He
proposed in the dunes,
they were
wed by the sea,
their
nine-day-long honeymoon
was on the
isle of Capri.
For their
supper they had one spectacular dish-
a
simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while
he savored the broth,
her
bride’s heart made a wish.
That wish
did come true – she gave birth to a baby.
But was
this little one human?
Well,
maybe.
Ten
fingers, ten toes,
he had
plumbing and sight.
He could
hear, he could feel,
but
normal?
Not quite.
This
unnatural birth, this canker, this blight,
was a
start and the end and the sum of their plight.
She railed
at the doctor:
“He cannot
be mine.
He smells
of the ocean, of seaweed and brine.”
“You
should count yourself lucky, for only last week,
I treated
a girl with three ears and beak.
That your
son is half oyster
you cannot
blame me.
…have you
considered, by chance,
a small home
by the sea?”
Not knowing
what to name him,
they just
called him Sam,
or,
sometimes,
“that
thing that looks like a clam.”
Everyone
wondered, but no one could tell,
When would
young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?
When the
Thompson quadruplets espied him one day,
they
called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.
One spring
afternoon,
Sam was
left in the rain.
At the
southwestern corner of Seaview and Main,
he watched
the rain water as it swirled
down the
drain.
His mom on
the freeway
in the breakdown
lane
was
pounding the dashboard-
she
couldn’t contain
the
ever-rising grief,
frustation,
and pain.
“Really,
sweetheart,” she said,
“I don’t
mean to make fun,
but
something smells fishy
and I
think it’s our son.
I don’t
like to say this, but it must be said,
you’re
blaming our son for your problems in bed”.
He tried
salves, the tried ointments,
that
turned everything red.
He tried
potions and lotions
and
tincture of lead.
He ached
and he itched and he twitched and he bled.
The doctor
diagnosed,
“I can’t
be quite sure,
but the
cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say
oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps
eating your son
would help
you do it for hours!”
He came on
tiptoe,
he came on
the sly,
sweat on
his forehead,
and on his
lips – a lie.
“Son, are
you happy? I don’t mean to pry,
but do you
dream of Heaven?
Have you
wanted to die?”
Sam
blinked his eyes twice.
But made
no reply.
Dad
fingered his knife and loosened his tie.
As he
picked up his son,
Sam
dripped on his coat.
With the
shell to his lips,
Sam
slipped down his throat.
They
buried him quickly in the sand by the sea
- sighed a
prayer, wept a tear –
and were
back home by three.
A cross of
gray driftwood marked Oyster Boy’s grave.
Words writ
in the sand
promised
Jesus would save.
But his
memory was lost with one high-tide wade.
Back home
safe in bed,
he kissed
her and said,
“Let’s
give it a whirl.”
“But this
time,” she whispered, “we’ll wish for a girl.”
Tim Burton
The
Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy & Other Stories
