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牡蠣男孩憂鬱之死
The Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy
他在沙丘上求婚，他們在海邊成親。
在卡普利島，他們慶祝為期九天的蜜月旅行。
晚餐他們點了一客特大號、一鍋全是淡菜和魚的燉湯。
當他品嘗那鍋海鮮，做新娘的她默默許下心願。
心願成真──她生下一個小娃。
不過這小傢伙可有半點人樣？
好吧，約莫七七八八。
十隻手指十隻腳趾，他會消化會看東西。
他會聽，他有感應，但一切正常？
說來未必。
這非自然的生命，這禍害，這病源，是他們一切苦難的起始與終結。
她對著大夫埋怨：
「他不可能是我親生骨肉。他渾身都是海洋、水草和鹽水的味道。」
「你已該感到慶幸，不過就在上個星期，我還治療過一個女孩，有著三只耳朵和一張鳥喙。你兒子生來有一半是牡蠣，這不能歸罪於我。……倒要問問你有沒有閃過這樣的念頭，不如舉家搬遷到海灘上頭？」
不知該如何取名，他們隨口叫他山姆，
或者，偶爾也叫他──「那個看起來像蛤蜊的東西。」
每個人都在揣測但無人知曉，小山姆何時會脫殼而出？
一天湯普生家的四胞胎在外偷看，他們喊他「蚵仔！」然後一哄而散。
某個春日午後，山姆被遺棄在滂沱雨中，在海景街和主街交口的西南角落，他凝望著雨水打轉然後看它們一路流進排水溝。
他母親人在高速公路交通癱瘓的線道上頭，她猛拍汽車儀表板──她無法承受不斷在心頭翻騰的悲慟、沮喪、和苦痛。
「說真的，甜心」她說：
「我可不是在說笑，但我一直聞到魚腥味，我想那來自咱們的寶貝。我不想說但我必須說，你不能把自己的不舉，全推給咱們生的那小傢伙。」
他敷軟膏，他塗藥膏，結果全身紅腫。
他試春藥，他用乳液，他又吃酊劑來力圖振作。
結果他又痛又癢又抽搐又流血。
根據大夫診斷：
「我不敢百分百確定，但問題之所在可能就是解藥之所在。據說牡蠣可以增進雄風，也許把你兒子吃下肚裡，能讓你好好幹活數小時不停。」
他躡手躡腳，他偷偷走近，他額頭冒著汗，他嘴唇──在說謊。
「兒子呀，你快樂嗎？我不是有意打探，不過你是否嚮往天國？你是否想過一死百了？」
山姆眨了兩次眼，不說一句話。
老爸握了握菜刀，而後鬆了鬆領帶。
當他舉起自己的兒子，山姆滴了汁在他大衣上頭。
他把殼靠在唇上，山姆便沿著他喉嚨滑落。
他們在海邊的沙地草草埋了他──念一段禱詞，滴一滴眼淚──下午三點就回到了家。
牡蠣男孩墓上插著灰白的浮木十字架。
他的墓誌銘寫在沙上，允諾他重回天父的懷抱。
不過一陣漲潮，就使他一生的記憶隨波漂逝。
回到家安心躺臥在床，他親吻她然後說：
「我們來吧。」
「但這一次，」她輕聲細語：
「願我們生的是個女娃。」
He proposed in the dunes, they were wed by the sea, their nine-day-long honeymoon was on the isle of Capri.
For their supper they had one spectacular dish—a simmering stew of mollusks and fish.
And while he savored the broth, her bride’s heart made a wish.
That wish did come true—she gave birth to a baby.
But was this little one human?
Well, maybe.
Ten fingers, ten toes, he had plumbing and sight.
He could hear, he could feel, but normal?
Not quite.
This unnatural birth, this canker, this blight, was the start and the end and the sum of their plight.
She railed at the doctor:
“He cannot be mine. He smells of the ocean, of seaweed and brine.”
“You should count yourself lucky, for only last week, I treated a girl with three ears and a beak. That your son is half oyster you cannot blame me. ...have you considered, by chance, a small home by the sea?”
Not knowing what to name him, they just called him Sam, or, sometimes, “that thing that looks like a clam.”
Everyone wondered, but no one could tell, when would young Oyster Boy come out of his shell?
When the Thompson quadruplets espied him one day, they called him a bivalve and ran quickly away.
One spring afternoon, Sam was left in the rain.
At the southwestern corner of Seaview and Main, he watched the rain water as it swirled down the drain.
His mom on the freeway in the breakdown lane was pounding the dashboard—she couldn’t contain the ever-rising grief, frustration,
and pain.
“Really, sweetheart,” she said, “I don’t mean to make fun, but something smells fishy and I think it’s our son.
I don’t like to say this, but it must be said, you’re blaming our son for your problems in bed.”
He tried salves, he tried ointments that turned everything red.
He tried potions and lotions and tincture of lead.
He ached and he itched and he twitched and he bled.
The doctor diagnosed, “I can’t be quite sure, but the cause of the problem may also be the cure.
They say oysters improve your sexual powers.
Perhaps eating your son
would help you do it for hours!”
He came on tiptoe, he came on the sly, sweat on his forehead, and on his lips—a lie.
“Son, are you happy? I don’t mean to pry, but do you dream of Heaven?
Have you wanted to die?”
Sam blinked his eyes twice, but made no reply.
Dad fingered his knife and loosened his tie.
As he picked up his son, Sam dripped on his coat.
With the shell to his lips,
Sam slipped down his throat.
They buried him quickly in the sand by the sea—sighed a prayer, wept a tear—and were back home by three.
A cross of gray driftwood marked Oyster Boy’s grave.
Words writ in the sand promised Jesus would save.
But his memory was lost with one high-tide wave.
Back home safe in bed, he kissed her and said,
“Let’s give it a whirl.”
“But this time, ” she whispered, “we’ll wish for a girl. ”
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