On their way down to Ecky’s for an oil change and filters his father pulls into Canadian Tire. Stares at the lures as long as his hand. Shimmering eyes and thick as sausage – the long wicked dangle of treble-barbed hooks – they look like specimens bungled by God. Or something older than God. And crueller.
As his father slides a box – it says HEDDON’S COBRA – from one of the long jutting prongs, the boy slips round the end of the shelf. Walks past the spinners and the hairy buzzbaits to the display of shiny spoons. Sees the Red Devil. Notes the price. Moves down the aisle. Stands on tiptoes – his father is reading the back of the box – then scans the display of rods and sees the one his father got him. Checks the tag. Then the selection of open-faced reels. Finds one like his then does the sum. Knows they are not poor. But knows they don’t have heaps. And feels the weight of forty dollars.
His father says Son?
The boy scoots back and says I’m here.
Gonna get that one?
Thought I might.
Maybe it’s the charm.
Over the box his father makes a jokey cross and says Hope so.
They walk to the cash and his father pays half with Canadian Tire money and half with real dollars. Then they drive to Ecky’s. Pull up in front of the service bay. A car in there with its hood way up. The boy’s father rolls down his window. Leans his head out and makes a bullhorn with his hand. Weren’t you fixing that one last week?
Ecky leans around the hood and says You’re next.
Only kidding, Hector. Take your time.
His father turns off the car and says Shall we pop up to Wing’s?
And the boy says Sure.
They get out and his father tosses the keys in the car. They bounce beside the bag with the lure in it.
Up at Wing’s they sit at the counter and his father nods hello at the men always there. The waitress named Mary is down near the end talking to a guy in a Roughriders coat. She puts down her smoke and says Hey Morris, tea?
The boy’s father says Coffee I think.
And then Mary looks at the boy. He looks at his father.
Tell her what you’d like, lad.
The boy looks back at Mary and says Root beer?
Fountain or can.
The boy says Can. And then he says Please.
Mary serves them and says How’s Carol?
And the boy’s father says She’s well.
Good to hear, says Mary, and she looks down the counter.
The boy’s father says Back on the fags?
Hard when you work in a place like this.
Hard anytime.
You want a menu, Morris?
Fine just now, love.
Back in the kitchen Wing hits the bell and says Pick up pick up. Mary goes back to get the order. The boy bends his straw and watches his father pour cream in his coffee and stir long and slow as he looks down the counter and joins in the blather – jokes, the weather, Trudeau, and who’s died. The boy drinks his Hires. Turns on the stool. But only a little. Nibbles his straw. Closes one eye and looks in the can. His father turns back and says You peckish?
The boy looks up and says French fries?
His father nods. Orders a plate and they share. With malt vinegar.
Not bad these.
Mum’s are better.
So I’ll have the last one.
The boy looks at it. His father says Yours. And slides two bucks under the edge of the plate. They get up to go. Wing comes out for a swallow of Pepsi. Wipes his shiny forehead with the length of his arm and says Hello Morris, how are you how are you?
Good, Wing. Yourself?
Oh busy busy. Plan for weekend?
Fishing, Wing.
This time of year? Weather no good.
A couple of men at the counter look over and Wing stops drinking his Pepsi. Looks at the boy and says You go?
The boy only nods.
And Wing says Wow. Then he spreads his arms wide and says Big fish.
The boy nods again.
And Wing says Be careful he no eat you.
The men at the counter laugh and the boy looks at Mary. She blows out smoke and smiles softly at him. The boy looks down. His father waves bye to her and to Wing and Wing says Bye, good luck good luck!
A man at the counter says He’ll need it he’ll need it. And he laughs with the others as the bells on the door – three of them on a shiny red ribbon – bounce and clang and rattle behind the boy and his dad.
Up at Ecky’s the car isn’t done. The boy and his father stand in the bay. Grease stains and tools. Sunshine Girls all over a wall. And on the wall opposite a huge stuffed muskie – Ecky says lunge – on a fancy piece of wood with a brass plaque on it. The boy’s father has another look and shakes his head. Forty-eight pounds, Hector.
Under the car Ecky says Yep.
Must have been a fight.
Ecky slides out and looks at the fish but doesn’t say anything. Slides under again.
The boy’s father says What did you use?
Ecky says Eh?
His father says Bait.
And Ecky says Frog.
The boy’s father crouches and looks under the car. Plastic? he says.
Nope, says Ecky, real.
Can’t say I’ve tried it.
Hardly use anything else. For muskie.
Never jerk bait?
Ecky slides out and stands up and says You know why they call it that?
I think I hear what you’re saying, Hector.
Ecky wipes his hands on a rag and says Don’t mind my sayin –
Go ahead.
Saw that eight-dollar gizmo on the front seat.
The boy says Really it was four.
Yeah, well. You’re goin up to Crowe, right?
The boy and his father nod.
Lotta shoals out there, Morris. Weedbeds – right between the islands there – perfect.
The boy’s father nods and says That’s where I trawl.
Had a follower?
Earlier this fall. I could see it, Ecky. Not ten feet from me. It nudged the lure. Like it knew, the bugger.
It won’t nudge a frog. How does one –
‘ Tween the islands there. The ones closer to the western shore. Lob it out on the lily pads. Let it sink a little. Jig it a bit. Don’t reel too fast.
What sort of hook?
Big one, laughs Ecky. And he hooks his finger – his filthy pointed nail – beneath the boy’s chin. Put it through here, he says. Or here. Then he turns out his leg like a Sunshine Girl. Points near his crotch and says The meaty part. It’ll kick. Bleed a little. Hello, fishy – he nods and smiles – that’s what you want.
Where will I find live frogs this time of year?
Place outside of Marmora. I know the guy. When you goin.
Tomorrow first thing.
I’ll call him.
Thank you, Hector.
No bother.
The boy’s father turns around and looks at the muskie again. So does the boy. The snout on it. The teeth. The boy’s father says One hell of a fight.
And Ecky says Why it’s on the wall, Morris.
Can one man land it?
Ecky points at the boy and says He goin with you?
His father’s hand on the boy’s shoulder. Yes, he is.
Ecky horks in a grease stain – it jiggles and glistens – and looks at the boy. Guess, he says, you get to gaff the whore.
At home as they pack the car the boy’s father hefts the big pole hook and says Like this, son. Through the gills. Then you lift it in the boat and if it’s still fighting I’ll bash it with the truncheon. Try.
The boy takes the hook. Looks at the horrible barb. Tries to picture the fish. Grips the pole hard. Behind him his mother opens the door to the kitchen. The boy swings the hook.
Morris, says his mother, what is he doing with that?
He’s doing fine is what.
Dad, I don’t think I’m strong enough.
Son, with my luck you won’t need to be. The boy looks at his mother. She shakes her head and says Supper.
The boy and his father quickly wash up and then they sit down in the kitchen. It’s mostly leftovers. His mother says she’ll make sandwiches with the rest of the roast and wrap up the last of the cake as well. Then she goes to her room while the boy and his father wash the dishes. After that they finish packing the station wagon and the boy watches as his father hitches the trailer and backs out to the end of the drive so there won’t be so much noise in the morning. They go back in and his father says Make an early night of it. The boy walks down the hall but the washroom door is closed and he can hear his mother having a bath. He walks back to the living room but his father is not there and then the boy hears the scraping of the chair on the floor in the basement and knows his dad will be there a while. Sharpening hooks. Or doing maths. Or just sitting there.
In his own room the boy sets the alarm on the clock just in case his father sleeps in. Then he gets on the bed and kneels at its edge. Imagines the gaff in his hands and swings it. Then he lies back. Stares at the ceiling. It has a new crack.
The release of the lock on the bathroom door. His mother’s footfalls. He reaches over his nightstand and opens the door a little. She still knocks. He says Come in. She smells of steam, and coconuts. A towel on her head the way women twist it. The boy sits up. His back against the headboard. She sits on the edge of the bed. Looks around his room a moment. He says All done in the washroom? She nods. He says Have to get ready for bed.
All right, says his mother. Just came in to say – hope you have fun.
We will.
You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. The boy looks at his feet and says The presents said from both of you.
His mother says nothing. Then touches his knee. And she says Wear your lifejacket. Starts to stand up.
But the boy says Promise.
And she leans toward him. Her bathrobe bulging at the top. The boy can see down it to the diagonal scar but he looks away and they hug hard and the boy says It was good on my birthday, Mum.
She stands and sniffs and says I’d best make your sandwiches.
In the bathroom the boy swipes the mirror and does behind his ears. Then his teeth and a gargle and he splashes the sink clean. Gives the taps and faucet a shine with the face towel.
On the way back to his room he sees his mother standing at the counter with bread and wax paper and the rest of the beef. She’s holding a knife that has butter on the end and she’s looking out the window. And humming.
In his room he lies down and puts his hands behind his head. Hears his mother finish up in the kitchen and go to her room. Listens for his father coming up the basement stairs. Then lets his eyes close.
When they open again it is dark and his arms are numb. He slips them out from beneath his head and flops them down one at a time and they go pins and needles as he rolls over and squints at the clock – a quarter to one. Hum of the fridge. The heat coming on. Moon on his pillow. He turns the clock face away. Breathes out his nose. Falls back asleep but keeps seeing the frog. As though from beneath. Up through the murk. Where it kicks and kicks in the warm and the light. He rolls over again and hears the pulse in his ear then opens his eyes and gets out of bed. Kneels at the foot. Head on his fists. And his lips move but he’s not really talking. Doesn’t know what to ask. Then he sits on his hands at the edge of the bed. Looks at the moon. Then closes his eyes and tries to think nothing until he hears his father trying not to make noise in the kitchen. Running water. The kettle on. K-tunk of the lid on the tea canister. Three heapers in the tall orange thermos. The kettle unplugged before it starts whistling. Water filling the thermos and then his father screws on the lid and gives it a shake. His footsteps in the hallway. 5:01. A knock on the door with just one knuckle and then he pushes it open and takes a step in and stops short when he sees the boy standing.
I’m ready.
Shhh.
The boy nods and follows his father to the darkness of the kitchen where they share a glass of apple juice and lean against the counter. His father hands the boy the glass and nods at what’s left. The boy gulps it down. Puts the glass beside the sink and looks at the new pink J Cloth draped over the faucet. His father unscrews the thermos cap and lifts out the tea bags – four of them – by their corners like the tails of small steaming fish. Drops them in the sink – it still smells like Ajax – and screws the lid and the cup back on and reaches for the cooler on the counter. But the boy says I’ve got it. And follows his father like a thief through the hush of the house. By the door they step into shoes and his father nods at the boy’s wind-breaker hanging from the middle hook and then he opens the door. Birds. The pale moon. And there are still crickets.
The boy puts on his windbreaker and shivers on his way to the wet-gleaming car. The engine idles smoothly and the boy’s father says Well done, Hector. And the boy remembers the fingernail. The little notch it made.
As his father reverses the boy looks at the blinds on his mother’s bedroom window. Thinks he sees a chink. Waves a little. His father doesn’t notice. Doesn’t speak. Just drives. North. Highway 28. Then east on 7. The car very warm. The boy’s eyes heavy. His head bobs. He resists. Then doesn’t. Feels between his ribs sometime later the thumb of his father. Opens his eyes and looks where his father is pointing. Sun coming up. Sky the same colour as a splayed lake salmon. But the boy says Beautiful. Then blinks hard and gives his head a shake. Looks around. They have left the places that feel like places. Here is like pictures in Art and Geography. Granite. An esker. Jack pines. A river.
Much further?
His father says No. Turns on the radio then hits the middle button and twists the knob a bit. Mostly cloudy, a high of six, chance of showers in the late afternoon, some gusting. His father says Good. Then turns down the volume. People talk about the hostages in Iran and then the boy sees a homemade sign – LIVE BAIT 1 M – on a telephone pole. He looks at his father. Looks up ahead. Sees a small shop and says Looks closed.
Could be, says his father, we’ll just have to see.
They pull in. Tall weeds and a camper beside the ramshackle shop. His father turns off the car and gets out. A cat the colour of butterscotch candy – and with only three legs – comes round the corner of the camper. And then the camper’s door swings open and smacks the camper’s wall and a man with messy hair and his shirt untucked steps out and zips up his jeans. Looks at the car and at the boy’s father. Nods when the boy’s father says something and walks to the shop. The boy’s father follows. So does the cat. A hand – a woman’s hand – and arm in the camper’s doorway. Groping for the door. Then pulling it shut. At the door to the shop the man takes keys out of his pocket and shoves the cat with his foot. Opens the door and turns on a light and before the boy’s father closes the door behind him the cat scoots in and the boy sees on the wall at the back of the shop a display of tackle and above it the stuffed head of a buck and its fortress of antlers. Then the door opens a bit and the man leans out and tosses the cat. It lands okay then turns around and watches the door. The boy shifts. Adjusts the rearview. Looks at his eyes and then at the rods and the net in the back of the car. The truncheon. And the gaff. He readjusts the mirror then rubs his eyes and looks at his hairless forearms. His spindly hands and broomstick wrist bones. Then the door of the bait shop opens and his father – facing into the shop – nods goodbye and turns around and walks to the car with a white plastic pail and in his other hand a pair of Dr. Peppers. He sets the pop on the roof of the car. Opens the door and leans in a little. Hold this, will you?
The boy takes the pail and puts it between his legs. His father reaches for the pop and gets in and hands the boy a can.
Are we drinking it now?
Thanks.
They peel the tabs and drop them in the ashtray. Then they drink.
Cold, says his father.
The boy nods and burps out of his nose. How many did you get? he says. And he looks at the bucket.
His father says Three.
Need that many?
How would I know?
The boy shrugs. And his stomach squelches.
His father says Hungry?
The boy says A little.
As am I. Not far now.
His father starts the car and pulls back onto the highway and the boy looks at the pail. Can hear them knocking against the sides. He puts the pail on the floor between his feet. Has half a can of Dr. Pepper left. Doesn’t drink any. His father flicks the blinker and they turn down a gravel road. Then the gravel stops and there is only dirt and potholes. The birch trees gather in like a crowd round a body. In the rearview on his side the boy watches fallen leaves leap and wrestle then fall back to the road. They pass rutted laneways – a crow on a gatepost – that lead between big evergreens to cabins boarded up for winter. Then a dip and a turn and there is the lake. The colour of blackboards. Here and there on the far side a few cottages but not a boat on it.
It’ll be just us, Dad.
His father says nothing but his face is all calm. He slows down and pulls onto a widening of the shoulder where there’s a green public waste bin and then a boat launch between dried-out cats-o’-nine-tails. He swings left a little – there’s a small yellow cottage across the road – then backs the trailer down the slope. Around the corner of the cottage run two dogs – a small black Scottie and a big white sheepdog – and they stop at the laneway and bark.
Pay them no mind, son. They carry on like that.
The boy and his father get out and as they’re putting the boat in the water a big man with a thick black beard comes out of the cottage and calls to the dogs. They stop barking and lope back to the cottage but look back a few times like they’re saying We’re watching. The boy’s father waves and the man waves back and lets his dogs in.
You know him? says the boy.
Not really. Spoken to him a couple of times I’ve been out here. Decent bloke.
The man stands on the stoop as the boy and his father unpack the car. The boy takes the gaff and says Where does this go?
Out, says his father, of harm’s way.
Along the side?
That’ll do. Frogs?
Oh, says the boy. Then he gets the pail. Here okay?
That’s fine. Right, lifejacket.
The boy bows his head and over it his father pushes the fat orange collar. Wraps the ties and knots them.
You wearing one?
No.
Water’s kind of choppy.
I’ll be all right. Now. The most important.
The boy looks in the boat and says What.
And his father nods at the car. That tea and cooler, he says, I’m famished.
The boy says I’ll get them. Sees that the man has gone back inside. Gets the cooler and thermos and says Lock it, Dad?
If you like.
The boy locks the car and gets in the boat and sets down the thermos and cooler. His father says Sit down – the boy does – and then leans and pushes.
Mind your hip, Dad.
I’m all right.
His father heaves and hops and they’re floating and the bow slowly turns counter-clockwise. His father takes an oar. Pushes off. Stands up. I’ll just get by you, son.
The boy leans.
Ta, says his father. And he sits by the motor. Paddles a bit and then he just looks. So does the boy. Straight ahead about two hundred yards a pair of smallish islands. Like the Group of Seven but realer and more sad.
His father primes the motor. Third pull it starts. He opens the throttle but not so much and the bow rises only a little. The boy leans on his knees and blows on his hands. Thinks of his mother and wax paper and cake. The islands get bigger. His father veers toward the one on the right and ahead the boy sees weeds in the water like exotic dancers in slow motion. His father cuts the motor. Trees lean over the islands’ edges like they’re exhausted by their own reflections. To the left are lily pads. They drift nearer and the boat’s bow turns a little. His father hefts an oar and turns around the boat completely. The boy looks over his shoulder. His father says Best you cast away from the weeds. Into the deeper water.
The boy says Okay.
But first, says his father, give us that thermos.
Here.
Ta. Oh.
What.
Should have brought another cup.
Mum probably put one in.
His father opens the cooler and says Indeed she did. Now, what’s this?
The boy looks in the cooler – cake in Tupperware and the wrapped sandwiches – and his father says She’s written S on these ones. Salmon?
The boy taps his chest and says No, me.
Eh?
They’re for me. No butter.
Ah. Right. Well. Your sandwich, sir.
Loin and mushrooms.
Cold roast beef will have to do.
And cake.
At lunch. Give us your cup.
His father pours tea – Get that in you, lad – and then they unwrap their sandwiches. The boy tests the tea against his lips. Sips and swallows. Heat in his throat and chest. Then they bite and chew.
She used, says the boy, the posh mustard, Dad.
His father nods and swallows. About halfway through their sandwiches – the beef’s a little tough and tires out your jaw – he says Let’s get ourselves set, son. We can eat and fish. Then he puts down his sandwich and reaches for the tackle box and says Give us your rod. The boy hands it to him and then his father says Watch. Fixes a leader and then ties on the Red Devil. This, he says, is a classic lure, son. Catch just about anything.
Muskie?
If your line held. It’s just ten pound.
What’s yours.
Thirty.
That muskie at Ecky’s –
Bloody monster, I know. But most muskies round here are perhaps thirty pounds.
That’s still big.
Not as big as you. Not nearly. Now, this reel isn’t like your old one. Open face.
Yes. More control of your cast – with practice. See my thumb?
Yes.
Holds the line. Then the motion like so – lift your thumb – it’s away.
Do one.
All right.
The boy watches the lure wag in the air as the line and reel whirr. Then plish the lure lands and his father starts reeling. Neither too fast, he says, nor too slow. You don’t want it to sink and then snag. Keep it moving and then – he flicks the rod this way and that – try that to give it a nice switching motion.
The boy nods. Watches the wake of the lure as it gets nearer the boat and skims the surface then lifts. His father reels in a little more then hands the rod to the boy and says Try.
The boy releases the catch on the reel and the lure drops.
His father says Thumb first.
And the boy reels in. Holds the line. Releases the catch on the reel. His father leans back and points and says That way.
The boy casts.
But the lure flies off to the right and plops in the water.
Less arm, son. More wrist.
Okay.
Reel in. You’ll snag.
The boy reels in. Tries again.
Much better, son. Well bloody done.
Thanks.
The boy reels in and jigs – Like that? he says and his father nods – and he imagines the tug and the sudden bending of the rod and the high-pitched zipping of the line and he would land it he swears he would.
You’re all set, says his father. And then he starts to prep his own line. The boy looks back. Sees the hook his father chooses. Like a baby gaff. Then his father picks up the pail and pops the lid and the boy looks away and casts again and starts to reel. And has to look back. His father reaches in the pail and then there is a frog in his fist. Puffy chin. Blackbead eyes. The dangling legs. His father holds the hook between his thumb and two fingers and then – Little bastard! – the frog squirts free and hops onto the seat beside the boy.
Grab it, son!
And the boy does reach but not very fast and the frog hops over the side then ploosh the boy watches it kick out of sight. Looks at his father who says That little bugger!
And the boy tries not to laugh.
Mind, says his father, your lure.
The boy reels in.
Jumped right out my hand it did.
I saw it, Dad.
I said mind your lure.
The boy reels in and casts again and watches his father reach into the pail and say This time.
The frog does nothing – no sound no squirms – as the hook slides then pops through its chin and its mouth. The boy looks away. Looks back. His father lets out line then lobs the frog – plash – over the pads and plays it across and just under the surface. The boy looks at his half-eaten sandwich. Swallows tea. Casts again. Watches the dangling frog as his father finishes reeling.
How long will it last, Dad.
What last.
The frog.
About as long as my patience. Tricky work this.
His father lobs the frog a second time and the boy casts again – his hands getting cold and his wrist kind of tired – and reels until he can see the lure. Then he just lets it lie. Wind picks up. The small boat drifts. Massive clouds pass over the sun and the light on the lake changes like a big dimmer switch. The boy looks across the water to the car and beyond it to the cottage and its smoking chimney and if they started the boat now they could be on shore in no time – he knows this – but this place feels far from everywhere like places in dreams that you know but do not know and that feeling that he and his father will always come back here and everything will be as it is just now. The slateblack water. The fishscale sky. But his father. His father is whistling softly – very softly – Glen Miller music and the boy watches him switch the rod to his left hand and reach inside his jacket and take out the silver flask with his initials on it. He unscrews the cap and takes a nip and then pours some in his thermos cup. Swirls the spiked tea and has a big swallow then whistles some more and the boy remembers his mother – bagging her old dresses. Slowly he jigs his rod and watches the lure rise into sight and sink again. Rise into sight and sink again.
After a while he sees weeds and looks around – they’ve drifted between the islands – and then at his father. He doesn’t seem to be fishing. Just sitting there. The boy lets him be. Looks toward the open water. He’ll need a real long cast. Stands – his father doesn’t notice – then whips the rod behind him. It bends in the wrong direction and then his father screams.
The boy turns round. Drops his rod. Stares lockjawed at the lure – hanging like a leech from his father’s left cheek.
Fucking hell, boy!
Oh God I’m so sorry!
His father – eyes closed – sits very still and breathes through his nose. Barely opens his mouth and says Son, sit.
The boy – hands shoved in his hair – breathing fast and shallow says I’m –
And his father says Sit.
The boy does.
Now. Come here. Slowly.
The boy scooches toward his father.
I need you to look.
Okay.
No, says the boy, just one, just one.
Is it through?
Through?
The skin.
No.
Settle. The tacklebox. See it there?
Yes.
Open it.
Okay …
Pliers.
These?
The blue handles. Yes. Hand me those.
His father breathes out and cuts the line and then he says Now, pass me a hook.
Which one?
Any fucking one.
Dad, it’s bleeding.
Pass me a hook. Right – now, watch.
His father puts the end of the hook between the pliers and snaps it off and says See?
The boy nods.
I need you to do that, his father says – and he holds out the pliers – but first you’ll have to push it through.
I can drive.
What?
The boat. We can go to the hospital.
We are – listen – an hour away from the hospital and I’m not driving there with a bloody fucking lure hanging from my face.
The boy wipes his nose with his wrist and says Dad I can’t. His father breathes out. Softly prods around the hook. Give us, he says, the pliers.
Are you sure?
He nods. Takes the pliers. Holds his breath and snaps off – grunting – the other two barbs. Takes out his flask. Closes his eye. Pours liquor over his cheek and the nose of the pliers and his fingertips. Then he drinks the last of it. Tosses the flask toward the front of the boat. Applies his thumb to the curve of the hook. Breathes in. Then leans to the right and tries to sick over the side but it’s half in the boat and the smell of it.
The boy clamps his teeth.
His father says Son, you’ll have to do it.
My hands, says the boy. And he looks at their shaking. His father holds the left one then places it against the top of his head and leans hard against it and says Just pop it through.
Okay.
The boy pinches the base of the hook and – his father growls – pushes like he’s threading a lace through an eyelet. The hook pops through. His father breathes out. Grabs the pliers and leans his head toward his shoulder. Feels with his fingers and lays the pliers along his face and crimps off the barb. It shoots away like a tiny silver wasp and then his father slides out the lure. Looks at it in his hand for a moment. Then tosses it in the water. Leans on his knees and breathes like a boxer who can’t answer the bell.
The boy pushes the back of his wrist against each eye and blinks and looks at his father and then – it jitters – at his father’s fishing rod. Dad, says the boy, and he points just as the rod starts rattling along the side of the boat.
Then the boy lunges. Grabs the rod’s handle and gets to his knees and the rod bends nearly double. But the boy holds on as the reel spins like a tire on ice. His father reaches round him and holds the rod as well and says I’ve got it, son, I’ve got it! The boy lets go. Leans back with his father as he reels and pulls. Pulls and reels. Duck under, says his father. But the boy only watches as the big fish – like the lake spat it out – writhes in the air then splashes and thrashes then dives again as the boy’s father says Blood and fucking sand!
Then the line goes slack and curly.
And everything is very quiet.
And the boy sits between the arms of his father staring at the spot where the monster fish was. And then his father’s right hand lets go of the rod and when the boy turns around his father is looking at the blood on his fingertips. And then he touches his cheek again and looks at his fingers as though they had lied. Then he wipes the blood on the leg of his pants and says to the boy Go have a seat, now.
The boy moves up the boat and sits and watches his father reel in the slack line and look at the end of it. Wonder, he says, if it swallowed the lot.
The boy looks at the water and imagines the mangle of frog-and-hook in the muskie’s mouth. Then he shrugs and says We should go, Dad.
His father’s eyes – wide and glassy. But he puts down the rod and turns to the motor.
And on the way into shore he reaches for the pail and tosses the last frog over. An old green pickup passes the launch and the boy’s father waves it down. It turns into the laneway of the yellow cottage and stops and the man with the beard gets out. Meets them at the launch. The boy’s father cuts the motor and the man says How did it go? Then he notices. The boy looks down and his father says Bit of a mishap. The man leans forward and grabs the bow’s handle and pulls and the boy steps out and helps him. Then his father steps out too. A little wobbly. The man looks at his face. Fish jump up and bite you?
The boy’s father laughs but not really and the boy says It was my fault.
The man says You wanna come in? We got ointment.
The boy’s father says If there’s a hospital nearby –
And the man says You know Glanisberg?
Heard of it, yes.
Go down number 7. Turn left on 30. Half hour tops.
That’s what we’ll do, then.
I’ll watch your boat. You go on.
Very kind of you.
No bother.
The boy’s father drives with one hand and holds Kleenex to his face with the other. The boy’s mother keeps a box in the glove compartment. They use most of it and in Glanisberg see a church letting out. His father pulls over. The boy runs across the street and asks a lady in an old-fashioned hat for directions. Follows his father into Admissions then down to Emerg but they won’t let him through so he sits in the waiting room beside the ambulance drivers’ office. Hears the static and garble of the radio. Football on the television. He glances at the tired- and sick- and sad-looking people and shuffles through old magazines about hot rods and hunting and jet airplanes. Looks up and sees his father in the doorway. Gauze and tape on his face. The boy follows him to the car and the drive back to the boat feels like ages.
He put it back on the trailer, Dad.
Bloody good of him.
The boy’s father gets out and walks toward the laneway but here come the dogs. He stops. Waves. Gives a thumbs-up. The boy looks at the cottage and sees the man in the living room window waving back.
They quickly pack up and while his father hitches the trailer the boy gets in the car. In the rearview he watches his father turn for a moment and look toward the islands. Then – as they pull away – his father says Some fish that.
And the boy says Massive.
Then they don’t talk until Highway 28.
Dad.
Yes.
Will it mend? Son.
Yes.
Shush now.
The boy looks out the window and presses his trembly lips together.
In his room he can hear their voices but not their words. Outside the light is fading and the moon is already there like a blind eyeball. He sits on his hands at the edge of the bed. Can smell the mince and ’nips. After a while his mother knocks and comes in and sits on the bed beside him.
Sure you’re not hungry?
The boy looks at the floor.
The boy looks at her. Then down again.
It was, says his mother, an accident.
What if it was his eye.
It would still be an accident.
He’d be blind. Well. Half.
It’s not funny.
Suit yourself. Supper’s there if you want it.
The boy lies down. Curls toward the wall. His stomach growls and he gives it a whack. Footfalls again – his father’s this time. But they go past the boy’s room. Down to the basement. The boy lies there a little longer and then gets up and walks softly to the kitchen. The dishes not done. His place still set and a glass of milk. He peeks into the living room. His mother on the chesterfield. One finger tap-tap-tapping the arm as she looks at the turned-off television like an old movie – the kind that makes her sad – with singing and dancing and natty dresses to die for.