Chapter 9

“Well, Charlie, my boy,” Mann said, leaning back onto the weather-beaten wood of the rowboat. “What do you think of fishing?”

He dipped his hand over the side and let it drift in the cool water of the bay.

Charlie yawned, shrugged, and tugged at the rod and reel in his hands. “No fish.”

“Yup, and ain’t it great.” He slapped a mosquito, then lit his pipe and tossed the match overboard into the dark, rolling water. “It’s being out in the boat and taking it easy that counts. Catching a fish or two is okay now and then, but me, I like just sittin’ around and basking in the sun. It’s relaxing, you know.”

Charlie peered into the water for any sign of action then reeled in his line.

“Now remember, it’s all in the wrist. Pick a place then aim for it with your line. That’ll do it.”

Charlie spotted a place near a tree stump, then heaved the line with every bit of strength he had. The hook and weight arced overhead and plopped into the water two feet from where he sat.

A whistled sigh of relief escaped Mann’s pursed lips. “Not bad. I believe you’re getting it. You didn’t catch my shirt this time. Good work.”

“I’m not good at fishing.”

“Of course you are. Throwing in a line is tricky business. Takes a little practice to be expert at it. Another week or so and you’ll be a pro.”

“I’ll never be as good as you.”

“That’s it. Reel it in nice and slow. Give the fish a chance to scope out the menu.” He sucked on the pipe, puffed out gray clouds of smoke. “You can be as good as you want.”

“I want to be as good as you are at fishing.”

“You can be better.”

“No, I can’t.”

Mann shifted the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other as if he were pondering this bit of information.

“I can’t do anything right.” Charlie tossed the pole over the side of the boat.

The little boat pitched steeply to one side. Mann’s arm dipped into the murky surface, grappled against the current, then reappeared empty-handed. The pole was gone. His arm dripping, he sat back on the bench and stared at Charlie, the pipe wedged securely between clenched teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said, his voice squeaking. “I didn’t mean to. Please don’t hate me.”

“Charlie.” Mann leaned close to the boy. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. But I have to admit I don’t much like what you did.”

“I know.”

“So why did you do it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you want to go home? Just say the word, and I’ll turn the boat around.”

Home. The house in Atlanta, or the one here? It was so hard to know where he belonged anymore. He missed his toys, his own room, and school even though the other kids picked on him, and he had no friends. He didn’t mean to cause so much trouble, but his father had said “trouble” was Charlie’s middle name—he’d always thought it was Wilson—and if his father said it, then it must be true.

He missed his parents being together.

It had been a long time since he had spent any time with his dad, too long. And even though Mom was always there, she wasn’t there, not really, kinda like her thoughts took her into a dark place.

Lately, she acted like she didn’t see him, but maybe the dark circles under her eyes kept her from seeing good. She said the circles were because she wasn’t getting enough good sleep the past couple of nights. Yesterday he had come home to find her sleeping with her eyes open. At least it looked like she was sleeping. He wanted to ask her if he could play spy, or if she had paper he could draw on, but he didn’t want to make her angry.

Instead, he had made Uncle Winston angry by throwing the fishing pole over the side of the boat. Only stupid kids did things like that. Stupid, stupid kids. He hit himself on the head, again then over and over and over, faster and faster so that it would never stop, so that he would be punished, so that—

Winston firmly grasped the boy’s shoulder. “Charlie? Do you want to go home?”

The hitting stopped. No, he wanted to stay here and learn how to fish like Uncle Winston. “I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. Promise you won’t do it again?”

“I promise. Can we stay?”

Mann smiled, “Sure. And Charlie?” He pointed a finger toward him. “If anyone causes you trouble, or says a mean thing to you, you tell them they’ll have to answer to me. You got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. That’s what friends are for, right?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Right. And I’ll come to you if I need some help.”

Charlie beamed at the idea someone might need him. “Okay.”

“Good. Now, did I ever tell you about the time I caught a fifty-pounder, right here in these waters?”

“Twenty-pounder.”

“What’s that?”

“Last time it was a twenty-pounder. That’s what you said. Twenty pounds.”

“Oh. So I did.” Mann reached for the lone fishing pole and reeled in the line. “I guess that means I’ve told you the story before.”

“Two times before.”

“I see.” He handed the pole to Charlie. “The next fishing lesson is called ‘Embellishment.’”

“What does that mean?”

“It means lying. Remember to use the wrist.”

Charlie flung the line toward the stump again. It dropped neatly on target. Smiling at Mann, he slowly reeled it in to let the fish “scope out the menu.” He cast out again, reeled it in, and repeated the move until his arm hurt, and he returned the pole to Mann for a while.

He studied Uncle Winston’s gray hair, his tanned face, the crinkled, peaceful smile he wore as he dropped the hook deftly into the water then pulled the line in. Charlie decided he wanted to grow up to be just like Uncle Winston. Then maybe he’d even have a wife that made gingerbread and lemonade, that is if he ever got married. He scowled at the thought of marrying a girl. Girls were annoying, they hated bugs and turtles and things, and they teased him.

The bay water swirled in small circles around the boat. The current pushed the boat further and further from the shore. Girls probably hated boats and fishing, too. It was settled then, getting married was out. He didn’t like to fight anyway, and that’s what married people did.

Charlie…

The voice came from…where? He looked to the shore—nothing but trees and dry, dusty shrubs there.

Charlie…

Uncle Winston was intent on untying a knot from the nylon fishing line while muttering a stream of curse words under his breath.

Charlie. Down here.

He looked over the edge of the boat. His breath caught in his throat, his mouth dried to dust.

The face stared at him, just under the surface of the water.

His mother’s face.

Charlie, baby. Come to your mother.

Mom? No, it couldn’t be even though it looked like her. Even sounded like her.

Leaning over the edge, he saw her beckon. A tight smile formed on her lips. A small wave washed over the face, and it shimmered then faded. Then she was there again, smiling. A warm smile, friendly, but something wasn’t right. It was almost as if she held something back, something scary.

Something to surprise him with.

Closer, baby. Come closer.

He leaned further. The boat moved with him. Uncle Winston shouted at him to come back, but he couldn’t. Not now, not when his mother was calling.

The face changed then, grew old. Deep creases and pits covered the face and the skull with dark, burning tissue. She smiled again, a bright clear smile. The smile of his mother. And someone else.

Come, there’s something I must whisper in your ear.

He bent to listen. And fell overboard.

Cold, deep water surged around him, covered him. The current pulled and twisted. His clothes absorbed the weight and dragged him further under.

Frantically kicking his legs, reaching blindly around with his arms, he searched for anything he might hold on to. There was nothing but the emptiness of the bay and the undercurrent that pulled him away from the boat, away from ever seeing his family again.

His mouth filled with water. He tried blowing it out with the little air he had left in his lungs, but his chest ached with wanting to breathe, needing to breathe, but not daring to. A breath now would be his last.

Something grabbed his legs. He kicked against it, but the grip tightened.

She cackled

He squirmed to the surface, only to be dragged down again.

The laugh heightened, turned gleeful.

Darkness surrounded him, comforted him. He felt its warmth and knew whatever happened to him now would be okay. Dying wouldn’t be so bad.

Something batted at his shoulder, moved away.

Another tug on his legs drew him deeper, down into the dark water and the victorious laughing of the female voice.

Tightness in his chest turned to hot burning. He opened his mouth to inhale, to take the final comfort of the dark, when something hit in the shoulder again, hard. Pulled upward by his shirt, his collar caught him tight around the throat.

The laughing stopped. Her shrill voice turned to a moan, then a wail as he was dragged away.

The last yank on his shirt turned cold water warmer. A light breeze caressed the top of his head, his face then his chest. He gasped open-mouthed, and air infiltrated his lungs with searing pain.

Mama?

He gasped again then started to cry.