Page 21 of The Invisible Roommate

The semantics were only worsening his fatigue. “How can I trust you didn’t just pocket my rent money and are now going to slam and lock the door in my face?”

A barely there eyebrow cocked at him. “I’ll answer that when you answer what’s in the bag…”

He wasn’t falling for that. With his luck, she was a scientist, too, and she would steal his life’s work. Poker face on, he stared back, unspeaking.

“Hardball, huh? Fair enough. I’m willing to take my chances on you, but the pet will cost you extra.” Unhappily, he forked over some additional cash without engaging in any sort of negotiation. He had limited funds—mainly the saved-up stipend from his work-study job. From a hook on the wall hidden from Emory’s view, she produced a single key and dangled it just out of his reach. “First, you have to promise that there are not now, nor will there ever be, body parts in that bag.”

“I thought you said you couldn’t trust my promises?” he challenged.

She chuckled ruefully before passing him the key.

With ample money going out and no money coming in, Emory only made it until summer. He sourced chemicals, bought food, and paid rent on Regina’s apartment, which was more of an in-law suite that came predecorated with cobweb-crusted corners and moldy baseboards. But he didn’t care much for amenities.

Day and night, he worked. Every time he thought of Marvel and the University College of Medicine & Health Sciences, a fiery hatred simmered in his belly that powered him to toil harder and faster.

Until his funds ran out and everything ground to a halt.

Having had cooking and serving experience in college through working the campus dining hall, he sought out a job at Christine’s Crab Shack with no luck despite his persistence. On the third day he showed up begging for work, Christine herself—an older Black woman with glasses and sunken cheeks—pointed at a table in the far corner where a man with tan skin scarfed down soggy French fries. “Talk to him.”

Emory still had not yet gotten a handle on the unique Iping accent, which hit the ear wrong, as if listening to a Scotsman imitate an American cowboy.

Emory walked over. The man at the table smelled of brine, and his hands looked rough and sunspotted.

“I hear you’re looking for workers,” Emory said.

“Unhear it. You ain’t of no use to me,” he said after giving Emory the briefest once-over. The man had a wide face and deep wrinkles in his forehead

“I’m up for any kind of work.” Emory butched up his voice a bit.

“You got no calluses, no upper-arm strength, and you look like you burn the second you see the sun. You ain’t gonna be any use on a crabbin’ boat, boy,” he said, shifting away as if the conversation were already over.

“I’m a fast learner and a hard worker. Give me a chance.” Pleading always made him feel like a kid again, begging his social worker not to send him to another new place even if he hated the one he was in.

“Didn’tcha hear me? You ain’t what I’m lookin’ for,” he said.

“Joe Perez,” came a voice from behind Emory. He turned, and Regina stood there in the same capris and tank top she always wore, hands on her hips. “I know you’re not giving my tenant the cold shoulder when he’s answering your prayers.”

“What do you know ’bout my prayers?” he said, correcting his tone, which now bordered on flirtatious.

“I know you’ll need to put in some with the Big Man if you turn your back on a brother in need.” Despite living above her, Emory rarely saw Regina, though he knew when she was home because her piano playing would break through the whir of the air conditioner every now and then. At first, it killed his concentration because he never did like music or other frivolous entertainments, but after a while, it upped his flow, and Marvel Jr. seemed to enjoy it.

Joe grumbled under his breath before slapping some cash down on the Formica table. “I expect you at my shanty by three thirty tomorrow mornin’. She’ll tell you which one it is.” He offered Regina something resembling a smile before exiting Christine’s.

Emory turned to her. “Thanks.”

“I want my rent,” she said on her way to the counter without looking at him.

Before the sun was up, Emory dragged his sorry self out to the shanty where Joe motioned wordlessly for him to board the deadrise workboat he was already on. The name on the side read Susanna. Emory wanted to ask why it was called that, but Joe seemed uninterested in conversation, which was fine because Emory had no energy for it. He barely had the energy to slip into the waders, boots, and hat Joe practically chucked at him.

They zoomed out into the bay to fill up at the fuel dock. Other crabbers were hard at it already in scraper boats, running along shallow waters to scoop up hiding crabs. Joe steered them farther out into the bay where they stuffed chicken-wire-wrapped pots with dead-eyed fish as bait. They plunked them into the emerald-hued water and waited.

The days went on like that for some time. Beneath the first drops of morning, they’d set out into the bay, cast down, and then they’d return to shore and off-load their catch for money, usually somewhere in the vicinity of thirty cents per crab. A good day saw about four hundred soft-shell crabs. On those days, Joe treated Emory to wordless lunch at Christine’s. A bad day was a silent schlep back and a pitiful parting at the dock, both Joe and Emory reeking of salt and disappointment.

After a shower and a midday nap, Emory rose to work on his experiment with no success regarding removing the coloring from blood. Marvel Jr. was still a thicket of red vessels running every which way, but there were no signs of distress, which was good, even when he had to reinject the mouse every time the serum wore off.

Toward the end of August, Emory barely broke a sweat as he hoisted a trap up from the depths of the bay. He’d built some muscle and gotten a tan (which began as a terrible sunburn) while creating a frame he was prouder of than the slender, malnourished one he’d carried around all his life. The physical exertion of the work flooded his brain with endorphins, a hormone it had sorely been missing.

The welded-rebar trap banged onto the boat deck. Inside with the crabs was some gelatinous sea life. Joe identified them as bay nettle—jellyfish that were common in those parts. Emory immediately went to touch. Joe slapped his hand away. “They sting,” he chided, showing about as much care as he was capable of.