Henry McGee Is Not Dead

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Peewee waited, rocking back and forth on his sneakers, sometimes breaking into a little dance done to the sounds in his mind.

The fish stall was closed down. The boys had hosed down the counters and the floor and washed away the remains of the fish and the bits of shell. The only thing left was the faint and rotting smell of sea.

Peewee knew he was beautiful. Even the marks on his hands were beautiful. Girls look at those marks and look at the unmarked face with its deep, sad leopard eyes and they thought he was some kind of a man.

Peewee looked at his hands, at the new cut where the thin shucking knife had slipped along the seam of the oyster shell and tore into the thick protective glove on his left hand and bit the flesh underneath. Just a little cut, not like some of the other cuts.

How did you get cut?

He’d grin at them and shrug and make his eyes look sad. Wasn’t going to say he got cut because that was his stupid fucking job, cleaning fish and cracking oyster shells for old man Hunzinger. Girls wanted mystery, all the time living in a dream world, talking about soap operas, for Christ’s sake, like they were real.

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