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Authors: Darcey Steinke
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against her thigh.
Birdflower undid the squid pieces packed in butcher paper. They were purple with white spots and shaped like broccoli stems. He baited her hook, his hands moving as if each finger had a small brain at the tip. Once last season she crept behind the sand dunes. It was strange: water up to Birdflower's thighs, an old onion sack filled with clams over his shoulder. He was mindless, looking up often into the sun, blinking when it flashed in his eyes. The warm water must have aroused him because she saw the way he fiddled with his bathing suit, how he eventually dropped the rake and held himself in both hands. She remembered the angles: flat water to the horizon, thick strip of sky, and his body heaving back in diagonal to them.
Birdflower leaned against the side of the boat. “I saw you yesterday on the beach road,” he said.
“Yeah, I've been around.”
Birdflower kicked one sneaker against the toe of the other. “That's what I've heard.”
Emily was surprised that he would say that. “Why can't I do what I want?” she said.
Birdflower looked out over the water. “Women like you will always have trouble in this world,” he said.
David suddenly gave a banshee cry and did a cannonball off the side of the boat. Michael dove straight and Emily saw him glide for a moment underwater. When he rose, he asked if they were coming in.
Birdflower looked at Emily. “Go ahead,” she said. “I'll watch.”
He dropped himself over backwards like a scuba diver. Emily stood and put a knee over the edge as if she was riding sidesaddle.
David swam around the hull, checking for chipped paint or soft spots in the wood. Birdflower kept his feet up and paddled his hands. The men in the water looked similar as otters and their wet hair and shoulders gleamed. She imagined huge schools of fish extending beneath them. She imagined the prickle of scales as the fish undulated. Sometimes she would find herself thinking of fish and feel a muscle, a swim come over her. Emily loved whales because of the way they moved, quietly as clouds. She still remembered how she and Eddie had played in the inlet. Underneath they swam together and apart as whales do, circling, somersaulting; they seemed much bigger than themselves in the dark water. She was also fascinated with the goosefish. She'd talked one morning to a shaken-looking man from Manteo. He had been fishing on the point and claimed to have seen a goosefish, tiny teeth like ivory nails, damp down and pull a low-flying piper under the surface. Lately she'd been watching the scrawled filefish that lolled in Pamlico Sound. They were gluey white, with the small eyes of a scholar, and each had a different pattern of shapes, like some exotic language, etched over its skin.
Emily left the boat's edge, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She always felt as if she were swimming in a maze of fish, patterns over her body of light and water.
Later in the afternoon, Emily watched Birdflower on deck. A few hairs blew out of his braid and floated free from his head. Neither of them had even had a nibble all day, but earlier, at noon, David had caught a small dolphin that had flapped on deck—its blue skin stretched thin like a balloon. The small eyes and tender pale belly reminded Emily of a baby and she'd convinced them to throw him back.
The beer made her head light. She saw Birdflower watching the bones in her neck and shoulders. She felt tugs from her line now and then, but no real tension.
“Look,” David said.
Emily flipped her head to the dolphin threading in and out of water.
Birdflower jerked back. “I got something.” He pushed his feet into the floor, clamping down on the pole, and pulled his weight back.
The fish, a thin muscle, flipped out of the sea. “It's a sword,” Michael said.
The pole jerked toward the water. Birdflower leaned back. Emily watched his knuckles whiten. She stood and moved her hand to his shoulder. As she was trying to follow the
Birdflower undid the squid pieces packed in butcher paper. They were purple with white spots and shaped like broccoli stems. He baited her hook, his hands moving as if each finger had a small brain at the tip. Once last season she crept behind the sand dunes. It was strange: water up to Birdflower's thighs, an old onion sack filled with clams over his shoulder. He was mindless, looking up often into the sun, blinking when it flashed in his eyes. The warm water must have aroused him because she saw the way he fiddled with his bathing suit, how he eventually dropped the rake and held himself in both hands. She remembered the angles: flat water to the horizon, thick strip of sky, and his body heaving back in diagonal to them.
Birdflower leaned against the side of the boat. “I saw you yesterday on the beach road,” he said.
“Yeah, I've been around.”
Birdflower kicked one sneaker against the toe of the other. “That's what I've heard.”
Emily was surprised that he would say that. “Why can't I do what I want?” she said.
Birdflower looked out over the water. “Women like you will always have trouble in this world,” he said.
David suddenly gave a banshee cry and did a cannonball off the side of the boat. Michael dove straight and Emily saw him glide for a moment underwater. When he rose, he asked if they were coming in.
Birdflower looked at Emily. “Go ahead,” she said. “I'll watch.”
He dropped himself over backwards like a scuba diver. Emily stood and put a knee over the edge as if she was riding sidesaddle.
David swam around the hull, checking for chipped paint or soft spots in the wood. Birdflower kept his feet up and paddled his hands. The men in the water looked similar as otters and their wet hair and shoulders gleamed. She imagined huge schools of fish extending beneath them. She imagined the prickle of scales as the fish undulated. Sometimes she would find herself thinking of fish and feel a muscle, a swim come over her. Emily loved whales because of the way they moved, quietly as clouds. She still remembered how she and Eddie had played in the inlet. Underneath they swam together and apart as whales do, circling, somersaulting; they seemed much bigger than themselves in the dark water. She was also fascinated with the goosefish. She'd talked one morning to a shaken-looking man from Manteo. He had been fishing on the point and claimed to have seen a goosefish, tiny teeth like ivory nails, damp down and pull a low-flying piper under the surface. Lately she'd been watching the scrawled filefish that lolled in Pamlico Sound. They were gluey white, with the small eyes of a scholar, and each had a different pattern of shapes, like some exotic language, etched over its skin.
Emily left the boat's edge, leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She always felt as if she were swimming in a maze of fish, patterns over her body of light and water.
Later in the afternoon, Emily watched Birdflower on deck. A few hairs blew out of his braid and floated free from his head. Neither of them had even had a nibble all day, but earlier, at noon, David had caught a small dolphin that had flapped on deck—its blue skin stretched thin like a balloon. The small eyes and tender pale belly reminded Emily of a baby and she'd convinced them to throw him back.
The beer made her head light. She saw Birdflower watching the bones in her neck and shoulders. She felt tugs from her line now and then, but no real tension.
“Look,” David said.
Emily flipped her head to the dolphin threading in and out of water.
Birdflower jerked back. “I got something.” He pushed his feet into the floor, clamping down on the pole, and pulled his weight back.
The fish, a thin muscle, flipped out of the sea. “It's a sword,” Michael said.
The pole jerked toward the water. Birdflower leaned back. Emily watched his knuckles whiten. She stood and moved her hand to his shoulder. As she was trying to follow the
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