Our Oyster Shell Driveway

When Daddy had a little extra money in his pocket, he would buy a sack of fresh, raw oysters on his way home. By our excitement, you would’ve thought he was Santa with that burlap sack thrown over his shoulder. We squealed with laughter as we danced and shucked oysters on the porch, throwing our shells and cares onto the drive.

Most everyone in our little bayou town had a driveway made of oyster shells. But, no one had my Daddy! He was all about a good time!

“Come dance with us, Momma,” he hollered through the screen door. His breath soaked with whiskey as he played his beloved record collection. He had all of the old classics on 45. Ella Fitzgerald was his favorite. He always tried to get Momma to dance with him to Ella.

Momma never joined in the fun. She hated oysters and Daddy. Muttering to herself, she stayed inside ironing clothes for rich folks.

“I’m tired of scraping to feed these kids while you spend all of our money on stupid shit,” Momma screamed as she hammered his record collection into a pile of vinyl dust with her iron.

“Just calm down,” Daddy said as he scrambled to hide his favorite record under the mattress. “I’ll get another job.” But, he never did.

One spring day a couple of months later, yelling voices collided, shattering onto the oyster shell driveway of our tattered home. The screen door slammed. I still remember the slap of that door on the weathered, peeling frame. Daddy was gone.

I watched through the passenger window as he hastily pushed the record player across the burgundy duct-taped seat. I sat on that sizzling fake leather many a summer day eating ice cream while Daddy was in the bar.

“Take care of your little sisters,” he shouted through the half-open passenger window on the day he left. I nodded, biting my bottom lip. Those were his last words to me.

Cranking the key, the old pick-up rumbled. My sobbing, pigtailed sisters chased behind the rusty red truck. Their tears etched paths down their dusty cheeks. Daddy didn’t look back. I can’t blame him. There was nothing here for him anymore.

People talked in town about Daddy drinking whiskey in a stale hotel room listening to his only record, day after day. I heard them when Momma drug us to church.

“Poor things,” they’d whisper behind their cupped hands as we passed. “Her husband done went off and left her with those kids to raise.”

“He’s in that cheap, nasty hotel, drinking that devil water, listening to that same scratched record over and over. Or, so I heard,” Miss Busy Body would answer. “You’d never catch the likes of me near that house of sin.”

We never ate oysters on the porch again. A month after Daddy left, Momma’s boyfriend moved in, trampling across our oyster shell driveway, crushing our shells under his feet.

As soon as I was old enough, I left, too. I headed to New Orleans, bidding that little bayou town farewell. My best friend and I hitched rides all the way to the French Quarter. We hoped to find jobs there.

The first restaurant we came across was an oyster bar on Iberville Street. This place was hopping! The manager said they only had one job open for a busser. He didn’t need two. I told my friend to take it.

“Hold up, can you shuck oysters?” the manager asked as I turned to leave. “My oyster guy could use some help. He’s fast but we’ve been staying pretty busy.”

“Yes sir!” I replied enthusiastically. “My Daddy taught me when I was just a kid. I been shucking my whole life.”

“Well then, it looks like you two got yourself jobs,” he smirked. “Come on, you can get acquainted with our oyster station and meet the old pearl himself.”

“Hey Pete,” the manager yelled at the back of the burly man. “I got your slow ass some help.”

That tune the oyster shucker was whistling slapped me in the face like a weathered screen door. It was his favorite Ella song. And, after nearly a decade, it was him.

There he stood larger than life shucking oysters at a restaurant in the French Quarter. I had longed for this day. I had imagined this day. And, now, I just stood there frozen.

“Daddy?” I muttered as if I’d seen a ghost. “I thought you were dead?!”

“Oh mon dieu,” he whispered in a thick Cajun accent as he slowly turned around.

Those sky blue eyes sunk deep behind his high cheekbones pierced my soul. It stung so bad I lost my breath for a minute. I knew my Daddy’s eyes well. They stared back at me in the mirror every day.

“I’m sorry,” he said as my amber eyes began to fill with tears. “I ain’t got no kids.”

“Well Pete, take this one under your wing” the manager replied placing his hand on my shoulder. “Teach this kid all that bullshit you’re always blabbering about.”

“Grab that sack at the end of the bar,” pointed Pete as he stared the manager down. “Can you even shuck an oyster?”

“Oh yes sir,” I replied throwing the burlap sack over my shoulder like I was Santa. Finally, I was home.