Fish Eggs
mitch mcclain
Across the Sound, a giant basketball sat glaring orange on the Space Needle. It was for the NCAA Championships. I could see it from here, over her shoulder when she knelt down on the beach.
The sand was brown and dark with water, little green sand-sized crystals glinted and gleamed near the edge. Long piles of rocks and stones stretched down the beach, marking past tide lines.
The sky was bright gray and white. A thick layer of clouds shelled over us and the city.
She collected light-colored rocks. they lay misshapen and cold in her hands. When her hands got full, she dumped her catch into the net of her pockets.
She picked up rocks of all shapes and sizes. Long, silverish-black ones worn smooth by rolling in the sand. Bleached bright pieces of coral. Chunks of granite, freckled with gray. Timeworn rocks with light streaks of crystal.
I took off my jacket. Walking and stooping and squatting had made me sweat. Beads collected above my eyes and lips. I could feel it drop from my armpits and onto my shirt.
I collected the dark ones. The flat ones. The flat and circle-shaped ones.
They are perfect for skipping.
I squatted down in the sand above a pile of rocks near sun-bleached log. I laid my jacket across the log and dug into the rocks.
I extended my fingers, making my hand flat and started to skim across the rocks, taking layers off the pile. The rocks clicked and clacked as I moved them around, looking for the right one.
She came up behind me, her shoes crunched in the sand. She put her hand on my left shoulder and leaned on me.
“Well?” I said. “Did you find anything?”
“Yeah, I found some rocks,” she said. She straightened up and put her and into her jacked pocket. “It’s cold.”
Her jacket was olive green, flat like the sky. She hated wearing it because whenever something was spilled on it, the spot would turn dark green, almost black. She only wore it when it was cold, pulling it on over a sweater and jeans.
“Anything worthwhile?” I asked.
“Yeah, I found some really pretty ones,” she said, drawing some from her pocket. “But they look so much better when they’re wet. They get real shiny and smooth.”
I wasn’t really listening, I had turned over a large rock and found three good skipping rocks. They were smooth and round and flat. My forefinger wrapped snugly around each of them.
“Look hone, “ I said, turning towards her and opening my hand. “Perfect for skipping . . . these ones will fly for sure.”
I looked down into my hand. The rocks were almost flawless. Circles worn smooth and flat from decades of rolling around on the bottom of the ocean, finally washing up on the beach form e to find, pick up, and throw back. They were dark and round like fish eggs. Not the cheap red ones, but the dark blue and purple eggs. The expensive ones.
“I want seafood,” she said. “Fish and chips.”
“Alright,” I said. I put my hand on the log and pushed myself up and walked to the water’s edge.
“Jeez,” she said putting her stones into her jacket.
“What?” I said.
“Jeez, are you even listening?” she said. “You weren’t even listening.”
“What? You said you wanted fish and chips,” I said. “I know, seafood.”
She turned away and looked out over the Sound. There were two ski-boats racing by, bouncing off the water. They landed with wet thumps and then swerved around each other. One of the drivers, a kid, gave his friend a high-five with a loud hoot. Behind them loomed that god-awful ball.
“Seafood,” I said.
I took a step forward and took a rock from my pocket. It felt soft against my hand as I curled my fingers around it. I whipped my arm back and threw the rock, spinning it off my forefinger. It skipped too high, almost straight up, and plunked into the water.
I took out another rock, twisted around and launched the rock over the water. It skipped once and then stabbed into the water.
“Damn.” I said. “Damn rocks won’t fly.”
I turned around and looked at her. She was watching me with her hands deep in her pockets. She brought her right hand out and tucked her hair behind her ears and then put it back in her jacket.
“Did you see that?” I asked anyway. “I figure these rocks would be perfect. Let me try a couple more.”
I brought out another rock, it was smoother and flatter than that other two. I embraced it with my fingers and hand. I put my left foot forward and stretched my arm back behind my shoulder. I bent my knees and swung my arm around, snapping my wrist before it rolled off my finger. The stone stayed low and then bounced off the water into the air and shot forward bouncing again and then again. It kept hopping across the water until it ran out of momentum and sank quietly away.
“Yes.” I said. “Honey, did you see that? It must have skipped 12 . . . 14 times.” I spun around and smiled at her.
She didn’t say anything. She pulled her hands up out of her pockets, they were full of the rocks she had collected. She held them out to me, letting them fall between her fingers until they all laid at her feet. She slowly took back her hands, one went to her hair and the other to a pocket.
“I’ll be in the car,” she said.
“What?” I said. “Honey, what was that for? I’ll just throw one more and then we’ll go. Honey?”
“Fine. Go ahead,” she said.
“Jeez!” I said. I reached into my pocket and took out the remaining rocks. Four. All perfectly round and smooth. I threw them into the water. They splashed down around each other like bullets in some war movie or another.
I turned towards her, but her back was facing me, she was almost to the car. I took a couple steps and stopped. All the rocks she had collected lay spread around her footsteps. They left little dents in the sand where they had fallen and bounced. I looked back at her, she had reached the car and gotten in. I looked down at the rocks.
I crouched down and collected her rocks. The smooth ones, the pieces of coral and crystal, all the light-colored ones. I grabbed my jacket and filled the pockets on both sides and breasts. I filled my jeans pockets. I filled my shirt pocket and my hands. I just couldn’t find room for all that she had collected.
