Yellowtails For Sale

Just some yellowtails for sale.

Yellowtails For Sale

I’ve lost count already, but I have hoarded more than three hundred dead fish in my home fridge. Not all at one time, of course. Within days of starting the habit, my hair, clothes, car and house reeked of salty sourness. I didn’t spend hundreds of dollars on the unflattering and floppy sea creatures for reasons of fetish; they were presents from my father, but they weren’t for me. I was merely the messenger.

My father was a quiet fisherman, the finest you could find. His hands were calloused from the ropes and equipment of the boat and line. His skin was dark and rusted from being under the blaring sun and there was always just a sticky layer of salt on his face, arms and legs. He was a humble man with few words to say. On the other hand, I was the complete opposite. Unlike my father, I was a typical, modern and freshly cut businessman that had no knowledge or interest in the sea. For the first half of my life, we only exchanged a few words maybe once a week. The only thing that brought us through awkward dinners and visits was my daughter, Sophie. My father loved Sophie more than he loved fishing, and that said something. Sometimes I wonder if he even loved me as much.

Of course, the Yellowtails were for Sophie. They were her favorite kind to eat. On the first day I held two Yellowtails in my hands to take home, it was as sunny as it could be on a summer’s morning. Sophie wasn’t there, so it was just my father and I out on his old boat. At first, he was disappointed that she was absent from the day’s plans, but he got over it and when he asked how she was, I replied, “As sweet as sugar.” But it was a lie.

I hadn’t seen my daughter in years.

The last time I saw her small face, she looked like she was sleeping. Her eyes were closed and her dark lashes were still and not fluttering like they usually were when she wanted something. Roses looked pale compared to the shades of her deep red lips, but compared to her white skin nothing was more vibrant. Now her complexions didn’t matter since no one would ever see them again.

“Sophie getting too old for me?” My father croaked as he twittered with the fishing wire. He was avoiding eye contact but it was hard to do sitting across from me in such small proximity. The rocking boat creaked and the cold water splashed against the white, chipping paint on the wood.

“No, its nothing like that.”

My father was too shy to ask me where she was so I continued. “She’s over at a friends, Pa. You know girls her age, always having tea parties and painting their nails together.”

He nodded and understood. In his hands, he turned the sardine in circles and baited it by pushing a sharp hook through its eyes.

“Well, when you go home, send her my love with these Yellowtails,” he coughed and threw the bait into the moving sea.

“Of course, Pa,” I replied and that was all was said.

Soon, my fridge started to pile with plastic-wrapped fish. At first, I could handle them, tossing some and eating a few as well. However, the stacks grew bigger and the problem expanded. I had to do something, so I put up posters saying I was selling fresh Yellowtail. Having been the middle of summer near the coast, neighbors and friends craved the cooling effects of seafood and loads were taken off my back immediately.

Now, every Friday, my father and I would go out to fish for more; him still oblivious and his son still cowardly. There have definitely been moments where I doubt myself and realize what I am doing, but something I actually have in common with my father is fear. My guts are missing just like the fish’s guts my father cleans out for my dead daughter. Maybe I continue living this corrupted excuse of a life because I don’t want to disappoint him. He’s happy, or should I say, blissfully ignorant. After all, I have given him his only grandchild whom he loves more than anything in the world.

Whatever the reason, the fishes keep coming, people continue buying and my daughter remains unmoving. Now my father hasn’t seen my daughter for years as well, but he still asks me how she’s doing.

I always reply, “As sweet as sugar.”

 

Author's Note

This is my first short story.Aug.2012
I would love feedback and welcome anything with open arms.

Reviews

[beautiful dreamer]

you write such sweet stories Libby :)

[Marie]

This is sad and tender and precious. A man keeping his father's vision alive...and neither of them willing to face the truth. A really good story.

[Libby Carsons]

Thank you so much! I appreciate your time!

[Meallea Pomorette]

There's so much meaning in this story... Kind of sad actually but this one is promising... And I can still clearly well how that family is bound together... Keep it up...

[Libby Carsons]

Thank you so much! Yes, I will be trying to improve the language and grammar a little but keeping the storyline. Again, thanks :)

[Meallea Pomorette]

No problem...
(^_^)