Page 42 of Enemies to Lobsters
“Di?” I try again, listening for shuffling or the creak of her floorboards. Instead, something echoes from the direction of the lighthouse tower. Someone is screaming.
Diana.
Heart pounding, I sprint through the living room and kitchen, toward the short entry to the lighthouse. I’m sure it’s coming from there. I almost push through the door when I realize what I’m hearing isn’t screaming.
It’s… singing?
That can’t be singing.
I turn the doorknob slowly, without letting the mechanism make noise, a feat for this rusty old thing. I move inside silently, crouching low like that will make my six-foot-two frame invisible. Yeah, the screaming is definitely supposed tobe singing. I force my mouth into a firm line as I enter the lighthouse tower. Diana is sitting halfway up the stairs, belting operatically in her pajamas.
Her garbled Italian—or maybe it’s Latin—is heavy on the vibrato. That’s what Stevie calls it when a singer makes their voice wobble like they’re riding on the hood of a truck down a bumpy dirt road. Yeah, that’s exactly what it sounds like. Diana sounds like she’s shouting Italian threats from the hood of a truck. I picture it with a goofy grin.
I am so gone for this woman.
I step toward our new staircase, wary of being spotted. What can I say? It’s the day for me to eavesdrop on everyone in town. And I want to enjoy this rare “Diana in the wild” sighting while I can. She’s peering out the narrow window at the Atlantic, and wearing those little pink pajama shorts that seem to be her favorite.
She’s really going for it on the chorus or whatever that’s supposed to be, her tone sad and tragic. I close my eyes, soaking in the falling-for-her feeling and the sound of my wife’s atrocious opera. I love this side of her—the real her, with the messy hair and the unpleasant singing voice.
Then she screeches.
I startle and yelp, clamping my hand over my mouth.
The tower falls silent. I don’t move. There’s a chance she didn’t hear me. A seagull squawks outside. She tilts her head toward the sound.
Yes. That was it. A seagull was joining you in “song.”
“Ike?”
I curse under my breath. Clearing my throat, I straighten my ball cap. “I brought you a whoopie pie,” I announce like I haven’t heard a thing.
I climb the stairs toward her, scrambling for a way to keep her from feeling embarrassed. That was the cutest thing I’ve everseen in my life. When I find her halfway up the steps, her arms are crossed over her knees, and her face is buried in her arms.
I hold out the brown paper bag. “Whoopie pie?”
She snatches it, barely looking up. “Thank you.” She re-buries her face.
It’s quiet for a beat. Then I ask, “Whatcha doin’?” as tenderly as I can, lowering onto the stair beside her, maybe a little too close.
“Bumph rumffatic.” Her words are muffled against her arms.
“What was that?”
When she doesn’t answer I bump her with my shoulder.
“Ifeddah bumphremffatic,” she uselessly emphasizes every word.
“Nope. I got nothing.”
Her shoulders and back raise and lower slowly in a defeated sigh. She pulls only her mouth away from her arms. “I said I’mbeing dramatic.”
I think I know what might loosen her up. A dozen childhood memories flit through my mind.
“Can I scratch your back?” It’s something my dad does whenever my mom’s keyed up. Married people stuff. I don’t know. It’s worth a shot, right?
I’m shocked when Diana shrugs. “Ukehhh,” she grumbles into her arms.
I think that was an “okay.” I’m fist-pumping on the inside. Then I gird up my loins. I’m well aware of the uncharted, risky territory I’m entering. Diana York territory. I draw a mental map of the no-fly zones. I’m doing this. I’m going in.
