Henry and the Eels The locomotive puffed a final burst of steam as the train came to a stop at the Patchogue station. From a few cars behind, a pretty young woman exhaled a deep sigh. Directly behind her seat, crouched in the dirt and random ticket stubs that had accumulated during the course of the day, Henry stifled a giggle. He knew Anne would wait until most of the passengers disembarked before she sought him out. The evening sun was shining through the window, illuminating the dust motes that swirled around Anne’s hair. From his position, he could see the nape of Anne’s neck, the auburn bun she wore in order to appear more mature. There was a faint odor of mildew emanating from the coarse fabric of the seat that made his nose itch. As soon as Anne stood, he popped up and yelled, “Hallooo.” Anne started, and raised her hand to her mouth, as a slow flush crept up her neck. She recovered quickly and said, “Come on, Henry. Don’t dally. Mama will be upset if we are late for dinner.” She gathered her packages and stepped briskly from the car. Henry scuffled his feet and followed her. She used to be more fun before she got all grown up. After they crossed the station and turned down South Ocean Avenue, Henry rescued a stick from beneath a tree so that he could hit the fence posts along the way. They needed tending in this way, fence posts did. A good whack now and then kept them in line. Henry had fallen behind his sister. Her boots made a hollow, staccato sound on the sidewalk. He wondered idly what they were having for dinner, as he gave a particularly errant fence post a resounding thump. The stick vibrated in his hand. Maybe Milton had brought some eels from the eel grass beds in Bellport Bay. He could really do stuff, Milton could. He could fix your bike or your roller skates. He would just go into the barn, get out a few tools and work magic with his hands. His fingers were deft and alive. Henry would just stare at Milton’s fingers while they worked. They were animated and knew just what to do. Henry hoped that one day he would have fingers like Milton’s. Milton was one of the boarders their mother had taken in after their father died two years ago in a rail accident. One time, on his day off, Milton had taken Henry with him to Bellport to catch eels. Then, after they got home, he had shown Henry how to skin them and get them ready for cooking. First, he had shoved two forked sticks deep into the ground. Then, he had pushed another stick through the eel’s gills and propped the eel up on the two forked sticks. Next, he had sliced the skin clear ‘round, just below the eel’s head. The eel was still be writhing to beat the band. He had used a cloth wrapped around his hand because the eel was so wiggly and slippery, you know. Milton had just peeled that skin off like he was peeling a banana. The eel had still been trying to get away. After this, Milton had put the eel up on a table outside the barn, cut the head off and made a cut down the middle to remove the guts. This whole time the eel was moving around like crazy. It just wouldn’t give up, you know? Milton had cut the eel into chunks and Henry had brought it into the kitchen for his mother to cook. She’d heated some oil in a big frying pan. She’d dipped the wriggling pieces of eel in some flour and popped them right into the hot pan. They had still been hopping around and splattering the oil all over the stove where it hissed. Henry had wondered if they were trying to hop right out of the pan. Maybe they could hop right on back to Bellport Bay where they could grow a new head and some new skin, or something. Some lizards could do that. Weren’t eels kind of like lizards? Henry had watched, hoping to see something amazing. But, finally the eels stopped thrashing about and lay still. Henry had felt vaguely disappointed, but he couldn’t say why. So, he had left the kitchen and headed towards the parlor. He stopped just short of the door when he heard quiet voices from within. He’d peered around the doorway and seen his sister sitting on the settee. Milton was standing above her, with one of his knowing hands gripping her shoulder. His hair was damp and he had changed his clothes for dinner. Henry stared at Milton’s fingers as his sister said, “No, Milton, I really can’t. I am sorry you misunderstood me. I didn’t mean to lead you on.” Milton’s fingers were moving a bit. They were alive that way, you know? When Henry walked into the parlor, Milton’s fingers had let go of Anne. She had blushed and stood so quickly she almost upset the table. Their grandmother’s lamp rocked a little, but Milton’s hand had steadied it before it could come to harm. Now, Henry looked at Anne walking ahead of him. He wondered if she knew about Milton’s hands, how they were all alive and how they knew things. He wanted to ask her, but he didn’t know how. He watched her brisk stride. Maybe she knew things, too, now that she was 17 and all grown up. Her bun was bouncing a little on the back of her neck and some of the hair was starting to come loose as she turned up their walkway. They entered the foyer. The heavy door thudded solidly closed. Milton was waiting there with his fingers gripping the large, wooden knob mounted on the bannister at the bottom of the stairs. He was watching Anne as she removed her coat. His lips were straight with the corners downturned slightly. As Henry was removing his boots, he heard her say in a low voice, “Maybe you should be telling Mama that you are leaving soon. She’ll want to be looking for a new boarder.” Of its own accord, Milton’s hand lifted from the banister and reached towards Anne. The fingers were outstretched and imploring. Then, his hand fell to his side, his fingers curled in, and they went still. He turned away slowly.
Posted on: Sat, 31 May 2014 16:17:09 +0000
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