“This is gonna hurt me more than it’s gonna hurt you.”
An I give him a big ole spankin. I ain’t sure if what I just said was true, but ever time I swatted him, it was like I was swattin mysef. But I didn’t know what else to do. He was so smart I couldn’t reason with him, cause that ain’t my specialty. But somebody gotta exercise some control around here, an see if we can get back on track. Whole time, little Forrest ain’t sayin nothin, ain’t hollerin or cryin or anythin, an when I am through, he got up, face beet red, an gone to his room. He didn’t come out the whole day, an when he come to the supper table that night, he ain’t sayin much, cept things like “Pass the gravy, please.”
But also, over the next days an weeks, I noticed a marked improvement in his behavior. An I hope he noticed that I noticed that.
A lot of days when I am out oysterin or doin my other stuff, I am thinkin about Gretchen. But what I’m gonna do about it, anyway? I mean, after all, here I am livin barely hand to mouth, while she is gonna be a college graduate one day. A lot of times I thought about writin her, but can’t figger out what to say. It would probly just make it worse, is what I am thinkin. So’s I just kept the memories an went on about my bidness.
One time after he got home from school, little Forrest come into the kitchen, where I am tryin to clean up an wash my hands after a long day on the oyster beds. I have cut my finger on a oyster shell, an though it don’t hurt much, it bled pretty good, an that is the first thing he noticed.
“What happened?” he ast.
I tole him, an he says, “Want me to get you a Band-Aid?”
He gone in an got the Band-Aid, but before he put it on my finger he washed out the cut with some peroxide or somethin that stang like hell.
“You gotta be careful with oyster-shell cuts,” he say. “They can give you a pretty serious infection, ya know?”
“Yeah, how come?”
“Cause the best kind of place for oysters to grow is where there is the dirtiest nastiest kind of pollution there is. Din’t you know that?”
“Nope. How’d you find out?”
“Cause I studied up on it. If you could ask a oyster where it wanted to live, it’d probly say, in a cesspool.”
“How come you studin up on oysters?”
“Cause I’m figgerin I need to start pullin my weight around here,” he says. “I mean, you goin out there every day an tongin up oysters, an all I’m doin is goin to school.”
“Well, that’s what you sposed to do. You gotta learn somethin so’s you don’t wind up like me.”
“Yeah, well, I already learned enough. I mean, to tell you the truth, I don’t do nothin in school. I’m so far ahead of everybody in the class that the teachers just let me go sit in the library an read whatever books I want.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, that’s so. And I am figgerin that maybe I could just not go to school every day anymore, but maybe come down to Bayou La Batre sometimes an help you out with the oyster-tongin bidness.”
“Uh, well, I appreciate that, but uh...”
“That is, if you want me to. Maybe you don’t want me around.”
“No, no, it ain’t that. It just that about the school. I mean, your mama would of wanted...”
“Well, she ain’t here to have a say-so. And I think you might could use some help. I mean, tongin oysters is hard work, and maybe I could be of some use.”
“Well, yeah, sure you could. But...”
“Okay then, that’s it,” he says. “How about I start tomorrow mornin?”
An so, right or wrong, that’s what we done.
Next mornin before dawn I got up an fixed us some breakfast an then I peeked in little Forrest’s room to see if he’s awake. He ain’t, so’s I tippy-toed in an stood there lookin at him, sound asleep in Jenny’s bed. In a way, he looks so much like her I kinda got choked up for a moment, but I caught mysef, account of no matter what, we got work to do. I leaned over to shake him awake, when my foot touched somethin under the bed. I looked down, an damn if it ain’t the head of the big ole totem pole from Alaska I had sent him. I bent over an peered under the bed, an sure enough, there is the other stuff, too, the ooompa horn an the knife, still in its case. He ain’t thowed them away after all, but is keepin em right there. Maybe he don’t play with em much, but at least he has em close, an all of a sudden I am beginnin to understand somethin about children. For just a second I felt like reachin over an kissin him on the cheek, but I didn’t. But I sure felt like it.
Anyhow, after breakfast me an little Forrest set out for Bayou La Batre. I have been able finally to make a down payment on a ole truck so’s I don’t have to ride the bus no more, but it is a real question ever day whether or not the truck will make it there an back. I have named the truck Wanda, in honor of, well, all the Wandas I have known.
“What you spose happened to her?” little Forrest ast.
“Who?” I said. We was drivin on a ole two-lane road in the dark, past broke-down houses an farm fields, toward the water. The lights on the dashboard of the ole truck, a 1954 Chevy, was glowin green an I could see little Forrest’s face in the reflection.
“Wanda,” he says.
“Your pig? Well, I reckon she’s still up at the zoo.”
“You really think so?”
“I guess. I mean, why wouldn’t she be?”
“I dunno. It’s been a long time. Maybe she died. Or they sold her.”
“You want me to find out?”
“Maybe both of us should,” he says.
“Yeah. Maybe so.”
“Hey,” he says, “I wanted to tell you I was sorry about what happened to Sue an Lieutenant Dan, ya know?”
“Well, I appreciate that.”
“They was real good friends, huh?”
“Yup, they was.”
“So what’d they die for?”
“Oh, I dunno. Cause they was doin what they was tole to, I guess. Ole Bubba’s daddy ast me the same question a long time ago. They was just in the wrong place in the wrong time, maybe.”
“Yeah, I know that, but what was the war about?”
“Well, they tole us it was account of Saddamn Hussein done attacked the people in Kuwait.”
“That so?”
“It’s what they said.”
“So what do you really think?”
“A lot of people said it was about awl.”
“Oil—yeah, I read that, too.”
“I reckon they died for awl” was what I had to say about that.
Well, we got on down to Bayou La Batre an put the baskets in the boat, an I rowed us out to the oyster beds. The sun was comin up off the Gulf of Mexico an they was pink fluffy clouds in the mornin sky. The water was clear an flat as a tabletop, an the oars was the only sounds. We got out to the beds, an I showed little Forrest how to stick one oar in the mud to hold the boat still while I raked over the beds an then used the tongs to pull up big globs of oysters. It was a pretty good mornin, an after a while little Forrest said he wanted to do some tongin, too. He seemed happy as he could be, almost like he was tongin pearls instead of oysters, which in fact there were some—but they wadn’t worth nothin, at least not for money to amount to anythin. Wadn’t them kind of oysters.
Anyhow, after we had got all our limit, I begun to row us back to the oyster processin plant, but I ain’t got halfway there before little Forrest ast if he can try his hand at rowin the boat. I moved over an he begun to pull on the oars, an after about half a hour of weavin us this way an that, he got the hang of it.
“How come you don’t get a motor for the boat?” he ast.
“I dunno,” I says. “Sometimes I kinda like rowin. It’s pretty quiet an peaceful. An it gives me time to think.”