A childhood in the Pacific Northwest
Content Warning: animal death, mentions of gore
I was young when my father brought home the first deer in my living memory. Hazel eyes stare back at my wide blue, their unseeing gaze peering over the bed of the truck when he lifts its head. It is hidden away in the yard of my grandparents because our old deck is not yet transformed to carry the weight of him. Your father is there with the knife this time.
***
My hands are slimy with the membrane stolen from salmon scales. Tiny fingers poking poking poking desperate at the dead fish’s eyes. It’s a game at this age to step around the red flooding dirt of our lawn, the slick chunk guts burrowed between blades of grass. It’s exciting when dad brings home a fish. My father dual wielding his weapon, knife on one end, spoon on the other. A utensil brought down from atop the fridge for special occasions. A spoon to scoop the spine-lining heart, a knife to carve the fins. We gorge ourselves on the tender pink, picking teeth with the lingering bones. Save the eggs split from her belly, handfuls of orange to feed the shrimp. The cycle begins again.
***
It’s a gentle rhythm in the gloved hands of my mother. Catch twist release. 1 2 3. Quick count, toss back, save the goods. Catch twist release. Save the body, toss the head. Watch your fingers, their needle point snout sucks the feeling from your palms. It’s quicker cleaning than the rest and the cooler fills steadily as the waves lap at our boots. My blue butterfly net caught by the decapitated points of pink shrimp; the weight of their heads bends the bamboo handle. The lantern lights in their black pinpoint eyes faded long before we made it back to shore.
***
My mother cuts the potatoes, next the onions. Her silhouette is dwarfed by swirling tendrils of steam. Meat comes from nowhere. Somewhere. I sit close to snatch carrots from the cutting board. Too young still to see the process, old enough to consume the gamey chew beneath my gnashing growing teeth. I disconnect the stew from the eyes peering back in the driveway.
***
Blurry eyes snap open with the creaking bend of the pole. The ticking thread reels far behind the trolling motors and my father’s up to grab it. Sea air smells like salt and cigarettes, sugar-grain frosting melting sweet on my tongue. I am up in a flash, and he hands me the pole squirming with a life of its own; reel and yank, he yells, quickly quickly, he yells, tear the creature from the watery depths. There is a tugging deep under the surface, persistent and pulling, she is fighting against the hook newly lodged in her thirsty jaws. He is there with the net when she breaches the surface, a beacon of silver flying on the sun-stained sea.
***
Next up is the oysters. Measure the shell before you sever the membrane that shields them shut. Jaws clench against the steady pressure of our short knives, determined to protect against our intrusive prying. She lends me her gloves to cushion my soft baby palms from the grating shield of their shells. A pop release reveals the fleshy bulb laying luxurious on its iridescent bed. It is transferred to tupperware, another to join the stripped masses already sloshing against the plastic. A mass of cartilage clings to the opened shell. I leave it for the crabs to swarm and we laugh about the ‘crabtopia’ buffet we leave behind.
***
Again, years later, a loose hoof is a dangling interruption, bones exposed even in its silhouette poking through the doorway. Emerging from my room, I spy the kitchen island table is sporting a lush blush of rouge. No longer dripping the entrails of life, oozing the last living tissues, the surface still crawls with ichor. Racks and racks and racks and racks, the ribs that used to breathe, the bones that used to grow. Calloused hands grip a rough-handled knife, carving past the bones and cartilage. Red lingers under his nail beds; the blood has seeped into the cracks of his palm. How can I read your lifeline when the crease has flooded?
***
Thank you for the gift of your body, the flesh-under-scales, your gulping gills strangled by the wind. Can you taste the smoke? I wonder, wooden club swings fast, swings hard. An act of mercy to knock the last life behind your marble eyes, our act of hunger pulling you here in the first place. My grimy fingers still taut with the grip of the pole pushing through gills to grasp your jaw. A pose and a flash, it’s me with the prize. The blood is under my nails this time.
***
A feast now lines the table. Salmon is smoking in the back by the shed, venison is frozen, waiting to be thawed come winter from the garage freezer. Headless shrimp pile high above the lip of the bowls. Greet them like a guest and take off their hard little jackets, their only remaining protection, the only remaining shell between their meat and our gaping greedy mouths. Pull the shit-tube string if you care so much, but it’s fine to eat. Fried oysters pool oil on their paper towel plate. Salt silt sand crunches between my molars, greeting me from behind the tender pulp of marine marrow. Grating words are forced from my throat and I pull a pearl from under my tongue.
Where did you put the heart?