They Both Grinned at the End

TW: Descriptions of death.

In the backyard lay a dead soul, limbs torn and dress ripped.

“Maggie,” calls a woman, “your father and I are ready to start.”

Margaret does not answer. She gets up from her bed and puts on her pale orange slippers. A triplet of white lilies rest in her left hand, a photograph in her right. She goes down the steps, to the backdoor, and pulls on it until it opens. 

“There you are, dear. Come here and let’s send daddy’s soul to heaven,” says the woman. She almost pukes at what she said, but she swallows it down in time.

Margaret walks to her father’s funeral, which was not at a church or a chapel, but in the backyard; not accompanied by a pastor or colleagues, but only the daughter and the wife. 

“Mom, will he come back?” asks Margaret, whimpering and kneeling down to put the lilies and the photograph on her father’s grave. It is a photo of them all holding a huge trout. Well, not quite – Margaret is only feeling the trout’s scale and sliminess.

“He will'' is the best Margaret’s mother can come up with.

“Maggie,” called Margaret’s mother, “I’m going fishing, want to come with me?”

Margaret did not answer. She rubbed her eyes and wiped the saliva on her bottom lip as the yellow coloring pencil dropped from her mouth. She pulled out one of the drawers under her wooden desk. Margaret smiled and shoved her coloring book and coloring pencils into the drawer and slammed it shut. She scooched the chair backwards, put on her yellow socks and red-orange boots, and dashed down the steps. Her mother’s black dress swayed gently to the wind from Margaret’s dash. Margaret grabbed a water bottle and said: “I’m ready for some fishing, but I wish dad was here. It’s his favorite thing to do.”

The mention of her husband veiled Margaret’s mother with disgust. But she tried her best to not show it, for her daughter’s sake.

“Good girl,” said Margaret’s mother, as she picked up a fishing rod and then a black container the rod was resting on.

Margaret opened the backdoor and skipped to the lake, passing the backyard her father was resting in. She gave his grave a quick glance and that was it. Her mother followed.

After taking in the scenery – the reeds and the shrubs on the banks, the clouds and the sky – they both went into the wooden boat, and Margaret’s mother started rowing.

“Mom, where would be a great, great, great hiding spot for fish?” asked Margaret, expecting a different answer from previous fishing trips.

Margaret’s mother thought for a little over three seconds as she continued to steadily propel the boat forward with the two oars.

“I don’t know any good hiding spots other than under–”

The willows – they were rust-orange in color and about forty feet tall and towered over an area of the lake, near the land. Their leaves hung down as if they were reaching for something in the water. The tips – swaying steadily to the calm, cold breeze – almost touching the surface, but not quite. Surrounding the willows was a cluster of water reeds, indicating shallow water. Margaret’s mother had heard someone, a week or two ago, described the reeds as hopeless hands and fingers fleeing the lake, for some reason.

“Mom, I can no longer count how many times we’ve been there. I only have twenty fingers to count with. Only twenty.” Margaret said, a thin layer of annoyance coated her voice. She looked down at her fingers then her red-orange boots and wiggled her feet and hands, as though more fingers would grow from doing so.

“I’m sorry, dear,” said Margaret’s mother. “Fishing under the willows is a sure-fire way for catching fish. It’s lively under there.”

“OK” was all Margaret said. She crossed her arms.

The two neared the willows, and Margaret’s mother told her daughter to hold the oars. With a frown, Margaret did, and her mother prepared the fishing rod and opened the black container. Margaret put down one oar and held the other in front of her like a swordsperson pointing her sword at the enemy.

Thud!

The collision of the oar and the willow bark almost made Margaret fall into the lake, but her mother steadied her.

“Be careful next time, dear.”

Margaret dropped the oar and probed her body. Her eyes widened and welled up. Her heart wanted to jump out of her chest. Goosebumps dotted her skin and the excitement for fishing was washed away by the biting, cold air and fear of falling into the lake.

“I’m scared, Mom,” she said, gripping her mother’s arm.

After caressing her daughter’s hair for a while and consoling her, Margaret’s mother said: “I’m here, Maggie. I’m here. You should lie down and take a rest.”

“O-O-OK, Mommy.”

“And don’t forget to shut your eyes tight – you don’t want the dirty lake water to get into your eyes when a fish jumps out, do you?”

“No, Mommy.”

“Good, now, take a rest.”

Margaret drifted off to sleep, her body shivering, her heart in utter fear.

Margaret’s mother bent down to kiss her daughter on the forehead and got up to toss the fishing line under the willows. It was as natural and smooth as if she had been fishing for at least half her life. As if she knew exactly where the fish were. Then she caught a fish. It was a huge one and had slimy, oil-black hair on its head. Reeking of putrid meat, its scales and fins seemed to have been torn or eaten by other fish. Its skin hung limply to its bigger-than-normal fishbone, ready to be torn off by the slightest puff of wind or the calmest ripple in the lake. Margaret’s mother slowly pulled out the fish from the lake, being extremely cautious of Margaret’s presence, struggling to put the fish in the container. She dropped the rod and grabbed the fish by its mouth and, with all her strength, slid the fish into the container. She immediately put the lid on as her daughter slightly jerked and twitched to the boat’s rocking.

***

“Mom,” called Margaret with her sleepy voice, as she rubbed her gritty eyes, “is the food ready? I’m very much hungry.”

“Yes, dear!” Margaret’s mother shouted from downstairs.

Margaret, in her dressing gown, walked drowsily into the kitchen and the meaty smell greeted her, then her mother.

“I made you your favorite meal, Maggie,” Margaret’s mother said. “Spaghetti Bolognese and –”

“And the meat is trout meat instead of beef,” Margaret said confidently.

“Yes, dear. The big trout I caught when you were fast asleep,” Margaret’s mother lied.

Pure happiness dancing in her little eyes, Margaret jumped and jumped and jumped until she succumbed to her exhaustion and hunger. She ran to the worktop where her favorite meal sat and steamed, pulled out a chair, and jumped on it.

“Enjoy your meal, Maggie,” Margaret’s mother said, as her daughter grabbed a small plate, a fork, and a spoon. “I’ll turn on the radio and then join you.”

Margaret didn’t respond; she was already spiraling the long, wiggly, yellow pasta and white trout meat in red-orange sauce down into her mouth.

“Did. You. Get. Better. At. Cooking?” Margaret asked through a mouthful of her favorite food.

Margaret’s mother twisted the radio knob gently, trying to find the right frequency. The radio let out a static noise for a few seconds, and then a man’s voice: “Six children and one adult were reported missing last week. The cops are still unable to f–”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Margaret’s mother said, making her way to the seat beside her daughter.

Margaret grinned contentedly at her mother and the food.

Margaret’s mother grinned proudly at her daughter and the radio.