The Secret Island of Edgar Dewitt

by Ferrill Gibbs

  He began at the front and cut to the bone, then moved back to the tail, keeping the blade even with the deck boards before flipping the loose meat from the carcass and cutting outwardly to the skin, skirting as close as he dared without cutting through. Then he slid the blade just beneath the tough membrane and cut backward toward himself.

  He lifted the fillet up to his nose and took a big, victorious whiff. The hearty cutlet of fish smelled just like the sea . . . which was good.

  He nicked a corner of the meat and, after a moment’s hesitation, popped the raw morsel into his mouth. His dad had called this “sashimi”—a fancy name for eating raw fish—last summer on a trip to Louisiana.

  Savoring the flavor, rolling the piece of fish around in his mouth, he noticed that even raw it was delicious. It was sweet and mild, with just a hint of remaining saltiness from the Indian Ocean.

  He was excited now. He darted into the kitchen to fetch spices and sauces and marinated the fish in a pan. Outside, he fired up the grill and waved the flies away.

  It wasn’t strong like redfish—Edgar knew that by the taste on his tongue. His father had always said, “If you cover up fresh tasting fish with a bunch of tacky-tasting sauces, you might as well be eating chicken. Or pig’s feet. And you’re probably a redneck.”

  But Edgar loved marinade and this was his cookout, so sauce was necessary.

  Standing over the coals, he listened to the fish sizzle and waited impatiently. His stomach growled ravenously.

  Once the fish was cooked, Edgar removed it from the grill and blew on it in his fingers. It was almost too hot to touch, but he was starving, so he bore the pain and rolled it around to cool it, then took a small, prospective bite. With his lips scalding and mouth releasing wisps of steam, he tasted and knew: it was, without a doubt, the tastiest fish he’d ever eaten.

  This fish most certainly did not suck. And it definitely wasn’t poisonous . . . hopefully.

  Retrieving a list from his pocket with one free hand, he ate and reviewed:

  -2 Chains

  -2 Chain Hooks

  -1 Steel pole (at least 17 feet long)

  -Stringers

  -1 Lantern

  -1 Hook

  -1 Release

  -Tackle Box

  __________

  After he finished eating, Edgar licked his fingers and mounted an old, leftover bike he’d found in the storage shed. Behind it was attached a small, two-wheeled lawnmower trailer he’d also uncovered from storage, both presumably the property of the previous owners.

  Though they were in very bad shape, a few pumps of air into the back tire and a squirt of WD40 on the bike chain got the combo rolling along well enough.

  He tapped his pocket to make sure the wad of money was there. It was. Soon he arrived at the hardware store and the old man behind the counter frowned grimly when Edgar presented his list.

  “I’m looking for a hook release,” said Edgar, uncertainly.

  “What’s a ‘hook release’?” grunted the old man.

  “Um, you know, a hook release is basically a broomstick with a hook on it? For fishing. You use them to get hooks out of a big fish’s mouth. Like for tuna.”

  “Huh,” said the man, shaking his head. “You ain’t gonna need one of those around here. Ain’t no tuna in the mountains!”

  Softening, the prune-faced man pointed toward the outboard motors.

  “Check there.”

  “Thank you!” said Edgar, and when he had gathered up the items he needed—including an old, almost hidden, dusty hook release buried deep in the netting section—he paid for the merchandise and loaded the trailer.

  He spent all but one dollar and sixty-three cents of the pizza money.

  It was necessary, however, and money well spent.

  With the lawnmower trailer bogging down, he tied the twenty-foot-long steel pole to the very back of the gate. As he pedaled away from the hardware store, the pole dragged loudly across the asphalt and several cars slowed down to let him by.

  __________

  Later that night, at around ten o’clock, Edgar stood above the hole once again, equipped with all of the necessary supplies. In a final act of preparation, he carefully placed the long steel pipe over the mouth of the hole and was relieved to find it was long enough.

  He tied several stringers and chains around his waist, then connected them to his mound of supplies. He lifted his fishing pole and cradled it to his chest, then fell headlong into the hole, deep into the darkness of the Earth, dragging all his equipment with him.

  Above him, the steel pipe remained in place at the top of the hole, awaiting his return.

  Eight hours later, as the morning sun broke over Mount Lanier, Edgar came shooting up from the hole with a humongous haul in tow.

  If the fish were going to survive the trip, Edgar knew that everything would have to work perfectly.

  As he reached the steel pipe at the top of the hole, he artfully snapped the end of a chain to it. Then, simultaneously, he grabbed hold of the pipe himself and kept himself from falling back down.

  Attached to the other end of the chain was the huge mound of fish, connected with a series of stringers through the gills. They, too, were snapped tight to the steel pole and dangled there, hanging just below Edgar’s swinging feet.

  It had worked. He marveled at this ingenuity.

  Secured to the pipe about twelve feet below hung around one hundred and twenty pounds of fresh, meaty fish—the same kind he’d caught before. The creatures stared blankly up at him with wide, yellow eyes.

  With his catch secure, he began inching his way across the pipe, monkey-bar style, until he reached the edge of the hole. There, he pulled himself out and stood on the cabin floor, stretching and yawning. It was five-thirty in the morning, and he was exhausted.

  His father would have been so proud.

  If he hurried, the fish wouldn’t go bad—but he would have to work fast.

  Soon the trailer was packed with fish and the ice packs were readjusted, and he jumped on the bike, pedaling hard to the house, glancing occasionally behind him to check on the bouncing trailer. Yeah, he thought, it’s the biggest haul of fish I’ve ever seen. Especially for a fisherman who fished from dry land with no boat.

  He checked his watch again. Flounder would arrive soon so he’d need to hurry.

  It was going to be a long morning.

  Eleven

  Flounder kneeled over the kiddy pool full of fresh, iced fish that Edgar presented to him.

  “Wow,” muttered Flounder. “Where did you get those?”

  “From my uncle.”

  “Your uncle?” said Flounder, leaning down to inspect them. “And where did he get them?”

  “He got them from the ocean, Flounder. What does it matter?”

  “And what kind did you say they were again?”

  “Jeezus, Flounder, what are you, the friggin’ Health Department? They’re called Ambercod.” Maybe if Edgar was pushy enough, Flounder wouldn’t ask too many unanswerable questions.

  “Well, I’ve never heard of ‘em,” barked Flounder.

  He bent and investigated one of them more closely, pressing a finger into the fish’s belly.

  Then, he frowned and cocked his head sideways.

  “Look, Flounder,” said Edgar. “It’s simple. My uncle owns a charter. He had this big haul two days ago in the Pacific. He caught these—hybrids, he calls them—they spawn deep in the water offshore during the change of season. Now . . . No matter what you think of it, Flounder, I’m offering you free fish. You get that? Free fish!”

  Edgar nudged him on the shoulder. “I told him you could sell his fish here in Mount Lanier at your fish stand. He said we could keep half the money—you and me!”

  “Ugh, Edgar! You told your uncle we would sell it at our fish stand
? And you didn’t even ask?”

  “Yeah!” said Edgar. “Of course I did! Because who doesn’t like free money?”

  “Look, Edgar. I don’t know anything about these fish.”

  “What’s to know? They’re free. That’s the only thing you should care about.” Edgar playfully shook the boy’s shoulders. “Stop arguing, dude. Just take these fish to your family and see what they think. Let’s get them selling at the fish stand. If they don’t sell, fine—y’all can toss ‘em, but . . .” Edgar pulled out a match and struck it, then tossed it dramatically into a nearby grill that flared with a gust of flame. “If they do sell, y’all keep half the money, then give me half.” With Flounder’s gears fully in motion, Edgar bent and blew on the charcoal. As he stoked the flame, he added, “No matter how you cut it, Flounder, it’s no risk to you or your family. It’s crazy not to take the fish.”

  Flounder rubbed his chin and turned to the kiddie pool again, glaring at the weird, foreign fish glistening in the heat.

  “They’re ugly,” he muttered before bending and wiggling one of their alligator-like teeth.

  “Yeah, for sure,” agreed Edgar. “But I swear to God, they taste just like grouper. No, even better, actually.”

  “What?” balked Flounder. “Nothing is better than grouper!”

  “Wait and see.”

  Once the fire was ready, Edgar tossed a fillet on the grill and it sizzled immediately. Flounder watched the process keenly.

  “What have you put on the fish?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Just a little Tony’s and a little lemon,” Edgar explained. “Oh, and a bit of dill.”

  “Ha!” scolded Flounder. “You say the fish is as good as grouper! Well, why are you covering it up, Edgar?! It’s not chicken.”

  “God, Flounder. You sound just like my dad.”

  Once the fish was cooked through, Edgar pulled a piece from the grill and handed it to his friend. Flounder blew on it until the morsel had cooled enough to pop into his mouth, and after just a couple of chews, his face lit up with the revelation.

  Just as Edgar had promised, it was absolutely wonderful.

  “Wow!” he said, smacking. “That’s really, really good! It’s tangy like amberjack, but tender as lump crab!”

  “Yeah!” exclaimed Edgar. “That’s what I’m saying! It’s what I’ve been trying to tell you all along!” He patted Flounder on the back excitedly. “I’m glad you’re on board. Now, will you please help me clean them?”

  Edgar walked to the patio table and retrieved his electric knife. He turned and offered it to Flounder, who took one look at it and exploded into pious laughter.

  “Dude!” he chuckled. “I use a real blade!”

  Flounder went to the kitchen and rummaged for a knife, returning with the best one in the house.

  “This’ll do,” he said thoughtfully, twisting around Mr. Dewitt’s sleek Wüsthof knife, trying to make it glint in the midday sun.

  The two then took to the back porch where, after dousing the deck planks with water from the hose, they spread the fish and got to work, Flounder with the Wüsthof blade and Edgar with the Electric Greenie. Together they cut and sliced happily for almost an hour, chatting about fishing and movies and who was probably better at filleting fish.

  Edgar knew Flounder was better at it, but he couldn’t help getting a rise out of the kid.

  When they were finished, the two stood over a mound of fish heads and slimy innards and large swarm of flies. On the patio table sat their prize: a huge pile of immaculately cleaned, meticulously washed fish fillets currently soaking in four buckets of cold sink water.

  The two clanked a couple of celebratory glasses of cold Coke together, and then gulped audibly, smiling broadly at their triumph.

  “This is forty pounds of fillets,” exclaimed Flounder. “That’s a ton of meat.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Edgar.

  Once the bike trailer was loaded with the fresh, bagged fish—each one vacuum-sealed perfectly, with help from Mr. Dewitt’s nifty vacuum sealer—the two boys bumped fists in the oncoming dusk and said goodbye.

  “Good luck!” yelled Edgar, as Flounder pedaled the bike away. He rode proudly with shoulders high, saluting Edgar with the back of a hand as he rounded the bend.

  __________

  The next evening, Edgar took another trip to his island—not for fishing this time, but just for fun. He felt the urge to get away for a swim and another freefall—just to relax.

  Swimming around the island this time, he spotted a few lobsters in the coral below. Lobsters! Lobsters would bring a pretty penny too, he thought.

  Swimming on the island was fun, but falling had become Edgar’s favorite part. Who would have known it? He’d always been afraid of heights but now had come to love losing himself in the drop.

  In the warm, salty air that brushed by him as he fell, he flipped and pirouetted and contorted himself into a veritable array of aerial gymnastics, and it always, without exception, helped him to clear his racing mind.

  And, when he wasn’t trying to master his skydiving skills, he would lose himself in thought as he careened through the darkness.

  He thought about his new school and about Shay, about Flounder’s troubles, and even Chris Weedy, and what would make anyone become such a giant ass.

  As always, though, he thought about how he’d have to continue to keep the island a secret from his parents.

  It would be difficult to hide it, but the island was special, and it would be worth it.

  __________

  “Dude!” Flounder exclaimed, approaching Edgar in the commons and seeing the dark circles that had made a permanent home beneath Edgar’s eyes. “Why are you so tired lately? Get it together!”

  Edgar came to, mumbling a bum explanation. He’d been at the island again the night before, and sleep was dead last on his priority list these days.

  “Whatever man. Listen! Are you awake now?”

  “Yeah,” said Edgar.

  Flounder smiled and yanked out a big wad of money from his pocket, slapping it on the table before Edgar. “Every bit of the Ambercod sold!” he whispered. “The customers love it!”

  “Sold?” said Edgar, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus on the huge wad of money in the middle of the table. Suddenly, when he came to his senses, he snatched it away, hiding it in his lap below the table.

  Flounder giggled. “Your uncle’s fish is a hit!” he said, as Edgar frantically stuffed the wad into his pocket. He glanced around the commons to see if anyone had seen him receive the cash, and Flounder laughed even harder at this strange behavior.

  “Edgar, you’re a dork. Just tell your uncle we need more Ambercod. I think when word gets out, there’s probably gonna be a run on the market.”

  __________

  After school that day, Edgar stood in the cabin by the hole’s edge and yanked out the large wad of money. Even there, in the middle of nowhere, he caught himself glancing around to make sure he was truly alone.

  He couldn’t figure out why exactly, but he was paranoid. Maybe it was because of how the money had been acquired: with all the lying and sneaking out. But there, in the sunlight streaming down from the large hole in the roof, he counted the money and marveled, letting out a long exhale.

  Five hundred dollars.

  Five hundred dollars!

  He’d never had so much money before.

  He was rich.

  The Ambercod had sold for nine dollars a pound, and Flounder told him the Arteses wanted to mark it up even more the next time, assuming Edgar’s uncle could catch some more.

  Edgar figured he could probably arrange such a thing.

  The Arteses essentially wanted to charge the same price as yellowfin tuna or prime salmon, which was as expensive as fish fillets get, especially this far inland.

 
Back home, safe in his room with the door locked, Edgar dislodged a loose baseboard in the corner by his desk.

  There, behind the wall, he hid his money.

  He slumped against the baseboards and stared absently at the boxed up baseball trophies and rolled up posters of rock bands that were scattered across his room. He knew he should unpack from the move, but he really didn’t want to.

  __________

  Just days later, Edgar found himself forging his mother’s signature on a lackluster paper.

  It was a “D” on a history exam. He’d never forged anything in his life, and here he was, doing it.

  Milly Dewitt, he signed carefully on the bottom of the paper. He lifted it up to inspect the signature. His eyes ventured to the top of the paper where the teacher’s brutal statements glared at him:

  Edgar has not been performing. He constantly falls asleep in class! He’s missed two homework assignments. Edgar can do better than this!

  Yeah, he concluded. Milly Dewitt could never read that.

  The worst part was, he was actually pretty great at history.