Clam Court
We aren’t supposed to go clamming on Sundays, but we couldn’t wait. As we drove to our favorite spot, my husband reminded us how to find them.
“Drag your big toe slowly across the muck and feel for the pull of the clam,” he instructed.
I looked back at our kids. Gabe nodded. Timmy reached out and pulled on his toes.
“The clams stick up their siphons to suction water into their gills. Once you know what they want, you can find them. It’s simple,” Sam said, shrugging. I squeezed his knee, as if I understood.
But we both know I’m not coordinated. In the water, I’m reluctant to drag my toe in the sand. I don’t want to get cut on a shell.
We parked and put our nets in a five-gallon bucket. All of us wore white long-sleeved shirts and wide brimmed hats. I slathered Timmy’s bare spots with sunscreen and tried to swipe some on Gabe, but he resisted.
We set off into the pines single file. The sun sparkled on whorls of needles. Birds scooted in upper branches. A snake slithered near my left sandal, stole my breath. Our feet kicked up the pine duff, and the air promised Christmas. At a turn in the path, Gabe stopped and read some signs:
No fishing, swimming, or use of recreational vehicles.
Plovers and other creatures make this their natural habitat.
Do not disturb the wildlife – they rely upon this place.
“Maybe we shouldn’t go any further,” I worried.
“We’ll just have some quick fun,” Sam said, and soon we were out of the trees and walking through spiky beach grass, marveling at feathery roses. The sun glinted on the water, our deep blue treasure chest.
Near a jetty, Sam put down the bucket and pulled a tote bag over his shoulder. He took a boy-scout shovel and waded in up to his waist. I put Timmy on my back and followed, but Gabe needed a little coaxing.
“Come on in,” I said.
“Just five minutes,” Sam said. “Give us five and then you can quit.”
Our eldest dragged himself through the water like it was mud and stood near his dad. I pulled my big toe over the tamped down silt. Minnows nip-kissed my shins, but I couldn’t feel any hints of bivalves beneath me. I felt clam-deaf. Sam pulled up a nice big one and held it high in the air.
“You see, it’s simple!” he enthused, dropping the clam in his tote bag. Suddenly, his face went slack with surprise. He collapsed into the water, but his left arm waved up like a flag. Gabe grabbed his father’s hand, and a powerful force pulled him down too. I booked for shore.
Around me, sprays of water shot up like fountains. A strange chorus of wiggly voices called out.
“Oh, you want to know how to feel for clams?”
“How about you start feeling for clams!”
“Clams have feelings! We are sentient!”
The mocking whines, the water shooting like guns, my husband and son getting stolen: I was terrified. I screamed for help and charged through the pines with Timmy bouncing on my back. At the parking lot, I eased him to the ground.
“How long can Daddy hold his breath?” asked Timmy.
“That’s a good question,” I said.
“Hey, look,” he pointed to an envelope under the windshield wiper. I grabbed it, and tore apart the wax seal, which was jade green and marked with a C.
Dear Anna,
We have your family. Come to Clam Court at the National Seashore, 8 a.m. tomorrow. The courthouse is behind the new federal tourist facility. Bring no one else.
Sincerely,
Clam Mya Arenaria
The cursive was perfect, and the paper was thick. They meant business.
I got us in the car and sped to my parents.
“How could you clam on Sunday!” my mom admonished.
“I wish I hadn’t!”
“It’s going to be all right,” my father said. “Maybe I should go with you tomorrow.”
I choked back a sob.
“I have to fight this on my own,” I said.
Clam sovereignty was brand new, just acknowledged by the legislature. This was uncommon ground. I had to start obeying the rules.
My dad poured us whiskey sodas, and we took them to the backyard. My son begged us to play cornhole. The afternoon passed as if the abduction didn’t happen. Maybe my husband and child would walk through the side gate, hungry for dinner. Say they got off with just a warning and hitch-hiked back. I’d be so relieved!
My mom put hot dogs on the grill, mixed a bag of shredded cabbage with dressing. We moved into the screen porch to eat, and afterwards, worked on a mermaid puzzle.
Timmy and I stayed in my childhood room. I let him have the top bunk, and when I kissed him goodnight, he asked if I would get them back.
“I sure am going to try,” I said.
I had no idea how this would play out. What was justice to a clam? How long would my family be punished? I tried to calm myself by imagining a game at the fair.
I pretended my husband and son were prizes, hanging next to stuffed animals at the back of a tent. I hit the pop-up moles hard as I could but didn’t win. My husband stayed stoic and plain faced. Gabe was disappointed, just like the sad panda at his side.
I followed the tide of my other son’s breathing. Each of us, I thought, is a little ocean, reaching for the shore.
Did clam mothers stay up at night? Were there even mothers? If there were couples, did they fight about chores? Did kids go to school? I stared at the slats of the bunk above me, put my finger in a big hole in the knotty pine. How was it that we’d been together just that morning?
When I finally fell asleep, I dreamt I was driving over a cliff. I kept hitting the guard rail and soaring through the air, over and over again. I never hit the water. I woke up terrified.
I took a shower, and when I got to the kitchen, my parents had coffee ready, in a to-go mug. My mom slid granola bars across the counter, tapped her nails. My father bid me good luck. I hugged them.
The court was a raggedy old building behind the new visitor center. The shingles were salt-bruised, and the doors looked 50 years old. As I entered, the building made a machine-like gulp.
I joined a line of a dozen mothers standing single file, corralled in vinyl ropes. In front of us, a line of judges presided. They were in a long aquarium and wore corrugated white wigs at the top of their ropy necks. They had no features, no eyes or smiles.
A human clerk in a sand-colored jumpsuit handed me a clipboard and said I should fill out the form. I tried to see what the other women were writing.
“Don’t peek,” the clerk said. “And don’t ask me any questions.”
“But –” I said. There was so much I wanted to know. She held a finger up to her mouth, shook her head.
“I don’t know much more than you, and what little I know won’t help. This part will be over soon,” she added, her face softening. I tried to imagine what it would be like to work for another species.
The form asked:
Who did you lose?
Where did you lose them?
What resources or services would you give to get them back?
Do you want to pay money?
Do you want to join your family instead of paying?
Would you bear us children?
I wanted to talk to the other women, but solidarity seemed a bad move. My mind raced. I wasn’t young enough to have more kids, but other women were. What would it take to merge the species and make clam people? Did midwives work underwater? How the heck did people breathe in the muck — with hi-tech help, or through an evolutionary reversal? I couldn’t believe how ill-equipped I was in this situation.
I wrote that I would be glad to serve in whatever capacity was needed. I would give all my stuff and every moment of my time. Please, please, please let me have my husband and son on terra firma again. I am so sorry we clammed! I promise we won’t ever again! I wish we played mini golf instead!
One by one, the women held their cards up to the glass for the judge to read. The clams made decisions with a series of slippery burps, sending mothers to their fates. On the left, they joined their families, and prisoners were released on the right. The reunions hurt to watch. My arms ached, craving my beloveds.
When it was my turn, I held up my card. I guess I suddenly spoke clam because the judge’s gurgles made sense.
“You miserable people! Six days a week isn’t enough to steal us?” the official bellowed.
“I’m sorry!” I said, clasping my hands together in prayer. “I’m sorry.”
“You can apologize for the next five months,” he said.
“With my family? Can I please serve my time with them?”
I guess I framed the question with enough servitude and respect, because he moved his proboscis up and down, and the clerk escorted me to the left.
“This is where you become a clam,” she explained. The room had yoga mats on the floor, and five moms were already waiting. “Lay down.”
I did as she said and remembered how I felt when my husband and son disappeared, the hollowed-out loss. The unshouted NO! Unzippering myself from Timmy at my parents’ house wasn’t the same. I knew he would feel abandoned for five long months, but at least my parents adored him, and he adored my parents. That would buffer his emptiness. Or so I hoped.
Soon the room was full of women, all of us on the floor, trying not to look at each other. The door sealed shut. Valves released a minty smoke, and the voice of a clammy leader guided us in meditation.
“This mist will help you change. Breathe deeply and think fondly of your families. They’ve been through this too, and you will soon be with them. Once you’ve served your time with grace, the transformation can be reversed.”
The words came at us like bubbles, and the speaker paused to let everything sink in.
“Be careful. Be useful, and everything will be okay. Don’t think about rebelling. Be good.”
I felt myself sliding into another me. I was ill at ease, physically drifting into another form. I’d always wanted to be someone else. As a kid, I wished I was secretly adopted, or an alien from outer space. I wasn’t at home in my skin, and the stories of othering helped me make sense. But here I was, becoming an underwater being! I never imagined a change this dramatic. I felt the me I was onshore slip away. There goes the mother. The daughter. The wife. As she left, I felt her gripping the edges of my skin and consciousness.
“You are becoming the selves you need to be to serve us. Now you’ll do our jobs, filtering the water. See how you like it!”
I felt my thoughts seep out my pores.
I had a flash of the autobiography I wrote in third grade, a horrible assignment. The teacher wanted us to pick a favorite color, choose a favorite food. She wanted us to create definition before we even knew who we were! Now, another voice was erasing all of my favorites. French fries, green clothes. Whoosh! My memories walked out of my elbows – that is where they left, like there was an exit sign marking where to go.
I watched the disco ball from the sidelines of the sixth-grade dance. Saw myself in the kitchen, waiting for the timer to ring. I leaned down to spy into the oven window. Was the cake ready?
I let go of my expectations. Birthdays. Seasons. Flower buds ready to pop. Each Christmas kissed me. The decorated trees, full and Charlie Brown-y. Little white lights. Big, primary color bulbs. My eyes ready to open on the very day, eager to get to my stocking – the stocking that Santa, my parents or I had filled.
All my hopes went out of me. I waved goodbye until I disappeared.
When you become only flesh, soft and willing to do what must happen to earn your family back, when what you were takes a hike and becomes another thing, well, it is tremendous. Like showering. Like vacuuming. Like a fresh coat of paint. I felt new and bright.
I didn’t know myself, and I felt kinship with my sudden doppelgangers – all of us were tubular. None of us had shells, and our arms and legs were stuck to, and part of our sides.
The mist thinned and one by one we wriggled through a portal into the aquarium. A bunch of other people-turned-into-tubes were in the water. One man and one boy came to me. I didn’t recognize them, but they knew me.
During our reunion soldiers chained each family together. These were men who had arms and legs and wore sand-colored full-body swim/jumpsuits. They led us out to the open water, where we’d live and work.
We were aware of the sun and moon, of night and day, but we were always out there in the water. There were no domiciles, no rest, no relaxation. The only thing was our effort, and the steady soundtrack warning in that burbuly voice: “Be careful. Be useful. Be good.”
Occasionally, this drone was interrupted with a lecture. Another clam voice, angrier and with no watery gurgles, berated us.
“You people have ruined our realm! And you stole us for food on Sundays! The rudeness. Couldn’t we rest one day from you? We clams – and other mollusks, honestly, don’t understand how you have the nerve to expect us to remove impurities from the waters. That is why it is time for you to help!”
This interruption reminded us of ourselves. It was jarring, to feel my former consciousness return, like vivid dreams. Our feelings and mistakes flashed back, plus all the routine stuff.
Oh, I was that! I thought. I made bread! I made money! I have a mortgage!
During these spasms of self, I felt guilty for the clamming, not just on our one horrible day, but any day.
Mostly, though, I didn’t feel bad. I just was, this tubey creature breathing water, filtering crappy residue.
Our work was easy. All we had to do was lay around and clean the water with our siphoning. In our guts we accumulated bulky crud, which passed more like dust than fecal matter. We never got coffee or breakfast, or food of any kind.
“You’ll never grow shells, or beautiful necks like ours,” the clams said. “I hope you do not get too much satisfaction from doing your chores. Don’t even think of your eventual rewards, your leaving. You are working! Feel the burn!”
Inside our novel bodies, we would snap into shame and oblige. Never have I felt such a righteous impulse to serve – not even in my mothering. The reflex was profound. A natural hierarchy compelled us.
These words are proof to you that I survived.
Eventually, the time was done. A similar yoga-type incantation shook us back into our selves, loosening our arms from the cramped form we needed to do clam work. The time we spent under water clung like a dream, but only on the periphery of our minds. Like the shadow you think you see at the door.
When we first came home, Timmy wouldn’t talk to me for a few days, just wrestled with Gabe and his father. We are normal again: work, school, supermarket. Soccer, and dinners with my folks.
Sometimes, I remember my tubey, clammy form, and how I never rested. I remember deeper sensations with a shiver, how the ghosts of my cells – that me who’d left – dreamt we were just below the surface, ready to be found. I could almost feel Timmy’s big toe patting the silt for my blowhole and finding my hand.
Amy Halloran lives in Troy, New York. She writes facts about flour and the history of baking, and fiction about everything else. Her book, The New Bread Basket, tells the stories of people changing how grains are grown and used. She’s working on a hybrid memoir about the twinned histories of the modern American loaf of bread, and the modern American woman.