The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt

by Ferrill Gibbs

  When he neared the town and topped a long, sloping hill, he peered down at Mount Lanier, noticing the grid of intersecting streets. Cars in the distance crawling the roadways like multi-colored ants darted to and fro. He held out his hand to feel the last of the dry wildflowers as they swayed in the mountain breeze, then descended to the bottom of the hill.

  The ensuing valley was essentially the town square, and once in town he walked along until he came upon an old, western-style saloon. Elk horns hanging over the door and everything. It was, like all other establishments in Mount Lanier, fashioned in the rancher’s style: log cabins, unused horse hitches, statues of wooly pioneers. If not for the SUVs and an occasional airplane overhead, it might have just been the Old West.

  Nearing the movie theater, he came upon a makeshift fish stand. It was just a display case, really, with four wheels on the bottom, and one side hitched to the back of an old, beat-up van. It was filled to the brim with an array of beautiful fish and crustaceans.

  Behind the case scurried a family of what seemed to be Italian fish mongers: a mother, a father, a daughter, and a son. The father was shouting, “Fresh Fish!” to all who passed by. Edgar recognized the son immediately: the kid from school they called “Flounder,” the one from Dr. Van Rossum’s class who Weedy had been picking on.

  Edgar neared the stand and watched Flounder fillet a salmon for an elderly woman.

  Flounder, he quickly discovered, was awesome at it.

  “How many?” Flounder asked the lady.

  “Four fillets, thank you, Anthony,” she smiled. Edgar marveled at Flounder’s handiwork. The short, timid teenager, who had a haystack of black, curly hair, was an artist with a fillet knife. Like a surgeon he assaulted the fish with quick cuts using his razor-sharp, blood-darkened blade. He made the skin and meat come away from the bone in a matter of seconds. It was better cutting than anyone Edgar had ever seen—better than any captain on any charter boat back home in Bon Secour, hands down.

  “What are you gonna do with those pliers?” Edgar spoke up. Flounder looked up and seemed to recognize him. He nodded and pointed the knife down at the fish.

  “Those are pin bones,” he explained. “I pull them out of the bottom of the fillet. I yank them out with these pliers.” He smiled at the old lady. “Who wants to eat bones, am I right?”

  “That’s awesome,” said Edgar, watching him work. “You’re pretty good at this.”

  One by one, Flounder yanked the bones from the fish.

  “So,” said Flounder, without looking up, “you’re the Gravity Man, right?” He smiled and flashed Edgar a glance. “I think it’s funny how you always drive Dr. Van Rossum nuts.”

  “That’s me,” said Edgar.

  “So, do I call you Flounder?” Edgar asked from behind the stand.

  Anthony, busy cutting into another fish, suddenly froze. His cheeks went red and he glanced up from the salmon mid-slice, shooting a quick glance at his mother who was busy icing lobsters. Thankfully, she did not seem to hear. Relieved, he flashed a conspicuous frown at Edgar and shook his head no.

  “Sorry,” mouthed Edgar.

  “Here you go, ma’am,” said Flounder, his salesman’s smile easy and natural. He handed the woman her salmon steaks all neatly wrapped in clean, white paper. Then he moved to the water cooler to wash up.

  Edgar watched as Flounder approached a bucket of fresh water and washed meticulously, slowly soaping up three or four times. He scrubbed slowly and carefully, then dried off with a white towel. Afterward, he squeezed fresh lemon juice on his hands and then rubbed them with vanilla extract to kill the smell, and when finished, sniffed deeply of his hands. Nodding with satisfaction, he turned to hug his mother goodbye and gave his little sister a push (who tried not to smile), then joined Edgar for the walk to school.

  “Dude,” he said, once clear of the fish stand. “You can’t ever call me ‘Flounder’ in front of my mom, OK?”

  “But, why?” said Edgar. “I thought that was your nickname.”

  “Well, it’s not,” said Flounder. “My name is

  Anthony . . . Artese. They call me ‘Flounder’ at school, but that’s not my name. They say I smell like fish. Get it? Flounder?” He looked at Edgar, then absently sniffed his hands. “They make me work all morning—my parents do—and all the time it’s all I can do to just make it to school without being late. What am I supposed to do about the fish smell? My smock can only catch so many of the fish guts. Sometimes a drop gets on my shirt, and sometimes on my jeans. I can’t help it.” He turned away in disgust and kicked a rock down the dusty road. “We don’t even sell flounder,” he mumbled glumly.

  “Well, I actually think it’s pretty cool, if you ask me,” said Edgar. He bent and scooped a handful of rocks and tossed them in a trickling stream.

  “What is?” asked Anthony.

  “Your nickname.”

  “Yeah? Whatever.”

  “I’m serious. Back in Alabama we’d kill to have a nickname like that. Especially at the fish charter.”

  Flounder didn’t seem too convinced, so Edgar continued.

  “Look, man,” he explained. “Just think of those good mafia nicknames: Bagel Joe. Two Shoes. Little Eddie. If Flounder’s not as good as those mafia names, what is? It’s like: ‘Who whacked Don Amici?’ ‘Oh, Flounder did!’ That’s a cool nickname if you think about it.”

  “You’re crazy,” said Flounder, smiling.

  As they made their way to school, Flounder began to tell Edgar all about the family business. Each week, the Arteses drove several hours to the shores of Washington State and purchased various types of fish from different fisheries—as much as the van could hold. Bringing it back to Mount Lanier, they put it on display outside their van, like Edgar had seen earlier.

  Apparently, the fish sold like hotcakes. Everybody in the town bought from them.

  “We mark it up pretty good, too,” Flounder said proudly. “It’s a pretty good living. Just a lot of work.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll catch my own,” said Edgar, smiling. “Why would I pay so much money for something I can always catch for free?”

  “Dude,” laughed Flounder, “I don’t know if you saw back there but our stuff comes from the deep sea. It’s super fresh, too!”

  “So?”

  “So?”

  “Yeah! Like I said. I can catch my own.”

  “Well, good luck,” laughed Flounder. “You’ve got about six hours to any shore.”

  __________

  Five minutes before the first bell rang, Flounder and Edgar were spotted walking up to school by the worst person: Chris Weedy.

  “Flounderrrrrr!” he yelled through cupped hands, cackling as his jock friends chimed in. From nearby tables just off the common, several around them began to sniff the air in what seemed to be a well-worn ritual. All of them yelled, “Flounderrrrr!” and cackled, and Edgar watched as Anthony stiffened and tried to ignore it, but couldn’t.

  Watching Flounder endure it, suddenly, without realizing it, he was enraged. He stopped and turned and glared directly at Weedy just outside the doors of the school.

  He didn’t even think about it; he just did it. And when Weedy saw it—Edgar glaring at him like he was, his fist twisting like a storm— Weedy’s evil grin suddenly evaporated and his face went wrinkly with rage.

  “That’s right, Christopher,” muttered Edgar, enunciating every syllable. “I’m looking at you.”

  “Dude,” said Flounder, “stop that! Don’t mess with that guy! He’s totally nuts. You just don’t know how bad.”

  Edgar turned to Flounder and smiled.

  “Who whacked Chris Weedy?” he said. “Flounder did, that’s who!”

  Just outside the double doors, Flounder held out a hand to Edgar, and just as the first bell rang, the two boys shook hands. It was Edgar’s first friend in Washingt
on: a fellow fisherman and a genuinely cool dude. Edgar would have to toughen him up, though.

  Nine

  That night Edgar lay awake again, unable to drift off to sleep. All he could think of was the bright, glorious sun that must be hanging high above the ocean on the other side of the world, and all the fish that must be leaping from the surf, and the clear, blue water surrounding it all.

  At two in the morning he could take it no more. He rose from the bed and crept across the floor, slowly, so that the hardwood floorboards wouldn’t squeak. Then, he withdrew a pair of beach sandals and swim trunks from his closet and, moments later, was standing before the window, gulping down his wildly thumping heart. Slowly, carefully, he lifted the latch.

  It was something he’d never done before, sneaking out. Suddenly he felt like an outlaw. He carefully climbed out of the open window and landed softly on the ground.

  He darted across the lawn and soon reached the backyard shed. There, large hinges on the door creaked with low, rusty groans as he pulled it open. Grimacing at the noise, he glanced fearfully back at the house, and was glad to see that no lights had come on.

  Next, he slipped quickly through the slightly opened door and, using the green glow of his Pathfinder watch, located his fishing pole. The Abu Garcia Ambassadeur, an open faced, golden-colored rod, was absolutely beautiful.

  He fingered the reel and felt for oil. Perfectly lubed, as always. His dad always kept the poles in great shape.

  Next he felt around for the tackle box, and when he found it, he thumbed carefully through the lures inside, searching for the only one that could work on the other side of the world: The Spoon Spinner. His prized lure always got strikes, no matter the waters.

  Surely the Indian Ocean would be no different.

  Carefully closing the shed door behind him, he bolted off down the driveway, making for the dirt road beyond, then off through the moonlit trail he’d come to know so well. As he ran he calculated the deadline he must follow for the night: about an hour and a half to fall—round trip—that gave him at least two hours of fishing on the island. And maybe half an hour remaining for swimming. Nothing more. He simply couldn’t be late. His mother usually woke up at six, and if he wasn’t home before that time, safely in bed, he would definitely be caught.

  And that would really, really suck.

  Sprinting through the darkness, surprisingly unafraid of any creatures that might be lurking in the woods, he felt so energized at the promise of a sunny beach that he didn’t even care.

  Standing over the hole in the darkened cabin, panting furiously and leaning over the edge, he finally dropped over into the chasm, speeding like a brick toward the center of the Earth. He grimaced and giggled and tightened his stomach in a war against his revolting stomach, falling torward the warmth of the island. The spoon spinner at the tip of his fishing rod buzzed wildly beside his ear, like a flittering dragonfly.

  __________

  Appearing at the opening of the hole on the other side, Edgar found himself bathed in Southern Hemisphere sunlight.

  The brightly lit, cloudless sky and the neon blue, shimmering sea below it were like something out of a painting. The world was bright, light, and refreshing. And warm.

  Squinting, his eyes watering as they tried to adjust, he stood on the hole’s edge and let his entire body take in the daylight.

  “Faaaantastic!” he said, stretching his arms wide and taking a deep breath.

  It’s almost tropical, he mused.

  Stepping to the shore, he dunked one foot into the water and found it just warm enough for a swim! Hastily, he ripped off his shirt, kicked away his sandals and rubbed his hands together, then went ahead and dove right in.

  “Wooo!” he said aloud. The surf was a little cold, but swimmable, just as he thought.

  The beautiful blue water was like a revelation to his skin, and it electrified him—the best feeling he’d felt since he moved to Mount Lanier. He shot down beneath the waves like an otter, plummeting into the immaculate blue ocean beneath, the expert swimmer that he was. Down below, he opened his eyes and took in a fascinating mosaic of beautiful coral stretching down into a cylindrical underwater mountain cocooned over the outside of the hole, stretching far deeper than Edgar could ever possibly see, off into an oceanic haze beneath him.

  There were also fish—millions of them—ranging in all sizes and colors and shapes—a veritable goldmine of aquatic life below. Beneath his flapping arms, they darted to and fro amongst the coral, feeding and rolling and warming themselves in the sun. Some were similar to the deep sea fish back in The Gulf of Mexico, their deep purples and aqua blues and neon yellows betraying the characteristics of most deep water animals.

  And some of them, Edgar noted with giddy excitement, were very, very big.

  He steadied himself and fanned against the churning currents, taking in all the beauty of the pristine water world beneath his feet, and just as he could hold his breath no more, he turned to the surface and came lurching from the surf, giggling at his wonderful luck. He’d found a place all his own—a wonderful place—only accessible by the most unique of ways: by falling through the center of the world like a skydiving daredevil.

  He felt like the only person in the world with such an incredible, unbelievable secret. He idled in the surf, scanning the new island in the broad daylight that was barely visible from sea level where he was, low as it was to the water, and he knew that if it were not for the one small palm tree, he might just miss it.

  He swam to shore, dried himself in the sun for a moment, and then got down to business. Making his way to the hole’s edge and retrieving the Abu Garcia from where he’d left it, he returned to the shoreline and, with a skillful flick of the wrist, heaved the spoon spinner as far as he could into the sea, maybe thirty yards from shore. Reeling it briskly across the waters, pumping his arms from time to time like his father always showed him, he waited.

  Before long, from the depths, a creature lunged for the lure. A splash erupted in front of the bait, and for a moment, Edgar thought he had missed. His squinty eyes remained affixed to the sea, waiting in grave anticipation, when all of a sudden, another watery eruption devoured his lure, making his rod lunge immediately toward the sea. He howled with surprise and yanked backward with all of his strength.

  It was huge.

  There was a straight-up monster on the other end of the line, he could tell. It was so big it even jerked him forward a couple of steps.

  “Oh my God!” he cried, reeling furiously, the fish now locked onto the lure. Edgar had him squarely for better or worse.

  “Huge,” he shouted joyfully, and the splashing fish—a beauty now leaping from the water, showing to him its massive top fin—now tested the limits of Edgar’s mighty Abu Garcia.

  And then, suddenly, he knew it: this island was a fishing goldmine. It was a hot spot. A honey hole.

  __________

  At five-thirty in the morning, as the sun peeked over the hills illuminating the dirt road Edgar walked upon, he neared his driveway with a rather large fish tail protruding from his backpack.

  The glow of fishing shone upon his face and was hampered only by a touch of weariness around the eyes.

  Bang! came a noise from the driveway, just as he approached the house.

  What the hell was that?

  He dove into the woods and peeked through a cluster of leaves at the adjacent property.

  It was the car door!

  Just outside the work shed stood his father. For some stupid reason, he was unloading boxes from the Jeep.

  The hell is he doing up so early? thought Edgar, suddenly limp with horror.

  Oh my God!

  Edgar was, in a word, screwed.

  There was no way to sneak back into his bedroom now. Not without getting caught.

  He frantically checked his watch. If he didn�
�t think of something quick, he’d have even worse problems when his mother found him missing from his bed in a few minutes. He thumped his head with hard knuckles and strained for a plan, when suddenly an idea emerged. It wasn’t the best plan ever, but it was a desperate situation and he just didn’t have any other options.

  Flinging his backpack and the fishing pole behind an evergreen tree, he kicked off his sandals and rubbed tree leaves all over his hands to kill any remaining fish smell. Then, after a deep breath to calm his hammering heart, he leapt from the woods and trotted breathlessly up the driveway, right toward his unsuspecting father.

  “Yo!” he yelled. “Dad!”

  It startled his father, who whipped around and gazed groggily at Edgar.

  “Huh?” he said, visibly confused at the sudden appearance of his son. He looked back at the house and then at Edgar as if to decide whether he was witnessing the ghost of his son or not. Just as Edgar had hoped: he might be able to take advantage of his dad’s morning haziness. Edgar now had the advantage of clarity.

  “Hey!” he said breathlessly. “I’m in training, see?” Waving off the questioning stare of his father, he added, “You know, cross country tryouts. I didn’t want to wake y’all up. Guess it worked! I tiptoed out earlier, about half an hour ago.” He bent over and did some stretches for good measure, to add to the effect. Hopefully the pine needles were doing their job and covering up any lingering, suspicious aroma.