–This was my first published short story. It won first place in a fiction contest at Paris Junior College, for whatever that’s worth, and was subsequently published in Swingers of Birches, a university literary journal of sorts. The story was heavily inspired by my grandad, who I grew up fishing with on the banks of Lake Tawakoni. He’s 91 now and his fishing days are pretty much behind him, but he’ll always be a fisherman to me. It’s not horror, and my writing has improved a great deal since this was penned, but I’ve probably never written anything that felt more true.–
For Love and Fish
He looks into her caramel eyes, captivated, as he had been since the moment he first met her; as he would be forever. He smells the recently rinsed away shampoo as she moves in close to him; he, wrapping her damp, coffee colored hair around his fingers, pulling her towards him, yearning for her kiss; she, putting her hands upon his cheeks, feeling his whiskers, his warmth, his smile. Her hands are so soft. Their lips meet. Her lips are moist and warm. His heart is pounding. If only moments like these could last forever.
But, that was long ago. The fisherman’s eyes slowly open as a bell atop one of his six poles jingles. Jingles once, but nothing more. The fisherman knows the bait has yet to be taken. He scans the other poles along the muddy beach. All the lines are taught. No more jingles. “I love you, Christy” he whispers, remembering the dream, her scent still fresh in his nose and his heart still pounding. A brief gust of wind blows through his gray hair and long tangled beard, then continues through the lonely woods behind him. Maybe that’s her saying she loves me back, the fisherman thinks. “Ten years gone and I still miss you” he says, looking out across the lake.
The fisherman reaches into the small cooler beside his lawn chair and pulls out one of his four remaining beers. That’s what put me to sleep, he thinks, two beers in an old man’s gut. He cracks open the can and takes a long swig. Few things in life are more soothing than an ice cold brew on a hot summer day. He slides the cold can across his bare chest. Refreshing. He wonders if he should rebait the hooks. They’ve been in the water for a good two hours now, with just the one bite. Maybe switch from sponge bait to punch bait. He pushes the half empty can an inch into the mud at his feet. This was a trick Christy had taught him years ago when one drunken night of catfishing had led to several spilled beers. Christy had taken the last beer from the cooler and corkscrewed into the ground at her husband’s feet. “If you manage to knock that one over, then I’ll hafta assume you’re doing it on purpose” she had said, laughing. Were we fishing here that night, he wonders, or on down the dirt roads a little further?
“I don’t think I’ve spilled a drink on the lake since that night” the fisherman says, chuckling. “I wish you were here now” he adds. He reaches behind the cooler, grabbing a paper bag full of pecans then produces a pair of pliers from the back pocket of his jean shorts and begins shelling them and eating the meat. Having done this a thousand times before, he knows the exact amount of pressure to apply to crack the shell without breaking the nut. “I guess I can thank you for these too, my dear” he says. Christy had planted the pecan tree in their backyard over forty years ago. The fisherman didn’t think it would grow. Too many rocks in the soil. But it had and, once it got of age, it never failed to produce a yard full of sweet pecans. They had become his favorite snack to take fishing.
The fisherman polishes off his beer in one long gulp and tosses the can to the ground. He closes his eyes as another gentle breeze passes around him. He tries to remember all the times he and Christy spent here over the years. Their first date had ended not far from this spot. Jesus, that was over fifty years ago, he thinks, and yet I remember it so well. The Seven Year Itch was not exactly the kind of movie you took your girl on a date to, but Christy had enjoyed it. And he must have been the only man in the theater that could care less about watching Marilyn Monroe march up those stairs. He had placed his palm, sweaty of course, atop her delicate hand. She grasped his hand in hers and he felt the dampness of her palm. The fisherman fell in love right then.
After the film, in an attempt to impress his date, the fisherman had pulled his beat-up old Ford down a dark dirt road. It had rained the day prior and as they drove slowly around the first bend they saw a rough man atop a horse, covered in mud, riding in their direction. As the horse rider passed the truck, he peered at the fisherman from beneath his hat and growled “Ya-ain-a-gon-make-it.” The fisherman had laughed and drove on anyway. He had made it through the first few mud holes and Christy had laughed and screamed. But eventually his luck ran out. They had spent the night in that truck, which had sunk two feet into the black and gray clay. He had kept Christy warm with his jacket and his arms. When the sun rose the next morning, they did not immediately go find help. They explored the muddy roads, hand-in-hand, and eventually came to the lake and the fishing holes that they would come to for the rest of their lives.
They were drawn to the lake from that day on. Every free moment was spent together at the lake. Christy went about naming the different fishing holes they frequented, like Christy’s Cove, for her favorite spot to fish; Halloween, for a spot they camped at one Halloween night; The Deep Hole, for a spot where the water quickly dropped off; and of course Ya-ain-a-gon-make-it Road for the muddy trail they got stuck on.
The fisherman had proposed at The Deep Hole and after the small wedding, a few months later, they had gone to the lake for their honeymoon. They had pulled their dinner from the lake’s waters when money was not easy to come by. When finances got better, they still came for the fish and the seclusion. They brought their children (who had since moved to the city and rarely went fishing) here every weekend. It was where they came to get away from work and the stresses of life. They had grown old together on these muddy beaches.
“And old I have become” the fisherman says, again opening his eyes, hoping to see Christy standing before him, but only seeing the muddy waters. He brushes the pecan shells off his lap. He pushes himself up from the chair, drops back to his seat, then succeeds in pushing himself to his feet. “Too damned old.” He walks towards the first fishing pole on his left, the mud squishing between his toes as he gets closer to the water. He has always loved that feeling of mud between his toes. Christy had thought it was gross. He reels in the line high and fast, so as not to get hung-up. He reels in each rod in the same fashion and takes them up to his Jeep pick-up, parked amongst the trees.
The fisherman lets down the bed of his truck and grabs the tackle box. He begins trading the single hooks with sponge for the treble hooks with punch bait. His fingers work fast tying the knots. His fingers have endured countless wounds from hooks and fins, but none today. He ties each treble hook ensuring that the sinker is a good six to eight inches below the hook. Trouble hooks Christy had called them for their likelihood of getting hung-up. Three times the hook, three times more likely to snag a stump. Also, three times more likely to hook a fish. At least, that is how the fisherman always looked at it.
He remembers how bad the hang-ups had been the year after the bad drought. How long ago had that been? Fourteen? Fifteen years ago? Fourteen, he remembers now because it was just before Christy was diagnosed with cancer. The drought had allowed bushes and grass to grow well below the normal water line. The fisherman recalls being able to drive his truck around the entire lake without ever touching pavement. A year later when the rains had come (and Christy had begun complaining of pains in her abdomen) it was nearly impossible to reel in a hook without getting hung-up. Even when they had landed a fish, it often became tangled in the unseen bushes. But they had made the best of it.
After the diagnosis and the realization that the cancer had progressed too far to be stopped, Christy still wanted to fish. The doctor had given her six months and she had lived nearly four years, fishing up until that last year. The fisherman had tried to make her stay home; tried to make her rest. “We live to fish, honey” Christy had said. “I live for you” he had replied. “And to fish” she said and smiled a weak, but precious smile.
Tears form in the fisherman’s eyes as he carries his baited rod-and-reels back towards the shore. He remembers when she finally did have to give up fishing. Visits to the hospital had ended as well and were replaced by frequent visits from hospice nurses. The fisherman rarely left Christy’s side as sickness engulfed her body. She had stayed in their bedroom for the most part, where they had made love so many times, when life seemed like it could never end. He remembers how beautiful she was even as old age and disease had taken over. Christy had been so strong. The fisherman remembers how she had been so worried for his well-being once she was gone. “I’ll be fine, my dear” he had said and squeezed her hand.
“And as that Tim McGraw song goes,” the fisherman says as he casts a line into the water, “given the chance, I’d lie again.” He heaves each of his baited lines far into the water and places the rods in their place on the beach. He attaches bells atop each pole. Christy had passed in her sleep, which the fisherman was grateful for. At her request, her ashes had been scattered along this very beach. Christy had called it Sunset Beach because, to her, it was the most beautiful place on the lake to watch the sunset.
The fisherman walks back to his spot and plops down in the chair. He opens another beer and takes another long drink. Again, he closes his eyes. The gentle breeze has died down and the summer sun beats down on him, but he does not care. He enjoys the heat. A jingle. Just a nudge, but a jingle all the same. The fisherman knows, without opening his eyes, that it came from the pole on his far right. Another jingle. And another. The bell erupts in a furious ring. The fisherman’s eyes jolt open just in time to see the rod being jerked from its position on the beach and into the water. “Bastard!” he yells and jumps from his seat.
The fisherman runs to the water and dives towards his fishing pole, reaching out and barely grasping the handle before the pole could be whisked away forever. He pulls it towards him, getting a good grip despite the mud and clay that now cake the rod. He stumbles to his feet in knee deep water. The line is tight. He pulls gently back on the rod, knowing that the hook is already set. The fish pulls back, nearly ripping the pole from his hands. He can tell it is big. Maybe too big. The fisherman tries the reel, but it is of no use. The fish pulls harder still as it tries to fight its way towards the center of the lake.
The fisherman walks deeper into the muddy water, letting the catfish fight and hopefully wear itself out. The water is at his waist now and gentle waves splash against his stomach. He feels mud covering his feet and, beneath them, roots from some long ago dead tree. He hopes not to step on glass, as many a drunken fishermen have thrown empty beer bottles into the lake and used them for target practice. The fish leads him deeper. The fisherman’s forearms burn as he holds the rod steady. It has been some time since a fish has given him this kind of fight. He fears that the fish is nowhere near tired.
The water is up to his chest. Waves splash over his beard. The fisherman knows now that he will have to fight this fish. He stops moving forward and the line draws tight. He pulls back on the rod, lifting his arms out of the water. He takes two steps back towards shore, pulling the line tighter, pulling harder and harder, trying to reel in as he does so. The muscles of his arms and back throb. The fish fights back, frantically thrashing on the other end of the line. The fisherman is forced to step towards the fish. He pulls back as hard as his arms will allow. The pole is bent over at its maximum. The fisherman’s arms are shaking as he nears exhaustion and he yells to the heavens as he gives one last pull.
The pole snaps. Instant relief comes to the fisherman’s muscles as the tension is taken away. His arms feel like spaghetti. He looks down at what is left of the rod-and-reel. While the rod had been broken, he must have hit the release on the reel. The spool is quickly running out of line as the fish continues out towards deeper waters. The last of the line leaves the reel, having not been tied. For a moment the line lays limply in front of the fisherman, as if the fish is taunting him. Then it slowly continues its journey behind the catfish. The fisherman’s shoulders sag and he tosses the useless rod-and-reel into the water. He begins to turn back towards the beach. Then he stops. He looks at the line, four or five feet away, moving slowly still. The fish is tired. “Wait!” he yells and trudges through mud and chest deep water, towards the line.
He reaches the line. He grabs it and wraps the end around his left hand twice. Two feet up the line, he grabs with his right hand and wraps it twice, then three times. He pulls back with all his mite. “I’m back you bastard!” He begins to take slow but steady steps back towards shore. The fish attempts to fight, but he is weakened. The fisherman can still feel the fish’s enormous weight as he pulls. The fish gives one more mad dash towards the center of the lake, digging the line into the fisherman’s hands, bringing blood. But, he does not give in. He holds his ground as the fish reaches exhaustion, then begins pulling him in again, stomping towards the beach with his monstrous catch in tow. The line goes limp. The fisherman, now standing in water up to his waist again, feels his heart sink. It got off the hook. He looks at his battered hands. All that for nothing, he thinks. The sun is descending on the far side of the lake, making the water a bright orange tint. The fisherman squints and watches the ripples caused by the returning light breeze. Then he sees it. The needle sharp dorsal fin of a large catfish. It is not off the hook. It is just trying a different strategy. It is swimming straight towards the fisherman.
The fisherman begins pulling in the loose line as fast as he can. He hopes to get the line tight again before the fish gets too close. His heart pounds. What a fight this fish has put up, he thinks. One for the ages! The fish is swimming too fast. The line gets tight at the moment the fish gets to its adversary. It passes him, continuing towards shallow water. The fisherman jerks the fish towards him. It surfaces. It is a huge flathead catfish. A mudcat, as he and Christy had always called them. It is a shimmering brown green color. Its dangerous barbs extend eight inches or more. The fish is four feet in length and over a hundred pounds, the fisherman guesses. “Good God, you’re a record fish if’n I ever saw one” he says “biggest I ever seen.” The line snaps at the base of the hook.
Without a moment’s thought, the fisherman grabs the catfish’s tail with both hands before it can escape. He pulls it to him. He wraps his right arm around the body of the fish, grabbing the inside the cat’s massive jaws with his left hand. It clamps down on the fisherman’s hand, causing his knuckles to bleed. The fish thrashes as he tries to hold it tight and walk it to shore. The dorsal fin’s barb slices through the fisherman’s right bicep. He grits his teeth, ignoring his bleeding arm and hands and continues towards the beach.
The mudcat struggles in his arms, but barely. The fisherman knows that his prize fish has begun to accept defeat. Its tail fin slaps at his knees as they rise from the water. Another twenty yards and they will reach the shore. The strength and determination of his foe surprise the fisherman once again as it gives one last effort to free itself from his arms. Its muscles contract and extend, violently swatting its tail back and forth. The fisherman momentarily loses his grasp around the fish’s body. He loses his footing and stumbles forward. He regains control of the fish as he falls. The fisherman sees his fall in slow motion. He sees the stump, just barely hidden below the surface of the water. He sees its jagged, sharp edges. He sees where he will land and knows he will be hurt, knowing that if he releases the fish, he could possibly save himself from major injury. But, he does not let go.
The fisherman had tied trot lines from this stump over the years. He had even grabbed catfish from under its roots, by hand. During the year of the drought, Christy had found an arrow head and countless pieces of flint at the base of this stump. They had imagined Indians sitting under this huge tree, making arrows and smoking pipes. The fisherman’s left ribs hit the sharpest point of the stump, with his and the fish’s entire weight. His breath is immediately taken away. He hears tearing as it pierces his skin and cracking as it breaks through his ribs. He screams and gasps for air as his left lung collapses and begins to fill with blood. He holds onto the fish. It no longer struggles to get away. Keeping his arms around the fish, the fisherman gets his feet underneath him. He is in a squatting position and leaning over the stump. The fisherman takes three deep breathes, never getting as much air as he needs. He raises off the stump, causing pain like he has never felt. The water turns red around him. He holds onto the fish.
He falls five times before reaching the beach. He gets there on his knees and, with what is left of his energy, he tosses his enormous catch less than a foot from water’s edge. The fisherman collapses on his stomach beside it. He coughs and sees blood shower the dirt and mud. “That ain’t good” he whispers. He roles to his left side to look at the catfish as blood pores from his wound. The fisherman takes a moment to admire the marvelous catch. Its body glistens in the light of the setting sun. The fisherman notices a gash across the catfish’s abdomen. Its intestines lay out on the beach. It is dying. “You too, huh?” the fisherman says and coughs up a large amount of bright red blood as he tries to laugh. The fish’s left eye stairs straight back at him, as if it is in shock that this weak, old man has managed to end its reign over these waters.
The fisherman roles to his back. He watches as stars begin to appear in the dark, blue summer sky. “Hope you were watching, Christy. Cause if’n you weren’t you’ll think I’ve cooked up one hell of tale. Biggest cat I ever seen.” These last words are barely more than a whisper. He coughs and blood spills down both cheeks. He tries to think of Christy. He tries to think of their happiest moments. But, as his body loses its ability to sustain life, he only feels fright. He struggles for his last breathes. His eyes are wide, staring at nothing. His body trembles. His heart, stripped of oxygen and depleted of blood, fires its last contraction. On the shore, where so much life was lived, the fisherman dies.
He feels the soft touch on his cheeks. His eyes open to see Christy, young and beautiful and free from disease, her warm, caramel eyes staring into his. He gasps and his heart leaps. She grins, not saying a word, as tears form in his eyes. She presses her lips against his. Christy and her fisherman embrace as night falls on Sunset Beach.