A FISHING TRIP
by TALLULAH STALVIK
Charlie can feel the vastness in his stomach. He knows not all that water, that infinite water, could possibly fit in his stomach, but something happens when he looks out and sees the water go so far it slips off into sky: Charlie becomes big like the water, too. This is why the fishing trips he goes on with Dad are his favorite thing (called “thing,” because not even an incredibly cheesy, made-by-Mom Mac & Cheese eaten with the evening showing of Tom and Jerry is better). They will remain his favorite thing until Dad dies on a fishing trip, with Jack, right before Charlie’s wedding to a woman named Laura.
Jack is a family-friend. Charlie finds it sad, though, that he can’t just be family. The word “friend” tacked on to the end, discrediting and almost purposeful in how it makes Jack’s continued attendance at Thanksgiving and Christmas and Easter weirder and weirder the longer he stays unmarried after his divorce. He’s been divorced almost 6 years, almost all Charlie’s life. He seems like a big man, though, to Charlie; big like the water, big like he’s got a lot of life. Charlie knows Mom disagrees. And Charlie thinks that, when he had asked Dad if Jack could join their fishing trip this time, his “no” was Mom’s “no,” just spoken through his own scruffy mouth, downturned: “Not yet, at least.” Charlie didn’t know what that meant. Charlie will never know what that means.
Dad’s eyes had glimmered, though, just a bit, when he had said this. The same shine now sweeps out to sky, down to God-knows-where, freezing cold to Charlie’s finger tips. The surface of the water, buoyant with its mystery – sight in, sight stopped.
“Be careful, Charlie, don’t want you falling.”
Charlie turns back to Dad with a not-so-toothy grin, pulling his little hand and little body back to his legs, back to the safety of the boat, “Maybe I’d meet some nice fish if I fell in, and we could swim around together. We could even play Sharks and Minnows!”
With a soft and weathered smile, Dad just says, “C’mon now, the rods are all set up. We should eat some lunch, while we wait.” When they sit down, facing each other, their knees touch. Young knees – grass-burned – kissing old.
Their sandwiches are floppy, letting almost all the good stuff fall out. They laugh as half of Charlie’s corned beef falls kerplunk to the floor, casting sound down to the hollow compartment under the wood. It’s funny, then it’s not – it’s just annoying – and Charlie is hungry, but he accidentally flings his meat into the water as he picks it up and sees a spider speedily making way for his thumb. The noise, this time, sounds like a plop and a burst and like there is no hollow compartment underneath, nothing but water all around. Dad’s smile grows, maybe even bigger than the water. It’s a smile Charlie has seen before, at weird times. It doesn’t seem entirely happy a smile. Dad had offered it to Jack a couple times over dinner. Then he had passed the peas.
It’s now, as Dad is drinking a second beer, that the rods begin to move. He gets up, excitedly – a bit like a dog, a bit like a child. Charlie follows, on Dad’s heels. Together, they pick up their fishing rods and the game begins. Charlie likes to imagine it’s a game of life and death, a competition of the wills and the strengths, an all-out frontier battle like in Dad’s Cowboys v. Indians comic books, like the recess games he plays with his friends. The plains stretch out in front of him, little rippling waves like large rippling grasses, and his fishing rod is all-powerful. Charlie will later think back to this and feel disgusted. He will learn there’s nothing glorious in death.
Charlie and Dad are both successful, boasting each a large trout. Charlie thinks maybe the trouts had been boyfriend and girlfriend, and that’s why they were together. Maybe, he thinks, it’s nice that they got to die together. All glimmering one second, all dead the next.
Dad has to teach Charlie how to gut the fish properly again; he keeps forgetting, every couple of months, every fishing trip. He gets to knock the rock into both fishy heads, knock them out. Charlie used to be a bit squeamish about this, but he knows everything eats, out there in the world. The sound of the rock breaking bone, snapping something, shutting off something else – this, though, is still scary to Charlie. The sound reverberates in his small ears, so small it feels like it takes up all the space. Dad then goes through the meticulous cuts on his own trout: slice around gills, turn and continue cut down to butt, butterfly-open, remove bones. Each time, each fishing trip, there is always more and less blood than Charlie expected. And when Dad washes off all the blood, splashing water at the limp green-ish thing, Charlie doesn’t feel weird thinking it looks beautiful. The red moves languid and in loops through the pooling clear, pooling up to Charlie’s yellow galoshes.
“A bit like ketchup and mustard, Dad.”
“A bit like ketchup and mustard, Son. Now, your turn.”
Charlie guts his fish: gills, back, butterfly, bones. He crouches down, galosh-tops almost to his chin, and swirls around the dissipating blood. Charlie is excited to bring back lots of fish for Mom, for Mom to cook, for Mom to kiss Dad over.
The drive back to the house messies Charlie’s hair, the summer sun and smell of fish lingering strong on the wind rushing through the car. Dad keeps on changing the radio station; he can be picky sometimes. Then, “Tainted Love,” one of his favorites, comes leaping out the speakers. Really, it jumps, seems to dance. Gloria Jones’ voice: ballerinas on the breeze. Charlie bops his head, looks over, tries to match Dad’s shoulder shimmying. Dad’s laugh may be more musical than the song.
Charlie thinks his smile must be like Dad’s. It feels like it’s about to break his face. Maybe, start to gut him, but in his cheeks. This is a good smile, though, so a good gutting. Back home and he’s already wondering how soon they can go out fishing again. They lug their catch and their equipment out the car and up to the house. It’s a funny sort of scene, how they have to balance everything precariously, using propped-up knees, for Dad to free a hand and unlock the front door. As they trample in, discarding their muddy shoes, Charlie sees Mom sitting at the kitchen table, reading some old-looking pieces of paper. Old-looking because it has some wrinkles, like on Dad and Mom’s faces. The papers look loved. Mom looks like the surface of the ocean; her face is eerily blank. Her eyes – rippling, but unbreakable. Charlie wonders if a friend has sent her some bad news, maybe, and she’s trying to keep her composure. Dad is halted, funnily, less graceful than usual. Charlie wonders if he thinks so, too.
“Charlie, here, let me take the fish and put it in the freezer. You go up to your room, take a shower, and we’ll call you down for dinner.”
Charlie figures this is a grown-up thing happening. He walks up the stairs, heads into the bathroom, and strips off his fish-smelling and blood-stained clothes. He hopes Dad is kissing Mom, wrapping an arm around her, making whatever-it-is better. He hopes the fish will be really good tonight.
author pic here
Tallulah Stalvik is an undergraduate student studying Creative Writing and Classical Languages at Bryn Mawr College. They were awarded a National Gold Medal in Poetry from the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards in high school, and now are more focused on building their prose craft. Aside from writing, Tallulah loves all things music, film, and fashion, with a particular fondness for David Bowie.
Next ( Sierra Elman) >
< Previous ( Tiffany Tang)