Free The Secret Life of Lobsters by Trevor Corson Page A

male’s direction, turned, and walked away.
    The visits continued for several days with similar behavior, until one night the female didn’t stop at the entrance. The male blocked her way and boxed at her claws with his. But she absorbed the hits and pushed ahead until she was inside the shelter. Then she lowered her claws and turned her tail toward the male, a posture that appeared to placate him. The two lobsters sat uncomfortably side by side. Neither, it seemed, was sure what to do next, and a few hours later the female left. When the two lobsters met outside the shelter, the male acted as if he didn’t recognize her. He even slapped her around as usual. But when she showed up on his doorstep again, he tolerated the intrusion. The subordinate males at the other end of the tanks got no lady callers at all.
    Soon the female moved into the dominant male’s shelter and stayed. She grew irritable, pushing gravel around and turning from side to side. Jelle guessed she was suffering from PMS—premolt syndrome—an activity peak just before the shed. The male now spent most of his time at home and neglected his bullying. Doting on the female, he stood on tiptoe, fanned his swimmerets, and swayed from side to side. One morning after the female had been living with the male for about a week, she appeared especially restless. Jelle guessed that she might be ready to molt.
    In the preceding days the scientists had coined a nomenclature to describe behaviors they were observing for the first time, including “substrate jab,” “dig display,” and “entrance ceremony.” What the female did next could be termed only one thing: “knighting.” The female stepped up to the male and laid her claws on his head. He stood still, poised on tiptoe, fanning his swimmerets madly. She removed her claws and stepped back while he felt her with his antennae. She knighted him again several times. A few minutes later she fell over on her side, unzipped the back of her shell, and began to wiggle.
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    â€œHow about a game of backgammon?” Bruce Fernald asked.
    Barb Shirey had been taking an afternoon stroll along the roads of Little Cranberry Island when she passed the house where Bruce lived with his brother Mark. Bruce had poked his head out the door and called out his invitation.
    Behind Barb the road sloped down to the town field, the grass dry and golden in the late-afternoon sun. Barb remembered the way it had been on the Fourth of July, green andbustling with the chatter of picnickers and the yells of a softball game. At summer’s end the vacationers had boarded up their cottages and departed, and the only sound now was the rhythmic chirp of crickets. Past the edge of the field, the wharves reached into the harbor, and beyond them the lobster boats hung on their moorings. Bruce’s sexy jet-black boat, the Stormy Gale , lay in the center of the pack. A chill snaked through the air, and Barb shivered.
    â€œYou know what?” Barb said. “I’d love to play a game of backgammon.”
    Hunched over the backgammon board in the toasty living room, basking in Bruce’s grin and his naughty fisherman’s jokes, Barb thought she could get used to winter on Little Cranberry Island. By the third game Barb was feeling very comfortable. That’s when Bruce decided to let her in on a secret.
    â€œYou know,” Bruce said, “upstairs I have black satin sheets on my bed.”
    At sea, Bruce had matured into a talented fisherman. He caught a lot of lobsters, and one day he’d even caught an eight-point buck, lassoing the deer right from his boat while the animal was swimming. He’d pulled it in with his hydraulic trap hauler. Now, with his characteristic confidence, Bruce had cast his line for Barb. She was mortified.
    â€œUm, no thanks, I’m not interested.”
    â€œAw, hell,” Bruce said, leaning back on the sofa and expelling a heavy sigh.