by Jamie Zerndt
When the boy looked at his hand, however, he didn’t see blood like he thought he would. Instead, there was a long black line across his palm, and suddenly the boy realized what had happened. He’d been burned by the fish, his hand scorched. The boy felt himself starting to cry, but, just as the first tear was about to fall, the big sunfish popped his head up out of the water.
“Sorry about that, kid. It was nothing personal. I had to stop you. You understand that, right?” The boy sniffled a little and nodded. “Look at this way,” the fish went on. “Now you have something to remember me by. I don’t know of any other human who’s gotten close enough to touch me. You should think of that mark on your hand as a badge of honor, the scar of a true warrior. A true fisherman. Will you promise me you’ll do that? That you’ll be proud of it?”
The boy cradled his hand and smiled down at the fish. “I will,” said the boy. Then, just as he was about to ask if he’d ever see the fish again, the fish disappeared under the water and, for a few seconds, everything under the water lit up, turning all the vibrant colors of a sunset. And then, just as quickly as it had come to life, the water went dark and still again, leaving the boy there in his boat staring at his hand, at the mark left there by the strange and beautiful talking fish.
“Is that it?”
“That’s it. Goodnight, Doug. I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know that.”
“Good.”
“That story was about today, wasn’t it? About me getting my hand cutted.”
“Sort of.”
“So you think I’m a warrior?”
“I know you’re a warrior.”
Kay noticed a light on in the Scamp. Maybe Douglas had come home. But when had it gotten dark? It seemed like only minutes ago the sun was out. The door to the Scamp was open just a bit, so Kay gave a little knock in case Douglas was in there. When she called his name and there was no response, the silence unnerved her for some reason. And the light seeping out through the cracked door seemed to be shaking. Like someone was moving around inside. “Hello? Is someone in there?” Again, there was no response. She opened the door a little more and peered in. The first thing she noticed was the size and number of them. There had to have been at least a hundred of them, all the size of silver dollars. The gypsy moths were blanketing the ceiling light, swarming like they were trying to devour the thing. She’d have to have a word with Douglas about turning that damn light off before he left for work in the mornings.
Her first instinct was to grab a hand towel and swat at them, but she knew from experience it would be useless. There was a pull chain on the light, and when she reached for it, a few of the moths alighted onto her hand. She pulled her hand away from the gray, feather-like mass and sat down on the bench seat. There were two of them crawling around the back of her hand now, looking for something to eat no doubt and probably disappointed that her liver spots were just that: spots. They were soft, beautiful things though. Destructive beasts, maybe, but gorgeous nonetheless. Kay had always liked moths, felt they’d gotten a bad rap when compared to butterflies. It didn’t seem fair that they were always the ugly cousin. Humans liked big, colorful things. But the moth was like a steppe covered in snow. Or a lake holding a dull cup of fog.
Kay held her hand up to her face, and one of the moths flitted back toward what was left of the light. The remaining moth was still except for the rabbit ears on its head slowly swiveling from side to side. Kay thought of the jars filled with soapy water she’d set out last summer to lure the caterpillars, drowning them before metamorphosis could occur. It had to be done; she understood that. But what she held now seemed like a gray explosion in her hand and suddenly Kay felt herself close to tears.
“You have to tell him.”
She could hear Norm as clearly as if he were sitting there beside her. She knew the moth wasn’t her husband, but, even so, she spoke to it.
“I know. I will.”
She wiped away a tear and, when she did, the moth left her hand, disappearing into the undulating furry ball that the light had become. She sat in silence for a bit, waiting for her husband to speak again. When he didn’t, she picked up Douglas’s sketchbook from the table and pulled on the chain throwing the Scamp into darkness.
Later, as Kay sat watching another episode of Murder She Wrote with a Manhattan bigger than the city it was named after, the fact that Norm never told her about the poetry seemed like a betrayal of sorts, keeping that part of himself hidden from her. But there was something else bothering Kay. The thought was there, half-formed and hazy, flitting about the corners of her mind like the gypsy moths earlier. And, like the light pushing its way through the gathering bodies, the thought, shaky as it was, eventually made its way through. What secrets did Kay have? What secrets were hers? And the answer to that, the absolute soul-toppling answer to that seemed to beat quietly inside her as she fell asleep yet again on the couch:
None.
Chapter Fifteen:
Douglas
Douglas was putting the shovel and pickaxe back in the shed, about to go inside for lunch, when he saw his mother making her way slowly down the steps. She was making a big show of it, smiling broadly like a movie star descending some grand staircase. “They’re beautiful,” she said, once she reached the bottom. “Really.”
“Better late than never, I guess.”
“Late? Why would you say that?”
“Never mind.”
He’d shored them up using 4 X 6’s and rebar pounded into the dirt so they wouldn’t crumble in the summer rains and laid rocks on top so they wouldn’t puddle. And he’d been sure to make them snake down the hill so they wouldn’t be too steep for his mom. Douglas liked them, though it was a bitter-sweet kind of like. He could almost see Norm trudging up the steps, his fishing rod in hand, a beating heart still in his chest.
“Is there something you want to tell me, honey?”
“I don’t know. Is there something you want to tell me?”
His mother studied him a moment. “Why don’t you go first. Mine can wait.”
“You sure you won’t forget?” Douglas walked over to one of the steps, avoiding his mother’s gaze, and kicked at the rebar.
“You know, don’t you?”
“Shawna and I are pretty close, Mom. You can’t blame her for telling me.”
“No. No, I don’t. Not at all.”
Douglas watched as his mom walked out on the dock. She shuffled when she walked now. Or was beginning to. And her shoulders were rounding out, hunching over. It was like she was slowly disappearing right before his eyes. When he sat down next to her on the bench, her eyes were wet and large as she looked out toward the island. She seemed so incredibly vulnerable and scared. Just like that night his dad died. It was something Douglas hoped he’d never have to see again.
“I’m not going to tell you I’m pregnant every day.” He waited for a response, but his mom only nodded, obviously not listening to him. “Okay, maybe I will.”
“You will what now, honey?”
“Tell you I’m pregnant every day.”
“Why on earth would you do something like that?”
Douglas reached over, squeezed her hand. When he went to pull away, though, she held onto it. “I saw something once about a woman whose mother had Alzheimer’s, and every day the daughter would tell her mom she was pregnant. Each time the mom would get all excited and super happy. It was supposed to be one of those feel-good stories they have on the news.”
She pulled her hand away. “You have to promise you’ll never do that to me.”
“Well, seeing as I can’t get pregnant...”
“You know what I mean, Douglas. I’m serious now. Promise me. Promise me you’ll never treat me like a... like an imbecile. I’d rather be dead.”
“Okay, I promise. I get it.”
She looked
at him, the fear seeming to ebb some, then back out at the island. “Can I ask why you keep staring at the island?”
She reached for his hand again. “I don’t know. It’s pretty?”
“It’s not that pretty.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You’re going to be okay.”
“Not really.”
“No, I guess not.”
“I’m scared, Douglas. Is it okay to tell you that?”
“Yeah, it’s okay. I am, too.”
“Just treat me with respect. That’s all I ask.”
“So not like when you had all your faculties still intact.”
“Very funny.”
They were quiet for a bit, the wind picking up on the lake, setting little ripples in motion across the surface. It always reminded Douglas of a miniature-sized typhoon the way the water rocked the dock, leaving a root-beer colored foam along the bank.
“Your turn,” his mother said after a bit.
“My turn what?”
“You were going to tell me something about the steps.”
“I guess it couldn’t hurt.”
“What does that mean?”
“Well, it’s not like you’re going to remember anyway, right?” He gave her a gentle nudge with his shoulder. “Too soon?”
“Just tell me before I die of old age.”
Douglas found himself looking out at the island now, too, like maybe the answers to both their problems were hiding out there among the cattails. “Dad asked me to build them.”
“The steps? When?”
“A few weeks before...”
“Oh, Douglas honey.”
“Yeah. Oh, Douglas honey.”
“And you think that had something to do with why your father had a heart attack?”
“Well, he did ask me to put them in. And I just kept putting it off like I do everything. And he did die walking back up to the house. So, yeah, I kind of totally think it’s my fault.”
His mom shook her head and sighed. “Your father’s death was no more your fault than it was mine for cooking him all those steaks over the years. And he’d been muttering about putting in those damn steps for years, along with about a dozen or so other projects he was never going to get around to. If he wanted them built so badly, he could’ve done it himself a long time ago rather than trying to pass it off on you.”
“Still.”
“Still nothing. I don’t want you walking around with that mess inside you. You hear me? It’s not... Well, it’s just not accurate.”
Douglas felt the fist his throat had turned into loosen a touch. “I don’t know about that, but thanks for saying it anyway.”
“Well, it’s true. And I know Norm would tell you the same thing if he could. It wasn’t your fault, Douglas. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. That man’s heart was older and more banged up than any of those clunkers down at the shop.”
Douglas could hear her and knew she meant every word, but he also knew she could tell him the same thing every day for the rest of his life and it still wouldn’t be enough to kill the guilt he felt. He would forever be the one bringing that particular hammer down on himself. This much he knew for certain.
“Thanks, Mom. Maybe you’re right.”
“There’s no maybe about it. It’s true. I say so.”
Douglas shook his head, stood up, and held out his hand to her. “At least I had nothing to do with your Alzheimer’s. There’s that anyway.”
His mother coughed loudly and looked down at her feet. “Well, let’s not get too carried away.”
“You’re really not funny.”
His mother rose from the bench, slid her arm through his. “I guess that makes two of us then.”
She had insisted on going to the transfer station with him, said she needed to get out of the house for a bit even if it was just down to the dump. As they drove, Douglas spotted a family of deer through the jack pines and found himself wondering if animals got Alzheimer’s, too.
“How would you know if a deer had Alzheimer’s?”
His mother kept staring out the window, not bothering to turn her head when she answered him. “I don’t know. How?”
“There isn’t a punchline or anything, Mom. I’m seriously asking.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding a little disappointed. “I don’t think animals get sick like that, honey. It’s probably just a human thing.”
“Like serial killers?”
“I suppose.”
She sounded tired. Or maybe she sounded like an adult, and here he was bothering her with stupid questions like a child. Probably the latter, he realized, but still he wasn’t able to let it go.
“I mean, you wouldn’t be able to tell if a deer, or any other animal, lost their memory. How would their behavior change? How much is just instinct? Or can you lose instinct, too?”
“I hope we don’t see anyone there. I’m not in the mood to talk to people.”
Douglas took the hint, dropped it. “Seriously? You’re always in the mood to talk.”
“You sound like your father.”
Douglas remembered his dad saying something about how conversation, if done right, could be like a good meal but that most people were just pigs. Not that his mom was like that. Douglas just liked to tease her about it from time to time.
The transfer station turned out to be practically empty. After Douglas had unloaded the trunk of the week’s garbage and recycling, he was planning on driving back home when his mother asked if they could make a little detour.
“I was thinking we could stop at that new coffee shop. Alma told me I should try one of those coffee mochas.”
“Café mochas.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
Douglas hadn’t spoken to Jenna since his last visit. Not because he hadn’t wanted to, but more out of embarrassment. Still, he could think of no plausible excuse for avoiding the stop.
“They’re not cheap, you know.”
“The coffee? They can’t be that much. Besides, I think I’m allowed to splurge a little, considering.”
Douglas smiled at her. “You’re really going to milk this for all it’s worth, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
When they got there, Jenna was behind the counter, her back to them, cleaning something in the sink. Douglas had thought of telling his mother about her, that he’d been seeing her, but for some reason, he didn’t. Mainly, he supposed, because he wasn’t quite sure how to label what they were yet. Douglas watched as his mom took in the artwork on the walls. With her hand on her chin she could have just as easily been trying to decide which can of soup to buy down at Snow’s. But, then, that’s probably what Douglas looked like, too, when looking at paintings.
“I don’t know why exactly, but I really like this one.”
She had stopped in front of a large painting of a red loon lying in the road with a broken neck, black blood bleeding out and around the edges of the frame. Douglas’s loon, more or less, though Jenna’s was definitely more disturbing. When Douglas peered down at the white card taped to the wall, it read simply “Douglas O’Brien.” He was waiting for his mother to notice, but she seemed transfixed by the painting. More so, he noted with a slight pang, than she’d ever seemed to be when looking at his own drawings.
“I think I’ve seen this somewhere before.”
“Yeah. On a road.”
“I mean in another painting, smartass.”
It was clear she’d been peeking at his sketchbook, and Douglas was about to call her on it when Jenna walked up behind them.
“Hi.” Jenna stood there looking first at Douglas, and then at Kay, waiting, it seemed, for Douglas to make the next move. She was smiling coyly, though, as if his discomfort were the source
of infinite joy to her.
“Hello,” his mother said. “I think I’d like a café mocha, please. Do you have any of those?”
“I do have those. What size would you like?”
“I think a small would be just fine.”
“A small it is. And for you, sir?”
“Mom, this is Jenna. Jenna, this is my mom.”
His mother’s face lit up as she took the girl in, making it obvious, to Douglas anyway, that she deemed Jenna somewhat out of his league. “Oh, is this the new friend you’ve been spending so much time with?”
“Mom.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She held her hand out and the two shook hands. “I’m Catherine. But everybody calls me Kay.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“You know, I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that.”
“People call me Jen all the time and it drives me nuts. That’s the only reason I ask.”
“That makes sense. I’d like Jenna better, too, I think.”
There was an awkward silence and Douglas could tell his mother had forgotten the question entirely. “Mom.”
“What?”
“Kay or Catherine?”
“Oh, right. Why don’t you just call me Kay like everyone else. But you know what’s funny? Now that I think about it, I don’t think I really like either name.”
“You could always change it.”
“Oh, that would be too silly at my age. And what on earth would I change it to?”
“Fred,” Douglas muttered, which only elicited frowns from both women.
“All I’m saying is that you could. Probably a big hassle, though, and I think Kay is pretty cool as is.”
