Phantom (27 page)

Peeler was in a better mood the next day. It
was clear and crisp, with late August hints that autumn was just
around the corner. When Ned showed Peeler the night crawlers he had
caught, the old man laughed and said, "You don't need worms that
big to get sunfish. Hell, you can cut up one of them things into
three or four pieces, it'll do the trick. You use 'em if you want
to, but it's like tryin' to feed a roast buffalo to a cocker
spaniel; he'll have a go at it, but a lump of baloney'd do just as
well."

Baxley Mill Pond was outside of Lynnhaven,
but on the same side of town as Peeler's baithouse, so they didn't
have a long walk to get there. Ned had seen the place before,
although he hadn't fished it. As they approached, he noticed again
the complete absence of any shoreline development. It was lightly
wooded, with occasional clear patches along the edge of the water,
but not a single cottage. It looked more like a pocket lake than a
mill pond.

"Why is it called Baxley Mill Pond?" Ned
asked.

"Come to think of it, I don't know. Must go
back a long ways, because that's what it always was, to my
knowledge. And it always looked the same as it does now," Peeler
said, gesturing around him. "Just a punk lake, clean but shallow.
Ain't nobody never had no use for it, at least none to speak
of."

"Maybe a hundred years ago it was
different," Ned speculated. "Or maybe back around the time of the
Civil War."

"Maybe," Peeler said doubtfully.

They found a clear spot on the shore that
was big enough so they could fish without getting in each other's
way. The ground was covered with tall field grass and a sprinkling
of cool water; Ned knew it contained a supply of beer. The old man
set about his preparations as if they were a sacred ritual. Ned,
who could have his line baited and ready in under a minute, stood
watching. Peeler was never in any rush to get to the casting
stage.

First, he carefully untied the faded cloth
wrapper and took out the two sections of his fishing rod. Next, he
rolled' the inside tip of the second section along the side of his
nose, so the skin oils would provide that tiny bit of lubrication
to ensure a smooth fit. Then he lined up the guides and put the rod
together. A last, small twist of the flange might be necessary for
perfect alignment. Peeler would whip the rod through the air
several times, until he was satisfied with the action. After
clamping on the reel and threading the line, he sat down with the
rod across his legs and brought out his battered folder of hooks.
He chose one of the smallest and tied it on, snipping off two or
three inches of excess line. Then he caught the hook in the first
guide and cranked the reel until the rod arced obligingly. Now he
was almost ready. He attached a small bobber to the line about a
foot and a half above the hook. Peeler glanced up and saw Ned
watching him.

"What're you lookin' at?" he asked
good-naturedly.

Ned smiled. "Nothing."

The old man peered closely at the boy's rig.
"What're you tryin' to do, catch a shark?"

"What's the matter with it?"

"Bobber's too big, for one thing," Peeler
said. "Use the littlest one you got, so it don't drag like an
anchor when the fish wants to turn and run with your bait."

"Oh. Okay."

"And what're you usin' for bait anyhow?"

"A night crawler."

"A whole one?"

"Yes."

Peeler shook his head in amazement. "Damn
thing looks like an Italian meatball," he said. "Fish'll have a
feast on that without even gettin' the hook in their mouth. What
size hook you got there?"

"I'm not sure."

"Well ... See what happens."

Peeler was still smiling to himself as he
slid a tiny pink angle worm on his hook. They cast out, and within
a couple of minutes they each pulled in a red-breasted sunfish less
than five inches in length.

"Junk," Peeler muttered, tossing his fish
into the brush. He walked over to Ned. "Let's see now .... Yeah,
look at that. Ain't nothin' left of your worm. This guy and all his
kin just nibbled it away, and you were lucky to hook one. If you're
gonna use night crawlers, just use a piece about an inch long—all
you need to do is cover the hook, no more." Peeler deftly unhooked
Ned's fish and flung it toward the trees. "I'd put a smaller hook
on too, if I was you."

"How come you don't put the fish back in the
water, if they're too small?" Ned asked.

''Too many of 'em in there as it is," Peeler
answered. "They need thinnin' out. Gives the others a better chance
of growin' to a decent size."

Ned changed hooks and tried Peeler's
suggestion of using a small section of night crawler. It worked
fine. An hour later they had caught about a half-dozen sunnies
each, a couple of which were large enough to keep. Peeler set his
rod down and popped open another can of beer. He took a gulp and
some of the cold brew slopped over his lips, trickling down his
chin and neck. It felt good.

"Hey, Peeler."

"Yeah?"

"You don't ever watch TV, do you?"

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"I used to." Peeler broke a piece of tall
grass and chewed on the stem.

"You did? What did you watch?"

"I used to go down to Rudy's Bar and watch
the baseball games. It was quite a while ago. Then I give up, and I
ain't never seen a bit of television since."

"How come?"

"Well ... because some pissant son of a
biscuit went and moved the Washington Senators to Minnesota and
they weren't on the TV no more."

Ned almost laughed. "That's why you gave up
TV?"

"Sure. Only thing I ever did was watch
Senators' games."

"But ... "

"I heard a story once," Peeler said. "Don't
know if it's true or not, but I like to think it is. They say there
was this young fella, maybe twenty or so, and he was in love with a
beautiful young girl. And he courted her and courted her, till
finally they got engaged to be married. He was the happiest fella
in the world then, but a little while later she changed her mind
and called it off. Now, you know what that poor boy went and
did?"

"What?"

"He stopped goin' to work, just give up his
job. And he stopped talkin' too, and he went into the poorhouse.
They say he spent the rest of his life there, forty-four years, I
believe, without sayin' a single word to anybody."

"Not even one word?" Ned didn't believe it.
Nobody could do that for four years, let alone forty-four.

"Nope," Peeler said. "Not even one
word."

"That's—silly."

"Maybe." Peeler spat out the last of the
grass stem and smiled. "To tell you the truth, I sometimes do
listen in on a game, on the radio in my car at night. It's better'n
seein' it on TV too, but don't ask me why."

"I don't like baseball much," Ned
admitted.

"Nobody's perfect."

Peeler finished his beer and stood up to
resume fishing. Suddenly be froze, looking like a cartoon character
who has just been struck with a bright idea.

"What's the matter?" Ned asked.

"Ssssh. "

Peeler bent low and then snatched at
something with his hand. "Got him," he announced, straightening up.
"Yessir, he's a real beauty."

Ned put down his rod and went over to take a
look. Peeler delicately held a black-winged grasshopper by its long
legs.

"Are you going to use that for bait?" the
boy asked.

"Sure am. Watch how I do it now, and you'll
learn something." Peeler brought the barb of the hook to a spot
just under the hopper's head. "Right down his throat ... all the
way ... nice and easy ... like so."

The hopper's jaws worked futilely on the
shaft of the hook. Its legs kicked and its wings flapped, but it
was well hooked, with the barb curling out low to its belly. The
hopper's weight gave Peeler better distance on his cast. He and Ned
watched the insect make a fuss on the surface of the water for a
few seconds, and then there was a large splash. Peeler gave a
short, quick tug to set the hook, and the tip of his rod bent
pleasingly. The fish ran briefly, then gave up. Peeler had no
trouble horsing it out of the water.

"Hey, what is it?" Ned was excited because
he had never seen this kind of fish before. It was about seven
inches long and shaped like a sunfish. But its sides sparkled with
iridescent blue and purple coloring, and the dark spot on its gill
flap was less pronounced.

"Rock bass,” Peeler said. "Good size, too.
They don't come much more'n eight inches or so, except at the
liar's club."

"That's a bass?"

"Rock bass, that's his name," Peeler said.
"But freshwater fish names are kinda screwy. Try to remember this:
a white perch is not a true perch, it's a bass, a member of the
bass family; and a rock bass is not a true bass, it's in the
sunfish family. One of the bigger ones, and good eatin' too."

Ned put one hand on his hip. "Why do they
call a bass a perch, and a sunfish a bass, if they aren't?"

"That's their names, is all I know." Peeler
grinned. "Like I told you, names ain't a whole lot of use when you
come right down to it. All you got to know is which one is worth
cookin' and which one ain't." Peeler put the rock bass on the
stringer.

"Pretty fish."

"Sure is," the old man agreed. "Tell you
what. Where there's one of these guys there's usually a whole tribe
of 'em. Put a couple of split shot on your line, halfway between
the bobber and the hook. That'll get your cast out farther, where I
caught this one."

Peeler went back to using worms, but Ned
spent a quarter of an hour trying to catch one of those black
grasshoppers. Whenever he got close to one and started to reach
out, it flew away. Finally he quit, and cut up another night
crawler.

"Got to get 'em early,” Peeler said. "When
they're still half asleep and heavy with dew. I was lucky with the
one I grabbed."

By mid-afternoon they had thirteen worthy
rock bass, gill to gill on the stringer, and they had thrown away
more than two dozen small sunnies.

"I guess we got enough," Peeler said,
dismantling his gear and packing it away. "The raccoons'll have a
party tonight with all we left in the bushes."

They had set out on this fishing trip with
brisk, eager strides, but now Peeler and Ned ambled lazily back
toward the baithouse. Peeler let Ned carry the fish, and they
slapped rhythmically against the boy's leg as he walked. There was
a good feeling between them that came from going out to do
something enjoyable and then having enjoyed doing it. No hitches,
no bother about it, just a good day that was going the way it was
supposed to. The mood was so right that Ned didn't think twice
about bringing up the subject.

"You know what you were telling me yesterday
about the old Farley family?"

"Yeah."

"Well ... The Sherwoods, who owned the boats
.. ."

"Yeah, what about 'em?"

"Didn't they own the spa too?"

"Oh, later, yeah. They built the spa, but it
wasn't till many years later that they got around to that. When the
Farley boy was lost, the Sherwoods was just in the fishin'
business, I believe. So, their children, or grandchildren, I don't
know who, was the ones who built the spa."

Ned was nodding to himself as he listened.
"That's what I thought. I just wanted to make sure." It felt so
much easier to talk about it today, perhaps because they were
walking side by side, faces forward.

"Why?" Peeler asked casually.

"I think the ghost of that Farley woman is
still hanging around our house." The way it came out sounding so
inconsequential it nearly made Ned laugh at himself, but then he
added earnestly: "I do, I really do."

Peeler surprised them both. "I been thinkin'
about that too," he said. Well, why not? He hadn't slept easy the
night before, and maybe it was time to be a little more frank with
the boy.

"Really?" Ned kept walking, staring straight
ahead, but his pulse quickened.

"Yeah, the thing is, there's always been a
kind of local story about her, you see. A lot of nonsense—her
supposed to be waitin' eternally for her lost boy to come back, or
be found, or what have you."

"Do you think she is?"

"Nah;' Peeler scoffed. "Folks just make up
stuff like that to give 'em somethin' to talk about, that's
all."

"But you said you were thinking about it
too."

"Yeah .... Yeah, I was. And maybe I even
began to take it serious, just a smidgen. Shows you how stupid an
old fool can get. Don't help if he has another stupid old fool for
a partner too."

"You're not stupid, Peeler;' Ned argued. "I
think you're the smartest person I ever met."

Peeler kept walking and didn't speak. Of
course the boy was wrong, and he'd grow up to learn better. But his
sincerity, his utter lack of guile, touched the old man deeply.

"Sometimes, when I think of that Farley
woman,” Ned went on, "I get scared."

"Only natural. She was kinda worryin' me
too. Ain't that the darndest thing? A woman dead and buried eighty
or a hundred years. But that's the beauty part of fishin',
y'see."

"What?" Ned couldn't follow the apparent
leap in Peeler's thinking.

"Fishin' has a way of clearin' the head,"
Peeler continued.

"Even one as thick as mine. What I'm sayin'
is, she's dead, and it don't make pig-sense to worry about the
dead."

"Then why do I feel scared sometimes—and you
too?"

Peeler stopped and turned to face Ned. His
eyes were warm and assuring, but there was also a look of
seriousness in them that Ned had never seen before. He held a
finger under the boy's chin.

"You don't have to be scared, Nedly."

That was all. They started walking
again.

"You mean you don't really believe in
ghosts," Ned said after a few moments. "Or anything like that?"