(Am studying my fool head off, but needed a break from carbs.)
McCarthy has just introduced the new character of Michael into Suttree’s life. Michael is an Indian whom Suttree spots out on the river one day, fishing in a "skiff composed of actual driftwood, old boxes, stenciled crateslats and parts of furniture patched up with tin storesigns and rags of canvas and spattered over with daubs of tar." Michael has also caught the biggest catfish Suttree has ever seen.
This slow friendship develops, as is McCarthy’s manner, with focus and then most likely will pop up again and again from this point onward. But one thing that has occurred to me is that I’m very curious about Michael and what sort of character he is.
With the pack of river rats that comprises Suttree’s world and McCarthy’s story, I want to know more, find myself watching the new man closely. This, after coming straight off Harrogate’s get-rich-quick scheme of slaughtering forty-two bats and bringing them in to the clinic where he expected to get paid for them. They were tested and found to not be rabid, so he didn’t get paid because the doctors got wise to him, but they were also very curious about how he managed to kill so many–bats are eaters on the fly.
I’m getting used to Harrogate, and await his next escapade with high anticipation.
And now, I wonder what’s up with Michael, he who stands there with dripping box-less, headless box turtle as a dinner offer.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology