All of Our Fish
Papa doesn’t know he isn’t eating the fish he catches.
Papa doesn’t know that the fish he so tenderly submerges in that yellow pool of egg then douses in that grainy Louisiana Fish Fry has probably never seen the ocean, its most recent memories, if it had been alive for them, the bright overhead lights in HEB, the firm prod of a tired fishmonger’s finger, the inside of a bag, the weight of other bodies, the inside of another bag, darkness, cold, the dim light in our garage, my hands, my knife, another bag, and then once again, darkness and cold.
Papa doesn’t know that I’ve come to enjoy the cleaning and the filleting, how satisfying it can be when the blade runs through the flesh clean or when I manage to, in a single swoop, carve the guts out real neat.
Papa doesn’t know that I met someone last year, someone who broke it off because they thought I was making excuses about why they couldn’t come over, thought I was trying to hide them or some part of me, which I guess was true to some degree, but in reality I was just afraid of what she’d think of us after seeing all of our freezers and all of our fish.
Papa doesn’t know that it’s me who is “breaking Craigslist” every few days to stall the purchase of our next used freezer, that it’s me who logs onto the computer after he’s gone to bed to adjust the browser plug-in so that when he goes to craigslist.org it brings him to easttexas.craigslist.org or elpaso.craigslist.org or, if I feel like changing things up, the one for some town on the border of Louisiana.
Papa doesn’t know that he can just go to houston.craigslist.org.
Papa doesn’t know about Facebook Marketplace—thank God.
Papa doesn’t know that Craigslist will always eventually start “working again” because I’m afraid of what’ll happen if he thinks it’s broken for too long, if he’ll get so frustrated and impatient about finding our next freezer that he’ll go searching for alternatives and somehow find out about Facebook Marketplace.
Papa doesn’t know that I emailed photos of his catch to the scientists behind the toxicity studies, asking if they were the same species the scientists were urging everyone on public television not to eat.
Papa doesn’t know that one of the scientists emailed back immediately saying yes, don’t eat those. Or rather, he won’t accept that they did: “That’s just Big Fish and Big Ag scaring you into putting money into their pockets.”
Papa doesn’t know how long it took for me to accept that maybe all this fishing and stockpiling wasn’t just a phase, that maybe he’ll always be this way without Ma around.
Papa doesn’t know that I go with him to the docks just so I can catch the gleam in his eyes every time he feels a tug or gets a bite.
Papa doesn’t know that the fish he does catch, most of it ends up back in the ocean by way of the small creek I pass on my way to the grocery store.
Papa doesn’t know that the lady behind the fish counter at Dong Mai won’t stop trying to set me up, I think because she thinks I cook well or have connections or something, since she once asked me what I was going to do with so many fish and I panicked and told her I nannied for a rich family that really liked seafood.
Papa doesn’t know how much time I spent agonizing over the best way to dispose of the fish: put it in the trash and put more methane in the air, put it in the soil and put those poisons into the flesh of trees and plants and birds.
Papa doesn’t know that every night at dinner I see the way he grabs three forks at first before he remembers and puts one back.
Papa doesn’t know what lies behind the nod I give him every time he finds me cleaning fish in the garage and says: that’s how I know you’re my daughter, you know what’s good eating, I’ll be up first thing in the morning to catch us some more.
