Fishing
In June, Dad and I finally go fishing. Mom packs a huge picnic for us with deviled eggs, ham sandwiches, fruit salad, and lemon tarts. “Every bite of this has to be eaten,” she instructs.
“There’s like twelve sandwiches,” I complain. My parents haven’t noticed yet, but ever since we studied the living conditions of cattle and chickens used for meat, I have eaten as little of it as possible. I haven’t staged a total rebellion, like Sally, but I’m working up to it.
“Don’t insert like into a sentence where it doesn’t belong.”
“I’ll take some of the picnic,” Sally volunteers. “You never offer me anything.”
“That’s because you shun my food for McCrap.”
“Mom! You said a bad word.”
“I’ll say a few more if you two keep it up.” Mom lost yesterday’s pie contest, so she’s in a bad mood. “If you’re going out, Sally, I’ll pack you one, too.”
“We’re leaving in about two seconds.” Sally looks at her watch.
“Who’s we?” Dad asks. My parents never did find out about Walker Briggs, and the night she limped home. She pretended she had the flu for a week and stayed in bed, while I brought her meals and kept her company, just like I used to do for Obaachan.
The doorbell rings. Sally grabs her purse. “Bye!”
“Excuse me, Sally, but we would like to meet your friend,” Dad says.
Sally opens the door. Nathan steps in.
“Hi, squirt,” he says to me.
“Mom, Nathan. Dad, Nathan. We’re going to an art show in Goddard Park. See ya!” She grabs his arm and pulls him out the door.
“Nice to meet you, finally,” Nathan yells back.
“What does he mean, ‘finally’?” Dad wonders.
Mom turns to Dad. “He’s black!”
“No! You’re kidding.”
“I don’t think there’s anything funny about it.”
“So what?” I say.
“You don’t believe in interracial relationships?” Dad teases.
Mom looks from one of us to the other. “W-w-well, I don’t mean anything bad about it. It’s just black and white are different.”
“Keisha’s black,” I argue.
“She’s your friend, not your boyfriend. And Keisha is from a good family. Don’t you two try to make out like I’m a racist. I am nothing of the kind. That was just a surprise.”
“Nathan is from the same good family. He’s Keisha’s brother.”
“Well, that’s all right, then. Isn’t it?”
“Is he a nice kid?” Dad asks me.
“He’s weird, but he is nice.”
“I just think we should keep a close eye on whom our children date,” Mom says. “Here’s your picnic. I would’ve made her one if she told me.”
“Don’t worry.” Dad kisses Mom. “Lin and I will polish it off. Right, kiddo.”
“Right.”
“And we thank you, for this fine meal, all those in the past, and all those in the future.”
Mom blushes again, this time with pleasure.
We drive all the way across our small state to Dad’s favorite beach. Like I always do, I read the billboards along the way. There is an advertisement for the hospital where I work that shows a child with no hair. Then there’s one that says, BE PATRIOTIC. IMPEACH GEORGE BUSH.
“That’s a good one,” Dad says. Dad’s dislike of Bush is even stronger than Mom’s. “It’s one of those times when you want these times to pass. Except, I don’t want you girls to grow up.”
I smile and try not to remind him that we are grown up. Pretty much.
As soon as we hit the beach, we demolish most of the food, except the ham sandwiches. I throw those to the seagulls.
“Remember the story about the fisherman who catches a talking fish,” Dad says. “The fisherman lets the fish go, and to reward him, the fish gives him a wish.”
“I don’t remember it.”
“The fisherman asks for a nice house for his wife.”
“Is the wish granted?”
“Uh-huh. But his wife isn’t satisfied. She asks for a castle, then to be a queen, then a goddess. Finally, the fish takes everything away.”
A koan. “She was too greedy.”
“We have to be grateful for what we have. There’s no other way to be.” My dad’s red whiskers have flecks of gray in them. It’s the first time I’ve noticed.
While he fishes, I sit under the umbrella and work on my school report about the Peace Museum in Hiroshima, the way the exhibits present both the horrors of the war and the hope after the war. There are exhibits of destruction: a bicycle melted into an abstract sculpture, human skin in jars, photographs of maimed and disfigured people. Outside, the skeleton of a building has been left intact for the sake of memory, and there is a statue dedicated to Sadako, a girl who had leukemia, like some of the kids I work with.
Dad casts his reel again and again. It always comes back empty. Once in a while, he turns and waves hopefully. His sweetness is something so constant that we all take it for granted.
I close my eyes to rest and remember my old nightmare of running down the streets of Hiroshima. But this time, as I run past the flaming river, Obaachan is there. She pulls me close to her. Then she turns me around and shoves me gently away. “LIVE!” she says.
I open my eyes. Please, I pray silently, but I don’t know what I’m asking for.
Still, I do feel better. There is something more than what is seen or heard. There is something that answers when you ask, even if you don’t know the question.
As if he agrees, Dad staggers. His line tightens, and he tugs at the pole and winds the reel. I rush to the shore to watch him.
“Yahoo!” He pulls the fish out of the water where it flaps on his line like the tail of a happy dog. I wade into the cold water.
The fish is silver and beautiful. I can imagine it swimming, shimmering through the waves. My dad holds it up for me, his trophy.
I try my hardest to look happy.
“What?” He frowns.
“It’s a pretty fish.”
“It’s a beauty.” He unhooks it and carries it to the beach, drops it in his bucket, where it thrashes wildly.
A life for a meal, I think. “Shouldn’t we put some water in the bucket . . . so it will be comfortable?”
“The point is not to make it comfortable, Lin. It’s to have dinner.”
“If a fish is out of the water, though, it’s like it’s drowning. It might be suffering.” Tears come; I fight them back. I don’t want to spoil my dad’s fun.
“Fine.” He carries the bucket into the water, and tilts it, holding the fish so it doesn’t get away.
“Good catch,” I say.
“Yep.”
He sets the bucket down and puts more bait on the hook. I consider kicking over the bucket. I could pretend it was an accident. Dad would be disappointed, but he hardly ever gets mad.
“You want to try?” he asks.
“No,” I tell him, realizing that Sally hasn’t paved the freedom-of-food road for nothing. Because I will not be eating anything that has had to suffer for my sake. Tonight will be the night I tell them. I tug his sleeve.
“What?”
“There’ll be fish in our pond. Won’t there? Since we’ll have a pond, we’ll want fish in it. Keisha’s mom says that they had a catfish pond where she lived in Louisiana and that people paid them to fish in it. Then, one day, two big pelicans came. At first, Mrs. King thought they were cool. But when she got to the edge of the pond, she realized that the pelicans had gobbled up her fish.”
“I’m assuming you have a point, Lin?”
“It’s such a beautiful fish you caught. Imagine how fast it must swim.”
Dad stares at me, squinting. Then he frowns. “You want me to release it, don’t you? That’s what you want me to do.”
I smile.
He puts his hands on his hips. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t. You owed me this day of fishing for like a million years and now—”
“You don’t have to,” I interrupt. “It’s your fish.”
“Yeah. Right. I don’t have to do anything that you three girls insist I do.” Dad takes the bucket to the water and tilts it. In an instant, the fish leaps into the waves, a flicker of silver in white foam, and disappears.
“Thanks, Dad.” I hug him.
“It didn’t even offer me anything in return. No new house or kingship. That’s gratitude.”
“You never know,” I say. “Obaachan says that a good deed brings good karma.”
“It better.” Dad carries his gear to the umbrella and sets it down. “Now what?”
Even though I am terrified of the waves, I make Dad an offering. “Let’s swim.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.” He pulls off his shirt and runs into the water. I follow him, gasping from the cold, laughing from the adventure.
“You will tell her,” Dad calls to me. “Right? Tell your mom about the fish I caught?”
“The biggest fish I’ve ever seen!” I say.