a coffin, at the same skeleton that had looked down at me the night before.
I saw shreds of moss clinging to a skull that had turned up toward the sky again.
The wind had moved it, I told myself. But I couldn’t remember any wind.
I ran to the end of the point. The tide was so high that most of the seaweed was underwater, but I found a few pieces of brown kelp cast up among the stones. I tore off the long leaves and took them back to the cabin. I didn’t even glance at the skeleton tree.
Frank came in right after me, carrying an old bucket that he plunked down in the middle of the floor. He chose two sticks from the scattered firewood and squatted down to start a fire. I peered into the bucket at a squirming mass of Frankenstein creatures, half plant and half animal. “What are those?” I asked, disgusted.
“What do you think?” said Frank.
I had no idea. I shook the bucket to make the creatures tremble. Frank had said he was getting clams, but these weren’t clams. They had bulbous heads that looked like claws, and short, stubby bodies, and they twisted and twitched in a way that didn’t seem normal. I thought of the nuclear reactors destroyed by the tsunami. “Are they mutants?” I asked.
Frank snorted. He rubbed the sticks so quickly that his hands moved in a blur. But no smoke or flame appeared. Just as he had last time, he soon lost patience and threw the sticks away. “Forget it!” he shouted. “We can eat them raw.”
“But what are they?” I asked.
He almost screamed at me. “Gooseneck barnacles, you moron!” Then he came and grabbed the bucket. When he looked inside, his expression almost made me laugh. I thought he was going to vomit. “They stick on to stuff way out at sea,” he said. “Mostly they’re dead when you find them. I never really ate them before.”
“What happened to the clams?” I asked.
“High tide, moron.”
I had never gone digging for clams, but even I knew that you couldn’t do it if the beach was underwater. I watched Frank pull one of the barnacles from the bucket. He held its claw pinched in his fingers as it writhed like a maggot.
It had brown skin as wrinkled as an elephant’s trunk. With a little tearing sound, Frank peeled that away. The flesh underneath was yellow. Frank grimaced. Then he shoved the thing into his mouth, bit off the fleshy head and dropped the claw in the bucket. He wiped his mouth with his hand.
“Not bad,” he said.
I laughed. His face looked sour and disgusted.
“No, really,” he said. Then both of us laughed, and the yellow goo of the barnacle bubbled up in his mouth. It was gross and disgusting, but the first nice moment we had ever had together.
He ate a second barnacle, and then a third before I tried one myself. It was salty and rich, and I hated the idea that it was still alive. The feel of it sliding down my throat nearly made me gag. But the taste wasn’t all that bad.
Frank watched as I swallowed. “Well?” he asked.
“It’s not the worst thing I ever ate,” I said. “Once, when I was a kid, I ate dog droppings.”
Frank laughed. “I ate glass.”
“Really? What happened?” I said.
“I don’t remember exactly,” said Frank. “But it was scary. My mom freaked out and called nine-one-one. They came and fed me cotton wool.”
“Why?” I asked.
“To pad the glass, I guess.” Frank shrugged. “It made me cry; I remember that.”
It was strange to think of Frank crying. He started telling me more, then suddenly stopped, as though he’d said too much already. But we kept eating the barnacles. We finished the whole bucket, laughing together as we did silly things. I arranged four in my hand as though they were fingers. Frank dangled two from his head like alien tentacles. In that little cabin, in that lonely land, we were happy.
“Hey, Frank?” I said.
“Yeah?” He looked up, smiling.
“Why did Uncle Jack take you sailing?”
It was as though a door suddenly closed between us. I could
I saw shreds of moss clinging to a skull that had turned up toward the sky again.
The wind had moved it, I told myself. But I couldn’t remember any wind.
I ran to the end of the point. The tide was so high that most of the seaweed was underwater, but I found a few pieces of brown kelp cast up among the stones. I tore off the long leaves and took them back to the cabin. I didn’t even glance at the skeleton tree.
Frank came in right after me, carrying an old bucket that he plunked down in the middle of the floor. He chose two sticks from the scattered firewood and squatted down to start a fire. I peered into the bucket at a squirming mass of Frankenstein creatures, half plant and half animal. “What are those?” I asked, disgusted.
“What do you think?” said Frank.
I had no idea. I shook the bucket to make the creatures tremble. Frank had said he was getting clams, but these weren’t clams. They had bulbous heads that looked like claws, and short, stubby bodies, and they twisted and twitched in a way that didn’t seem normal. I thought of the nuclear reactors destroyed by the tsunami. “Are they mutants?” I asked.
Frank snorted. He rubbed the sticks so quickly that his hands moved in a blur. But no smoke or flame appeared. Just as he had last time, he soon lost patience and threw the sticks away. “Forget it!” he shouted. “We can eat them raw.”
“But what are they?” I asked.
He almost screamed at me. “Gooseneck barnacles, you moron!” Then he came and grabbed the bucket. When he looked inside, his expression almost made me laugh. I thought he was going to vomit. “They stick on to stuff way out at sea,” he said. “Mostly they’re dead when you find them. I never really ate them before.”
“What happened to the clams?” I asked.
“High tide, moron.”
I had never gone digging for clams, but even I knew that you couldn’t do it if the beach was underwater. I watched Frank pull one of the barnacles from the bucket. He held its claw pinched in his fingers as it writhed like a maggot.
It had brown skin as wrinkled as an elephant’s trunk. With a little tearing sound, Frank peeled that away. The flesh underneath was yellow. Frank grimaced. Then he shoved the thing into his mouth, bit off the fleshy head and dropped the claw in the bucket. He wiped his mouth with his hand.
“Not bad,” he said.
I laughed. His face looked sour and disgusted.
“No, really,” he said. Then both of us laughed, and the yellow goo of the barnacle bubbled up in his mouth. It was gross and disgusting, but the first nice moment we had ever had together.
He ate a second barnacle, and then a third before I tried one myself. It was salty and rich, and I hated the idea that it was still alive. The feel of it sliding down my throat nearly made me gag. But the taste wasn’t all that bad.
Frank watched as I swallowed. “Well?” he asked.
“It’s not the worst thing I ever ate,” I said. “Once, when I was a kid, I ate dog droppings.”
Frank laughed. “I ate glass.”
“Really? What happened?” I said.
“I don’t remember exactly,” said Frank. “But it was scary. My mom freaked out and called nine-one-one. They came and fed me cotton wool.”
“Why?” I asked.
“To pad the glass, I guess.” Frank shrugged. “It made me cry; I remember that.”
It was strange to think of Frank crying. He started telling me more, then suddenly stopped, as though he’d said too much already. But we kept eating the barnacles. We finished the whole bucket, laughing together as we did silly things. I arranged four in my hand as though they were fingers. Frank dangled two from his head like alien tentacles. In that little cabin, in that lonely land, we were happy.
“Hey, Frank?” I said.
“Yeah?” He looked up, smiling.
“Why did Uncle Jack take you sailing?”
It was as though a door suddenly closed between us. I could
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