by Morgan Rice
*
I don’t want the house to stink like fish, so I decide to brave the cold and prepare the fish outside. I bring my knife and set to work on it, propping it on a tree stump as I kneel down beside it in the snow. I don’t really know what I’m doing, but I know enough to realize you don’t eat the head or the tail. So I begin by chopping these off.
Then I figure that we’re not going to eat the fins either, so I chop these off—or the scales, either, so I slice these off as best I can. Then I figure it has to be opened to eat it, so I slice what’s left of it clean in half. It reveals a thick, pink inside, filled with lots of small bones. I don’t know what else to do, so I figure it’s ready to cook.
Before I head in, I feel the need to wash my hands. I just reach down, grab a handful of snow, and rinse my hands with it, grateful for the snow—usually, I have to hike to the closest stream, since we don’t have any running water. I rise, and before going inside, I stop for a second and take in my surroundings. At first I am listening, as I always do, for any signs of noise, of danger. After several seconds, I realize the world is as still as can be. Finally, slowly, I relax, breathe deep, feel the snowflakes on my cheeks, take in the perfect quiet, and realize how utterly beautiful my surroundings are. The towering pines are covered in white, snow falls endlessly from a purple sky, and the world seems perfect, like a fairytale. I can see the glow of the fireplace through the window, and from here, it looks like the coziest place in the world.
I come back inside the house with the fish, closing the door behind me, and it feels good to come into a place so much warmer, with the soft light of the fire reflecting off of everything. Bree has tended the fire well, as she always does, adding logs expertly, and now it roars to even greater heights. She is preparing place settings on the floor, beside the fireplace, with knives and forks from the kitchen. Sasha sits attentively beside her, watching her every move.
I carry the fish over to the fire. I don’t really know how to cook it, so I figure I’ll just put it over the fire for a while, let it roast, turn it over a few times, and hope that works. Bree reads my mind: she immediately heads to the kitchen and returns with a sharp knife and two long skewers. She slices the fish clean in half, sticks one skewer in one and one in the other, handing it to me, and reaches out and roasts her portion over the flame. I follow her lead. Bree’s domestic instincts have always been superior to mine, and I’m grateful for her help. We have always been a good team.
We both stand there, staring at the flames, transfixed, holding our half of the fish over the fire until our arms grow heavy. The smell of fish fills the room, and after about ten minutes I get a pain in my stomach and grow impatient with hunger. I decide mine is done; after all, I figure people eat raw fish sometimes, so how bad could it be? Bree seems to agree, and we each put our portion on our plate and sit on the floor, beside each other, our backs to the couch and our feet to the fire.
“Careful,” I warn. “There are still lots of bones inside.”
I pull out the bones, and Bree does the same. Once I clear enough of them, I take a small chunk of the pink fish meat, hot to the touch, and eat it, bracing myself.
It actually tastes good. It could use salt, or some kind of seasoning, but at least it tastes cooked, and fresh as can be. I can feel the much-needed protein enter my body. Bree wolfs hers down, too, and I can see the relief on her face. Sasha sits beside her, staring, licking her lips, and Bree chooses a big chunk, carefully de-bones it and feeds it to Sasha. Sasha chews it thoroughly and swallows it, then licks her chops and stares back, eager for more.
“Sasha, here,” I say.
She comes running over, and I take a portion of my fish, de-bone it, and feed her; she swallows it down in seconds. Before I know it, my portion is gone—as is Bree’s—and I am surprised to feel my stomach growling again. I already wish I had caught more. Still, this was a bigger dinner than we’d had in weeks, and I try to force myself to be content with what we have.
Then I remember the sap. I jump up, remove the thermos from its hiding place and hold it out to Bree.
“Go ahead,” I smile, “the first sip is yours.”
“What is it?” she asks, unscrewing it and holding it to her nose. “It doesn’t smell like anything.”
“It’s maple sap,” I say. “It’s like sugar water. But better.”
She tentatively sips, then looks at me, eyes open wide in delight. “It’s delicious!” she cries. She takes several big sips, then stops and hands it to me. I can’t resist taking several big sips myself. I feel the sugar rush. I lean over and carefully pour some into Sasha’s bowl; she laps it all up and seems to like it, too.
But I am still starving. In a rare moment of weakness, I think of the jar of jam and figure, why not? After all, I assume there’s lots more of it in that cottage on the mountaintop—and if this night isn’t cause to celebrate, then when is?
I bring down the mason jar, unscrew it, reach in with my finger, and take out a big heaping. I place it on my tongue and let it sit in my mouth as long as I can before swallowing. It’s heavenly. I hold out the rest of the jar, still half-full, to Bree. “Go ahead,” I say, “finish it. There’s more in our new house.”
Bree’s eyes open wide as she reaches out. “Are you sure?” she asks. “Shouldn’t we save it?”
I shake my head. “It’s time to treat ourselves.”
Bree doesn’t need much convincing. In moments, she eats it all, sparing just one more heaping for Sasha.
We lie there, propped against the couch, our feet to the fire, and finally, I feel my body start to relax. Between the fish, the sap and the jam, finally, slowly, I feel my strength return. I look over at Bree, who’s already dozing off, Sasha’s head on her lap, and while she still looks sick, for the first time in a while I detect hope in her eyes.
“I love you, Brooke,” she says softly.
“I love you, too,” I answer.
But by the time I look over, she is already fast asleep.