The Art of Cutting Oysters

He shared a watermelon with his son under the gazebo. It was the time of year when everything seemed to be in season and his pick of the bunch was always the watermelon.

The merry pair spat the seeds at the seagulls and laughed when the old man’s umbrella blew away. The old man hobbled after it a fair way down the pier until it blew right off.

The old man stood for a few moments, watching the umbrella bob up and down on the waves before turning away and doing his best to bring his coat up over his ears.

The boy knew his father liked oysters so he tried to pick some from the rocks. The boy didn’t mind the rain but it did make the sharp rocks difficult to navigate.

Far out to sea, the mining barge whined and wheezed. He could just make out workers climbing on it, some crawling. His father called out and the boy lost his footing.

The street was busy and the man gripped his son’s good hand as they weaved through the foot traffic along the coursing walkway.

The advertisement said the car was on sale for $19,990. The boy asked his father why he didn’t have a car. Not worth the trouble was his answer, not worth the trouble.

They had walked a mile when it started raining again. The man gave his son his blazer and the boy put it over his head. The blazer smelled strange but the boy did not say so.

The boy’s hand throbbed and the toilet paper was falling apart in the rain. Not much further, he assured the boy, not much further.

The chemist was not busy. The man opened the box of Band-Aids right there in the aisle, slipped some down his trousers and pretended to look at the selection of aftershaves.

He sprayed the Infinity tester bottle on his neck and wrists. He offered some to the boy but he was embarrassed and he said no, thank you.

At the automatic doors, the security guard asked to inspect the man’s pockets. The boy went red in the face and the man turned out his empty pockets.

The shopping centre toilets were spotless and smelled of crisp disinfectant. The man cleaned the boy’s wound under the tap and dabbed at it with a wad of toilet paper.

He said a workmate had shown him how to do this during his time on the barge, a long time ago.

The boy winced and the man said he was brave. He applied three Band-Aids to the cut and said it would make an impressive scar and that girls like scars. The boy said he didn’t care about that.

The man showed the boy a scar on his arm; he said it was a good reminder to be careful. The boy ran his index finger along the scar. He knew his father had been mixed up with trouble in the past; his mother had told him as much.

He told his father he wanted to be a good guy and his father said he was. The boy said he didn’t like his mother sometimes and he wanted to live with his dad. The man lied and said his new job meant he had to travel.

Take me with you, the boy said.

The boy was tired and his father gave him a piggyback ride to the train station. Be good to your mother, he said. The boy breathed in deeply and squeezed tighter, ignoring the pain in his throbbing hand.

The man told the ticket seller he had lost his wallet and she gave him a free ticket. The boy nursed his hand and waved back to his father waiting at the barriers.

Years later he cut oysters from the mining barge. During a lunch break he told a workmate how he had come by his scar. The workmate said sometimes scars are all that remain.

The young man said memories were more important.

After lunch, the workmate offered to help him cut oysters from the barge but the young man said he was fine by himself.