“The comfort is over,” my husband announced, sitting at our kitchen table with my pay stub, a calculator, and the solemn expression of a man who had apparently been promoted to Secretary of the Treasury while I was at work. “Starting today, half your paycheck goes to my sister. She has newborn twins.”
Chapter 2
I set my book down slowly.
“You lost what?”
“A lobster.”
“Alive?”
He looked offended by the question.
“Obviously alive.”
“No, Mark. Nothing about this is obvious.”
I followed him into the kitchen.
Chaos greeted me.
Flour covered part of the floor. Potatoes were boiling over. A pan on the stove contained something brown enough that identifying its original form would have required forensic work.
In the sink sat four live lobsters.
One was behind the toaster.
Another was under the rolling pantry cart.
“That makes six,” I said.
Mark looked around.
“Yes.”
“Which one is missing?”
“The sixth one.”
“Excellent clarification.”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“Mom said she wanted lobster.”
“So you bought six?”
“She once said one lobster per person was civilized.”
“Your father hates lobster.”
“I forgot.”
“Your father orders meatloaf at seafood restaurants.”
“I was under pressure.”
I looked toward a sheet pan on the counter.
“What is that?”
“Bread.”
The object was roughly the size, weight, and color of a landscaping brick.
“You made bread?”
“Mom likes fresh bread.”
“You have never made bread.”
“There has to be a first time.”
The doorbell rang.
Mark’s face emptied.
“They’re early.”
The doorbell rang again.
Then we heard Helen outside.
“Mark? Claire?”
Mark grabbed my arm.
“Keep Mom out of the kitchen.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“The comfort is over.”
He closed his eyes.
Before either of us reached the foyer, the front door opened.
Helen had a key for emergencies.
Apparently disappointing lunch qualified.
She swept inside wearing white slacks, a pale blue blouse, oversized sunglasses, and a silk scarf tied around her neck. George followed with a bottle of wine.
Behind them, visible through the still-open door, sat Helen’s neighbor and lifelong rival, Barbara Lawson, behind the wheel of a massive white SUV.
Barbara lowered the window.
“Have a wonderful private dining experience, Helen!”
Helen turned and waved regally.
“We always do!”
She shut the door and immediately whispered, “That woman is exhausting.”
George handed me the bottle.
“I wanted beer.”
“Then why did you bring wine?”
He pointed toward his wife.
“Ask the sommelier.”
Helen ignored him and inhaled deeply.
Her face changed.
“What is that smell?”
From the kitchen came a metallic crash.
Mark shouted, “I’m fine!”
Helen stared at me.
“Is Mark cooking?”
“Yes.”
She laughed.
Then she noticed I wasn’t laughing.
Her expression became serious.
“Why?”
“Ask him.”
Another crash came from the kitchen.
Helen moved toward it.
I considered stopping her.
I truly did.
Then I remembered Wednesday.
The comfort is over.
So I stepped aside.
Helen pushed through the kitchen door.
For two seconds, there was silence.
Then she screamed.
I had heard commercial fire alarms that were less alarming.
George dropped the wine onto the hallway rug. Mark dropped a wooden spoon.
I ran in.
Helen was standing on a dining chair.
The missing lobster had been found.
It hung from the loose fabric near the ankle of her white slacks.
“GET IT OFF ME!”
Mark stood six feet away holding tongs.
“Stop moving!”
“IT’S EATING ME!”
“It isn’t eating you!”
“IT HAS MY LEG!”
George entered behind me, saw his wife, and started laughing so hard he had to grab the doorframe.
“George!”
He raised one hand.
“I’m sorry.”
He was not sorry.
Helen kicked.
The lobster released the fabric, flew across the floor, landed near the island, and began moving sideways.
Helen screamed again.
Outside, a dog started barking.
Then another.
Our neighbor Mr. Carter shouted from across the fence, “Everything all right?”
Helen climbed from the chair onto the kitchen island.
I wish that were an exaggeration.
At sixty-three, my mother-in-law, dressed in white pants and wedge sandals, stood on my granite island because a lobster was crossing the floor.
“There are more!”
She had noticed the sink.
One lobster raised a claw.
Helen pointed.
“That one is looking at me.”
George was crying with laughter by then.
“Helen, they’re lobsters.”
“I KNOW WHAT THEY ARE.”
The floor lobster moved again.
Helen grabbed the nearest object.
Unfortunately, it was Mark’s bread.
She threw it.
The loaf hit the tile six inches in front of the lobster with a sound like someone dropping a paving stone.
Everyone stopped.
George stared at it.
“What the hell is that?”
Mark looked deeply offended.
“A baguette.”
George wiped his eyes.
“You could defend the house with it.”
Someone rang the doorbell.
Then another neighbor knocked on the side window.
Helen’s eyes widened.
“Close the curtains.”
“Why?”
“Barbara might still be outside.”
George checked the front window.
“Oh, bad news.”
Helen went pale.
“What?”
“She’s still there.”
“Why?”
“Probably because you screamed like we were murdering you.”
Helen climbed down from the island with astonishing speed.
Apparently embarrassment was stronger than fear.
She turned to Mark.
“Fix this.”
Mark looked around.
Smoke floated from the oven.
Potatoes foamed onto the stovetop.
Four lobsters occupied the sink, one lived beneath the cart, and another was wandering near the kitchen island.
His bread could have been classified as structural material.
“How?”
Helen turned toward me.
“Claire?”
“No.”
She blinked.
“No?”
“Mark is cooking today.”
“Why?”
I leaned against the counter.
“Because the comfort is over.”
Mark muttered something under his breath.
Helen looked between us.
“What does that mean?”
So I told her.
Half my paycheck.
Jenna.
Mark’s unilateral decision.
The fifty-fifty household split.
Everything I had canceled.
Helen listened without interrupting.
That alone frightened me.
When I finished, she turned very slowly toward her son.
“You gave away half Claire’s paycheck?”
Mark winced.
“I didn’t give it away.”
“You promised it.”
“Jenna needs help.”
“Half?”
“Temporarily.”
Helen swept one hand around the destroyed kitchen.
“Is this temporary?”
George started laughing again.
“Dad, stop.”
Helen pointed at Mark.
“Do you know what Claire does for a living?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what you do?”
Mark frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means when one person professionally evaluates luxury kitchens and the other manages office buildings, perhaps the restaurant person should remain in charge of lobster.”
I bit the inside of my cheek.
Then Helen’s expression changed.
A worse realization had arrived.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“Does this mean Sunday lunches are gone?”
“That would be comfort.”
Her mouth opened.
“What about Christmas?”
“Comfort.”
“Thanksgiving?”
“Comfort.”
“My birthday dinner?”
“Especially comfort.”
Helen put one hand over her chest.
Then she looked at Mark with more fury than she had shown when shellfish was attached to her trousers.
“What have you done?”
