Minnow. James E. McTeer II

empty-line/>

      Minnow

      Copyright © 2015

       James E. McTeer II

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form

       or by any electronic means, including information storage and retrieval

       systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a

       reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

      Hub City Editor: C. Michael Curtis

       Cover Illustration: Lucy Davey

       Book Design: Meg Reid

       Proofreaders: Megan DeMoss, Rebecca Landau and Rachel Richardson

       Printed in Dexter, MI by Thomson-Shore

      Library of Congress

       Cataloging-in-Publication Data

      McTeer, James E., II, 1983-

       Minnow / James E. McTeer II.

       pages cm

       ISBN 978-1-938235-11-5 (hardback : alk. paper) —

       ISBN 978-1-938235-12-2 (e-book)

       1. Fathers and sons—Fiction.

       2. Diseases—Treatment—Fiction.

       I. Title.

       PS3613.C67M56 2015

       8i3'.6—dc23

       2014034485

      Support for the South Carolina First Novel Prize is provided by the Phifer Johnson Foundation of Spartanburg, SC, and the South Carolina Arts Commission.

      186 West Main St.

       Spartanburg, SC 29306

       1.864.577.9349

       www.hubcity.org | twitter/hubcitypress

      For my parents, Thomas and Kathleen McTeer

      Minnow watched Varn's scarred lips move as he finished his tale. Minnow had known his friend since before memory, but still winced at the puckered scars on his lips and cheeks.

      They took turns telling stories around a small fire in their hideout. The slanting scrap-metal roof was rusted with enough holes to chimney the smoke, but the inside still swirled with a dim haze. Curtains of gray Spanish moss hung down across each open end, keeping out the early morning light.

      Minnow had found the place long ago on the edge of a marsh not far from Bay Street. He took the gang there, and they built the hideout together. It was hidden amidst low palmetto fronds and cooled by fresh salty air drifting in from the river.

      Martin stole a box of matches so they could have real fires, and they stocked the hideout with treasures: driftwood pieces, rusty scraps pulled from the pluff mud, raccoon skulls uncovered on the bluff. Everett found an old twisted rag that he said was a hoodoo doll, but they buried it away from their territory. Sometimes they brought food and made a picnic, like they were camping in the wild jungle out on the far islands.

      Shadows lapped across Varn's scarred face. He had been a baby when he took a tin of boiling grease and tried to drink it like a cup of milk. His top lip was bubbled and shiny, and a raised scar spread from cheek to cheek. Minnow didn't like looking at the scars, so he watched the fire instead. Varn told a story about the Yemassee Indians running settlers out of Newfort long ago and murdering anyone left behind.

      "The women and girls who got on the boats had to look back and watch as they sailed away. Their houses and fields were burning. Even some of their babies were burning. They had to watch as their men and boys ran to the water's edge and got caught by the Indians. The Indians skinned them alive, and the women and girls could hear it as they sailed off. They could hear their menfolk screaming for help and could smell their skin crackling like bacon."

      Varn took something out of his pocket and licked his scars.

      "You know what this is?"

      He opened his hand and showed a big arrowhead in his palm. It was as long as Minnow's index finger. Gray. Sharp.

      "This is from a Yemassee arrow. It lodged in someone's skull. Probably one of those men who was screaming so loud."

      Minnow gazed at the arrowhead and then looked up at Varn. Minnow had found arrowheads before. They looked a lot like Varn's. None of them had come from a skull. He wondered if Varn's really had.

      "Is that true?" Martin asked. He was the youngest of them, just six, and he'd scooted away from the fire when Varn got to the scalping.

      "It's true the Yemassee ran everyone off," Minnow said.

      Varn scowled and sliced the arrowhead through the air like a knife.

      "You're scared, too."

      "It was a good story," Minnow said.

      Varn crossed his arms and smiled. He was the biggest and the oldest, almost twelve years old.

      "Did an Indian really scalp someone with it?" Martin asked.

      "Of course not, stupid. Who knows? It was probably from a deer hunt. Here."

      He tossed it at Martin, but the boy recoiled and it landed in the dirt by the fire.

      "I don't want it," Martin said, looking down at the point.

      "Leave it in the box," Everett said, but Minnow held his hand out.

      "I'd like it, for a while."

      Varn nodded.

      "Fine. Maybe you'll run into an Indian on your way home. But bring it back."

      Minnow took the arrowhead. It was flint, with a wicked flare, but the butt of it was thick and sturdy in his grip.

      "I gotta go," Martin said, pulling back the nearest curtain of moss to let in a few bars of sunshine. "I told Ma I'd be back by noon."

      Minnow squinted at the light. The sun was well up. Martin was in trouble, because noon was close. They'd come early that morning, before sunrise and the heat of the day. Martin left, and Everett followed him.

      "That was a good story," Minnow told Varn.

      Varn looked at the fire. "I'll stay and watch it burn out. You go. I know you have to."

      "Thanks."

      Minnow went around him and stopped at the moss curtain.

      "It's a nice arrowhead," he said.

      "Yeah. I hope your papa's all right."

      Minnow nodded and went out into the bright world.

      His father's body lay on a bed. Almost no life remained under the second skin of white sheet. Minnow stood in front of the only window in the room, watching his father take shallow breaths. Waxy glass let in diffuse light from the blue summer sky, but the room shook with shadows cast by tapers wasting away under hot little fires. Darkness drew across a faded portrait of Minnow's grandfather in a gray uniform.

      He shared the air with his father. The dust. Maybe that sick taste from his father lying there a month, being washed as much as possible, but not nearly enough. The room was almost dead, with just small pieces of life left inside.

      He