removed; it was twice as much time and effort.
Marvin’s stuck in my head now, clinging like the fish scales on my hand. For once, that’s not such a bad thing. Usually when I think of him, I feel heavy and empty at the same time. But with my hands busy and scaly and slimy, remembering him makes me happy. I feel like Little Nell again. I work my way through the pile of fish, slicing and cutting and tossing heads into the grass, and if I close my eyes—which is a bad idea when you’re using a knife—I can imagine that Marvin is next to me, casting out into the pond.
“Saban’s eating a fish head,” says Lydia.
I look over. It’s true, and it’s not pretty.
“Well, I’m not taking it away from him,” I say.
Lydia yells, “Drop it, Saban!” a few times, then gives up. He looks at us suspiciously and drags the fish head a little farther away.
I pile together leaves and twigs and get a little fire going. While I wait for it to get hot enough, I arrange a little cast-iron skillet, a bowl, a bottle of oil, and bags of cornmeal and flour in front of me. I go through the motions just like Memama taught me: First, make a mix of half flour and half cornmeal. Next, swish a fish around in the mixture, getting it good and coated. (Memama dipped the fish in milk and egg first, but dairy products aren’t very convenient here.) I feel the meal and flour underneath my fingernails, gritty like sand.
I pour oil in the pan and set it over the fire. When I start to see tiny bubbles, I toss a fish in. I hear the same sound sizzle whenever Memama’s frying okra or potatoes or eggs. It’s the same sound the corn-bread batter makes when it hits the hot pan.
As I lay the fish in the pan, it strikes me that even though I’m thinking of Memama, I’m not exactly missing her. It feels like she’s nearby, almost within sight just like Marvin was a minute ago.
“You’re quiet,” says Lydia.
“I am not.”
“You are so.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“Are you missing home?” she asks.
“No,” I say, surprised. “Of course not. Are you?”
“A little.”
I hardly even hear her. I feel more at home right now than I have since the last time I was curled up on Memama and Grandpops’s couch. I’ve got Marvin and Memama looking over my shoulder.
I focus on the sound of bubbling oil. I think I’m close to realizing something, or connecting something. Something related to Memama or Marvin or both. There was some thought rolling around in my head that was worth holding on to. It’s like trying to remember the lyrics of a song—I’m close to getting it, but it won’t come.
I do have the sudden thought that Lydia said she was a little homesick.
I look over at her. “You’re home every night.”
“I miss air-conditioning,” she says. “And television. And all the food in the refrigerator. And my dad’s supposed to get home this afternoon. I do sort of like coming down the stairs when he walks in the door.”
I watch the fish. It’s browning on the bottom—I flip it over with the end of my knife. I finish cooking it without making any more conversation. When it’s done, we nearly burn our fingers pulling it apart. It’s flaky and hot and crunchy with the cornmeal. We eat until we can’t eat anymore—Lydia says this is way better than fish sticks—and we split a pack of raisins for dessert. Saban gets three fish all to himself.
When we stand up to head back home, we don’t bother putting our shoes on since it’s a short way, and we’ve worn a path through the grass. We hold our shoes in our hands and swing them as we walk.
“You know what we should bring tomorrow?” Lydia says, licking her fingers. “Wet wipes. My hands still taste like fish.”
She sounds more upbeat than she did earlier. Maybe she was just hungry. I feel good, too. Full and happy. I’ve got a leftover contentedness that might be as much about Marvin and Memama as it is about the food.
“Are you okay with being here?” I
Marvin’s stuck in my head now, clinging like the fish scales on my hand. For once, that’s not such a bad thing. Usually when I think of him, I feel heavy and empty at the same time. But with my hands busy and scaly and slimy, remembering him makes me happy. I feel like Little Nell again. I work my way through the pile of fish, slicing and cutting and tossing heads into the grass, and if I close my eyes—which is a bad idea when you’re using a knife—I can imagine that Marvin is next to me, casting out into the pond.
“Saban’s eating a fish head,” says Lydia.
I look over. It’s true, and it’s not pretty.
“Well, I’m not taking it away from him,” I say.
Lydia yells, “Drop it, Saban!” a few times, then gives up. He looks at us suspiciously and drags the fish head a little farther away.
I pile together leaves and twigs and get a little fire going. While I wait for it to get hot enough, I arrange a little cast-iron skillet, a bowl, a bottle of oil, and bags of cornmeal and flour in front of me. I go through the motions just like Memama taught me: First, make a mix of half flour and half cornmeal. Next, swish a fish around in the mixture, getting it good and coated. (Memama dipped the fish in milk and egg first, but dairy products aren’t very convenient here.) I feel the meal and flour underneath my fingernails, gritty like sand.
I pour oil in the pan and set it over the fire. When I start to see tiny bubbles, I toss a fish in. I hear the same sound sizzle whenever Memama’s frying okra or potatoes or eggs. It’s the same sound the corn-bread batter makes when it hits the hot pan.
As I lay the fish in the pan, it strikes me that even though I’m thinking of Memama, I’m not exactly missing her. It feels like she’s nearby, almost within sight just like Marvin was a minute ago.
“You’re quiet,” says Lydia.
“I am not.”
“You are so.”
“I’m just thinking.”
“Are you missing home?” she asks.
“No,” I say, surprised. “Of course not. Are you?”
“A little.”
I hardly even hear her. I feel more at home right now than I have since the last time I was curled up on Memama and Grandpops’s couch. I’ve got Marvin and Memama looking over my shoulder.
I focus on the sound of bubbling oil. I think I’m close to realizing something, or connecting something. Something related to Memama or Marvin or both. There was some thought rolling around in my head that was worth holding on to. It’s like trying to remember the lyrics of a song—I’m close to getting it, but it won’t come.
I do have the sudden thought that Lydia said she was a little homesick.
I look over at her. “You’re home every night.”
“I miss air-conditioning,” she says. “And television. And all the food in the refrigerator. And my dad’s supposed to get home this afternoon. I do sort of like coming down the stairs when he walks in the door.”
I watch the fish. It’s browning on the bottom—I flip it over with the end of my knife. I finish cooking it without making any more conversation. When it’s done, we nearly burn our fingers pulling it apart. It’s flaky and hot and crunchy with the cornmeal. We eat until we can’t eat anymore—Lydia says this is way better than fish sticks—and we split a pack of raisins for dessert. Saban gets three fish all to himself.
When we stand up to head back home, we don’t bother putting our shoes on since it’s a short way, and we’ve worn a path through the grass. We hold our shoes in our hands and swing them as we walk.
“You know what we should bring tomorrow?” Lydia says, licking her fingers. “Wet wipes. My hands still taste like fish.”
She sounds more upbeat than she did earlier. Maybe she was just hungry. I feel good, too. Full and happy. I’ve got a leftover contentedness that might be as much about Marvin and Memama as it is about the food.
“Are you okay with being here?” I
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