Half an Inch of Water: Stories

by Percival Everett

  “Whoa, boy,” he said to the gelding. He picked up the reins, feeling that at any second the animal might bolt. Daniel looked around, wondered if the bear that had possibly wrecked the beaver dam was still around. He was glad he didn’t have a rifle with him. If there was a bear and he was armed he might do something stupid like shoot it. His father always said that shooting a bear would only make it angry. He mounted the nervous horse and steadied him, rode away slowly. The last thing he wanted to do was drive quickly toward the beast if he happened to be nosing around. He never saw a bear or any sign.

  The week passed, as weeks pass, but he did not ride out to fish. His parents thought this odd, were alarmed into silence by it, and his therapist asked him if he was angry, saying at the end, “You know, it’s okay to be angry.” Daniel walked through his days not quite as nervous as a green horse. Finally on a Saturday in mid-October he was saddled and riding to the creek, not to his usual spot, but to the place above, nearer his house, where his sister had drowned. He saw that the last riffle he’d fished was submerged now. The beavers must have repaired their dam and lodge. He had little desire to put his rod together. He sat in his saddle and stared at the water, at the brush on the other side and finally upstream at the big cottonwood. He studied the tree for a couple of minutes, long enough for the time to seem long, and nudged his horse to take a step in that direction.

  He dismounted and stepped to the edge of the widest stretch of the stream. The beach there, what little of it was still exposed, was mud and pebbles. The willows on the far side were half-submerged. The water over there moved steadily, but the pool appeared calm, unstirred. A flash caught his eye, a big flash, unmistakably the showing of the underside of a fish, but so large. He thought the suddenness of it might have made him see it as larger, but then it flashed again. The trout was not rising to take food, but it cruised by again. Daniel sat beneath the cottonwood and watched the pool, counted four more appearances of the fish, easily the largest trout he had ever seen in the creek. Still, however, he made no move for his fly rod. He watched until the fish showed no more. He mounted and rode on home.

  That night at dinner, Daniel asked his father, “What’s the biggest trout you’ve ever seen in the creek?”

  “Years ago I hooked one that was thirteen, maybe fourteen inches, but I didn’t land him. He took off downstream through a riffle.”

  “I think I saw one that’s at least twenty inches. I think bigger.”

  “I think your eyes are playing tricks on you. That creek can’t support a fish that big.”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Catch it and bring it to me and I’ll believe you.”

  Daniel didn’t like being doubted, but he had to admit that he doubted himself. He looked at his father and didn’t feel anger, but he felt profound disappointment. “I think I will catch it,” he said.

  His father laughed. “You do that.”

  Daniel ceased paying attention in his classes, enough so that his parents were informed. They could not hide their terror. Daniel understood it. They had lost one child. Daniel realized as his mother and father at once pounced upon him and stayed clear of him that he had never known the circumstances of his sister’s death. And so, one night at dinner, he terrified them further.

  “Just how did Rachel die?” Daniel asked.

  “She drowned,” his mother said.

  “How did she drown?”

  “I’m afraid she had been drinking.”

  “Why was she out there? Why had she been drinking?”

  Daniel’s father cleared his throat. “It seems your sister had a problem with alcohol. She was an alcoholic. We didn’t know. We didn’t see it. We should have seen it.”

  Daniel stabbed at the meat on his plate a few times. “Are you an alcoholic?” Daniel asked his father.

  The man breathed deeply.

  Daniel’s mother put her hand on his father’s arm.

  “You drink. Are you an alcoholic?”

  “I do drink, son, but I’m not an alcoholic.”

  Daniel nodded.

  “I drank more after your sister died,” the man said.

  Daniel looked through the window at the dusk turning to night. “I remember that Rachel would scream a lot.”

  “Rachel had some problems,” Daniel’s mother said.

  “Are you saying she killed herself?”

  “No, of course not,” she said. “It was an accident.”

  Daniel looked at them, one then the other. He looked down at his hardly touched food. “I’m going to camp out tonight.”

  “What?”

  “It’s freezing out there.”

  “I’ll be all right. I need to think.”

  “Where are you going to camp?” his father asked.

  “Not far. I just want to be outside. I just want to listen to the creek while I sleep.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “I want to do it.”

  His parents looked at each other.

  “If you need to, do it,” his father said. “But we need to know where you’ll be.”

  “By the big cottonwood.”

  Daniel watched his parents exchange terrified glances. His father lifted his water glass and then set it down without drinking.

  “Why there?” the man asked.

  “I’ll be there tonight.”

  “I don’t understand,” his mother said. “It’s too cold to camp out.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I won’t allow it,” his father said.

  Daniel just stared at the man. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t frustrated or excited. But neither was he calm. “That’s where I’ll be.”

  “Maybe I should call your doctor,” his mother said. “You should talk to her first, before you do anything.”

  “She’s an idiot.”

  “Can we just talk about this?” his mother asked.

  “No.”

  Daniel’s father looked out the window at the darkness and said nothing. He slowly squared himself to the table again and began eating.

  Puker was unhappy at being taken away from his feed and saddled in the dark. The gelding complained but relaxed under the currycomb. Daniel didn’t have much gear, just a one-person tent, his sleeping bag, and his fishing gear. He took his father’s fly-tying kit with him as well.

  He built a fire at streamside to warm up. That gave him enough light to set up his tent. He stared at the yellow-and-green structure in the firelight. Daniel had considered sleeping out in his bag without it, but he’d never been comfortable like that. Somehow the cocoon of a tent made him feel safe, even though he knew it afforded protection from only wind, rain, and snow. He recalled a joke he’d heard: What does a bear call a man in a tent? A burrito. Whether it was true or not he imagined that the bears were up high and hibernating. Burrito or no, he crawled into his tortilla and tried to sleep. As long as his horse wasn’t screaming, he figured all was well. He managed to get warm in his bag and did drift off.

  The rustling was faint at first. Then near. He thought he heard sniffing at the base of his tent. He imagined a coyote, maybe a wolf. He took a peek out into the dawn and mist and saw a cow moose drinking from the creek. He relaxed a bit and then realized that there was a bull with her, standing knee deep in the water. He didn’t like bull moose. No one did. Bull moose were dangerous. They were not the Bullwinkles that city people imagined. Daniel wanted to wait them out, but he needed to relieve himself. He found a twig at the mouth of his tent and snapped it. The bull raised his head. Daniel froze. The bull seemed to look straight at him. He didn’t know what he might do if the animal charged.

  The stillness was disturbed by a loud splash. Then another. Bull and cow ran away, upstream and then across through the willows. Daniel pulled himself out and stared at the water, saw the flash of a big trout’s belly. He fell and began to feel the frigid air. He hopped around slapping his arms while he got the fire going. He ate his bologna sandwich and studied th
e creek.

  He watched the big fish make rise after rise for no apparent food. It was still so cold that no insects were available. Daniel imagined or perhaps hoped that there would be a few mayflies later, after the sun had warmed things up a bit. But there would certainly be gnats. There were always gnats.

  Daniel considered giving Puker a good brushing, as he hadn’t done it when arriving in the night, but he did not. He gave him some grain that he’d brought and tied him out to graze.

  Daniel fed the fire, made it big and hot and enjoyed the brisk cold on his back while he toasted his arms and face. An eagle flew by far overhead. After that a few chatty ravens flew past as if to steal a good look at him. He was apparently not all that interesting. He didn’t need ravens to tell him that.

  He heard Puker stir, then whinny. He’d been sitting for a couple of hours, warm now, lost in something like thought. He listened and could hear the creaking of a truck bouncing across the rough part of the track just after the fjord. He got up to settle the horse while the vehicle arrived. As he expected, it was his parents, but wedged in between them on the bench of the pickup was his therapist, Dr. Feller.

  The three sat, framed behind the windshield, seemingly frozen, as he must have seemed to them. They looked alarmingly alike behind the glass. Daniel released the horse’s halter and the animal returned to grazing. The trio spilled out of the truck and approached him in wandering paths, his mother taking the most direct one. His father wandered away from the stream, pretending, at least, to survey the hills and the clouds gathering far off. His doctor, as she liked to be known, veered toward the stream, staring at it as if she’d never seen one before. She was the first to speak.

  “I see you’re camping out.”

  Daniel nodded. He looked at his mother. “I’ll be home directly.”

  “I don’t like you being out here like this,” his father said.

  “I’m just thinking,” Daniel said.

  “What are you thinking about?” his therapist asked.

  “Things.” Daniel was curt, perhaps dismissive, but he didn’t think he was being rude. Not that he cared. “Stuff fourteen-year-old boys think about.”

  “Oh,” Dr. Feller said.

  “I haven’t masturbated yet,” he said. That was rude.

  He looked at his mother. She appeared to have been slapped. “Well, I haven’t.”

  His father cleared his throat. “I’ve had about enough of this.”

  “I’ll be home soon,” Daniel said again.

  His therapist walked closer to him but kept stealing glances back at the pool. “You know, it’s all right to be angry.”

  “So I’ve been told. I’ll give that some thought. Three o’clock. I’ll get angry at three. Will that work for you?”

  “Daniel,” his mother said. “Dr. Feller is just trying to help.”

  “I don’t need any help,” he said. “I’m only fourteen, but I can see that this therapy crap is for you two. I was eight. The only feeling I ever had about any of this is confusion. I don’t want to know anything. I don’t want to figure out anything. I just want you to know that I’m not out here to drown myself.”

  “We know that, son.” The relief on his father’s face was clear. Still, he was angry, perhaps at being defied, perhaps at being made to feel afraid.

  “This is good, Daniel, this is good,” Dr. Feller said.

  “Shut up,” Daniel said.

  “Daniel,” his mother said.

  “Tell her to get in the truck,” Daniel said to his parents. “I’m sick of being one of the doctor’s hobbies.”

  He could not have hit the woman any harder with a steel pipe or a brick. She turned and walked, red-faced, to the truck.

  “I really need to be alone right now. I’ll probably be here most of the day. I might stay another night.”

  “You warm enough?” his father asked.

  “I’m fine.” His mother started to ask something, but he stopped her. “Really, I’m fine.”

  No one said anything else. The three drove away and Daniel watched them until they were out of sight. He then turned to regard the same clouds his father had been watching. Snow was coming.

  The mayfly hatch that Daniel had imagined, or hoped for, still had not materialized at noon. A few small trout were rising to midges at the outer edge of the pool. Occasionally the big fish would surface, roll, and disappear. He got himself into his neoprene waders and boots. He took a size twenty midge from his box and snipped off the hook. He didn’t want to land the fish, only have it take his lure. But the fish did not. After several casts small fish came up to investigate; a few even mouthed the fly and spat it out.

  The day did not warm up much, but acted in a way consistent with his prediction of snow. He tried other flies, choices that made no sense. He tried wildly colored salmon flies and received no interest at all. The same was true of streamers that he swung along the outer edge of the pool with the current and beaded nymphs that dropped down deep into the stillest section of the water. The big trout continued to show itself time and again, two or three times with a splash.

  At around four o’clock a bit of snow began to fall. Daniel collected wood and got his fire going again. He put some big logs on. He opened his fly box and took out a size eight stonefly, a fly he never would have used in this creek or at this time of year.

  Again he used his wire cutters to snap off the end of the hook. He tied the fly onto the tippet and roll cast the fly upstream and to the far side of the pool. Even with his best technique, the fact that his rod was so light made the big lure splash like a stone into the water and sent mad ripples all through the pool. He thought he’d have to pull his line in and rest the water for at least a half hour. But then he saw the big shape coming, circling around, then venturing close to the stonefly imitation. The trout seemed to regard it but swam past. He reeled in and threw the line back out, splashing again, and again the trout came and gave another disdainful glance. This went on until it became clear that the animal would not bite. All he wanted was for the fish to put his mouth to the fly.

  He returned to the fire and added more fuel. He took out the tying kit and started making a larger stonefly. He tied it onto a number six hook. He made the abdomen fat, laying the mustard-colored dubbing on thick, then stopped to stare at the thread dangling there from the vise, the bobbin swinging. He took the little scissors and snipped some of his own black hair. He applied more wax to the thread and worked his curling hairs onto it, mixing it with the dubbing. He finished the fly without bothering to fashion any legs for the thing. He wound the grizzly hackle onto the fly and tied it off. He cemented the head and sat back. The snow was falling harder. He looked up at it and wanted to find it beautiful.

  This time he did not remove the hook. In fact, he didn’t even crimp down the barb as he always did. As long as he had been fishing, he had never eaten a trout from this stream. He cast the fly out and it disturbed the water awfully. But as soon as it landed, the big fish was on it. The trout bit the fly and pulled it deep. Daniel suffered from trigger lock. He was frozen, shocked. He finally gave a yank to set the hook. The trout took off downstream. Daniel stepped into the water to follow it, getting the line on his reel as quickly as possible. The line went slack and he was sure he’d lost the trout, but the fish had simply come back, pulled the line taut as it fought upstream. This back-and-forth happened three more times, all the while Daniel fearing that he was going to wear the fish out and be unable to safely release it. He tried to ease up on the pressure and let the animal slip the hook, but it wouldn’t happen. However, what he feared did happen. The exhausted trout stopped racing, stopped pulling, and let itself be reeled in.

  Daniel stepped to the bank. It was the darker side of dusk now, and the snow was really coming down. It was much colder and Daniel could feel it profoundly because he was wet from perspiration. He held the trout in the shallow water. It was huge. It was easily over two feet long. Its presence just didn’t make any sense. None o
f it made sense. He’d caught the fish on his little four-weight rod and 7x tippet. It didn’t make sense that the trout would take this fly, especially when the lure had been presented so badly, especially when the fish had refused the same thing previously. The fish huffed. The rainbow coloring was beautiful, but the thing was somewhat hideous for its size.

  He pulled it fully onto the beach and worked the hook out of its mouth. It seemed to look at him. And he of course looked back. He cut the fly from his line and put all the line on the reel. He broke down his rod.

  He walked back up the slope to his camp, pulled off his waders, and laced on his boots. He quietly put out his fire. With the snow falling he was happy to extinguish only the flames. He struck his tent, packed his gear. He saddled his horse and was ready to leave.

  He walked back to the edge of the pool and looked down at the fish. Remarkably, it was still alive, but he left it where it was, where it needed to be. After all, he thought, it couldn’t have been there in the first place.

  As Daniel rode home, he leaned his head back and looked at the sky. For all he knew the snowflakes were stars, and he smiled.

  A High Lake

  Norma Snow still rode. She chose a shorter mount, almost a pony, and used a synthetic saddle; a leather roper was just too much to lift, but she still rode. Her horse was a fourteen-hand Arabian, twelve years old, a little loose in the back, with sturdy feet. She called the gelding Zed because of his lightning-bolt-shaped blaze. Norma lived alone in the house that she had built and shared with her husband. He was dead now. She hired a nurse to come by once every day to make sure she was still upright and not stretched out helpless on the kitchen floor. Norma wanted the nurse for no more than that.