He said
it with regret and longing.
“But she just did it to please me, which took something away from it,” he said. “When
you picked up the gun, you wanted it. I like that.”
“It’s okay to want to do something because someone you love does it.”
“Of course it is,” he said, “but the irony is that it gives the one you love more
pleasure when you want to do it also for yourself.”
“I see.”
“I know you do,” he said.
Mariella looked into the live fish well, pleased with the assortment of fish they’d
already caught in such a short time. They still wanted a big one, though. The line
moved back and forth, but not hard enough to indicate that a fish was hooked.
“It’s a drug, you know,” he said.
“What?”
“Wealth. Money. Power.”
“I’ll let you know what I think if I ever have any.”
“I hope you always have enough to keep your belly full and a roof over your head,”
he said. “Everything beyond that’s trouble.”
Before Mariella could respond, the line jerked hard, once, then twice.
“Here we go!” he shouted.
He rose up from the chair, knocking over his beer. Mariellapicked it up. But not before it slid in a quick line to wet his shirt, which he had
thrown in a heap on the deck. She picked up the shirt, shook it out, and placed it
over the back of his chair to dry.
“It’s a good one,” he shouted.
Mariella turned and saw the great beast leap fully out of the water.
When they docked, a small crowd loitered along the pier. The old locals, wrinkled
beyond their years by sun and hard living, lined the dock and waved to them as they
pulled in. Mariella thought they were beautiful.
“They have a thousand fish stories to tell, and I never get tired of hearing them,”
said Mariella.
“I’m going to write a fish story one day.”
“Do.”
“But it won’t be as pretty as what we did today.”
Mariella turned and looked at the fish they brought in. She’d cleaned the snapper
on the way in and was pleased to have fresh fish for dinner. As they pulled into the
dock, Papa called the men over to see a marlin free of shark bites. When Mariella
saw the poor men, she thought of her father and then her mother, and suddenly felt
guilty for not earning more that day.
It was early evening. Hemingway instructed some locals to string up the fish for a
picture. She looked off toward home and back at the big fish and felt pulled away.
“I’ve got to go,” said Mariella.
“Wait—I want you to be in the picture,” he said.
“No, you did all the work,” she said. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Stay,” he said.
“I can’t,” she said.
He gave her a scowl, like a sulking child. She laughed.
“Next time,” she said, taking her fish and starting down the dock. She made it to
the road and then turned back. He was still watching her.
Thank you,
she thought. He nodded and kept watching her.
The ambivalent sky settled on rain, and Mariella was running by the time she got home.
The girls were on the porch. Lulu filled soup cans with rainwater that dripped through
holes in the sagging roof. Estelle sat on the bottom step, staring across the road
at nothing, letting the water run over her without flinching.
“You’re soaked,” said Mariella, helping Estelle stand. The girl looked down at her
clothing and back at Mariella in surprise. Mariella led her into the house, past her
mother sleeping in her chair, and into the bathroom, where she wrapped a towel around
her sister and kissed her cheek. “Go change,
cariña
.”
Estelle walked into their room and closed the door. Mariella hoped Estelle would be
able to manage on her own and felt a familiar flutter of worry for her younger sister.
Every day Estelle seemed more and more detached, but Mariella tried to convince herself
that such behavior was a normal grieving response. It did not escape her notice or
irritation that her mother slept while Estelle sat
it with regret and longing.
“But she just did it to please me, which took something away from it,” he said. “When
you picked up the gun, you wanted it. I like that.”
“It’s okay to want to do something because someone you love does it.”
“Of course it is,” he said, “but the irony is that it gives the one you love more
pleasure when you want to do it also for yourself.”
“I see.”
“I know you do,” he said.
Mariella looked into the live fish well, pleased with the assortment of fish they’d
already caught in such a short time. They still wanted a big one, though. The line
moved back and forth, but not hard enough to indicate that a fish was hooked.
“It’s a drug, you know,” he said.
“What?”
“Wealth. Money. Power.”
“I’ll let you know what I think if I ever have any.”
“I hope you always have enough to keep your belly full and a roof over your head,”
he said. “Everything beyond that’s trouble.”
Before Mariella could respond, the line jerked hard, once, then twice.
“Here we go!” he shouted.
He rose up from the chair, knocking over his beer. Mariellapicked it up. But not before it slid in a quick line to wet his shirt, which he had
thrown in a heap on the deck. She picked up the shirt, shook it out, and placed it
over the back of his chair to dry.
“It’s a good one,” he shouted.
Mariella turned and saw the great beast leap fully out of the water.
When they docked, a small crowd loitered along the pier. The old locals, wrinkled
beyond their years by sun and hard living, lined the dock and waved to them as they
pulled in. Mariella thought they were beautiful.
“They have a thousand fish stories to tell, and I never get tired of hearing them,”
said Mariella.
“I’m going to write a fish story one day.”
“Do.”
“But it won’t be as pretty as what we did today.”
Mariella turned and looked at the fish they brought in. She’d cleaned the snapper
on the way in and was pleased to have fresh fish for dinner. As they pulled into the
dock, Papa called the men over to see a marlin free of shark bites. When Mariella
saw the poor men, she thought of her father and then her mother, and suddenly felt
guilty for not earning more that day.
It was early evening. Hemingway instructed some locals to string up the fish for a
picture. She looked off toward home and back at the big fish and felt pulled away.
“I’ve got to go,” said Mariella.
“Wait—I want you to be in the picture,” he said.
“No, you did all the work,” she said. “I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Stay,” he said.
“I can’t,” she said.
He gave her a scowl, like a sulking child. She laughed.
“Next time,” she said, taking her fish and starting down the dock. She made it to
the road and then turned back. He was still watching her.
Thank you,
she thought. He nodded and kept watching her.
The ambivalent sky settled on rain, and Mariella was running by the time she got home.
The girls were on the porch. Lulu filled soup cans with rainwater that dripped through
holes in the sagging roof. Estelle sat on the bottom step, staring across the road
at nothing, letting the water run over her without flinching.
“You’re soaked,” said Mariella, helping Estelle stand. The girl looked down at her
clothing and back at Mariella in surprise. Mariella led her into the house, past her
mother sleeping in her chair, and into the bathroom, where she wrapped a towel around
her sister and kissed her cheek. “Go change,
cariña
.”
Estelle walked into their room and closed the door. Mariella hoped Estelle would be
able to manage on her own and felt a familiar flutter of worry for her younger sister.
Every day Estelle seemed more and more detached, but Mariella tried to convince herself
that such behavior was a normal grieving response. It did not escape her notice or
irritation that her mother slept while Estelle sat
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