She Liked the Fish

Copyright 2009, John Manimas Medeiros

Sandy carried her baby Emilia gently into the woods. She knew the trails well, knew the shore of the Williams River where the train tracks came close to the banks and chased the fish away. She used to enjoy that little interval of the massive sound and the shaking of the ground, the behemoth of steel and boiling, oily smells rolling by and changing the fairyland forest briefly into the industries of hell. After it passed by she and her dad would sneak quietly away and find another spot to fish.

She just drove out to the place where fishermen parked, and no one was there. It was Thursday, March 26th, the anniversary of the sudden death of Begonia, her first dog. She walked the familiar path and listened for the chickadees and the skitter of chipmunks. The wet ground yielded under her feet. Persistent patches of snow marked the most densely shaded nooks. Still, the air was warm and the spirit of spring radiated from the anxious soil. It was one of those sunny days when you know spring is coming, really coming, and everyone will soon stop complaining about the cold and start complaining about the heat.

She found the place she was looking for, a pile of old railroad ties on the bank beside the track, so close to the water that the lower edge would get covered by the spring flood. But the pile of old ties was on dry ground now. The high water of spring flood had passed a week ago when it rained on the dirty snow. The winter had passed, so it seemed, and it was time to get out. It was time to watch for the wildflowers. They would come soon, sprouting like arrows shot from a bow under the earth.

Emilia was quiet and smiling, always so comforted in her mother’s arms. Sandy didn’t take the carrier because she wanted to hug her close for this farewell, wanted to hold Emilia in her hands and give her to God in heaven. She sat on the riverbank and watched the sacred ripple of the clear water flow by, like the time of life, always moving, always in the same place. She took out the old rusty thermometer that she had saved from her dad’s workshop and placed it near the track. She fondly recalled the many early Saturday mornings when she would run to the shed and look at that thermometer, the magic silver line that had the power to determine whether they would go fishing or not. It was that thin shaft of silver metal that pierced her womb and her heart and soul. It was that silver metal that behaved like a ghost, an evil spirit that enveloped people invisibly and silently. An industry of hell.

She spoke to Emilia, told her what a beautiful baby she was and how much she loved her. She heard the voice of Doctor Shelby, such a nice man, telling her that they could not be certain of the cause of Emilia’s genetic defects, but the tests suggested that mercury was the problem. Mercury. Hermes Trismegistus. The Messenger. She remembered the doctor from Dartmouth telling her, “She won’t have language.” She got the message. That was the message from the invisible element that pushed her over the edge. That was when her heart fell out of her chest. She won’t have language. I will be able to talk to my baby, but she won’t be able to talk to me. She won’t be able to say “I want a cookie,” or “I love you Daddy,” or “I love you Mommy.” Emilia didn’t say much with her body either. Emilia just was, like a wintergreen leaf on the forest floor sheltering a beetle from rain.

Sandy felt the train coming before she heard it. The train came, inexorably, flowing like the river, always moving but always in the same place. She could watch the train through a chink in the piled ties, but the train could not see her. At the last moment she crawled forward and reaching with her arms she placed Emilia gently on the rail and then pulled back and turned away just in time and by some miracle was not even touched by the side of the train or the giant wheel that was so close when she said in her head “Goodbye Dear Emilia. I love you so much!”

She walked back to the car silently and drove to Millie’s for a late breakfast, or early lunch. They didn’t say “brunch” at Millie’s, even though they served it. The diners seemed to be looking at her when she walked in, as though they knew something had happened. She sat down at one of her favorite booths and ordered the trout. Kathy was there and Kathy knew how she loved the trout, fried to a crispy skin and cooked just right and tender. Millie had a specialty with the trout. She would open it up and take out the bones for you and then fill it with a home-made relish of minced carrots and onions. It was almost the best fish in the world. It was as close as anyone could get to the fresh trout that she watched her father catch in the Williams while she played quietly in the woods with tiny imaginary elves dancing under the princess pine.

As she savored the fish, a couple of state police officers came in and sat a few seats away. They looked at her. Sandy left her money on the booth table. People were quiet. Some stared at her. She wondered if they were reading some involuntarily expression on her face.

The officers approached her and one of them asked, “Ms. Bernard, are you hurt? You seem to have a streak of blood across the back of your sweater.”

“Oh no,” she answered, “I’m not hurt at all.” Then she left the restaurant.

When she stepped outside the sun hit her face and she imagined the entire planet being enveloped in the molten heat of an exploding star. As she got into her car, the parking lot crumbled and became pocked with hundreds of pustules of seeping orange-red lava. She held the key in her hand and felt the car sink slowly into a lake of glowing, liquid stone. The restaurant sank too, with all the people in it. As the lava closed over the rooftop of her car she felt her body and soul dry up into a stiff mummy like salted cod. Her world had come to its end. She imagined the elves of the woods coming back centuries later to find them all intact, surprised and captured in stone like the innocent people of ancient Pompeii. Innocent, like a little girl eating fish, the fish that shoots an arrow of silent silver metal.

- End -