Elizabeth Gilbert - Stern Men

Ruth and the pastor stared each other down.

“Do you know what apocryphal means, Ruth?”

“Yes, I know what apocryphal means,” snapped Ruth, who, at just that moment, was wondering what apocryphal meant.

“They tell that story on all the islands in Maine. They tell it because it makes them feel good that an old lobsterman could outsmart the law. But that’s not why I told it to you, Ruth. I told it to you because it’s a good fable about what happens to anyone who snoops around too much. You haven’t been enjoying our conversation, have you?”

She was not about to answer that.

“But you could have saved yourself this unpleasant conversation by staying out of my house. You brought it on yourself, didn’t you, by poking around where you had no right to. And if you feel as though you’ve been sprayed by a skunk, you know where to lay the blame. Isn’t that correct, Ruth?”

“I’m going to help Mrs. Pommeroy now,” Ruth said. She stood up again.

“I think that’s an excellent idea. And enjoy the wedding, Ruth.”

Ruth wanted to run out of that room, but she didn’t want to show Pastor Wishnell how agitated she was by his “fable,” so she walked out with some dignity. Once outside the room, though, she took off down the hall and down the two flights of stairs, through the kitchen, through the living room, and out the parlor door. She sat down in one of the wicker chairs on the porch. Fucking asshole, she was thinking. Unbelievable.

She should have beat it out of that room the moment he started his little oration. What the hell was that all about? He didn’t even know her. I’ve been asking around about you, Ruth. He had no business telling her who she should or shouldn’t hang around with, telling her to stay away from her own father. Ruth sat on the porch in a private, angry chill. It was embarrassing, more than anything, to be lectured to by this minister. And strange, too, to watch him put on his shirt, to sit on his bed. Strange to see his empty little monkish room and his pathetic little ironing board. Freak. She should have told him she was an atheist.

Across the garden, Mrs. Pommeroy and Kitty were still at work on the women’s hair. Dotty Wishnell and Candy were gone, probably getting dressed for the wedding. There was a small clutch of Courne Haven women still waiting for Mrs. Pommeroy’s attention. They all had damp hair. Mrs. Pommeroy had instructed the women to wash their hair at home so that she could devote her time to cutting and setting it. There were a few men in the rose garden, too, waiting for their wives or, perhaps, waiting to have their hair cut.

Kitty Pommeroy was combing out the long blond hair of a pretty young teenager, a girl who looked about thirteen. There were so many blonds on this island! All those Swedes from the granite industry. Pastor Wishnell had mentioned the granite industry, as if anyone still gave a shit about it. So what if the granite industry was finished? Who cared anymore? Nobody on Fort Niles was starving because the granite industry was gone. It was all gloom and doom from that guy. Fucking asshole. Poor Owney. Ruth tried to imagine a childhood spent with that uncle. Grim, mean, hard.

“Where you been? ” Mrs. Pommeroy called over to Ruth.

“Bathroom.”

“You OK?”

“Fine,” Ruth said.

“Come over here, then.”

Ruth went over and sat on the low brick wall. She felt battered and slugged, and probably looked it. But nobody, not even Mrs. Pommeroy, took any notice. The group was too busy chatting. Ruth could see that she’d walked into the middle of a completely inane conversation.

“It’s gross,” said the teenage girl being tended to by Kitty. “He steps on all the urchins, and his whole boat gets covered with, like, guts.”

“There’s no need for that,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. “My husband always threw urchins back in the water. Urchins don’t harm anyone.”

“Urchins eat bait!” said one of the Courne Haven men in the rose garden. “They get up on your bait bag, they eat the bait and the bag, too.”

“I got spikes in my fingers my whole life from goddamn urchins,” said another man.

“But why does Tuck have to step on them?” asked the pretty teenager. “It’s gross. And it takes time away from fishing. He gets all worked up about it; he has a really bad temper. He calls them whore’s eggs.” She giggled.

“Everyone calls them whore’s eggs,” said the fisherman with the spikes in his fingers.

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Pommeroy. “Having a bad temper takes time away from work. People should settle down.”

“I hate those bottom feeders you pull up sometimes, and they’re all bloated from coming up so fast,” the girl said. “Those fish? With the big eyes? Every time I go out to haul with my brother, we get a ton of those.”

“I haven’t been out on a lobster boat in years,” Mrs. Pommeroy said.

“They look like toads,” said the girl. “Tuck steps on them, too.”

“There’s no reason to be cruel to animals,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. “No reason at all.”

“Tuck caught a shark once. He beat it up.”

“Who’s Tuck?” Mrs. Pommeroy asked.

“He’s my brother,” the teenage girl said. She looked at Ruth. “Who are you?”

“Ruth Thomas. Who are you?”

“Mandy Addams.”

“Are you related to Simon and Angus Addams? The brothers?”

“Probably. I don’t know. Do they live on Fort Niles?”

“Yeah.”

“Are they cute?”

Kitty Pommeroy laughed so hard, she fell to her knees.

“Yeah,” said Ruth. “They’re adorable.”

“They’re in their seventies, dear,” Mrs. Pommeroy said. “And, actually, they are adorable.”

“What’s the matter with her?” Mandy asked, looking at Kitty, who was wiping her eyes and being helped to her feet by Mrs. Pommeroy.

“She’s drunk,” Ruth said. “She falls down all the time.”

“I am drunk!” Kitty shouted. “I am drunk, Ruth! But you don’t have to tell everyone.” Kitty got control of herself and went back to combing the teenager’s hair.

“Jeez, I think my hair is combed enough,” Mandy said, but Kitty kept combing, hard.

“Christ, Ruth,” Kitty said. “You’re such a blabbermouth. And I do not fall down all the time.”

“How old are you?” Mandy Addams asked Ruth. Her eyes were on Ruth, but her head was pulling against the tug of Kitty Pommeroy’s comb.

“Eighteen.”

“Are you from Fort Niles?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never seen you around.”

Ruth sighed. She didn’t feel like explaining her life to this dimwit. “I know. I went away to high school.”

“I’m going away to high school next year. Where’d you go? Rockland?”

“Delaware.”

“Is that in Rockland?”

“Not really,” Ruth said, and as Kitty started to shake with laughter again, she added, “Take it easy, Kitty. It’s going to be a long day. It’s too early to start falling down every two minutes.”

“Is that in Rockland?” Kitty wailed, and wiped her eyes. The Courne Haven fishermen and their wives, gathered in the Wishnell gardens around the Pommeroy sisters, all laughed, too. Well, that’s good, Ruth thought. At least they know the little blond girl is an idiot. Or maybe they were laughing at Kitty Pommeroy.

Ruth remembered what Pastor Wishnell had said about Fort Niles disappearing in twenty years. He was out of his mind. There’d be lobsters enough forever. Lobsters were prehistoric animals, survivors. The rest of the ocean might be exterminated, but the lobsters wouldn’t care. Lobsters can dig down into the mud and live there for months. They can eat rocks. They don’t give a shit, Ruth thought, admiringly. Lobsters would thrive if there was nothing left in the sea to eat except other lobsters. The last lobster in the world would probably eat himself, if he was the only food available. There was no need to get all concerned about lobsters.