Winner, Five South Spring 2021 Short Fiction Prize
☼ ☼ ☼
In winter, the Island is dead.
If you’re lucky, you might see one person you don’t recognize about once every other week. Usually, it will be a fisherman from down-shore passing though. Sometimes, a family of tourists will wander into town for the day and promptly leave when they realize there is nothing to do but watch the water lap against the shore or wait to see snow fall from the tops of the pine trees. It’s about all the excitement Cape Hedge gets until things start to open back up in the summer. But Emmy and I get bored easily, soo when the frost began a few months back—when the last of the vacationers of the season left this fall, we decided to start going to the Lobster Trap.
The bar has been around since the 1700s, although we doubt it came with its name back then. Most locals figure it earned its name. The Lobster Trap is a fisherman’s bar, a real hole in the wall. You’d never see it if you didn’t know it was there. The entire front of the building is decorated in old torn-up nets, and buoys with chipped paint, and rusty yellow traps that have been broken into pieces by the sea. Its placement is convenient, and entirely intentional, because it sits right on the harbor. The fishermen pull up to the docks each day and find themselves inside the old shack before they even get a chance to count their catch.
This is the other way the Lobster Trap got its name, because once somebody goes into the bar, even if they say it’s for just one drink, they have a difficult time finding their way out.
“It’s fuckin’ cold out there,” I say as Emmy and I push the old wooden door open.
The bell rings. We wipe our boots on the mat.
“Ayuh,” Mason says from behind the counter. He’s tucking the dirty bar rag into the loop of his jeans.
Mason only runs the counter when his grandad, Mr. Wilcox, is out, which feels like always. The best thing about this is that Mason lets us drink even though we’re underage.
“Bridget, Emmy,” he says, “what are you guys havin’, the usual?”
Emmy says “yep.” My jeans stick to the bar stool when I sit. It smells like stale beer and cigars—all layers of things that mix together into a scent that sits right at the very top of your head.
“Actually, can I just have a coffee? I have an American History test tomorrow,” I say.
“So…the usual?” says Mason.
“Uh…ayuh. The usual, I guess.”
Emmy nods to the far corner of the room where a few fishermen are talking. They’re all huddled together, a little too close—trapped in a net. They’re spinning tales about seagulls. Big flocks of them off the shore all day. The gulls were bothered, flying around not knowing which way was which, diving down to fish crabs off the rocky shoreline and missing them every time. Repeating themselves like they’d forgotten the crustacean were too hard to catch. According to the men, this means a storm is coming, a big one at that. No sailing tomorrow, that’s for sure, which will throw off the lobster count for the rest of the week. The fishermen shake their heads, slam their beers down on the table.
“What idiots,” Emmy says.
“How do you mean?” says Mason.
“They’ll just believe anythin’ won’t they?” She says. “I saw the weather on TV, there is no storm tomorrow. It’s supposed to be a nice day—warm, too.”
“It’s… January.” I say.
“Oh,” Emmy takes a sip from her beer. “Well, what does a seagull got to do with it? What do they know?”
The fishermen continue to chatter about lobster count and choppy waters. Bad luck.
“I don’t know,” Mason says. “They’re usually right about this sort of thin’.”
“Nah, they’ll just believe anythin’ won’t they,” Emmy says.
The fishermen’s chatter dies down. It’s quiet. The dock is knocking back and forth outside, waves slapping against the barnacle-covered concrete wall that protects the shack from storms.
It’s quiet, and then, they are singing.
We’ve never seen anything quite like this, here in the Lobster Trap, but we’re not surprised. The fishermen sing sometimes, it’s what they do when they’re bored. Or, there’s some meaning behind it—the singing. Some meaning I can’t remember. But we’ve never seen anything quite like this.
The lobstermen’s voices are all together, rough like traps scraping against wood, scratching up varnish and algae. It’s “Blood Red Roses,” the song:
It’s ’round the Cape that we must go Go down, you blood red roses, Go down.
Though we be beaten with rain and snow.
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down.
Emmy says “oh you have got to be kiddin’ me,” and collapses into a laugh. I can barely hear her, over the roses and the waves outside, it’s all too loud, but Emmy is laughing, really laughing.
She’s says something like “it’s so classic, it’s too fuckin’ classic,” and now I’m laughing too.
Even Mason smirks, the song pulls at the side of his mouth.
Emmy is laughing so hard, and those fishermen will believe anything. I know Emmy will think this is really something funny, so I start whistling:
It’s growl you may, but go you must,
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down.
‘you growl too loud, your head they’ll bust.
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down.
I’m whistling the tune and Emmy is inconsolable. She slaps the top of the table, makes a noise like she might choke. Shakes her head—cheeks red. When I look away from her, eyes blurry from trying no to laugh, Mason’s smile has disappeared off his face.
“Bridget, are you fuckin’ numb?” He says. His voice breaks out of his throat in a hush.
This makes Emmy laugh even harder, she’s kicking her legs. I’m still whistling the next part of the song, all slow: Go down…go down….
Mason says “will you shut up?”
When I stop, all the men are looking at us, Emmy and I. Emmy is still laughing, so hard that her laugh is silent. She has her head down on the table, her shoulders shaking up and down. A chair leg squeaks against the wood floor, catches on a nail. The Lobster Trap creeks, pushed by the wind.
“Bad luck,” one of the fishermen says. “Bad luck to whistle—”
My eyes are fixed on the shelf of liquor behind Mason, which sways back and forth as if we are on a boat. I swore we were not. I’m looking at the clock. It’s 10:00 p.m.
It’s 10:00 p.m—a Wednesday. The bar closes early, midnight.
Emmy and I have been sitting at the counter for about an hour watching old trawlers run the taps until they forget who they are. We get bored easily, Emmy and I. So when there is nothing better to do, we come to the Lobster Trap.
The only gossip we’ve soaked up so far this evening is that Mr. Birnbaum’s wife might be leaving him. He hasn’t seen her in days, maybe weeks, he says. They’ve been married for forty years and he doesn’t know why or where she’s going. When Mr. Birnbaum leaves his stool for the first time in hours to go play darts on the other side of the room, we tell Fran Cecily, who comes here each night and always takes a scotch with no ice, that Mr. Birnbaum’s wife met a businessman on the mainland and she’s running away with him. Fran says, “no sir,” and “you’re pullin’ my leg.” Emmy and I just nod our heads—take a sip from our drinks and lift our eyebrows. Fran leaves shortly thereafter. She has to wake up early to work on the docks tomorrow, rubber banding lobster claws.
“We could leave, I guess,” I say to Emmy.
I have an American History test first thing in the morning, after all. I have an American
History test in the morning.
You would think that fisherman’s lore wouldn’t be a big deal anymore.
You would think that the superstitions would have all but faded away when they realized mermaids don’t exist and there are no sirens who are going to lure them beneath the water’s surface. As far as Emmy and I can tell, the superstitious nature of fishermen has not let up and will not let up anytime soon. It’s basic stuff they still believe in: Cats are good luck, crows are bad. Always get a girl to touch the collar of your shirt before you set out to the open sea. Never start a journey on a Friday. Always sing, never whistle.
I’m whistling, I’ve been whistling. I’ve been whistling—
“Bad luck,” one of the fishermen in the corner of the room says. They’ve been sitting there for hours, talking, singing. Spinning tales about seagulls, trapped in a net. “Bad luck,” he says again. And Emmy is laughing.
“Bad luck!” She screams and takes in a giant breath of air before bursting into laughter again. “Bad luck? This whole town’s bad luck! What’s whistlin’ goin’ to do?”
I’m about to apologize “I—” it was just a joke. We get bored sometimes, so we come to the Lobster Trap. When the gossip’s run out, well, we have to think of something else to do. That’s why I started whistling. Those fishermen will believe anything, won’t they? Those fishermen will believe anything.
“Emmy, maybe we should go,” I say. “We should go.”
I have to wake up early tomorrow morning. The men are still staring at us when I grab her hand and drag her to the front of the bar, she laughs the whole time. When I push the old wooden door open, cold air rushes against my face.
In the far corner of the room, some fishermen are talking, all huddled together—trapped in a net.
“What are they talkin’ about?” I ask Mason.
We’re in the Lobster Trap.
“Somethin’ or other about seagulls,” he says. “Big flocks of them offshore all day, bothered. Flyin’ around, not knowin’ which way was which.”
“Storm is comin’,” Mr. Birnbaum says.
He’s sitting next to me. He has been for hours, I think. He gets up to play darts on the other side of the room.
“What idiots,” Emmy says when he’s gone.
“How do you mean?” says Mason.
“They’ll just believe anythin’ won’t they?” She continues. “I saw the weather on TV…yesterday. Yeah, yesterday, that’s right,” she thinks for a moment. “There is no storm tomorrow. And what the hell does a seagull got to do with it? What do they know?” The fishermen continue to chatter about their lobster and stormy seas. Bad luck.
“We didn’t….” I say.
Or maybe I’m about to say it when the fishermen start singing.
Mason is laughing, laughing so silly he can’t stand up straight—he’s losing his balance.
He’s laughing so hard, I can barely hear Emmy and whatever she’s trying to say to me over the roses and the waves outside. It’s all too loud. It’s men’s voices, all of them together, singing. They’re singing. Rough like traps scraping against wood, scratching up varnish and algae.
It’s all men, and of course, there’s Fran Cecily. We wave her over. She sits down on the barstool next to us. She tells Mason she’ll take a scotch. He pours one out into a glass, no ice, between giggles.
“What’s his problem?” Fran says.
We shrug our shoulders.
“I can’t stay long,” she says, “I got work tomorrow mornin’.”
“Rubber bandin’ lobster claws,” I say.
She nods, “that’s right. I can’t stay long but I had to tell you guys somethin’, real hot gossip.”
Emmy leans in closer.
“I heard Mr. Birnbaum’s wife is leavin’ him,” she says between gulps of scotch. She drinks like she hasn’t had anything in a very long time. “The wife met a businessman on the mainland and she’s runnin’ away with him. They’ve been married for forty years, can you believe that?”
“Despicable,” Emmy says.
The men are singing:
Just one more pull and that will do,
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down.
For we’re the boys to pull her through Go down…
I don’t remember if I’ve had anything to drink yet, but the whole bar is swaying like we’re on a boat. I’m sure we weren’t
“Emmy,” I yell over the singing, the storm outside. “It’s gettin’ late. Maybe we should go home.”
“Home?” Emmy shouts. She leans in close, squints her eyes like she’s trying to hear me better. “Bridge, it’s 10 o’clock.”
I look over towards the exit, Fran’s off. When she opens the door to leave, a gust of wind blows in—cold that hurts, burns.
Emmy and I are the only girls left at the Lobster Trap tonight.
It’s a Wednesday. It is January. We are not old enough to be here.
“Our parents,” I say.
“What about them?” Says Emmy
She’s sitting on the barstool closest to the door. A breeze is moving through the shack.
The ocean is screaming.
“They don’t know we’re here….”
“That’s right,” she says.
“It’s dangerous?”
The fishermen are staring at us.
“What’s dangerous?” Says Emmy. She’s taking a sip from her beer.
“Just you, and me, and all these men.”
She pauses. We’re swaying.
“There’s no such thing as siren’s is there?” She says. “Those fishermen will believe anythin’, won’t they? Those fishermen will believe anythin’.”
We are here, at the Lobster Trap.
It’s me and Emmy. And Mason and Fran Cecily. Fran Cecily comes here every night, orders a scotch with no ice—leaves early because she has work in the morning. Mason runs the bar when his grandad, Mr. Wilcox is out and lets us drink even though we are underage. Mr.
Birnbaum is here, he hasn’t seen his wife in weeks, months, he thinks.
Emmy’s knuckles are all blood and salt. There’s a red mark on her nose that looks like it will be a bruise later, or maybe, it already was one—green and yellow.
“What happened to your nose?” I ask her.
“You remember?”
I don’t.
“Trapped in a net,” she says.
Fran shakes her head.
Emmy isn’t looking at me, she’s staring at the clock. It’s 10:00 p.m.
“You were…whistlin’,” she says.
It is then that Mason and Fran—and Mr. Birnbaum, too—start singing.
Oh, you pinks and posies
Go down, you blood red roses.
“Not this again,” Emmy says.
Again.
When the frost began a few months back…
When the frost began some months back, when the last of the vacationers of the season left last fall, we decided to start going to the Lobster Trap.
There’s a song playing on the record player. The record player by the dartboard. It’s “Blood Red Roses,” the song—a sea shanty, an old one. An old sea shanty about here, this time and Cape Hedge.
Emmy and I are sitting, drinking, listening for gossip.
“I saw people I’ve never seen before today,” a fisherman says to Mason.
Mason is filling up a fresh pitcher of beer.
“A group of tourists,” the fishermen continues, “a family.”
“They forgot…” Emmy says.
Mason takes the words from her mouth, “they forgot this isn’t the kind of place you want to be in the dead dead winter?”
Dead. Dead.
“Ayuh,” the fisherman says.
There’s a pause, it’s “Blood Red Roses.”
“We don’t get the luxury of escape that the tourists take for granted, do we?” The fisherman says, taking his pitcher of beer and walking away.
Someone opens the door. The sea rolls in. Cold.
“Bridget, are you fuckin’ numb?”
It’s Mason speaking. Emmy is laughing, she’s inconsolable. The men are all looking at us, Emmy and I. She slams her head down on the table—shoulders shaking up and down.
“We should go,” I say. I’ve been doing something I wasn’t supposed to again. A chair leg squeaks against the wood floor, catches on a nail. The Lobster Trap creeks, sways. “I don’t—I have an American History test in the morning.”
“You always say that,” Mason says. He reaches for the coffee pot on the back of the bar,
“The usual, then?”
I look around. The fishermen are all sitting, chattering away. Mr. Birnbaum is playing darts. The dock is knocking back and forth outside, waves slapping against the barnacle-covered concrete wall that protects the shack from storms. It’s all lobstermen talking and then, like that, they are singing.
We’ve seen this happen before at the Lobster Trap—a few times. We’re not surprised. The fishermen sing sometimes, it’s what they do. Not out of boredom, no, it means something bigger than that. To them, it’s something bigger. Those fishermen, they’ll believe anything.
Emmy says “oh you have got to be kiddin’ me,” and collapses into a laugh.
My dear old mother wrote to me, Go down, you blood red roses, Go down.
Ah son, won’t you come home from sea.
Go down, you blood red roses, Go down.
It’s just about 10:00 p.m.
We weren’t going to go out tonight but Emmy got bored, so I picked her up about a half-hour ago. It’s a Wednesday, so the Lobster Trap closes early—midnight.
“It’s fuckin’ cold out there,” I say as Emmy and I push the old wooden door open.
The bell rings. We wipe our boots on the mat.
“Ayuh,” Mason says from behind the counter.
He’s tucking the dirty bar rag into the loop of his jeans.
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