies first.”

I unhook the corner ties and throw up the hatch door. I pull out the first lobster and she’s small. I nod to the gauge hanging outside the wheelhouse. “Grab the ruler there.” He does. I turn the lobster so that her hard shell steadies on my palm. Her front claws search for anything to grab hold of. “A legal lobster has to be larger than three and a quarter inches but smaller than five. You measure from the top of the head here”—I point to the beginning of her shell, the part that actually starts just below her head—“to here.” I move my thumb along the bottom of her shell, that place just above her tail. I tuck the metal gauge against her side. “This girl’s too small, so we throw her back.”

“In the trap?”

“No. She goes overboard.”

“Her lucky day.”

“You wanna do the honors?”

Sam reaches for her belly.

“That’s a great way to get your thumb chomped.”

His hand retreats.

I turn my free palm. “Like this. Hold her upside down; it’ll put her to sleep. So her pincher claws can’t reach your fingers.”

I respect Sam’s confidence, how he slides his gloved hand under mine, grabs hold of this creature that must feel so foreign to him. He holds the lobster at arm’s distance, but his smile broadens across every inch of his face. “I am holding a lobster, Rilla Brae.”

“You are.”

“Like, a lobster. Straight from the sea.”

“Not like a lobster, a real live, living lobster.” At this rate it will take us a hundred times longer to haul. “You need to set her back to the deep.”

“Right. So, like face-first? Tail-first?”

“Any way is fine. Just chuck her overboard.”

“Rilla!”

“What?”

“I will not ‘just chuck her overboard’?”—he makes awkward air quotes that pulls the lobster too close to his face. He thrust her out to arm’s length again. “I didn’t take you for being so callous.”

“It’s actually callous to keep her out of the water this long.”