“Lobsters” by Austin Ross

"It all started, if these things can be said to have an origin point, when I first accepted the senior pastor position at Little Rock Presbyterian."

Today’s story is Short Story, Long’s first repeat contributor, and the third time I’ve gotten to publish a longer story from Austin (in addition to some amazing essays and short fiction). The first, “A Hungry Bear Does Not Dance,” is one I still think about often, and last August, I got to publish this amazing father-son story:

Austin and I talk about this some in our interview, coming on Tuesday, but the premise of this story is a knockout from the beginning… and then the story follows through and more, surprising and wowing at every turn. Between this and the above (and how much I loved his novel, Gloria Patri), I can’t wait for an Austin Ross story collection!

—Aaron Burch

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“Lobsters”

It all started, if these things can be said to have an origin point, when I first accepted the senior pastor position at Little Rock Presbyterian. I was as surprised as anyone at this development. Cheryl and the kids and I had initially moved to Arkansas for the youth pastor position. How was I supposed to know that Dave, the longtime senior pastor, would suddenly up and quit without warning? His kid attempted suicide and Dave became a different person. Felt the Lord “leading him somewhere else,” he’d said, and fully supported me taking over the position. Dave was one of those guys with so much charisma that the congregation would do anything he wanted them to, so I was suddenly roped into accepting the job or else I’d be the one who let Dave down. I grew to resent Dave for saddling me with this enormous undertaking. It was too much, too soon. I’d only recently graduated from seminary and was a fresh-faced kid in almost every way. I had no idea what was in store for me.

Going from writing papers about the etymological differences of ישעיהו (y'sha'ya'hu) and ישעיה (y'sha'yah) in Isaiah to having Mrs. Peterson from Del Rey weep in your office after her son shot himself in the head in her kitchen is enough to curl anyone’s hair. And the problems of a church just keep coming: Danny Wise and his cancer diagnosis; the Tordelays and their whole foster care situation; that time when Jonathan Abbott got arrested for shoplifting and I was the one who had to bail him out. I became a conduit for their gossip, the whispers of their hidden lives. Tell me more became my mantra in these faux therapy sessions, and after a time I could feel my own stiffening tumescence when they opened themselves to me. Not a sexual thing, mind you. I had grown addicted to knowing the inner workings of their lives, to having access to these dirty secrets. And they would volunteer this information. I couldn’t do anything with the information, of course. If I did, my reputation would be forever tainted and the church would either fire me or hold a vote of no confidence. But there remained a sense of power I had been given; these people looked to me for answers.

I was fresh-faced and innocent—the ink had barely dried on our marriage certificate by the time Cheryl and I moved out here, and I was anxious to enter the workforce, if that’s what the pastorate is to be called. Apart from a theoretical understanding, I was thoroughly ignorant of the deep cruelty of this world. Can you blame me for finding an outlet to blow off some steam? For taking some solace in the virtual arms of Mr. and Mrs. Cuck? I no longer think recent seminary grads—babies, practically—should become pastors.

Things snowballed from there.

I discovered the account early on and found myself drawn to it. I won’t go into sordid details here—those are between myself and God, although I’m no longer sure there is one, if I’m honest. But let’s just say that it was a nice treat, a little voyeuristic escape from the pressures of daily life. I had and have—and I want to make this absolutely clear—no interest in actually engaging in the swinging and threesome lifestyle of Mr. and Mrs. Cuck. But they sure seemed to be having fun. They never spoke in their videos and always wore masks, but I still felt privy to some deep part of their lives simply by watching. It was communal in a way that seemed deeper than reality.

But one day—the day that set all this in motion—the couple addressed the camera and spoke for perhaps the first time. Mr. Cuck kept fingering the ring on his right hand. It was a high school football ring, gold and ornate and designed to look almost like a Super Bowl ring but for people who had reached their peak in high school. Seeing that ring filled me with a sense of dread so absolute that it’s hard to describe its totality or severity. I felt like my stomach had shriveled up inside me. That ring belonged to Timothy Callahan, the longest serving elder at Little Rock Presbyterian. I was sure of it. I’d just had lunch with him on Tuesday and he wore that very ring. Once I placed the ring, I realized that the voice was the same, too, though in the video Timothy was attempting to speak lower, more gravelly, as though to disguise his voice without having to use a voice modulator.

“Mrs. Cuck and I are not in any trouble,” he said, and at that moment they leaned toward each other and kissed their masks together. “We’re not retiring or separating or anything like that, so don’t worry. We love each other very much. What we are doing is moving behind the paywall. I know, I know. But this shit is expensive. If you want access to the good stuff right away, click the link below.”

It was early on, I suppose, that I developed a fascination—an obsession, really—with Mrs. Cuck, though I suppose I should call her by her true name: Laura Callahan of 517 August Drive. I’d been to that house many times. Laura is strikingly beautiful—I have thought this since I first met her when we moved here—full-figured and attractive in every way, particularly now that I could imagine her face beneath the masks she always wore in the videos. And she was charming despite never talking, though there was something about her that spoke to me. Writing that now, I can see the humor. How can one speak without speaking? Believe me, she somehow managed.

The night of my discovery, my wife and I are scheduled to have dinner with the Callahans. This timing is unintentional—it has been on the books for a few months now. Finding time for the four of us to get together is increasingly difficult, and my wife Cheryl always says that it’s important for me to keep relationships with my elders as open as possible. You have no idea how open this relationship is, I wanted to say. I’ve seen the birthmark—the one that looks like Gorbachev’s head—on the man’s penis. This is all I could think about as I shook Timothy’s hand before we went inside: where that hand had been; where my hand had been. Our hands are like ships passing in the night, spies in some espionage film who could not acknowledge their adversary in public.

“Gary,” Timothy says as he gives my hand a squeeze with his fat fingers. Fingers that had been inside a plethora of individuals. His faux Super Bowl ring digs into my knuckles. I tense my jaw and smile as best I can.

But it is when greeting his wife Laura that I feel something shift within me. Something that had—if I’d been truly honest—always existed but which now blossomed. I can hardly take my eyes off her. We embrace quickly before going into the restaurant. I want to feel the press of her warmth against me forever and am hesitant to break the hug. I’m not sure if my wife notices or not. There is a thrill to be this close to a celebrity.

We’re seated over by the lobster tank, Cheryl’s least favorite spot but my favorite. I like watching their claws, distorted through the water and glass, held shut by thick blue rubber bands. They are calm until one of the restaurant staff plucks one from the water for someone’s dinner; then their backs arch, their muscular tails curve upward. They do not know they are in danger until that moment. But their legs and claws cannot reach far enough back, and they are quickly placed in a pot of boiling water. I read a while ago that lobsters live for thirty to forty-five seconds after being placed in the water. Cheryl taps me on the shoulder.

“They don’t scream,” I say.

I realize suddenly what I have said, where I am. Timothy and Laura look at me for a moment before smiles cross their faces and they lean in, expecting to hear more. “What’s this, now?” Tim says.

I shake my head. “The lobsters. I was just thinking about them. They don’t scream. Some people think they scream. It’s just air escaping small holes in their bodies. It’s more like a whistle than a scream.”

“Tim was just talking about the church workday,” Cheryl says, ignoring my lobster thoughts. She’s always ignoring my lobster thoughts, I realize, those little glimpses of how my mind truly works. I have to remind myself that I do in fact love her.

“The workday.” I shift now to discussing the church. There is a change, as subtle as it may be, in my posture, my vocabulary, even my pronunciation, whenever I discuss the church. It’s a necessary change. I’m speaking the language now. I’m a citizen of this strange country. “What about it?”

Tim starts talking about something or other with the workday—not enough people have signed up to tend the flower beds or mulch the property or repaint the sign. As he talks, a new realization comes, one that shocks me with its suddenness: I no longer want to be here.

Not here here, as in, in this restaurant—the food is great as always—but rather here in this life, in this church, in this role. Here. It is as though my collar is too tight, that I’m being choked to death slowly by garden mulch and communion wafers. I want to run far away. To not be perceived is a lovely thought.

I realize that Tim has finished talking and I have no idea what he’s said. Something about the workday. I think briefly of asking him to repeat himself but don’t really want to hear his voice anymore. Instead, I say, “Mmm.”

There’s an expectant silence at the table; everyone is waiting for me to continue. I add, “That is interesting.”

Still more silence. “I’ll have to think about it some more,” I add.

This seems to placate them, the buzzards, and they’re finally able to move on with the conversation to something else.

I excuse myself to use the bathroom, and on my return bump into Laura as she is standing outside the door.

“It’s full,” she says and points to the door behind her.

“Ah,” I say. Our contact makes me feel as though my whole body has been dipped in Alka-Seltzer. Every nerve ending tingles with something beautiful. She is even more attractive this close up and in this light—a little older-looking, perhaps, but real in a way I hadn’t noticed before. I imagine her wearing a mask. What would she look like? She has such warmth to every part of her personality. I want to reach out and touch her in some way, perhaps cup her cheek in my palm or wrap an arm around her waist and pull her toward me.

“So how are things?” I say.

“They’re okay,” Laura says. “You know. Some good, some bad. I just—” She stops at this point, hesitant to continue.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “It’s nothing.”

“What is it?” I say. “You can tell me. If something’s going on, you can tell me.”

Laura seems to hesitate further, unwilling on some level to let me know what was going on. “Just some work things. I guess I—have you ever wanted to quit something but aren’t sure you can?”

I want to tell her that I know exactly what she is talking about. If only she knew. Come away with me, I think. Far from here. I would quit the pastorate in a heartbeat if I could, just to get some peace. “I do,” I say. “It’s difficult in those times. What exactly are you looking to quit?”

The bathroom door opens and Laura and I awkwardly part ways.

On the way home, Cheryl nudges me in the ribs with her knuckles, a move she knows I hate.

“You know I hate that move,” I say.

“What was up with you tonight?” she asks. “You were being very peculiar.”

“‘I was being very peculiar.’ How was I being very peculiar? I thought it went quite well.”

“Your mind was somewhere else the whole time,” she said. “Your body was in the room with us but your brain was somewhere far away.”

“‘I was being peculiar,’” I say again, mimicking her.

The rest of the drive home is silent. Tyler is asleep now thanks to the babysitter, a young seventeen-year-old girl named Savanna from across town. “Gary will drive you home,” Cheryl says, nudging me in the ribs with her knuckles.

“It’s not that long of a walk,” Savanna says.

“It’s not that long of a walk,” I say.

“It is that long of a walk,” Cheryl says. “It’s dark out. There are murderers.”

Savanna and I both laugh. We are certain there are no murderers in this part of Little Rock. Statistically, though, I suppose that Cheryl could theoretically be right. “Isn’t it something like 87 percent of all murders are by people the victim knew?” I say, mostly joking. “She just needs to avoid seeing anybody she knows on her way home and she’ll be fine.”

Cheryl knuckles my ribs again. I should keep a tally. “Fine,” I say.

The drive home with a babysitter is always the worst, especially if they are young and pretty. Savanna is both. I am completely uninterested in her in that way, but want her to know that without having to say it outright. Don’t worry, I imagine saying. Neither of us is thinking about my penis right now. The thought of saying this out loud makes me chuckle to myself and I realize too late that we’ve gone a few blocks without saying anything, which is perhaps worse. The silence can fester and create all sorts of wild ideas.

“What’s funny?” Savanna says.

“Something from dinner,” I say. “It’s a long story.”

“I like long stories.”

“Long stories aren’t a marker of quality. They just exist.”

“I don’t know,” Savanna says, now clearly uncomfortable. “I just like long stories.”

Shit. Now I’ve gone in the other direction and made her think I’m an asshole. I mean, I am—in many ways—but it’s never good to make a babysitter think you’re an asshole. They’re much less likely to pick up the phone next time. And then who’s going to watch your stupid kid? “Sorry,” I say. “It’s been a long day. A long year, really.”

“I get that,” Savanna says.

I’m not sure she does—that she can, even. I find myself trying to remember difficult times from when I was seventeen. They existed, certainly, but nothing like now, when the weight of everything—all the life choices of not only me but everyone around me—feels as though it’s going to crush my chest.

“Do you ever feel like you just want to run?” I say.

Uh-oh. Be careful, I think. Even I’m not sure what I’m doing. I feel desperate for something.

“Run?” she says.

“Do you ever just run? Like, go for a run some evening and keep going for a long time? Sometimes I think I’d like to run until I’m completely exhausted. Maybe it would help me sleep. I don’t know.”

“Hm,” she says, as though seriously considering the question. “I don’t think so. Here I am.”

I pull up to the curb beside her house, a large two-story with attached garage on a nice cul-de-sac. I wonder what her parents do for a living.

Before she gets out, she hesitates, slowly letting the seatbelt go as it slips over her shoulder. “By the way,” she says hesitantly. “I hope this is okay. I wasn’t sure if I should say anything, but it seems important. I put your gun back in its case. Tyler went into your office while I was in the bathroom and he had picked it up. It’s really important to lock that up.”

I had completely forgotten about the gun—I’m not even sure why it was out in the first place—so I stammer quickly, saying something about how it wasn’t loaded and I am a gun safety nut and how important it is for them to be regulated and in their proper place and kept behind lock and key. I don’t think Savanna believes me, though. As she walks up to her house and goes inside, I seriously doubt we’ll ever see her again. There goes another babysitter. We’ve gone through so many already.

When I get back, Cheryl asks how it went.

“Fine,” I say, and lock myself in the downstairs bathroom. Tim and Laura’s account is waiting for me. They have gone live. It begins as usual, until Tim—an elder in good standing at Little Rock Presbyterian Church—ties Laura up. This is new. She protests this but he pays her no mind. I can’t tell if it’s an act or not.

I pause the video, look away. The cold of the toilet tank presses through my shirt as I lean back. My body is numb apart from a tingling, buzzing in my gut. I join Cheryl in bed where she is already asleep and oblivious to the pain of this world.

Laura is not at church that Sunday.

I notice this as soon as Tim enters. He is late—again—and by the time he is seated in the ancient pews near the back, I am already preaching. It is the end of a sermon series on Lamentations, and I attempt to say something nice about a book that ends with “Renew our days as of old—unless you have utterly rejected us, and you remain exceedingly angry with us.” I just about manage it, and Dave on guitar leads us in singing a final song.

I make my way to Tim as quickly as I can. Some people stop me along the way to express appreciation for the sermon or to ask when we might fix the water line to the downstairs bathroom. When I finally reach Tim, he smiles and greets me with a typical bro hug. As much a ritual as the eucharist. I’ve known Tim for many years now, I realize suddenly. During my very first staff retreat at Little Rock Pres, he opened up about his life. We all shared the stories of our lives with each other as way of introduction. I had really felt as though I’d known him then. I remember when he shared with me in confidence not that long ago—a year? a year and a half?—that he and Laura had been considering going to couples therapy. But here, now, as we release from this quick embrace and I smile at him, I realize I’m looking at a complete stranger.

“Where’s Laura today?” I ask as nonchalantly as possible. Simply a pastor asking a brother how his family is.

“She’s not feeling too well today,” Tim says.

“That’s unfortunate,” I say.

“Yeah. Stomach bug, we’re pretty sure. It’s probably one of those twenty-four-hour things.”

I don’t believe him.

When I get home and Tyler has eaten lunch, I tell Cheryl I’m going to run a quick errand. I place in the trunk of the car the tent we borrowed from the Callahans a long time ago and never returned. I am anxious when I arrive at Tim’s house. It is a nice little duplex with a bright yellow door; outside of their bedroom is a small balcony. I wait for a moment to see if anyone is moving inside. Tim answers and I explain that I saw this tent out in the shed and realized we’d never returned it. He thanks me and is about to close the door when I say, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom? Sorry.”

“Not at all. Sure.”

Tim lugs the tent out to their shed, leaving me alone in the house. I’ve been here many times, have had many conversations over the years of supposedly deep significance. But everything is different now. A heaviness weighs. I slip my shoes off and pad as silently as I can up the carpeted steps to where I know their bathroom is—right beside the master bedroom. I listen for any signs of life and realize I’ve never once, in all my years of knowing them, seen this door open. I briefly convince myself I can hear faint crying behind the bedroom door, but it is locked, and the sound—whatever it may have been—is silenced when I try the knob.

“Laura?” I whisper, but there is no answer.

I hear the door downstairs close. Tim has returned from the backyard. I pad over to the bathroom and flush before coming back downstairs.

“Everything good?” Tim asks.

“Just great,” I say, and we bro hug again while I fantasize about punching him in the face. I’ve never punched anyone in the face before but I think it would be a valuable experience if the person were deserving. As I get in my car, I’m not sure anyone else is more deserving than Tim Callahan, who remains ignorant of the gift he’s been given.

It’s Father’s Day. I almost forget this until Cheryl insists on cooking me a steak—pan-fried in garlic, butter, and thyme and finished in the oven. “You don’t have to do that,” I say as Tyler hangs onto my right arm.

“I want to,” Cheryl says, and leans up on her tiptoes to kiss me lightly before returning to the pan sauce. “I feel like we haven’t been all that connected lately. We’ve been missing each other.”

“Connected sconnected,” Tyler says. His new habit is to make up rhymes.

“What do you mean, ‘missing each other’?” I ask.

“I just mean,” Cheryl says.

“Daddy. Daddy. I said ‘sconnected.’”

“Yes. I heard you,” I say.

“Mommy is trying to talk, Tyler. If you want to talk, hold my hand to let me know you would like to speak.”

Tyler immediately loosens his grip on my arm and transitions to Cheryl’s side,

where he grabs her hand insistently.

“Anyway,” Cheryl says, obviously trying to ignore Tyler. “I just feel like we haven’t really talked in a while.”

“I wonder why,” I say, nodding to Tyler.

“You know what I mean.”

“Mean bean,” Tyler says. “Daddy, did you hear me?”

“I heard you, buddy,” I say.

“And your work seems to be taking a lot of your time,” Cheryl says.

“What do you mean, ‘a lot of my time’?” I’m growing defensive already. I can feel it.

It’s at that moment that my phone rings. It is Sally. Her son Jeff has been in and out of rehab for years, and she calls me every week or so to give me updates. Jeff relapsed. Jeff asked for money. Jeff robbed a liquor store. I’m sick of hearing about Jeff. I’m sick of being a receptacle for other people’s problems. I don’t give a shit about the Jeffs of the world anymore, but I talk with Sally about how Jeff was pulled over for driving with an expired license, and by the time I’m done dinner is cold, Tyler is already asleep, and Cheryl has gone upstairs to read.

After eating microwaved steak, I realize Mr. & Mrs. Cuck have switched their account to entirely paid content. Everything is now behind a paywall. I’d forgotten about that, but it’s fine. There’s a Visa gift card somewhere around here. It’s not connected to my personal email.

Setting up an account is easy enough and soon I’m back in. There is, I’m told upon entering their profile, a livestream event for tonight at eight. It’s 7:45 now. I’m definitely going to be tuning in—perhaps more out of morbid curiosity than anything else—so I finish the dishes quickly and head back to my office and lock the door. I pop in an earbud and join as they begin. There is Mr. Cuck, aka Tim Callahan, in his tumescent glory. On the bed is Laura. She seems uncomfortable to me now. I hear her voice: Have you ever wanted to quit something but aren’t sure you can? A third figure sits in the armchair beside the bed.

My feet bump the gun case beneath the desk. I remove the revolver—a .357 Magnum I’d bought mostly for the hell of it and because of all the stories of break-ins in our neighborhood—and toy with it for longer than I’d anticipated. The idea of using it somehow feels inevitable; like it was meant to be. I think: We were destined for each other, you and I, gun. Its weight becomes my weight. I feel the heft of it in my hand. The livestream plays on in my earbuds. I’d have time if I left right now. I could put a stop to this. I could help somebody, goddamn it. I grab my balaclava—a holdover from the dark and long winters when Cheryl and I had lived in Michigan—and go upstairs.

I toss the gun in the bottom of a Kroger bag, cover it with a kitchen towel, and hop in the car. The Callahans live about ten minutes away, but I get there in eight. It’s like I’m possessed.

I park a few blocks away from their house and make my way through the darkness. The Kroger bag hangs from my fingers. My heart feels as though it is going to collapse. I imagine for a moment bursting in the door. What then?

A light is on and I see shapes moving faintly through the curtains. There is the small balcony outside the window. A flowerpot rests on the cement edge. I stand there, frozen by the reality of what’s ahead. I don’t want to be on camera. I don’t want the world to know me. I want to stop them. I want to run away with Laura. I want to leave my life behind but not abandon Tyler or Cheryl. I want to experience peace again. I don’t know what I want. I fish the gun from the plastic bag and level it at the bedroom window in the darkness. I’m confident I can hit that window from here. If I wanted to. I’ve been to the firing range a handful of times and have a natural affinity for aim. Maybe I could just scare them. Put an end to it that way. Perhaps they’d see the light.

Instead, compelled as though by an outside force—God, the divine, instinct, whatever—I move closer. I don’t want to go closer but cannot stop. I can see shadows moving behind the curtain, but I can’t tell what’s happening. The livestream shows that Tim still waits for their masked friend to finish before it’s his turn. Laura still struggles. Even if it’s an act, it’s something that now confronts me with its immorality. I am aware on a cosmic scale of the presence of the divine. And beneath that indignation, I now see, is a deep sense of jealousy. I want this for myself. I am driven not by moral choice but by base instinct. I wrap myself in the balaclava so that only my eyes are visible. The idea that I might join in occurs to me. It thrills unexpectedly. I can feel myself grow hard at the thought. It’s enough to convince me to climb up the side of the wall to the balcony. I think of Laura inside. I think of being inside Laura. I’m coming, I think.

Except that it’s surprisingly difficult to climb their house. I manage to grip the balcony edge with my fingertips but then fall to the ground, my body swinging wildly. I let out a grunt that’s louder than I want when I hit the ground, hidden behind their bushes.

I wait in absolute silence. It takes a moment, but I hear the click of the balcony doors unlocking and the voice of Tim and Laura within. Being directly beneath the balcony, I can hear them but can’t see them. My phone is off to stay silent, though perhaps they paused the livestream.

Tim shuffles around the balcony for another moment. Laura asks him if he sees anything. Then the balcony door latches shut again. I stir from my spot on the ground, feeling my bones ache with each movement, and clamber up to the balcony. This time I am able to swing up and hook my leg on the cement edge. The Kroger bag hangs limply. It feels ridiculous. What am I planning? To threaten them? Force them to let me take part? Simply confront them? I feel as though some other person has taken control of my body.

Glass breaks inside, and I hear Laura cry out. My heartrate spikes, and I grab the unlocked balcony door handle and swing the door toward me to reveal Tim and Laura Callahan lying on the bed, fully clothed and watching television. Laura is picking up broken pieces of a dropped wine glass.

Tim jumps to his feet and grabs a baseball bat from beneath the bed. He runs to me and in the suddenness of what is happening I reach into the Kroger bag for the gun but drop it. As it falls, my finger hits the trigger and the handgun goes off, firing a round into the cement. Ears ringing, I leap from the balcony and roll my ankle on the yard below. I’ve left the gun on the balcony but can’t go back.

“Call the police!” I hear as I hobble away. Every step blooms intense pain. Finally, when I’ve gone several blocks, I get in my car and speed away, terrified.

I have gotten this horribly wrong. My life is taking on new definition with each ticking millisecond. Renew my days as of old, I think—unless you have utterly rejected me, and you remain exceedingly angry with me. Who I once was and who I have become are now meeting for the very first time. I want to say—to Tim, to Laura, to God, to Cheryl, to Tyler, to myself—I’m not the one who asked for any of this.

As I merge onto the highway, the brake lights in front of me blur together and my heart feels as though it might burst. I can barely see. I pull over to the highway shoulder and sit on the trunk of my car. Someone pulls up behind me. An older man gets out, silhouetted by oncoming headlights, and asks, “Do you need some help?”

I laugh so hard I think I scare him. Somewhere in the distance I can hear sirens corkscrewing through the night. I feel nothing and everything at the same time. I realize that my hands are scraped and bleeding from the climb. I don’t scream. Nothing has changed, but everything will soon change. I feel oddly relieved at this.

“You have no idea,” I say.

STORY:
Austin Ross's writing has appeared in Publishers Weekly, Literary Hub, and elsewhere. His novel Gloria Patri was published in 2023. For more, visit austinrossauthor.com. 

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ART:
Pancho Muñoz, or @greenpotion, is a mexican artist said to be born from the ashes of a cursed playstation 1 controller. 

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Next Tuesday, we’ll feature a bonus interview with Austin about this story!

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