Widow by Michelle Latiolais

Author:Michelle Latiolais
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bellevue Literary Press
Published: 2011-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Gut

I met Herb standing in a knife store in a little town in Massachusetts. Newly arrived to the coast, I was trying to get with the program, and I wanted an oyster knife. I thought I’d throw a little party, oysters on the half shell and a few bottles of good crisp Sancerre, nothing too dear, but good Sancerre nonetheless. I loved oysters, but I’d never opened one in my life. I’d worked my way through art school waiting tables in a pretty decent little French bistro in Chicago and so I knew something about food, but now that I wasn’t eating at the family table every night before the dinner service, it took some effort to eat the way I’d so happily eaten for four years.

“I’m very excited,” I said to this man standing behind me, waiting for the shopkeep just like I was. “I’ve never owned an oyster knife.”

“Is that what you think that is?” he asked. He seemed very serious, as though perhaps I’d discovered a rare species of oyster knife, one never seen in these northern parts.

“Yes,” I said. “Do you think it’s hard to learn how to shuck an oyster?”

“Well, with a clam knife it might be,” he said.

I laughed, thinking that was kind of funny, an it’s-not-hard-unless-you-make-it-hard kind of response. I turned back to the counter, but the man in front of me, paying, seemed bothered by something. Even though it was summer, he wore a canvas barn coat.

“You’re telling me,” he kept saying, and the shopkeep would respond, “I am.” This exchange happened three or four times, but what it was about, I had no idea. “Goddamn it to hell,” he said, reaching into his huge coat pocket, “you’re telling me?”

“I am.”

“Excuse me,” I heard the man behind me murmur. I twisted around, happy to talk to someone, to anyone really. I’d been fairly lonely since arriving in town, and the party was to help me out of the doldrums a bit. I thought the best way for me to meet people was to invite them over and make them meet me. Two months ago, I’d responded to a query in the New York Times classifieds: “Washington-style handpress, C. Foster & Brother, Cincinnati, 1852. Needs care and use.”

“Excuse me,” he said again. “Do you know what noise annoys an oyster?”

He had a deep voice and the words seemed to get pronounced very carefully. He was maybe thirty-five years old. I didn’t know, and I wasn’t good with men’s ages anyway, as it seemed like not much of an accurate measure. I laughed again. “What noise annoys an oyster,” I repeated. It was fun to say.

“A noisy noise annoys an oyster,” he said seriously, and then the bell on the door jangled and I turned and saw the barn jacket departing and realized it was my turn to step up and pay.

“Hey, Herb,” the shopkeep said, looking past me, lifting his huge paw of a hand. His gaze came back to me and he smiled.

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