Читать книгу Cold Blood, Hot Sea - Charlene D'Avanzo - Страница 15

8

I TOOK THE BACK STAIRS down to the basement and pulled open the double doors. The smell of salt-laden air and the deafening roar of seawater jetting through giant pumps greeted me. Throughout the cavernous room, splashing water spilled over aquaria into holding tanks, down pipes, and back to the ocean outside.

I walked to Homer’s tank and peered in. He was asleep inside his favorite bottle.

I tapped softly on the glass. “Hi, baby.”

Homer stirred, backed out, and touched an antenna against the aquarium window. Without question the two-and-a-half-foot Homarus americanus was the prettiest lobster I’d ever seen. His carapace was bluer than most, a striking contrast to the bright red at the tips of his claws.

Homer and I had a human-crustaceal relationship.

Homer’s round black eyes followed me as I paced in front of his aquarium. I told him about all my money worries.

“I get that Seymour’s in a bad way if his budget was gutted. But he walked in on Harvey and me and saw that list on the whiteboard. I’ve got to wonder if he denied my match as some kind of message.”

I stopped pacing and glanced at Homer. He waved his antennae back and forth.

“Okay, I know that sounds paranoid.”

The flowing seawater cadence changed like it does when someone opens the double doors. I turned around, squinted, and scanned the room. It looked empty. Still, I felt uneasy.

Silly. I was just nervous someone would catch me talking to a lobster.

Ten minutes later, I figured Homer had heard enough.

“Hungry, gorgeous?”

I dropped a few mussels into the aquarium. Homer picked them up one by one and used his pincer claw to maneuver mussel meat toward his mouth.

“Homer, what do you think? Is there something rotten in the Republic?”

I dropped in a three-inch mussel.

Before it hit the bottom, Homer snatched the mussel with his big claw and crushed it with one swift snap.

By the time Harvey arrived at our favorite time-out spot on Water Street—the bench beneath a bronze fisherman—I’d calmed down. While I waited for her, I watched kids learn how to sail dinghies around Spruce Harbor and tried to imagine what Peter’s wife and children were going through.

No question about it. My problems were minor in comparison.

Harvey had changed into jogging clothes for a late afternoon run. She sat next to me and stretched out her legs. “You okay? You sounded upset on the phone.”

“I’ll tell you in a minute. First, is Peter’s service at nine or ten tomorrow?”

“Ten.”

“Okay. I’m planning to visit Sarah in an hour.”

“Sarah will be pleased to see you, I’m sure. She’s holding up pretty well, considering. So what’s going on with you?”

I described Seymour’s visit to my office. Harvey twirled a foot and digested what I’d said.

“I’m really sorry, Mara. It’s horrible timing for you. But it sounds like Seymour’s been blind-sided by budget cuts.”

“He was a little nicer than usual. Must feel guilty.”

“He’s probably got a lot on his plate.”

“I guess. But damn it, Harvey, without that grant, I’m absolutely stuck. No money for research cruises, supplies, all of it. And there’s that new grad student I told you about. She’s expecting support.”

Elbows on knees, I leaned over and buried my face in my hands. Harvey let me be until I sat up and stared out across the harbor. She put her hand on my arm.

“Couple of things,” she said. “First, you’re one of the most creative scientists I know. And smart. Plus you work like a dog.”