Cicada (17 page)

During the days, especially in the summer and spring, the bridge’s population mostly consisted of two distinctly different breeds of fishermen; the out-of-county fiberglass rod and reel weekend sportsmen squinting through wrap-around pilot’s glasses, and the cajoling good old boy locals with their cane-poles and red and white Styrofoam bobbers. Somehow very few fell between those two extremes. The men who considered themselves serious anglers usually arrived after long road trips in camper trucks laden down with ice chests, multi-tiered tackle boxes and numerous rods and other costly sporting accoutrements. They tended to be younger to middle-aged; mostly loners, but sometimes they were a pair or a trio. As a rule, they never fished from the bridge. Instead they made their way down to the river to put in their small boats or wade in or cast from the bank.

In contrast, the locals gathered together up on the bridge and seated themselves leisurely on overturned five gallon buckets, battered ice chests or aluminum lawn chairs like some testosterone corrupted quilting bee who didn’t seem too concerned whether it was fish they caught or sunburn.

There was no contest between the locals with their cane poles and dough ball bait versus the outsiders with their “hun’red dolla’” lures. The good old boys’ catch consistently won out in both size and quantity. Proof of the know-how and skill forged by age and experience, the locals agreed.

Although John had questioned Cicada’s request to pull over, it wasn’t an odd place for them to do so. After all, this was where they’d stopped to talk and watch the sunset on that first evening they’d met some weeks back. More than a few fishermen did double-takes as they’d passed them by in the gloaming on the way from the bank and bridge to their cars and trucks that evening. And even though not one of those men spoke, for the most part their hard expressions had said more than enough.

“Like a cave,” Cicada observed in a whisper, as the truck rolled down the gentle slope between walls of oak. From the dome of dark emerald green leaves, long strands of Spanish moss hung down like tenuous stalactites.

“Yeah,” John agreed. He’d had the very same thought before.

When they reached the bottom, the world opened up again with the trees becoming sparse enough along the bank that the river beyond could just be made out; a great undulating bolt of black silk, or perhaps a thing alive, shifting subtly, made known by the moon and stars reflecting across its dark expanse.

John whispered as he cut the engine, “I guess we got lucky.”

“How so?”

“This time of year I’d ‘magine this place would have a few lovebirds…teens. Melby’s own little lover’s lane,” he said. He shifted his lean body toward her.

Cicada pressed her palm into his thigh. “John, we just sort of happened on one another. You know what I mean?”

He cocked his head quizzically to offer a sly smile. “Come again?”

“You know…like how they talk about ships passing in the night and such.”

“Like fate then,” he said, trying his best to keep the moment lighthearted. He sensed Cicada’s motive was just the opposite.

“Don’t believe in fate.”

“I don’t think fate cares whether you put stock in it one way or ‘nother. Not believin’ in a thing don’t make it go away if it’s so.”

Having failed to keep John at bay, Cicada pushed stiffly back against the door to put as much distance between them as possible. She tried a new tack. “You know what my uncle says? My Uncle Saul.”

“Can’t ‘magine,” John said, relenting finally and sitting back as well.

“He says every man is a master of his own fate and that’s why there’s no such thing.” She paused, waiting for John to remark. He didn’t, however. “Never stepped foot in a classroom after the eighth grade and I think that’s better than anything my college philosophy professor ever had to say on the subject, don’t you?”

“Can’t say. Never met yer professor.”

She pretended to not hear him. “It’s so quiet down here.” She shifted to look out the open window over her shoulder even though very little could be discerned since John had killed the headlights. “Spooky.”

John smirked and nodded dumbly without taking his eyes off of her. “Water’s nice.” Then, as if on cue from Cicada, and quite in unison, the host of unseen green tree frogs all around them burst into song like a choir.

“Yeah, quiet,” John snorted.

Staring into one another’s eyes for a heartbeat the couple gave in to the little joke.

“Oh, Lord,” Cicada chortled softly. “Lord, Lord, Lord.”

John was relieved to see her relax and pressed the moment. “Why you keep repeatin’ his name? What, don’t you think he’s gonna hear ya over all this quiet?”

Cicada slapped his thigh playfully. When she leaned in John moved to kiss her but she stopped him. As quickly as the tension had been severed, it was restored.

“John, we need to talk.”

“Talk? Christ, ya sound like my—” He cut himself short, struck dumb by what he’d almost said. Still, it was more than enough.

“Yeah.”

“Cicada,” he began to plead, but couldn’t find his footing to go on. They were quiet then for what seemed like a long time to John. Up on the bridge a lone set of headlights suddenly appeared and the couple watched nervously as the orbs grew closer. John clenched a bit as he thought the vehicle began to slow with its approach. When the headlights kept to the road and the dark machine passed to disappear off into the night, John was sure he heard Cicada release a held breath.

“Cicada….” he said, speaking her name again, but this time really considering it for once. You know, I don’t think you ever tol’ me how you got your name.” She turned her eyes from the river to meet his gaze again. “Don’t get me wrong,” he rushed to explain, “I think it’s real pretty. The prettiest. Just different, ya know?”

“My daddy gave it to me,” she said, staring back out over the water.

“Really? Well, that, that’s….” he fumbled.

“When I was real little he used to tell me how I was conceived on a summer night when he and my mama were so poor they couldn’t afford a radio or phonograph. All they had was the music of the cicada to be together by. Daddy said the cicada song was their song, and that made me their Cicada.”

“That’s nice.”

“He left us after Mama died.”

John didn’t know what to say. He considered something about how unexpected death takes its toll on people in different ways. Considered it, but held his tongue.

“Sometimes, when I wasn’t busy being angry with him for leaving us like that, I’d play a make-believe game where daddy had come home and I was keeping the house now like mama.

“My brother Ben cured me of that though. You know how?”

John shook his head.

“He told me Daddy was dead. He told me he was dead and he wouldn’t ever be coming home.”

Even if her voice hadn’t betrayed her as it broke there, and even if there was only the moonlight in the dark of the wood by the river, John still knew she’d begun to cry. She ignored it, but John could just make out the tear that stole down the rise of her cheek.

“I called him a liar, of course. A
goddamned
liar. I slapped his face hard as I could and I called him a liar. Told him he wasn’t my brother no more.”

“He was only trying to help…you know,” John whispered.

If she heard him, she made no acknowledgement.

“After the third night I hadn’t spoken to him, Ben left me something under my pillow. Something I’d rather I’d never gotten. I guess I asked for all the same though. That’s the way life is. You press in on it, and press in on it, and before too long it just might give you what you’re asking for…especially if it turns out to be something you’d rather not have once you got it. Damn fairy tale or something.” The hard look Cicada gave John as she paused to wipe the drying streak from her face was the most anger he’d ever seen in her. “It was my daddy’s suicide note.”

“
Suicide
?”

“Daddy was dead. Just like Ben tried to tell me. Dead and he wasn’t ever coming home.”

Dumbstruck, John had to look away. He couldn’t meet her accusatory gaze. “I’m sorry,” he offered. It was small and insignificant and so he tried again. “I’m…well, I’ve been in some dark places myself. Went there…after my brother died. He was killed when we were just teens. Killed on a hunting trip.”

“Killed? How? By who?” Cicada asked, and when John looked away she was quick to add, “Oh, John, you didn’t….”

“No. No, not like that. I didn’t kill my….” But he couldn’t finish the lie. “Never meant to…just an accident. A stupid Goddamned accident.”

“John, honey, I am so sorry.”

“No, it’s alright. Yeah, thanks.”

The frogs had pitched into a frenzied calling such that John’s last words were all but lost among them. When he turned to her again he could see what was coming before she spoke. He would do anything to stay her, he was willing, but he knew there was nothing in his power to make it so.

“John,” she said finally, “I can’t…we can’t see one another anymore.”

…

Buckshot didn’t think it was from the old wound that had scarred the secret goldfish like a shotgun blast, but something was certainly doing-in his pet, Vitamin D.

The boy hovered over the Maxwell House coffee can and once more used the tip of his index finger to lightly propel the torpid creature in little circles through the water. Every now and then the fish would offer a feeble thrust, but even that effort only caused Vitamin D to go onto its side, or worse, momentarily white underbelly up.

Perplexed, Buckshot used his forearm to clear the welling tears from his eyes and sprinkled a few more flakes of food into the can. He couldn’t be certain whether Vitamin D was gasping for breath or was pleading for food, but other than the aforementioned pushes with his finger, it was all the boy could think to do. Of course he also thought to call the pet store and ask Mrs. Humble for her advice on the matter. There was no way, however, that he could have such a conversation without revealing his secret to his mother and father. Perhaps in the morning, if Vitamin D made it through the night, then Buckshot could pedal into town and talk to the pet store owner face to face.

“Hang in there, Vitamin D…jes’ hang in there,” he pleaded. He gingerly pushed the can back onto the shelf, careful not to slosh the water. He couldn’t bear to watch the struggling fish any longer, and, besides, his mother was bound to pop her head in at any moment to be certain he was in bed as he should be. He didn’t want to be caught still up, and he certainly didn’t want her to notice his crying. It was going to be a long night.

Buckshot was still kneeling at the side of his bed in the dark, deeply engaged in the longest, rambling, but most heartfelt prayer of his life, when he heard the sound of his father’s truck pulling up in the drive. It was nearly a quarter past eleven.

The front door was open wide and the light from the foyer bled through the screen door across the porch. John didn’t bother to lighten his step as he’d become accustomed to doing of late. He trudged up onto the porch, burdened but now unburdened, happy enough to be home. It was the first he’d felt that way in weeks. He suddenly realized as much and the first hints of a stupid look of contentment began to creep across his face as he reached for the handle of the screen door. Just then, the foyer light blinked out. Before he could even consider that unexpected turn, the front door slammed shut and the all too audible click of the bolt being thrown caused him to grimace.

Frances knew she was being a bit childish. She knew it and reveled in the fact that John was no doubt thinking exactly just that.
Good
, she thought,
let’s both be children
. She closed the window beside the front door and pulled the little drape closed to leave John completely in the dark.

Several thoughts competed in his mind for something to say, but none was victorious, and so John remained tongue-tied as the sounds of Frances’s receding footfalls disappeared within the darkened house. A few moments later he heard the backdoor slam shut. He couldn’t hear it, but he was sure that door was locked as well.

John wasn’t used to unlocking the front door, especially without the porch light, and so it took him several tries to find the right key and get the door open. The dog came up from the dark and watched him inquisitively while he did, but he paid the animal no mind. Once inside, he quietly closed the door, but left it unlocked—as was the norm—and removed his boots. The hall was gloomy, with only the light from the kitchen at its opposite end offering any illumination. Although he could neither see nor hear her, he knew he would find Frances there. John considered simply going upstairs and going to bed even though he knew she was waiting for him in the kitchen and spoiling for a confrontation. He might as well give her what she meant to have. He began the long walk down the hall in his padded feet feeling something like a man condemned.

John discovered his wife where she sat with her back to him at the kitchen table.

“You got this place locked down pretty tight, don’tcha, warden?”

He made a gesture to touch her shoulder from behind, only to take it back. Instead, he moved past her and retrieved a glass from the cupboard. “Wanna glass of milk?” he asked, still having not looked her in the eyes. His voice sounded just as affected as he imagined it must—singsong and nothing like his usual weary baritone—as he continued foolishly trying to pretend away the tension between them. When she didn’t answer, he shrugged; an unconvincing actor playing a role out of his depth.

He poured and downed a full glass of cold milk in one long pull. Normally he would have left the dirty glass in the sink, or worse, on the counter. In this rare instance, however, he rinsed it out and put it on the drying rack. John made a stupid smile as he did, as though the simple effort proved him to be a man worthy of praise; a big boy who had done things for himself. Frances sat quietly all the while, ignoring him.

“Whelp, gotta hit the hay,” he conceded, wiping his damp hands on his shirttails. He leaned in to kiss Frances goodnight on her forehead and that was when she slapped him. Hard.