a fishing rod just outside our window caught a bat ray. I remember that part because when we walked out of the restaurant and stood looking out at the hammered pools of silver light where the late sun touched down, Robby asked what the point was of killing a bat ray.
The woman who sat with the dead ray at her feet said, “Have you ever eaten scallops, kid?”
“Yeah,” Robby said.
“Then you’ve probably eaten a ray. Restaurants cut them with a cookie cutter, see, and call them scallops.”
I didn’t believe her at first, but Robby did.
“That doesn’t happen,” I said when we walked away.
“I’ll bet it does,” Robby said.
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” my father said when we were all strolling down the pier past the fishing rods and tubs of bait and men standing with their hands in their coat pockets, waiting for a catch in the cold, late-evening wind. “You’re eating something that used to be alive, one way or the other.”
“But you cut it up and leave all those extra bits,” I said, “and those parts go to waste.” The cookie cutter thing reminded me of making sugar cookie trees at Christmas and trying really hard to use up all the dough, though you never could.
“Plus, they’re lying,” my mom said. “They’re saying it’s something it isn’t. That’s the main thing.”
“I wonder what they make shrimp out of,” Robby said. “Sharks?” He was joking, trying to turn the conversation away from morals. “Hey, check that guy out.”
Beyond the fishing lines, a
V
of black-suited surfers bobbed up and down on their boards, eyes on the next swell, hoping to eke out one more ride before total darkness. The boy Robby pointed to had just risen, and he stood in perfect balance as the wave held him and carried him for a long beautiful time, and when the boy saw that the ride was over, he stepped off the board.
Looking at Robby beside the tea lights and the swimming pool, his pants tailored and his shirt pressed, I thought he looked like someone who could ride a long way without falling off.
“Shoot me now,” he told us, giving my mother a hug.
“Not when you’re looking so princely,” she said, full of her usual love for him. She handed over the box that I knew contained a small statue of a red-kilted Tintin and his terrier, Snowy, standing in a rowboat as they prepared, according to the catalog description, to set off for L’Ile Noir.
“Thanks,” Robby said, and before I could say anything more, my uncle was there, smooshing me pleasantly to his granite chest, his face cut a little from shaving or crashing through bushes on his motorbike.
“Come eat,” Hoyt said. “Agnès brought you some of those chocolates, Sharon Magoo. From Par-ee. Plus we have scallops wrapped in bacon.”
I raised an eyebrow at Robby.
“Real ones,” Robby said. “Or so they promised.”
When my uncle walked away with my mother, Robby pulled me back and hissed into my ear, “There’s an Avalon in the driveway. I think it’s the one, but I couldn’t check it out when everybody was still arriving.”
“He invited his girlfriend to your party?”
Robby shrugged.
“Why would he do that?”
Robby widened his eyes to show that logic had no place here. “Just come check it out with me,” he said, giving me thesweet old Robby look, the one that said I was his best cousin of all. He led me past various neighbors and friends, all of whom he nodded to with what I have to say was his mother’s charm, and then dragged me through the darkened wisteria arbor to the gravel drive, which was crowded with cars and trucks that gleamed in the fading light. “There,” he said, checking to see that no one was watching or listening to us. He let go of my arm and approached the car as if it were an alien spaceship, which I suppose in a way it was. Stars glittered like moving water overhead.
“Keep watch,” he said. He leaned forward to peer through the windows. “It’s the same one,”
The woman who sat with the dead ray at her feet said, “Have you ever eaten scallops, kid?”
“Yeah,” Robby said.
“Then you’ve probably eaten a ray. Restaurants cut them with a cookie cutter, see, and call them scallops.”
I didn’t believe her at first, but Robby did.
“That doesn’t happen,” I said when we walked away.
“I’ll bet it does,” Robby said.
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” my father said when we were all strolling down the pier past the fishing rods and tubs of bait and men standing with their hands in their coat pockets, waiting for a catch in the cold, late-evening wind. “You’re eating something that used to be alive, one way or the other.”
“But you cut it up and leave all those extra bits,” I said, “and those parts go to waste.” The cookie cutter thing reminded me of making sugar cookie trees at Christmas and trying really hard to use up all the dough, though you never could.
“Plus, they’re lying,” my mom said. “They’re saying it’s something it isn’t. That’s the main thing.”
“I wonder what they make shrimp out of,” Robby said. “Sharks?” He was joking, trying to turn the conversation away from morals. “Hey, check that guy out.”
Beyond the fishing lines, a
V
of black-suited surfers bobbed up and down on their boards, eyes on the next swell, hoping to eke out one more ride before total darkness. The boy Robby pointed to had just risen, and he stood in perfect balance as the wave held him and carried him for a long beautiful time, and when the boy saw that the ride was over, he stepped off the board.
Looking at Robby beside the tea lights and the swimming pool, his pants tailored and his shirt pressed, I thought he looked like someone who could ride a long way without falling off.
“Shoot me now,” he told us, giving my mother a hug.
“Not when you’re looking so princely,” she said, full of her usual love for him. She handed over the box that I knew contained a small statue of a red-kilted Tintin and his terrier, Snowy, standing in a rowboat as they prepared, according to the catalog description, to set off for L’Ile Noir.
“Thanks,” Robby said, and before I could say anything more, my uncle was there, smooshing me pleasantly to his granite chest, his face cut a little from shaving or crashing through bushes on his motorbike.
“Come eat,” Hoyt said. “Agnès brought you some of those chocolates, Sharon Magoo. From Par-ee. Plus we have scallops wrapped in bacon.”
I raised an eyebrow at Robby.
“Real ones,” Robby said. “Or so they promised.”
When my uncle walked away with my mother, Robby pulled me back and hissed into my ear, “There’s an Avalon in the driveway. I think it’s the one, but I couldn’t check it out when everybody was still arriving.”
“He invited his girlfriend to your party?”
Robby shrugged.
“Why would he do that?”
Robby widened his eyes to show that logic had no place here. “Just come check it out with me,” he said, giving me thesweet old Robby look, the one that said I was his best cousin of all. He led me past various neighbors and friends, all of whom he nodded to with what I have to say was his mother’s charm, and then dragged me through the darkened wisteria arbor to the gravel drive, which was crowded with cars and trucks that gleamed in the fading light. “There,” he said, checking to see that no one was watching or listening to us. He let go of my arm and approached the car as if it were an alien spaceship, which I suppose in a way it was. Stars glittered like moving water overhead.
“Keep watch,” he said. He leaned forward to peer through the windows. “It’s the same one,”
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