The Stories, The Poems, and The Prose of Nadine Sellers

Rose, your tear at twilight, as the waters that must have passed between us, mixed with the blood of birth . . . rose, the coded flesh that binds us in common hatred of a common tyrant, until the ripping of one and the rotting of the other . . . rose scar of the child wounded in the battle of egos and the wars of the unequal ...

    No one could open oysters faster or better than mother: in my youthful opinion she was the uncontested queen of openers, crediting this dubious title to her special double pronged prying tool which she simply called "the knife." Every Sunday, clients lined up at her little window in the medieval district of our town, no matter the weather, no matter the price; the regulars, the newcomers framed in the perfect square of daylight, like a pleibeian parade. Each and all exercised civility in the face of great anticipation; they trotted to the cobble stoned street for the honor of being served the best shellfish the Atlantic coast had to offer, or perhaps it was for the coquettish smile my mother bestowed on certain clients, depending on personal wealth and social standing.

    From three feet of height, daily routine seemed entrenched in immovable tradition, security dressed in somber denial. Born old, a child steeped in adult disappointment, I did not expect change, but thrived on discovery. In every month ending with an "r," starting in September, mother awoke early each Sunday, just as the first train of the day shook the tunnel walls beneath the hill and reverberated right under our subfloor; so distinctly did it vibrate that I could count the number of wagons the locomotive carried simply by pressing my head to the pillow. For years I slept on a provisory stack of blankets laid on the floor between the wall and my parent's compact fold-up bed. As soon as the last segment of the train had exited the tunnel, I was to rise and start the weekly ritual, which differed from the daily schedule in only one aspect: instead of the usual grilled bread for breakfast, we would eat brioche and croissants.

    Sundays held a magical aura which usually lasted through midday. First, I'd open the sink closet wide enough to hide timidly while performing my morning routine, taking precaution not to make unnecessary noise or splash cold water on the limestone platform, never forgetting to wash every single part of face and body, just as I had been taught; then all fresh and dry I 'd hasten to put on the Sunday clothes which I had pressed and laid out on the previous evening.

    Mother's garments were draped over a chair next to mine, father's plain blue cotton outfit was carefully folded on the valet stand, just as I had been painfully taught. Their shoes, which I had shined to perfection, awaited below, toes pointing inward to facilitate access; mine were usually pushed far under another chair as I seldom took time to polish the tough leather. I would peek around the bifold doors and quickly grab my clothes while clutching my nightgown, goose bumps roughening every surface of skin; I would squirm into the odious corset that squeezed the youth out of my emerging consciousness and pretend to tighten it, so that it would be a very restricting garment at best and totally unnecessary, as it would be years before I showed any sign of feminine growth,

"mama, no one ever wears these, it hurts!" I once had tentatively argued.

"a lady must suffer to look good, and it keeps you from getting a disgusting little belly," she'd said with a sour rictus wrinkling her thin lips. Though the seeds of self deprecation were already long ingrained, I knew I had no fat, much less any belly on my sportive frame, but I dressed dutifully. I'd button my perfectly white shirt, invariably missing a buttonhole, then slip into my perfectly pleated plaid skirt, align the suspenders, evenly; align the perfectly white socks, evenly; pull my navy wool sweater, evenly - Sunday shoes on last, not to disturb anyone in the semi darkness.

    My parents would stir sharply under covers, nervous legs scratching the rough sheets; I'd light the small gas heater with a stout match, and watch the blue flame warm up the ceramic plates to a rosy red, grab the coin purse from the desk drawer, then kiss both parents perfunctorily. "Bonjour maman, bonjour papa," welcoming the day cheerfully. "Allez,allez" father would wave me away impatiently, eyes darting from mother to me. He must have pinched my mother a lot because she'd squeal and wriggle, and I 'd smile all the way to the bakery.

    My orders never varied: I was first to walk to the furthest patisserie, wait in line for the fresh croissants to be out of the ovens, then wait again for the brioches to turn a golden brown. I would be subjected to visual delights artfully arranged on lace covered shelves behind glass; petit-choux oozing vanilla cream under shiny crust, petit-four with red cherry eye at center, baba-au-rhum dripping dark liquor syrup from fluid columns, éclairs, my favorites, long boats full of coffee flavored alsacienne filling, slathered with rich butter créme on top. Every Sunday I agonized for long minutes in front of these display cases that were brimming with the most renowned pastries in town. Moving up one foot every time a customer's order was filled, I would soon warm up and slip the woolen scarf down, away from my face.

"Here little lady," the owner chef would bend over the counter, "try this pastry, it isn't good enough to sell", he would grab one that had some minor flaw or ask his wife to give me some flattened tartlet , whispering to my upturned ear "this one lost an apricot in the oven, don't tell anyone;" then the two would exchange a smile of tacit satisfaction and wrap my customary two croissants and one brioche in elegantly embossed cellulose paper, all warm and crisp.

    Pampered and important, I would then run to the bakery located two doors east, wait in an orderly queue behind a few older men. They wore dark wool coats and formal fedoras over long dark locks, they stood silently and stared somewhere above me, but their somber almond eyes spoke ever so carefully. A nearly imperceptible nodding waved their entire chest from the waist up, like a slow breeze in a wheat field stirring somewhere, it spoke of a certain conditional acceptance. Occasionally, one would diffidently bow his head toward me and perhaps venture a brief greeting. Ahead of me I could sometimes hear their whispers as they ordered bread, the language sang with a distinctive rhythm, especially if a certain woman was among the small line, her head held high in defiant presence, I could always sense her need to own the small space, the very ground on which she stood, she would place her order in flat french, "seigle foncé, bien cuit," and watch the baker's son remove her loaf of well bronzed rye from the high brick oven as if this very bread were a sacred object.

    The baker would know, a priori, exactly what my father wanted: one stout bodied round loaf of grainy rye, fresh and hot, correct change, no smiles. With a timid "merci" I would bow a respectable exit; my body ensconced in grey wool, I appeared to marginally fit in their mysterious sectarian culture; the women, instinctually knowing that I would not ever tell of their daughters who attended the private school, unnoticed, unnoticeable in this guarded post war atmosphere. Their names molded to their new surroundings, their characters subdued in applied learning; and I, silent and curious, identified with the deep longings evident in their austerity.

    Upon returning home I used to hold the exotic loaf against my chest, paper rustling sharply, aroma wafting up to taunt me with hints of the Middle East; cumin, buckwheat and seeds I had never heard of. I always gently cradled the croissants in my hands to keep my mittens warm. Occasionally I'd filch a surreptitious bite from my own brioche while skipping up and down the narrow granite sidewalks, feeding bickering sparrows and greeting neighbors all the way to the corner. By the time I 'd turn onto my street, I'd walk one foot in front of the other quietly and paying strict attention to my posture - spine straight, abdomen suppressed, breath withheld; only the steam from my scarf betraying the rush. I'd wince every time the big iron key would grind in the ancient door. Id find my parents giggling under their blankets. Invariably one or the other would snap at me for being either too late or too early; I don't think my timing was ever quite right.

    My recipe for coffee was a blended mix of half coffee beans and half chicory root darkly torrefied and ground in the handmill just prior to bringing it to a boil in pure spring water. I 'd sprinkle a pinch of sea salt at the last minute and strain the dark liquid with a thin cloth, then serve it to my parents on a tray, sometimes adding a sprig of fern or a carnation the florist had given me on my morning route. After breakfast in bed, mother would get up and hastily perform her own toilette.

"the water is glacial and that heater is not helping - look at that wallpaper peeling!" she'd point angrily.

    My parents were merely renting the premium uptown space, so nothing could or would be done any differently, but mother would gripe in ascerbic tones during the whole time she was washing and primping and powdering. By daylight she'd finally be ready to take me to work with her to the oyster bar.

    One December morning the ostreicultor's truck was already parked on the one way street when we walked around the corner, a squat middle aged man was already unloading wooden cases of oysters as fast as he could before traffic was allowed in the narrow space. The saline aroma scarcely transcended the frigid temperature. As mother took her place behind the counter, I pulled each crate destined for the basement storage, careful never to spill any of the precious Atlantic waters from the live cargo.

    Mother pulled on a waxy apron, allocated bills and coins to the cash box and adjusted her face in the small plate glass mirror above the shellfish counter. As if some inaudible bell had rang, clients began appearing from the farmer's market across the intersection; on cue my mother cautiously swung the small shutters fully opened, not to shatter the centuries old leaded stained glass. Familiar voices began stating familiar orders - "three dozen Marennes please!" I dashed downstairs and fetched a full crate of the flat-shelled green-eyed delicacies. Just as mother had done, I had developed a strong affinity for regional distinction; each variety of oyster carried it' s own characteristics.

    With nary a word Mother opened the first of the batch, presented it to the client across the indented wooden surface, passing it delicately under the woman's nose in a broad sweeping gesture. The young lady nodded in educated agreement, and within seconds mother had opened the required number and the line had grown several brightly scarfed heads; well behaved, yet breathing like steamy horses at the tethering post.

    At first, modestly but neatly dressed servants hurried up to the small square opening and called out their usual order, trusting my mother to please their patronnes; it was well known that she had perfect olfactory judgement and never would serve an unsatisfactory shell, no matter the price to anyone. She could sniff a doubtful bivalve even before opening it and would throw the unsafe one under the counter so swiftly that no one ever saw it.

    That morning passed rather quickly. I could hear maids commenting about competing merchants who had sold defective sea shells which had caused a terrible illness among the clientele - stories of excruciating cramps and interminable headaches, and of one well publicized death. By eleven thirty, mother and I slowed our pace; bells announced the end of the last mass, elegant women came around the remparts from the cathedral and stood with lace mantillas draped over their purse, never tapping their toes on the cobblestones, as if their high heels were made of soft rubber and their constitution was perennially warm.

    Mother pushed her curls away from her face with the back of her gloved hand. She dipped her laguiole knife in the bowl of straight bleach that I kept fresh for her, and her dress pocket was filled with tips from noble clients. Between two orders she smoothed her apron and glanced into the mirror. She took her makeup from her purse and leaned beyond sight to reapply her lipstick: she pulled out a gold spritzer from a secret side pocket and misted her neck and elbows with slight scent of lilac, then I watched her pensively smooth the excess along her white skin. She sighed deeply. "Natalie, go down and inspect the oysters - make sure we have enough of the speciales," she said as she pinched my arm with certain intent.

    A tear welled up in the corner of my eye, but I willed it away by wiggling my nose, concentrating on descending the sharp limestone stairs. I already knew to take my time, to read every label on every crate - I knew those sounds, the voices above me.

    Oléron, la Tremblade, Arcachon - the oysters were born in that sea basin on the map, at the center of the Atlantic bay, they were capted on heated tiles then sent by truck to the Brittany coast or to Normandy to thrive for one year. Then the choice ones were replanted in warmer clay beds where they refined their mantles to purer colors; the seafood merchant had explained to me that the best ones were sent on a vacation in clear lagoons implanted with the highest quality green and blue plancton; these microscopic algae would feed the mature bivalve and produce the most delectable claires.

    We had one single wooden basket of Fines de Claires which I knew not to bring up until told; these boxes were heavily sealed and the burnt letters on the balsam slats indicated that their name was legally protected; one hundred per cent Arcachonnaises, three to four years old, born and bred regionally, coaxed and cajoled for three weeks in clear beds at no more than three kilos per square meter; sometimes during the months of March to November, then the clear oysters were incubated in special blue naviculum beds for two additional weeks at the rate of only one kilo per square meter, these were the holiday season's very best and of course the costliest. I knew who they were destined for.

"Natalie, bring up the Spéciales," mother called down to me in a creamy tone, it was never the words, but the intonation which signaled terror in my whole being. I could visualize the smile, the kind which was not directed at me, not ever meant for me. I swallowed hard and obeyed. The crate was heavy, but I was strong and certainly determined not to appear weak. As I arrived at the top of the stairs, I saw their feet entangled in an unnatural bend, mother's right heel swung loose and her left was entwined between his tasseled loafers. I knew his shoes, his corduroy slacks, his tweed jacket; I knew him by his genteel demeanor, and desperate devotion. I bumped the crate on the door jamb and the feet came to order, mother slapped her dress as if some naughty wrinkle had appeared on the front of it, the gentleman seemed to have found something interesting in his pocket and was suddenly intrigued by the plaster design on the wall. "Hello, Natalie," he said softly as he held out his hand.

    I set the oyster crate down and became stubbornly engrossed in cleaning the stone floor under the counter. The sound of my name rang within my juvenile conscience in confusing circles. I did not know his name, though I silently conceded that I did like him. Mother slid toward me, her pinch so sudden that I nearly let a scream escape my savage little lips.

"Bonjour monsieur," I slowly answered his greeting in as natural a voice as I could muster . From the dark recess of the shelf, I intently watched the way mother cradled a shell in her cupped hand and pushed her index finger upon the guard; she slid the knife point under the back of the oyster as her jaw thrust in anticipatory concentration.

    Sharply, precisely, she moved her wrist forward and severed the abductor muscle; in one swift gesture she held the flat lid, her thumb pressed on the blade as she held out the superior valve like a testament to her skill, separating the mantle from it and offering a wet taste of the oyster to the gentleman. Her eyes followed the trajectory of the thin green flesh into his open mouth, and she murmured a guttural sound. I saw the shellfish glide down his upturned throat, heard the gulp and the sound of my mother simultaneously swallowing the lower body of the oyster.

    Suddenly the smell of pure bleach permeated the stall: Id bumped into the bowl, frigid water mixed with my tears running in a slow puddle. It was noon at the oyster bar. Elsewhere, ladies had set their tables around town, apérétifs and hors-d'oeuvres were being served on pure white table cloths. Sunday china had been rinsed and silverware had been polished for the ritual meals. Couples and guests were enjoying the finest and freshest shellfish for the holidays. My own brioche long spent on the narrow stairs seemed an interminable famine away.

    Cold, wet - the brutally strong bleach was burning my skin. I mopped the floor around the customers feet while they turned and twisted to some inaudible music, like a couple in some old movie. Mother was steering his willing body and as she stepped onto the stairs that led to the small room above the oyster bar she swung her dress about her, freeing herself of the apron, as if discarding an entire way of life. She flung it savagely, from her wifehood and motherhood - into my face, my mouth, my eyes. Blinded by bleach, I spat back salt and anger.

    The sound of stinging fingers on my cheek surprised me so. I am not sure who gasped - who gasped loudest. For a frozen instant, cold air sent a sharp pain through my teeth and gums. Mother's knife lay in my hand smelling of blood and bleach; mother was screaming, the gentleman was desperately retreating into the open front room, his mouth still agape - he bent and examined his corduroys, as if a stain might have suddenly appeared on the pant legs.

"No, no, I'm not hurt!" he stuttered, looking bewildered. "It's not my blood!" he feebly smiled with obvious relief, then looked down at me as if I had suddenly reappeared on the screen of his consciousness. I slowly held out my left palm and felt the warmth of my own blood; I grinned weakly at the distraught man, through the wailing sounds of my mother. She was now clutching the soggy apron as she slowly sat on the narrow stairs, slobbering words about men, wealth and a whole future lost.

    The man cupped a warm hand upon my cheek and erased the ringing from my ear, then he knelt in front of me. Oblivious of mud and stench, he drew a clean white handkerchief from his tweed pocket and pressed it onto the gaping cut. Scent of sage transpired in the cold thin air; his cologne, a calm sensation suspended in the moment. He deftly reached out and slipped the knife from my numbed fingers. His head slightly bent to the right, he gazed into my eyes for an instant and softly set the metal on the dark slate counter, double-tipped blade carefully turned to the wall. A tear caught the lost neon glare in his eye as he turned away.

    A hostile drizzle permeated our coats as mother and I silently walked home that afternoon. Reaching the uptown apartment one heavy foot at a time, we carried our burdens side by side. She carefully laid her tips on the table and counted the change; I put the larger bills in the drawer, quietly folded our Sunday dresses, and prepared the soup and salad, each gesture relying on automated repetition. The last train of the day shook the table just as we sat in unison. At mealtime, father commented favorably on the white tablecloth and the quality of the delicate oysters. Mother agreed that this was a particularly good year for the expensive speciales. That evening I was allowed to partake in the ritual consumption of the rare shellfish, each slobbery glob sliding with great difficulty past my knotted throat; the slight metallic hint of pure saline water should have brought pleasure, yet tasted of failure and deceit.

"I fell on the knife." My standard answer, just as mother said.

    And for years, I believed I simply had somehow slipped. I don't think that I ever saw mother's pupils again, through every sad Sunday, till she finally stopped waiting for whomever would free her from small streets and narrow windows that smelled of seaside and of frozen dreams.

    My scar healed as two distinct stigmata points in my palm. I inherited the knife, the taste for shellfish, and a strange propensity toward wearing tweed jackets, corduroy slacks and little white linen handkerchiefs that smell of sage and lavender.