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of black stones. For a moment, Clifton's mind began playing tricks on him as his imagination ran wild. Is that the Killing Pit, or some sort of man hunched on the ground? What would happen if I was coming through here and didn't know about the Killing Pit? What if I fell in? No one would ever find me.
And then Clifton heard a voice. A deep, longing, hollow voice that beckoned him. It was coming from the hole in the ground. His father's voice? Help me. Someone, please help me.
Clifton took off running, his hands flailing out in front of him as if he were a blind man. He ran as fast as he could under the circumstances, but, because of the low visibility, he couldn't run at an all-out sprint. When he saw a glimmer of lights sparkling through the trees, relief overwhelmed him. Once he made it to the clearing and onto the asphalt of Windswept Hills, he stopped running. He bent over and took a few deep breaths. You're such a pussy, you know it? I know, I know, but I got freaked out. Voices, for God's sake. Give me a break.
While he caught his breath, he realized that the few hours he'd spent at Swamper's had almost been like going back in time. He hadn't seen another soul except the wrinkled man on the porch. He'd listened to stories about the old days. It was as free as he had ever remembered being.
As his sneakers quietly slapped the pavement, as the cool of the evening settled over his head, as the porch lights lit up the huge houses that he knew he'd never get to enter, he was
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able to relax and think about the things he wanted to think about. About the great time he'd had today. About the connection he'd been responsible for creating by simply tossing a bottle in the river. About the possibilities of what awaited him tomorrow. And for the rest of the summer.
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***
Chapter 6
The alarm clock startled Clifton when it buzzed on the bedside table. The red glowing numbers said five a.m. Though usually it was a chore to lift himself from bed, this morning he jumped up and immediately got dressed. He was ready.
He went into the kitchen, put a piece of bread in the toaster, and then looked into the living room where the television chattered. The room was covered in a haze of cigarette smoke, and his mother sat on the couch, staring blankly at the screen, a glass of wine in her hand. A late-night infomercial was on with a man trying to convince her to buy his amazing set of knives. Knives that could cut anything from an aluminum can to blocks of concrete. Still dressed in her work clothes, she turned toward him with that same blank gaze.
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He looked back at her, confused, and said, "What're you doing home?"
"Hey, baby," she said. "I left early. Wasn't feeling too good. Had a bad headache, so I left at three. What re you doing up so early?"
He looked at the glass she held, wondering if that was what a doctor would prescribe. "I'm going fishing."
"Fishing? What about school?"
Clifton looked hard at his mother and shook his head. "I've been out of school for two weeks, Mom. It's summer break, remember?"
"That's right." She forced a smile, though it was clear she hadn't remembered at all. "I don't know what I was thinking." She reached for the bottle on the table and topped off her glass. "Who you going with?"
"Nobody. Just me."
"Well, if you catch a big one, bring it home and I'll fry it up for your supper."
"Okay, we'll see." He turned away to check on his toast, knowing full well that she'd never get around to cooking a fish even if he did bring one home. He buttered his toast and sat at the table, munching as quickly as he could in order to get out of there.
"I'm thinking about ordering these knives," said Mrs.
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Carlson from the living room. "It's hard to find a good knife these days."
Clifton clenched his jaw. "Maybe you should go grocery shopping instead. We don't have crap."
"You watch your dirty mouth," she said over the hum of the television, but Clifton ignored her.
He put his dish in the sink, where a formidable stack had already accumulated, and headed for the door. "I'll see you later."
"Wait a minute. Can I at least have a hug? Seems like I don't ever see you anymore. Working at that shithole all the time."
Clifton rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Watch your mouth, Mom."
"Don't get smart with me," she snapped. He had noticed that lately she seemed to be more on edge than usual. Whereas before she was mostly a mellow drunk, now she seemed prone to mood swings that brought out an ugly side of her personality. "I'm still the adult in this house, whether you like it or not. You know what they pulled on us the other night?"
Clifton walked into the living room, sucked in his breath, and leaned over to hug her. He hated the way she smelled: like gear oil, cheap alcohol, and stale cigarette smoke.
"You know what they're trying to do now? You won't believe it."
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"Mom, I gotta go. I'm late as it is."
"Those fish'll still be there," she said, a subtle look of hurt showing in her face. The crow's-feet around her eyes scrunched tighter. Clifton noticed that her complexion, which had always been so smooth, was gray and rough, almost scaly. And he didn't know why she was being so chatty. Usually, when he'd see her in the mornings, she hardly said a word. The wine generally made her drowsy and lethargic, but at the moment she couldn't seem to stop talking. "They want the swing shift to start doing forced overtime. Like I don't work there enough already. I'm getting tired of their bullshit."
Clifton released his mother and headed for the door. "I'm sure you'll work it out. I gotta go."
"You be careful," said Mrs. Carlson. "I love you."
But Clifton had already closed the door and didn't hear her.
The morning was cool and the black sky was just lightening to a deep blue on the horizon over the mountains. The faint bark of a dog sounded from somewhere in the neighborhood. Clifton wore only a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and thought for a second that he might need to grab a sweatshirt, but the idea of having to talk with his mother again dissuaded him.
He chose to take the shortcut through the woods by the Killing Pit despite the anxiety he'd felt the day before. It was getting lighter, not darker, so he decided to head in that
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direction. When he entered the Windswept Hills neighborhood, several fancy cars were pulling out of their driveways, their owners heading to work in Samford. A brand-new Mercedes passed him, the driver dressed in a suit and tie, sipping on coffee. A shiny Audi also passed, the driver similarly dressed. He craned his neck, looking at Clifton with suspicion.
When he entered the woods, the sky had lightened a bit more, and he was able to follow the path without much trouble. Birds chattered incessantly in the canopy above him. A small stand of beech trees to his right reminded him of the joke he planned to tell Swamper. He'd practiced it several times the night before as he lay in his bed, wanting to make sure to get it right. As he passed the Killing Pit and headed down the hill, he laughed at himself for being so freaked out the previous night. Voices? he said to himself. You're ridiculous sometimes.
At the bottom of the hill, he crossed over the barbed wire and came out on the dirt road where a sweeping movement to his right startled him. A deer stood in the road, eyeing him before it bounded into the woods. Clifton saw little velvet nubs poking from its head. Was it the same buck he'd watched almost get killed the day before? He didn't know, and he didn't really care. It was amazing how much better he felt when he knew the sun was on the rise. If it had been the reverse, he
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would have been nervous, but with the day quickly approaching, he felt nothing but excitement.
As Clifton traversed the winding path down to Swamper's, he saw a yellow light shining through the window of the house. Once on the porch, he tapped the edge of the screen door.
"It's open," said Swamper from inside. "Come on in."
Clifton opened the door and walked into the room. He wa
s surprised that the inside was the exact opposite of the outside. The thing that immediately struck him was how neat and orderly the main room was. That, and the rich aroma of smoke that smelled like sausage. The sizzle of meat cooking in a frying pan caught his ears. From the kitchen, Swamper said, "You hungry?"
Clifton walked past a worn couch where a quilt was folded neatly and draped over the backrest. A desk in the corner had a few books stacked in a perfect row, and next to them were several pens sticking out of a coffee cup. A radio sat on the other corner of the desk, the volume on but turned down low. A man's voice relayed the morning news. In the other corner was a homemade chess table. The pieces, which looked hand-carved, stood at attention and ready for action. On the far wall, the head of an eight-point buck stood watch over the room. On the other walls were different varieties of fish, from
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several smallmouth bass to brook and brown trout to what must have been a thirty-pound muskie. On the hearth next to the fireplace was a fully stuffed wild turkey, its talons clawing a piece of driftwood as it perched on its mount.
In the kitchen, Swamper stood in front of the stove, a steel spatula in his hand as he turned over ground sausage in a cast-iron skillet. The grease popped and snapped, and a trail of gray smoke rose toward the ceiling. Above Swamper, on either side of the stove, frying pans and other utensils hung from hooks in perfect order. A shelf to the right held bottles of spices and condiments, all of them organized precisely. Order. Perfect order.
"How you doing this morning?" asked Swamper. "You want some breakfast?"
Clifton's first instinct was to decline, as he thought it the polite thing to do. But he remembered what Swamper had told him, and besides it smelled so good. He said, "Sure."
Swamper pointed his greasy spatula toward the table in the corner. "Grab a seat. It'll be ready in a minute."
Clifton sat down in one of the two chairs and watched him work. Swamper was too involved in what he was doing to talk. He turned the mound of sausage once more, then picked up the skillet and scraped the meat into a bowl on the counter, careful to keep the grease in the pan. He set the skillet back on the eye and quickly grabbed six eggs from a carton,
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cracking them with one hand against the edge of the iron and expertly dropping them into the hot grease. When they were ready, he slid the eggs out onto a plate with a deft turn of the skillet. Clifton realized he was watching a maestro at work. Almost on cue, four pieces of toast popped up from the toaster. A moment later, Clifton had three perfectly done eggs, sunny-side up, a pile of sausage, and two pieces of toast sitting on a plate before him, steam rising directly into his nostrils.
"Butter's on the table," said Swamper as he made his own plate. "OJ or coffee?"
Clifton was in awe, and it took him a second to respond. "Orange juice would be great. Thanks."
Swamper went to the refrigerator--an ancient thing that was short and bubbling out in the middle like the gut of a fat man--and grabbed the orange juice. The juice was in a glass milk bottle. "OJ's another thing that just tastes better when it comes from a bottle." He set an empty jelly jar next to Clifton, put the bottle on the table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He then sat down and said, "Dig in."
Swamper took a bottle of Tabasco from the center of the table and turned it on his eggs. "Nothing better than bloody eggs," he said through a mouthful of sausage.
Clifton ate with abandon. It was the best breakfast he could remember eating in years. There wasn't much
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conversation as they both worked on their plates. The sound of a morning train rumbled outside, rattling the window like a strong wind. The screech of steel on steel got louder and then softer as it passed, producing the Doppler effect in Clifton's head. Finally, when they were both nearly finished, and Clifton was sopping up the last of the runny yolk with a corner of his bread, he said, "Something interesting happened to me this morning on the way over."
Swamper sipped his coffee and looked across at Clifton. A column of sunlight was just starting to seep into the window in the kitchen, highlighting the sausage smoke that still lingered in the room. "What's that?"
"When I was walking through the woods between Windswept Hills and the Killing Pit, I saw a beech tree." He felt his stomach dancing, the same way it did sometimes if he had to speak in front of the class. He wanted to get it just right. "And about ten feet away was a birch tree."
"A birch tree?" said Swamper, eyeing Clifton as he set down his mug. "There ain't no birch trees around here. They only grow in Yankee country."
"Yeah, I know. But yesterday you said you wanted a dirty joke. This is the cleanest dirty joke I know."
"Oh, okay. Roger that. Go ahead."
"So I see these two trees. A beech and a birch. And in
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between them, right in the middle, is this much smaller tree. All of the sudden the beech tree starts talking."
"Really?" said Swamper with a smile, raising his eyebrows.
"Yeah. It says to the birch, 'I think that little tree is a son of a beech.' And the birch tree says, 'No, it's a son of a birch.' So I'm just standing there as the two trees argue back and forth. Then, from out of nowhere, a woodpecker flies up. The beech tree says, 'Well, why don't we let the woodpecker decide? He knows trees better than anybody.' The birch tree agrees, so the beech says, 'Hey, Mr. Woodpecker, see that little tree there in the middle of us? I say it's a son of a beech, but he says it's a son of a birch. Can you tell us who's right?' The woodpecker nods his little red head and says, 'Sure.' He starts pecking at the tree, sending a loud knock-knock through the forest."
"So this is a knock-knock joke," said Swamper, smiling.
"No," said Clifton, his stomach tightening as he neared the punch line. "That's just the sound the woodpecker made. So anyway, the woodpecker taps at the tree for a minute and then he stops. The beech says, 'So, which is it?' The woodpecker looks at the two trees with a satisfied look on his face and says, 'It's neither a son of a beech nor a son of a birch. It is, however, the best piece of ash I've ever put my pecker in.'"
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Swamper looked blankly at Clifton for a second, and Clifton immediately got nervous, thinking maybe he'd crossed the line. But then Swamper erupted in laughter. He laughed so hard that he started coughing again, just like the day before. He coughed so hard that his chest rattled through the kitchen like the windows had earlier. He got up and hurried to the sink, where he doubled over and spat chunks of something into it. He turned on the faucet to wash the stuff down, and then spat again.
"Now that's ... what I'm talking about," he said between breaths. "No more of that polite BS." He wiped at his eyes with the corner of his buttoned sleeve and then leaned his head under the faucet for a drink of water. "The best piece of ash. That's a good one."
Clifton smiled, pleased with his effort. He grabbed his dishes and took them to the sink next to Swamper.
"Just drop 'em in the sink. I'll worry about it later," said Swamper, again dabbing the tears from his eyes. "Let's go check them lines."
Swamper refilled his coffee cup, pulled several Ziplocs from a drawer, and then they walked out to the porch. The sun was now just above the far off buildings of Samford, and the fields in the distance glowed like they were on fire. Specks of lazy cows lumbered in the morning dew. On the river, a faint fog was lifting as the sunshine burned through. The river it-
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self didn't appear to be moving at all; it was a perfect glass tabletop.
Clifton followed behind Swamper down the trail. They crossed over the train tracks and then caught the trail again before walking onto the dock. A shroud of fog hovered just above Swamper's head as it drifted slowly downstream. On the far bank, a blue heron stood motionlessly, one foot raised, the other pillared in the water. It stabbed its beak in the shallows several times and then came up with a small fish--a bluegill, it looked like to Clifton. The bird then spread its wings and flew off silently, dri
fting downriver through a gauntlet of sycamores until it disappeared around the bend.
"See that rope tied to the post?" asked Swamper, pointing his handful of Ziplocs toward the end of the dock. Clifton nodded.
"I got my trot line tied in to that rope. If we're lucky, we should have a few flatheads or channel cats waiting for us. Why don't you go down there and pull it in."
Clifton nodded again and walked to the end of the dock, Swamper following behind him. He went to his knees and grabbed the frayed rope.
"Pull it in slow, hand over fist. You should feel some weight on it if we got anything. But make sure to pull slow. Them cats are tricky and they'll flop right off if you ain't careful."
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Clifton began pulling in the line and felt the weight on the end of it. He felt fish pulling and tugging as they fought against the hooks. It was like he was a little kid looking for Easter eggs. The excitement of the unknown filled him. As the first hook came to the surface, it was empty. He looked back at Swamper with disappointment.
"That's all right. I got twenty hooks tied into the line. You feel anything on there?"
"Yes, sir."
"Okay. Just keep pulling it in. Slow and steady. And be careful for the empty hooks."
The next hook was also vacant, but the third had a small catfish on it, only a pound or two, and as it reached the surface, it started slapping with its tail, causing a violent disturbance over the hush of the placid morning. Clifton got excited and began pulling on the line harder. As soon as he did that, the catfish wriggled off the hook and plopped into the water, its smooth white belly flashing in the sunlight before disappearing.
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