Pierre was holding the rod when the bobber began to move. First there was a little tremor, and then it vanished completely into the black water.
“We’ve got a bite!” Pierre shrieked. “Take it!” he cried, handing the rod to Benjamin.
Benjamin did as his father had taught him—he didn’t lift the fish out right away, but reeled it in gently. Benjamin was tugging in one direction and the fish in another, with a strength that took Benjamin by surprise. When he saw the shape of the beast just beneath the surface, saw it struggling wildly to get loose, he cried, “Quick, a bucket!”
Pierre looked around, not sure what to do. “A bucket?” he asked.
“Nils!” Benjamin called. “We’ve got a fish, bring a bucket!”
He saw movement from the hammock. Nils hurried to the house, then ran down to the lake with a red bucket in hand. Benjamin didn’t want to pull too hard for fear that the line might break, but he had to resist as the fish aimed for the center of the lake. Nils didn’t hesitate; he stepped into the water and sank the bucket.
“Pull it in!” he cried.
The fish slapped at the surface, moving closer to land again. Nils took another step into the water, his shorts got wet, and he scooped up the fish.
“I’ve got it!” he shouted.
They gathered around the bucket and looked inside. “What is it?” Pierre asked.
“A perch,” Nils replied. “But you have to toss it back.”
“Why?” Pierre asked, surprised.
“It’s too small,” he said. “You can’t eat that.”
Benjamin gazed into the bucket and saw that the fish was flailing against the sides. It was smaller than he’d expected while he was fighting it in the water. Its comb-shaped scales glittered; its sharp dorsal fins bristled.
“Are you sure?” Benjamin asked.
Nils chuckled. “Dad will laugh in your faces if you show him that.”
Pierre picked up the bucket and marched toward the house.
Benjamin followed close behind.
“What are you doing? You have to put it back in the water,” Nils cried. When they didn’t respond, he ran to catch up with them.
Pierre set the bucket on the kitchen table. He looked down at the fish, and the red plastic of the bucket was reflected on Pierre’s face, making it look like he was blushing.
“Shall we fry it alive?” he asked softly. Nils stared at his brother in shock.
“You’re not fucking right in the head,” he said.
He turned around and went outside, and Benjamin heard him say, as he passed by the window, “Madhouse.”
Benjamin watched him go, saw him lie down in the hammock. “Let’s fry it alive,” Pierre said again, looking at Benjamin.
“No,” said Benjamin. “We can’t do that.” Pierre stood on a chair and took down one of the frying pans that hung on the wall over the counter. He set it on the gas stove and stared at the knobs in confusion. He turned one and suddenly they could hear the gentle whisper of the gas. He leaned forward, looking down along the burners.
“How do you light it?” he asked. He twisted the knob back and forth but only heard the gas starting and stopping. He turned to Benjamin.
“Come on, help me!”
“You need matches,” Benjamin told him.
“So can you help me or what?”
“Pierre,” said Benjamin. “You can’t fry a fish that’s alive.”
“Stop it,” said Pierre. “Just help me.”
And the gas trickled into the room, and a window slammed upstairs, and the swallows that had built nests in the ridge of the roof scraped at the wood as if they were scratching the house, and the afternoon sun shone in onto the rough planks of the kitchen table, onto the yellowed deck of cards that was still there from their parents’ games the night before, sunshine from the side onto the two brothers, illuminating the dead flies that lay in little drifts on the windowsill, and Benjamin looked out the window and then back at Pierre. And then he took the matches from the top drawer and struck one against the burner which immediately flared up with red flames.
“Do we need butter or something?” Pierre asked, looking around the room. Benjamin didn’t answer. Pierre dug around in the fridge but didn’t find what he was looking for. He came back to the stove; it smoked a little as the fire heated the pan. Pierre lifted the red bucket and dumped the fish into the frying pan. It tumbled out and threw itself violently into the air when it touched the iron. Then its strength was sapped. It stuck to the pan, its gills heaving, careful movements from its tail. It tried once or twice to pull loose, but its scales had begun to melt and it was slowly riveted to the iron.
The pan began to smoke. Benjamin, speechless, looked on. Pierre tried to work a spatula gently under the fish to turn it. He poked and prodded and squinted when the smoke got into his eyes, and eventually he pried it loose. The place where it had just been was covered in scales. The fish threw itself into the air, tried to flip over, and landed in the same spot. Both brothers leapt back and stared at the pan.
“It’s still alive!” Benjamin said. “We have to kill it!”
“You do it, I’m scared,” Pierre said.
“Why me?” Benjamin hissed.
Pierre shoved Benjamin, trying to push him toward the pan. “Stop it!”
The fish flipped over again.
“You’re the one that did this!” said Benjamin.
Pierre was frozen, staring at the pan with his mouth open. Benjamin hurried to the stove and turned the knob, setting the gas to max. He backed away, recoiling, and stood beside his brother. Through the smoke they heard small noises, the fish slapping its tail against the pan; it was as though it were keeping time against the iron as the heat got worse. Benjamin felt like his legs were about to give out and grabbed the arm of a chair to steady himself. There was a sudden sizzling sound as the fish burst and its innards slipped into the pan; the smoke thickened and there was something about this experience that made Benjamin feel that God was involved, when the smoke was lit by the sun as it rose to the ceiling, and he thought that the pillar of smoke created a canal, a divine channel, that through it the fish was rising to heaven. And suddenly everything was crystal clear, as if all the events on earth had suddenly concentrated into this frying pan, the weight of the planet exerting all its pressure there on the gas range.
Then it was over. Everything was still.
Benjamin went over to the pan and put it in the sink. He ran water into it; the sizzling was replaced with a different kind of sizzling, and then it was quiet. He looked at the charred little fish, which still lay in the pan. He scooped it into the trash and put some paper on top of it. He walked over to Pierre, who was still standing motionless a few steps from the stove.
“This was wrong, Pierre.”
Pierre gazed seriously up at his brother.
“Get lost and I’ll take care of this,” said Benjamin.
Pierre vanished, Benjamin watching through the window as he ran full speed for the barn. Benjamin washed the frying pan, scraping under hot water to get all the fish scales off.
He went out to the stone steps. It was so bright out that everything looked black. He heard vague sounds from inside the house, someone on the stairs, and suddenly there stood the dog, just up from an afternoon nap.
“Hey there, hi there,” Benjamin whispered, using his mother’s typical call for the dog, and he patted his knee and Molly hopped into his arms, settling into place there. He held her; maybe his heart would stop beating so fast if he pressed her warm body to his chest. He stood up, took the path to the lake, and sat on one of the big rocks with Molly. It was still like an eclipse out there, and as the colors returned he could see clearly what he had suspected: the world had changed. He saw the ripples on the water left by a school of fish fighting for food under the surface. He saw
the rings on the water, noticed they were moving not out but in. The rings shrank toward the center and vanished without a trace into their own ripples. He stared out at the bay and saw the same phenomenon again. The rings on the lake sought their own center, as if someone were playing a movie backward. He was startled by the echo of a scream over the lake. He looked out, trying to locate the source. Then he screamed. He realized that time hadn’t stopped at all—it was moving backward.
He covered his eyes with his palms.
“Hey there, hi there!”
Who was that? Through his fingers he glanced up at the darkened lawn and saw Mom and Dad, newly awakened and dazed. Mom had spotted the dog in Benjamin’s arms and called for her. And slowly the world straightened out again.
He released Molly, who dashed to Mom, and Benjamin ran along the trampled path after her. His parents were staring down at the grass. Mom took out a pack of cigarettes and placed it on the table, reached for the dog.
“Hello, son,” Dad said in a thick voice.
“Hi,” said Benjamin.
He sat down on the grass. Silence. Mom glanced his way. “Come scratch my back,” she said.
Benjamin went to stand behind her, scratched carefully, and Mom closed her eyes and made a small sound, his hand inside her shirt. “Hold on,” she said, unclasping her bra so he could reach better.
He felt the impressions on her skin from the band as he ran his fingers from the back of her neck and down over her shoulder blades. And he scratched deliberately, just the way he knew she liked, because he didn’t want the moment to end. Mom cast a quick glance up at Benjamin.
“Why are you crying, honey?”
Benjamin didn’t respond, just kept scratching his mother.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said.
“Sweetie,” Mom said. “Don’t cry.” Then she fell silent, bowed her head. “A little farther down.”
From the corner of his eye Benjamin saw the Larsson Sisters sneaking up to the patio. They lined up on the lawn, observing what was going on. He felt his heart beating. He thought of the fish, of the smoking frying pan, the scales sticking to the iron. The hens stared at him. They knew what he had done and were judging him in silence.
And he scratched his mother as he looked at the hens, afraid to look away, afraid to look up. He didn’t dare to aim his gaze at the table, because he was afraid he would find lunch still on it, the meal just ended, and Mom and Dad about to take a siesta.
| 5 |
8:00 P.M.
Benjamin stands down by the lake with a bouquet of dried buttercups in his hand. His brothers stand beside him. Nils is holding the urn. It’s heavy, and he constantly adjusts his grip on it, an increasingly baffled expression on his face, as if the weight of Mom has taken him by surprise.
“Should we say something,” Nils says, “or what do we do?”
“I don’t know,” Benjamin says.
“A ceremony or something?”
“I guess we should just start.”
“Hold on,” says Pierre. “I have to pee.”
He takes a few steps away, faces the water, and unzips his fly.
“Please,” Nils says. “Can’t this be a solemn occasion?”
“Absolutely. But I have to pee.”
Benjamin considers Pierre’s back, listens to the urine splashing against the stones at the water’s edge. He watches as Nils adjusts his grip on the urn.
“Do you need a hand? Should I hold on to that for a while?”
Nils shakes his head.
The lake is calm and Benjamin can see the forest turned upside down on it, and he sees two skies, both shimmering pink and yellow. In the distance, the sun sinks below the colossal fir trees. Out in the cove, a Styrofoam buoy rests in the still water.
“Look,” Benjamin says, pointing at the buoy. “Isn’t that ours?”
Nils cautiously scratches at a mosquito bite on his forehead and gazes at the little dot out there.
“No fucking way,” he says. “Those last days we were here. Did we put in the net the day before it all happened? And then it was chaos, and when we went home we were suddenly in such a hurry. Did we really…?”
He laughs.
“Did we really forget to bring up the net before we left?”
Benjamin looks at the buoy, a good distance out, but not so far that he can’t make out its shape—it’s gnawed at the edges, from the winter when rats ruled the boathouse.
“Are you saying it’s been there this whole time?” Benjamin asks.
“Yes.”
Benjamin pictures the net. At a depth of fifteen feet, a floating mass grave, fish hanging side by side in various stages of decay. Scales and bones, and eyes gazing into the darkness, everything caught in the thin, algae-covered mesh, and the years pass and things happen up there, families pack up and vanish, and everything stands empty, seasons change and decades go by, everything in a constant flux, but fifteen feet down the net is still there, waiting patiently, embracing those that come near.
“Maybe we should bring it up,” Nils says.
“Yes,” says Benjamin.
“Sometime tomorrow maybe, before we go home.”
Pierre, a few steps away, lets out a shrill sound, an excited little screech, as if he wants to object but hasn’t found the words to do so yet, even as he’s taking measures to get rid of the last drops, his back to his brothers.
“Hell no,” he cries. He zips his fly. “Let’s do it now!”
“But we’re having a ceremony right now,” Nils says.
“It can wait,” Pierre says. “The brothers back in the boat, out on the lake. One last trip, in the sunset. Mom would have liked that!”
“No, not right now,” Nils says, but Pierre is already walking along the embankment, jumping from rock to big rock along the shore. “Think the boat’s still there?” he calls. Benjamin and Nils exchange quick glances. Nils smiles his gentle smile. They follow their little brother to the boathouse.
Yes, the boat is still there. Carefully pulled up onto the thick blocks, the old white fiberglass boat, just as they left it. Moss has grown over parts of the floor and the seats in the bow, and the water that’s gathered in the stern has created its own ecosystem of algae and slime, but the boat is intact. The oars are hidden on the floor under a tarp as usual, and the brothers position themselves on either side of the boat; Pierre, project manager of their expedition, calls out “Now” and they pull, and rocks clatter under the hull until it slips into the dark water and the lake is dead silent again.
Benjamin rows and Pierre and Nils sit in the stern, making the boat back-heavy—the bow points into the sky. It’s so immediately familiar. Benjamin looks at his brothers. They’re wearing black suits and ties, to honor Mom. Pierre is wearing sunglasses that seem too big and strangely feminine to Benjamin. Nils has taken off his shoes and socks and rolled up his pant legs to keep from getting them wet. They don’t speak, just listen to the gentle slap of the oars, the drops scattering across the surface as Benjamin lifts them alongside the boat. Dusk is falling fast, the shore grows milky, Benjamin looks up and outer space is suddenly there although the sky is still light. He looks at the cottage above the embankment, the door wide open, as if Mom and Dad are about to come out, walk down to the lake with their little basket full of drinks and sausage. He sees the grassy field where he once played soccer with his brothers; it’s now overgrown with wildflowers. A cold breeze blows across the water.
“Hey,” Pierre calls. They’re almost to the buoy and the brothers get ready, as they always did when they were children, turning around in their assigned positions, and Benjamin backs the boat up the last little bit and Nils bends down and captures the buoy.
“We should be prepared to see some pretty nasty things,” Nils says.
Then he begins to
haul in the discolored yellow nylon line, gathering it into the boat. The first lengths are easy, but then comes the weight of the net. He’s not prepared for the resistance, loses his balance in the boat and has to sit down.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “Pierre, help me pull it in.”
Pierre and Nils stand on unsteady legs and work together and the net moves, slowly approaching the surface of the water.
“I can see the net shuttle!” Pierre calls. And Benjamin stands up and sees the shape of the net with all its hidden cargo, like a darkness traveling through an even bigger darkness, and the brothers tug and grimace as the nylon cuts into their hands, and just when the net reaches the surface the line breaks. The boat sways, the brothers grab on to the sides, look over the railing, see the colossus vanishing back into the depths.
Pierre laughs, howling across the lake. Nils looks at his brother with a smile. He starts to laugh, and it spreads to Benjamin too; now all three of them are laughing. Benjamin turns the boat and begins to row back to land.
Mom wrote, in the letter the brothers found in her apartment, that she wanted her ashes to be scattered in the lake at the cottage. She didn’t say exactly where, but the brothers agree they’ve found the right spot. She used to like to sit and read the morning paper at the edge of the water, on the farthest tip of the point. And she sat there at night, too, just before the sun went down, when the light turned golden, and listened to the wind rustling through the trees, wandering from treetops in the distance to treetops close by, its sounds shifting depending on which kind of tree it touched. And no matter how windy it was during the day, the same thing always happened—just as the sun set, the wind would die down and the lake would grow still. Now the brothers are lining up there, at that very moment, at the water’s edge. Nils is carrying the urn, and he stands in front of his brothers.
“I wonder if I need to pee,” Pierre says.
“Again?” Nils says.
“Yes?”
“Oh my God,” Nils mumbles.
The Survivors Page 3
