The Journey Prize Stories 21 (3 page)

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?

Why not.

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.

Did all three catch.

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.