A Fire in His Belly

He might have closed the store early that day, had it not been for the red Buick Skylark that rolled onto the gravel outside.  Walter was lifting the loin out of the skipjack when the car stopped in front of the open door. 

He put the fish down and wiped his hands, watching as the woman got out of the car, red dress, dark hair that curled just past her ears.  She fanned herself with a shiny, black purse.  The man got out next.  He was extraordinarily tall.  He wore trousers and a jacket with no tie.

When they walked into the store, the woman smiled, putting her finger to her nose - as though the smell were unpleasant.   Walter knew it wasn’t unpleasant.  It was a smell he’d enjoyed for more than twenty years: dirty-fresh, hint of brine.  The woman simply wasn’t used to it. 

He made a quick assessment: Passing through – no worries about money.  “How you folks doing today?”

“Hot day,” the man said.

“Yes, been this way for a week.”

The woman interjected, “I’m sorry – do you happen to have cod liver oil?”

“You sick?”

The woman smiled.  “We’re going to Shirley – you know it?”

“Yes, nice little town.”

“We’re visiting my sister.”  Then, she lowered her voice, “She’s expecting again.  Insists on cod liver oil – takes it every day for nine months.”

“I have some in the back.”

“Great.”

The young man was inspecting the pictures on the wall.  There were old newspaper articles, framed: Daughter Born to Duchess of York.   Stock Market in Severe Collapse.

“The past,” Walter said, “helps keep me grounded.”

The man pointed to a single wire hanger on a wooden rod.  It was out of place.  “What’s this?”

Walter smiled.   “Everything here has a story.”

The woman stepped closer.  “What kind of story might an old hanger have?”

Walter pulled off his apron and came out from behind the workstation.

“There was a boy,” he said, “a year into the Great Depression.   He was a dirty, skinny little thing.  Seemed to come out of nowhere.  Back then, this was just an open place with buckets.  My brother and I would catch the fish – tuna, flounder - whatever it was – sell it on buckets of ice.” 

The couple inched closer.

“The boy, no more than ten years old, said: Mister, I can fish – I sure can.  Let me help.  Pay me with some fish – that’s all.  Just the fish.  I told him to go home to his mama.”

“And?” the woman asked.

Walter shrugged.  “The boy said: That’s just it, mister – mama and I don’t have a home.  We stay in Winslow, at the church - but mama says other people need beds too.  So, sometimes we sleep under the white pine.  It’s not bad – really, it’s not.”

“Poor dear.”

“I asked him about his father.  He said: He went lookin’ for work and never came back.   

Now I gotta take care of things.  Let me work – I can clean the fish – I can slice ‘em good.”

Walter smiled.  “We had a spot by the tree, a branch and some wire hangers where we hung our jackets.”

“Jackets?”

“You must understand, there was no buying new jackets.  You had to keep what you had - make it last.”

“Of course,” the young man said.

Walter continued, “Every day, the boy tried to hang that raggedy old coat of his.  He just couldn’t reach it.  I’d try to help, but he didn’t want my help.  He’d climb the tree just to hang his coat.”

The woman laughed.  “How sweet.”

“It was my brother who told me to give him a chance.  I was hard back then.  Had to be.  If you had too much heart, you’d be done for.”

“Of course,” the young man said.

“But that boy had a fire in his belly.  Came back every day.  He’d clean out the buckets, swab the deck.  I’d give him some fish heads.  When I could, I’d give more.”

The couple stood close to him.  They smelled of patchouli and talc.

“That boy would have worked all day if I let him.”

“What happened to him?” the woman asked.

“One day, he just stopped coming.  I asked around for a while - would put some fish heads aside every day – just in case he came by.  Just in case he was hungry.”

“You’re a dear,” the woman said.

“He never came back?” the man asked.

“No.  I think of him every now and then.  Kept the hanger all these years.”

“Why?” the man asked.

Walter shrugged.  “Luck, maybe?  Motivation?  Every time I look at it, I feel that fire in my belly.”

The man smiled.

“Anyway,” he said, “let me get that cod liver oil.”

“Thank you.”

Walter went into the back, feeling a bit lighter than he had ten minutes ago. 

When he came back out front, the woman had gone outside to smoke a cigarette. 

“Can I get you anything else?” Walter asked the man.

“No.  Thank you.”

“That’ll be five cents.”

“Of course.”

When the man was at the door, he stopped and turned around.  “Do you mind?” he asked.

“Mind?” Walter asked.

The man took off his jacket – navy with plaid lining.  “Can I hang it?”

Walter chuckled.  “Feel free.”

The man lifted the hanger off the pole and placed his jacket onto it.  He stood back and watched.  “It’s a good feeling,” he said, “to finally be able to reach it.”

Walter opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t.

The young man turned to face him.  “The boy turned out just fine,” he said, with wide eyes that suddenly looked familiar.

Walter felt a warm rush in his chest.

 The woman stuck her head in.  “You ready, darling?”

“I am.”

Walter extended his hand, and the young man took it.

“Take care,” Walter said.

The young man nodded.  “Thank you.”

He walked out, leaving the jacket.