Amos stopped dead in the middle of the winding cul-de-sac and tried to focus his double vision by placing his left hand over his left eye. He stood there swaying a moment as he ran his thumb over the cover of his engraved pocket watch, the broken chain hanging slack before he tucked it back in his breast pocket. The watch had been a gift from his mother before she died and he kept it close to his heart to remember the only woman he felt he’d ever truly loved. Amos teetered as he tried to push the circumstances of his mother’s death from his mind, but the thought spiked his irritability, and he looked down at the crumbling asphalt as he mumbled aloud to himself, “This pathetic, welfare-check-collecting neighborhood. They don’t even have the know-how to fish for dinner.”

Amos looked up and tried to concentrate on a fixed point in order to put one foot in front of the other without falling over. His gaze eventually landed on the first of the cinder block homes the state had erected in ’59. The state moved people out of their homes down by the submarine base where Amos worked and placed them here in the outskirts of town with the promise of new, affordable housing. The idea was: get the workers out of town, fix it up, and the tourists would flock, with bulging purses, to the newly refurbished shoreline. Amos had been more or less waiting at the ribbon cutting ceremony with his family, suitcase in hand.

Amos’s luck was short-lived. He took a spill down a steep ravine while walking home from work one night a month after they moved into the new housing development. He broke his ankle and spent the night at the bottom of that brushy gulch before a trucker found him the next morning while stopped to do his business. Amos blamed the commute, not the pint of whiskey he’d been drinking, but still the accident got him laid off. Amos knew the subbase had it out for him ever since he’d taken to talking to himself on the line, but they used his bad luck to finally sack him. In the months that followed, Amos came to think of the new neighborhood on the edge of town as a prison. But without a job, Amos and his family were stuck where they were. Amos was accustomed to placing blame on the closest thing to him and so resented his neighbors. They were the “undesirables” that were to blame for his misfortune.

Amos thought he saw eyes peering at him from behind a set of curtains and he yelled in the direction of the home, “Nosey little biddies staring at me! Hmph,” he muttered to himself. “They think I can’t see them watching me out here. Fools in judgment when it’s their own wrecked lives they should be fussing over.” Amos took a deep breath and gave himself a hard smack across the cheek. He had to focus now. He knew eyes on a man only made him stumble more.

Amos moved along the sidewalk and the sun rose as if to take his one good eye away from him. He continued on with his left hand over his left eye, his right hand gripping a double-papered bag and his cap flattened against his balding head, trying hard not to let his foot slip off the walkway. But his foot had a mind of its own, and it was all he could do to keep from falling in the gutter. He was cursing the sun and the dust and heat that came with it when he heard familiar laughter.

There in Amos’s own front yard were his three children, all dressed nice as could be in their Sunday best with streaks of mud all down their fronts. He burst out laughing at that. Woo-hoo was Bonny going to be mad. It turned out once Amos got started, it was hard to stop, and before long he was doubled over at the end of his driveway, laughing like a yipping coyote. He slapped the side of his thigh with his cap and tried to catch his breath. All the while his three muddy kids stood frozen in the yard watching him with furrowed brows and mouths ajar.

June, Amos’s eldest child, took each of her two younger brothers by the hand and pulled them closer to her in response to Amos, as if he were a sudden apparition, but it took just a moment to break the spell. They could hear her before they could see her and the children straightened at the sound of a woman’s click clacking heels along the linoleum hallway. Before Amos could so much as put his hat back on his head, the screen door slammed against the side of the house and there was Bonny, a spit of bouffant, butter yellow chiffon, and bitter anger.

Amos didn’t feel much like laughing anymore and placed his battered paper bag beside him and steadied himself against old baby blue.

            “Get your raggedy ass hands off my Oldsmobile, Amos.”

            “Since when is she yours, dear?” Amos slurred with a smile.

            “Since you lost your damn job and your damn mind, you dead end souse.”

            “Aww, Bonny, please don’t be impolite in front of my children.”

            “Your children? Where the hell have you been the last two days, Amos? Your children would like to know.”

            “Aww Bonny, don’t be like that. I was out fishing with Jim on his boat! I was catching us a week’s worth of dinner! We had a few beers on the boat to pass the time is all. Had to sleep it off! Safety first, Bonny, safety first!”

But Amos had lost her attention and confusedly followed her gaze down to the bag by his feet that now seemed to be moving. Amos, who until then had forgotten about the bag, leaned down with a Cheshire Cat grin and opened it up. He pulled out what might have once been a bouquet of burnt orange gladiolas and held out his peace offering proudly to Bonny. But Amos could see the storm that suddenly clouded her eyes, and he flinched back before she started in. “Funeral flowers. Really, Amos? Funeral flowers! You son of a bitch!”

“Aww, Bonny,” he pleaded, “Don’t be like that. I also brought your favorite! I caught them myself! I’ll steam them up for dinner right now!” And with that, Amos threw the flowers over his shoulder and reached down to empty the rest of the contents of the paper bag. A tangle of live lobsters hit the steaming tarmac with a smack and Bonny’s youngest child began to cry at the sight of them. June held him against her as the poor child sobbed into her once white dress.

“It’s eight o’clock in the goddamn morning, Amos. Just because the sun’s up doesn’t mean it’s dinnertime.” Bonny looked down at the gladiolas now scattered across the driveway. The lobsters began to move and they all five stood watching in disgust as the lobsters began to crawl over the floral wreckage.

Bonny eyed her clean children in dirty clothes for seemingly the first time that morning and spat, “Church is off,” and spun on her three-inch heels back into the house. Amos stayed quiet a while, watching the crustaceans, and once June recognized her father’s presence no longer required her attention, she made up a game to entertain her brothers. The kids raced lobsters up and down the driveway, until one by one they dropped, and all that was left moving was the cull. Amos stood watching awhile but could feel his body ridding itself of what had kept him going for so long, and knowing that Bonny didn’t keep a drop in the house, he took his leave, but not without a kind word for June, who had made good use of his hard-earned prize.

“I’ll tell you what, June Bug. I’m off for a little shut-eye, but in a few hours, I’ll be back at it, and it’ll be a day just for you and me. What do you say?” June knew there was only one answer to that question and nodded her head in consent as the two youngest boys hid behind her dirty skirt.

                                                                             ***

June froze midsentence but did not lift her eyes from her book. She listened carefully, assessing Amos' familiar grumblings from the hall. She was surprised then when he entered the kitchen looking almost bright-eyed after his half-day nap, clearly delighted to find June reading at the yellowing Formica table.

Amos clapped his hands as he started in, “Turtle soup for dinner tonight! Yes sir! We are in for a treat! This is an old family recipe, June. My dear old mother taught me how to make it just before she went out and drowned herself.”

The mention of this caught June off guard and she sat a little straighter as she watched her father for any flickers of rage at the mention of his mother. She’d heard this story before. Her grandmother had gone out on a cold winter’s day with rocks in her pockets and never came back, or so Amos reported. He was only seven when it happened, and June had two brothers so she knew just how unreliable a seven-year-old boy’s recollections could be. But Amos’s mood stayed steady, and instead of anger he looked at her with a wink as he whispered, “Today is the day I let you in on the secrets of the soup.”

June watched her father with a look of quietude, noting his pride at keeping his morning promise. His eyes were bright, but they flitted around the room restlessly, and he showed his impatience with a glance in June’s direction indicating that they’d better make haste before he marched out the back door. June took a deep breath knowing she had to ready herself for whatever might come and stood to trail after her father.

June watched as Amos made his way unsteadily down the grassy pockmarked hill, straight to the edge of the saltwater marsh, which sat at the center of the housing development that ringed it. June did not think she’d ever get used to the heavy, stagnant air that hovered above the murk. She could not help but imagine the death that the sulfurous odor hid beneath the water’s face. 

Amos did not bother to remove his boots before stepping through the textured surface of the tea-colored water, yelling back to June, arms waving overhead, as if giving a sermon, “Ok, June Bug. What we are about to embark on is the most important part of the whole process. Catching a turtle, fresh from the marsh! Some might tell you that store-bought is ok, but I am here to tell you they are wrong. If you can’t nab the turtle yourself, there’s no point in making the soup.” June nodded slowly and once Amos turned his back to her, she took a seat on a rock a good distance from the water’s edge. In June’s experience, once Amos got started with a project, he lost track of everything else, and so it was best to stay near her father’s side while being careful to stay out of his way.

The sun inched along the cloudless sky, and June watched the changing light on the horizon of trees as Amos continued his hunt, knee deep in the swampy tide pools. Watching him, June had to smile: cursing when he lost his boot in the mud, cursing when the turtles slipped off the log, cursing when he slammed his net over his knee in frustration and it snapped in two.

June even found herself laughing along with her father as he splashed them both in his futile attempts at a snare, but when she noticed his patience wearing thin, she gently suggested that they sit quietly and wait for the turtles to come to them; perhaps they will come to shore if we are quiet, she offered. By this time Amos was too tired and wet to make much of an argument. June brought out a blanket for them to sit on, and Amos sat with his cap in his hand, using it occasionally to wipe the sweat off his brow as he mumbled to himself about a man and a horse. June tried to busy her mind elsewhere by imagining herself as a winged character in the book she’d been reading that morning. Eventually Amos’s shoulders started to slump, and he fell asleep sitting up with his head in his hand.

June lay down next to him to wait it out when a glint of light caught her eye. She ran her fingers through the tall grass until her hand stopped on cold metal. She lifted her father’s beloved pocket watch up, the chain dangling, dripping with mud. She traced the watch’s surface with her thumb and thought of her grandmother who Amos often said June resembled and wondered if things might have been different for Amos if his mother had come home from the lake all those years ago. June looked down at her father who in sleep did not look much older than her own twelve years, and she was struck by the strangeness of that. June knew his naps were short-lived, and it was better not to wake him, so she put the watch in her skirt pocket, deciding that there would be a better time to return it.

She tried to enjoy the quiet of the moment and sure enough, as they sat still, the turtles came to shore. They emerged from the dark sludge of the marsh and crawled through the backyard to a grassy patch of lawn not far from where June sat and Amos snored. She watched as one turtle stopped and began to dig with its prehistoric claws. It formed a perfect round hole the width of a golf ball and once it was about six inches deep, the turtle repositioned itself over the hole and June watched wide-eyed as it laid its eggs, one by one, until the hole was nearly full.

Amos had woken up by now and his gaze followed June’s. They watched in silence as the turtle buried the eggs with the earth it had just displaced. June teared up at the beauty of it, but then gasped as Amos, quicker than she’d ever seen him move, swept down and lifted the poor creature up and into the air over their heads. Amos let out a loud, “WAHOO!” and began to dance a jig as the sun blared down on them all.

“Let’s go, June Bug! Back to the kitchen! Now is when the real work begins!”

June looked up incredulously at her father. He was wild with excitement, and for a moment she longed to be the wide-eyed child who used to follow her father’s every move with unquestioning reverence. Her eyes rested on the fresh mound of dirt that protected the mother’s eggs before she slowly stood and followed him back inside their grey slab home. Amos went to the corner of the kitchen and chose a blue bucket from a tall stack to keep his prize in.

“June Bug, I am putting you in charge of watching this slowpoke. No chance she can get out with these slick plastic sides, but still, it’s up to you to keep her safe. I’m giving you the easy job so you can watch and learn today. There’s a lot to perfecting this recipe and it’s all up here,” Amos tapped the side of his head which June noted had the same thud as when she tapped the side of a dug-out jack o'lantern. “See nothing ever gets written down, so you just got to observe, and remember. If you miss a trick, it’s over! And who knows if I’ll ever have a whole day to devote to teaching this to you again! This is your big shot, June Bug. Your one and only chance.”

Amos handed June the blue bucket and for the next hour he forgot she was there. Amos started by filling a huge, dented aluminum pot with water. The pot was so big that June’s little brother once hid in it successfully for 23 minutes during a game of hide and seek. Amos hoisted it onto the stove and turned the heat to high and set about emptying the contents of every drawer and cabinet of all things edible. June presumed he did this to organize himself and to see what he could add to his soup, but the sheer volume of options seemed to disorient Amos. He muttered to himself about oregano, dropped a jar of paprika on the floor, and wandered off into the closet to see what else he could find. After a time, he came out in a sweat, clutching a broom, and was surprised with the mess in the kitchen, as if he hadn’t just created it himself. In between these episodes of wandering here and there, he added a dash of this or that spontaneously into the pot without so much as reading the labels. June watched on, sometimes bravely wandering off herself, blue bucket in hand, until Amos bumped into her and nearly knocked her down.

“Ah, June! There you are! It’s time for the most important ingredient! Bring me the bucket!”

June walked over hesitantly with the bucket slung awkwardly over her shoulder. Amos pulled up a stool so she could climb up and do the honors. He watched proudly as June knelt on the stool and with her back set carefully in the direction of Amos, and let the contents of the bucket slide into the pot of boiling liquid with a small splash. Amos clapped his hands in excitement and June offered to take over as the pot’s watchman. Amos gladly relinquished the long wooden spoon so that June could stir it every so often and prevent the contents from boiling over, while Amos continued to move about the room like a ping pong ball, sputtering to himself all the while.

Three hours passed before Amos reclaimed his spoon and declared the soup done. Amos stood over the massive cauldron and gave his soup a stir as he sneezed, wet and loud, not bothering to cover his mouth. The contents of the pot gave off a rancid stench, and June wrinkled her nose as she watched her father from the stool, but knew enough to replace the disgusted look with one of stone-like placidity before he turned his crepey neck to look at her. “June Bug, it’s time to feast!”

June climbed down tiredly from her perch and sat at the kitchen table, resting her hot cheek on the cold tabletop while Amos called the rest of the family down from their places of hiding. June’s two brothers came in dragging their feet, not making eye contact with anyone. They pulled out chairs and sat with June. The click clack of Bonny’s heels came last. The matriarch stopped in the threshold, her well-manicured hand resting on her jutted out hip. The curve of her tight pencil skirt seemed to shout in defiance at all she took in.

“Nobody’s going to eat your goddamn science experiment, Amos. Get it the hell out of this house. The whole block smells like the trunk of your car and I’m sick of Ginny giving me the stink eye like it’s my fault you’re bat shit crazy. Even those damn feral cats you insist on feeding aren’t out there tonight!”

“The hell I will, Bonny! This is a family tradition, and you will all eat what I tell you to eat, when I tell you to eat it!”

Bonny stared her husband down, unmoving for what seemed like a lifetime, before she narrowed her eyes and finally said, “Taste it, Amos. If you eat a bowl, so will I.”

Amos scoffed to himself and happily ladled out a bowl of the dark liquid and sat down at the table to tuck in. The three children and Bonny watched in thinly veiled horror as Amos slowly lifted the spoon to his lips. But before Amos could luxuriate in his victory, he let out another massive sneeze that he did not try to contain. His whole body seemed to convulse with the force of it, and his arm hit the soup bowl which went spinning like a top across the kitchen table and landed face down on the floor.

“Hmm, I guess I’m allergic,” and that was all Amos had to say about the matter before he pushed back from the table and walked out the back door in the direction of Jim and his boat. He seemed to bid his family farewell in the form of a broad proclamation addressed to no one, “I’d like to see them cast a net into the harbor! You penniless pansies wouldn’t stand a chance against the sea!”

Bonny rolled her eyes at this, and she and the boys began to clean up the mess Amos left in his wake, but June was glued to her seat. The familiar dread settled over her, and she tried to push away the fear that she might never see her father again. But suddenly June grew wide-eyed, remembering, and flew out the back door after her father, urgently calling his name. Amos turned to see his little girl running after him, his pocket watch swinging from her outstretched arm, like something from the heavens. Amos’s face lit up with a sly smile, and he shuffled back towards June. Amos took his watch and tucked it back into his breast pocket before reaching down to gently cradle June’s chin in his callused palm. He looked her in the eyes for the first time that day and gave her a wink before turning on his heel back towards the setting sun.

June stood motionless as she watched her father’s figure recede into the distance. Once he was out of sight, June made her way to the side of the house to retrieve the other blue bucket. She knelt down and gently tipped it on its side to let the turtle make its way out. June stuck her hands in her empty skirt pockets and sat down in the grass to watch the creature waddle back into the marsh, the rising moon lighting its way.