Free Either the Beginning or the End of the World by Terry Farish

ache, like the Spanish dancer in the song. I sit on the floor, letting the drops of gin burn my throat, and it feels like a shadow is beside me, a weight dragging me.
    With this weight I go back to the bin of shrimp. Open, twist, pull. Discard the tiny carapace. Keep my father home.

MR. MURRAY’S FEAR
    Mr. Murray continues to bring order to my morning. 7:30 a.m. He is always at his desk. We have regular assignments every week. I know if I am not there that day, he is, and he’ll know I’m not there. Mr. Murray’s and my days don’t hinge on the wind in the birches or the government.
    My head spins a little while I sit in his class Monday morning.
    â€œYou need to get in your assignments,” he says before other students have come.
    â€œYes, I will.”
    â€œBefore I’m gone.”
    â€œAre you going, too? Everybody’s leaving.”
    â€œWho else is leaving?”
    â€œMy father’s going fishing in Virginia.”
    â€œI’m only going to see my new grandson.”
    â€œWhen’s that?”
    â€œEnd of the week.”
    â€œI don’t know,” I say. “About getting the assignments in.”
    â€œWhy not?” he says.
    It was nice to stop thinking for a while, with the gin. I haven’t done my assignments all week. I just look at him.
    Mr. Murray gazes at me briefly, this man with vast curiosity about the world.
    My father said that Mr. Murray’s wife left him for a job in the city. She wanted more than he had to offer: a sweet smile, an appreciation for her walk, a good sentence. Mr. Murray writes a column for the newspaper. He never remarried, and my father said sometimes you can’t account for who you fall in love with.
    Later, during my study hall, I go to Mr. Murray’s room and write one assignment. I think I might want to talk to him, but I don’t. I just hang out there and work. Mr. Murray must wonder why I’m there.
    I am still thinking about fear, after that night by the stove when my father and I talked.
    Before I leave I drop a paper on his desk. It’s a poem we read in English: “For My Young Friends Who Are Afraid.”
    I like it, quite a lot, but don’t know how to use it right now, for my father and me. Maybe Mr. Murray will.

AT HIGH TIDE
    I make a new sign. The last one got snowed on when Rosa and I sold the shrimp I cleaned Sunday.
Sweet Northern Shrimp
    Fresh Caught
    $1.50/pound Whole
    $6.50/pound Cleaned Ready to Eat
    I had cleaned a few more from yesterday’s haul. I sell one last time while my father is fishing. Tomorrow I’ll give him the money to prove this will work. We’re okay.
    Last thing before work, Pilot and I run down to my beach. I remember my father singing in his warbly voice as I run. I squeeze my eyes shut at the sun on the beach. I have this thought of me swimming in the sea like a seal. I pretend I can breathe under water and I can dive and glide through the waves. The idea takes my breath away since it is like dying to me—to go in the sea. The sun makes long shadows. My legs look like stilts as we run with the sun over my shoulder.
    - - -
    Vincent is melancholy tonight, more so than usual. He is silent as a large cat, galumphing up and down, picking donuts for customers. I ring them in at the register. Then fill the containers of sugar, skim, milk, cream.
    â€œWhere you from?” I say to try to shift the sullen mood of the place.
    â€œNowhere,” he says, “Got some family in Salisbury.”
    â€œNice beach,” I say.
    â€œUsed to be,” he says. “My grandmother used to go hear bands play in the oceanside joints.” This seems to devastate him to tell it today, how the bands played, from the way his eyes droop.
    I myself am euphoric! After I’m out of here, I’m driving myself to an oceanside joint. Rye Cottages. Number five. January has stretched long and cold, and now it’s time.
    My shift hangs on and on, the