I dont see any mussels, he said.
The boy looked out downriver. Keep a lookin, he said. They’ll be some directly.
He bent again. A whole tree lay on the bottom of the river, deep in a pool, a murky bole with filaments of moss swaying and a heavy black bass that waited on below. A sandy floor sloped away. Fat suckers sculled. A cloud of bubbles rolled up in the glass and cleared and a green cold slick faired over paler rocks, round river stones and ledges of slate gently sculpted. A seam of black shellfish lay beneath.
Here come some.
He heard the splash of the brail going overboard. The boat rocked and recovered with the boy’s standing and Suttree’s face dipped in the water. He raised his head and shook the water from the glass and bent to look again. Long greenbrown weeds swung in the current and dimly through the moving water he could see the mussel beds, a slender colony of them dark and quaking among the rocks with their pale clefts breathing, closing, folding slowly fanwise, valved clots of flesh in their keeps of cotyloid nacre. The shadow of the skiff like a nightshade passing swept them shut.
Is they lots?
A few.
The bottom fell away into an opaque green murk. The boat spun slowly.
Suttree raised up and took the oars and straightened the skiff out.
It deeps off here, the boy said.
Yeah.
We’ll just go on down.
Okay.
How about lettin me have my looker?
Okay.
They ran downstream a quarter mile, the boy watching the bottom, Suttree at the oars. They swung into a long ropy glide and went rocking down a chute into fast water. The boy raised his head, his forelock dripping. We’ll get em now, he called.
Suttree steadied the boat with the oars.
When they drifted out into the slow water at the foot of their run amid flotsam and tranquil spume the boy stood at the transom and hauled the brail aboard and hung it dripping in the uprights with a couple dozen black mussels clamped to the lines. They swung and turned and clacked and the boy took out an enormous brass cook-spoon and began to pry them loose. Within minutes they lay like stones in the floor of the skiff and the boy had cast the brail overboard again. He turned to Suttree who was backoaring to stand in the current. His face was flushed and his breath short. That’s how we do it, he wheezed.
Is that a pretty good batch for a run?
It aint no more’n average. I’ve seen em to come up solid with em. Me and Daddy has dredged messes we couldnt lift.
What’s the other brail for?
You swap off. You hang up the full brail and thow out the othern.
Well why didnt you throw out the other one?
The boy was watching the river bottom again. He waved one hand in the air to dismiss the subject. I just wanted to show you how to strip the lines, he said.
Suttree edged the boat away from a dimpled suck in the river and they went rocking down the shoals, the sun well up now, the day warming. His hands were like claws on the oars.
They washed out in a slackwater where a gravel bar ran almost to midriver and the boy raised up the brail again and hung it dripping and clicking with mussels in the trees. He and Suttree looked at each other.
These is some jimdandy’ns, the boy said.
Suttree nodded. There were some big as your hand.
Let’s swing up and run that bed one more time.
Suttree looked upriver dubiously.
You wont find em much better’n these here.
He swung the skiff and braced his feet and dug into the river. They went up along the inside shore. When they had gained the head of the glide he stood the boat in the current and swung back obliquely across the run while the boy cast over the empty brail.
I thowed one one time a hook got me behind the ear and like to took me with it.
How far down do we go? said Suttree.
You mean this evenin?
Yes.
We’ll go on down to the Wild Bull. What Daddy said.
Who the hell is going to row back?
The boy squinted at him there in the sunshine, the spoon poised over the mussel in his hand, the mussels in the skiff floor drying in the sun to a gray slate color. You aint give out are ye? he said.
I’ve been rowing this damned thing for two days. What do you think?
Well shit, I’ll swap off with ye comin back. It aint all that far.
They reached the shoals in the early afternoon. The boy boated the last rackful of mussels and shucked them from the hooks wet and clattering onto the pile in the boat and Suttree stood on one oar to turn them toward the bank. The boat would hardly move it lay so deep in the river with its cargo.
There was but one shovel and it had an old handmade tang about a foot long but no handle other at all. Suttree set the boy to shoveling the mussels out of the boat onto the bank and he himself went up through the woods until he found a good shade tree and he lay flat on his back beneath it and was soon asleep.
He was awakened by cries down toward the river. It occurred to Suttree that he and the boy didnt even know each other’s names. He got up and went down through the woods.
Hey, called the boy.
All right, all right.
Hell fire, where’d you get to? I aint shovelin all these here by myself.
Suttree took the shovel from him and stepped into the boat.
I thought you’d run plumb off, the boy said.
My name’s Suttree.
Yeah, I know it.
What’s yours?
Willard.
Willard. Okay Willard.
Okay what?
Suttree heaved a shovelful of mussels up and looked at the boy. It was hot in the sun. The boy standing there in his rancid overalls looked pale and pitiful and slightly malevolent. Just okay, Willard, he said.
They rowed into camp at dusk sitting side by side on the seat of the skiff each with a sweep in two hands. Suttree staggered up the bank with the rope and tied up and went to the fire and sat and stared into it. Reese emerged from the lean-to in his underwear. Is that you all? he said.
Yeah.
Where you been?
Suttree didnt answer. The boy had come up and was looking around. Where you all been? the man asked him.
Where’s everbody at? the boy said.
They’ve done gone to a social. Where you all been?
Is there anything to eat? Suttree said.
They’s some whitebeans and cornbread in the pan.
Is they any onions? the boy said.
No they aint, said Reese. He came over to where Suttree was sitting on a board with his feet stretched out before him. Did you all do any good? he said.
Ask him, said Suttree.
How did you all do?
We done all right Aint they no milk?
No they aint.
Shit, said the boy.
What?
I said shoot.
You better of.
Did ye’ns get a pretty good mess?
We got about all the boat would hold. How did you all do?
We done all right.
Suttree had taken up a plate and was spooning beans from the pot. Is there any coffee? he said.
No they aint.
He stared sullenly into the fire. No they aint, he said.
He was lying in his blankets out on the knoll when they came back. They came down through the woods by the river swinging a lantern and singing hymns. He lay there listening to this advancing minstrelsy and watching the moon ride up out of the trees. He was hungry and his shoulders ached. His eyelids felt like they were on springs, he couldnt get them to stay shut. After a while he got up.
One of the girls was going toward the river and he called to her. Hey, he said. Is there anything to eat up there?