The Witnesses

by Robert Whitlow

  “Yeah, I think that’s my favorite one. It brings together earth and heaven.”

  “You’re right,” Parker admitted. “How did you see that while we were driving down the road?”

  “I saw the trees and thought there might be a photo waiting to be discovered.”

  They continued down the road.

  “I wish I’d taken my camera inside the bait shop so I could photograph the clerk who sold me the fishing license,” Layla said, staring out the window.

  “He would have loved that,” Parker replied.

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Enough to know that he couldn’t quit looking at you.”

  “He’s a guy doing what guys do. I was interested because he wasn’t a stereotypical redneck even though he talked like one. His teeth were perfect, and I bet he’s never seen the inside of an orthodontist’s office. And his eyes were the deepest brown I’ve ever seen. Maybe he has a Native American background, which would make sense since his hair was so straight and black.”

  “Do you want me to turn around and go back? You should take him outside and get him to pose like the tree with his arms reaching up to the sky.”

  Layla smiled. “That would work, but I’d rather get on the boat.”

  They reached the sandy parking area near the dock.

  “That’s my grandfather’s car,” Parker said, pointing to an aging white sedan. “He’s probably down at the boat getting it ready.”

  Parker always relaxed when his feet touched sandy soil. Maybe it had something to do with the steady breezes caused when water and land met. He took in a deep breath.

  “This is a gorgeous day,” he said.

  Layla was leaning over with her hands in her backpack. She looked up. “Yes, it is. Do you need my help carrying anything?”

  “No, I’ll grab the cooler.”

  Parker opened the rear door of the car and lifted out an oversized cooler with two wheels on one end. It was slow going in the sandy soil, but once they reached the wooden dock it rolled along easily.

  “That’s his boat,” Parker said, pointing to a shiny white center-console skiff. “It looks like he’s cleaned it up for you.”

  His grandfather stood up. In his hand was a long-handled brush. As they got closer, Parker could see a plastic bucket at his feet.

  “Good morning, Opa,” Parker said. “This is Layla Donovan.”

  Layla and Frank stared at each other for a second.

  “You’re the man from the church!” she exclaimed.

  “Church?” Parker asked his grandfather.

  “Yes,” Frank replied. “And I’m very glad I went. Come aboard.”

  Parker hoisted the cooler onto the boat and then jumped on board. He held his hand out to Layla, whose long legs easily made the transition from the dock to the gently rocking vessel.

  “I love your accent,” Layla said to Frank. She followed up with several sentences in rapid-fire German. All Parker could decipher was the word for “good” and a number that he wasn’t sure about. His grandfather listened before he gave a longer response in the same language.

  “How’s my accent?” Layla asked in English.

  “Very good for an American,” Frank answered.

  “I hope we’re not going to turn this into a New Bern Oktoberfest,” Parker said to both of them.

  “This is a US vessel,” Frank said to Layla. “English is the primary language spoken here, but if you need to tell me something that you don’t want Parker to know, feel free to use German.”

  Layla replied with another smattering of German that made Frank laugh.

  “What did you say?” Parker asked her.

  “Only what I don’t want you to hear,” Layla replied with a smile. “And it was complimentary, wasn’t it, Mr. Haus?”

  “Yes,” Frank said. “But I’m not Herr Haus or Mr. House. Why don’t you call me Frank?”

  “Okay,” Layla said.

  They spent the next few minutes readying the boat for the trip. Parker stowed the cooler in a storage area under the deck while Frank snapped the fishing poles into brackets beneath the gunwale on the starboard side. Layla had her camera out taking pictures. When Frank started the boat’s motor, it roared to life before he throttled it back to idle speed.

  “Cast off,” he said to Parker, who untied a rope from a broad cleat on the dock.

  “How fast do you want to go?” Frank asked Layla.

  “Slow for now. The last bits of mist on the water won’t last long, and I want to take advantage of them. It will be tougher to get nice pictures once the sun climbs up in the sky.”

  They left the dock, creating very little wake. Usually they took off at top speed to get to their fishing destination as quickly as possible. Layla’s presence forced them to dial it back.

  Clicking photos from various places on the boat, she ended up leaning so far over the bow that Parker took a step forward in case she started to tip overboard. She saw him when she straightened up.

  “Hold it!” she said. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay here while I give the camera to your grandfather.”

  Puzzled, Parker obeyed and watched as Layla handed the camera to Frank, who put the strap around his neck and received what appeared to be a quick tutorial. Layla returned to the bow.

  “Ready for your Titanic moment?” she asked. “You know, the scene where Jack and Rose are on the front of the boat facing into the wind.”

  “I’m not sure this qualifies.”

  “Trust me.”

  “But why?”

  “It’s for your grandfather. He asked for it.”

  “He asked for a picture of the two of us together?”

  “You sure ask a lot of questions. Strike a pose.”

  Layla faced downriver. Out of the corner of his eye, Parker saw his grandfather leaning against the gunwale with the camera raised to his right eye so he could capture their faces in the frame. The boat, which allowed the captain to lock the rudder in position, continued to motor forward.

  “Look that way.” Layla nudged Parker and pointed across the water at the distant shore. “And imagine we’re heading toward a place you’ve always wanted to visit but never had the chance to until today.”

  Parker had always wanted to take the boat to Ocracoke Island, one of the most beautiful barrier islands on the entire eastern seaboard. He’d visited many times but always via the state-run ferry service.

  “Okay, I have a place.”

  “Now imagine it’s across the water at the edge of your vision.”

  In his mind’s eye, Parker thought about the stunning, unspoiled white beaches that looked the same as when Blackbeard the pirate and the British privateer Sir Francis Drake sailed the waters of the Outer Banks.

  “Okay, we’re done,” Layla said after a few seconds passed.

  “I’m just getting used to my happy place,” Parker replied.

  Layla took the camera from Frank. Parker watched as she scrolled through the photos until his grandfather stopped her with a nod of his head.

  “That’s my favorite too,” Layla said. “You have a good eye.”

  “Let me see.” Parker held out his hand for the camera.

  Layla positioned the camera so the glare of the rising sun didn’t wash out the image. In the photo, Layla was standing with her chin slightly extended. Parker had the confident look of a young man who knew where he was heading in life. The few clouds in the sky behind them softened the visual impression.

  “Nice, Opa,” he said.

  “I agree,” Layla said and then turned to Frank, who had returned to his place behind the wheel. “The sun is up in the sky. Could we go fast?”

  Frank pushed the throttle forward. As they quickly picked up speed, the powerful motor lifted the bow of the boat out of the water. Layla returned her camera to her backpack and stood by Frank. Parker stayed in the bow to watch the water rushing by. He never tired of leaving the safety of land to venture on the water. His summer on the Aar
e had been a lifesaving distraction. He could still remember the pungent smells of the sea and the nets that hung from booms and made the boat look like a crab on its back with its claws in the air.

  They came into a section of chop that made the boat bounce up and down. Parker turned around. Layla had a grin on her face. Parker made his way to the stern and joined her.

  “The water can change very quickly out here!” he yelled over the roar of the engine behind them.

  “I like it!” she replied.

  The chop increased, which made Layla laugh. His grandfather pointed to the place where a creek flowed into the water. Turning the wheel, he headed at top speed toward the mouth of the creek. He didn’t slow down until he was within a few yards of the spot where it spilled into the river, when he suddenly cut the throttle. The friction of the water brought the boat to a rocking stop.

  “A hundred yards up that creek is our first fishing hole,” he said. “Hopefully there are some nice speckled trout hanging out there.”

  They slowly made their way forward. The creek was about seventy-five feet wide. Small, bushy trees clung to the bank, and a few dipped their branches into the water.

  “How deep is it?” Layla asked, peering into the opaque water.

  “Ten to twelve feet,” Parker replied, pointing to the depth finder on the console. “There’s not a lot of deep water within fifty miles of here.”

  Frank cut off the engine. “Drop the stern anchor so we don’t drift into the bank,” he said to Parker.

  The boat had two anchors on narrow-link chains. Parker released the mechanism that held the one at the rear of the boat. Within seconds it hit the bottom of the creek.

  “See,” he said to Layla. “You could easily dive off the boat and grab a handful of mud.”

  “Too bad I didn’t bring my bathing suit,” Layla replied, making a face.

  Parker was wearing his swim trunks beneath his shorts. He took off his shirt.

  “Is it okay if I take a dip, Opa?” he asked.

  “Sure, especially if you noodle a flounder off the bottom.”

  “Noodle?” Layla asked.

  “Catch it with my hands,” Parker replied.

  “Is that possible?” she asked.

  “Let’s find out. Get your camera ready. It will be a fast shot. The fish don’t like being grabbed.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Parker stepped onto the deck beside the engine and dived into the water. There was no use opening his eyes as he swam straight down into the opaque water. The bottom of the creek was a mixture of sandy mud and underwater grass that was a favorite fall habitat for speckled trout. He ran his hands over the bottom until he found a nice-sized seashell that had traveled in with the tide and made its way up the narrow inlet. He stayed underwater as long as his breath allowed to increase the level of suspense for Layla on the surface. When the demand for air from his lungs couldn’t be denied, he pushed off with his feet and rose up to the boat. As soon as he popped into the air, he shook his head to knock the water from his eyes. He held up the shell, which was an attractive cream and rose color.

  “No flounder, but I brought you this,” he said, tossing the shell to Layla, who caught it.

  Using a fold-down ladder at the rear of the boat, Parker scrambled on board and grabbed a towel from a storage bin near the engine to dry off.

  “Thanks for my seashell,” Layla said.

  “You can put it in the glass bowl you have in the center of your kitchen table,” Parker replied.

  “How did you know about that?” Layla asked in surprise.

  “Every woman has one,” Parker answered.

  Frank took the rods from their holders and laid them on the deck beside a large tackle box.

  “Let’s set up two with live shrimp and the other with an artificial fish lure so we can find out what’s working,” he said to Parker.

  While the two men worked on the rods, Layla took pictures. Once the rods were ready, Frank showed Layla where to cast.

  “This time of the year, the trout are just beginning to move into the creeks,” he said. “They like the saltier water toward the bottom.”

  Layla’s first cast came within inches of causing a massive line tangle in a tree limb.

  “Easy,” Frank said. “Not quite so forceful.”

  “That’s the only way she knows to roll,” Parker said.

  “I take pictures of babies all the time without making them cry,” Layla replied.

  “On a day like this, the fish are more likely to be in the grassy channel than along the bank,” Frank continued.

  They stepped to different parts of the boat to avoid getting in one another’s way.

  “How cold was the water?” Frank asked Parker.

  “Not too bad after the first shock,” he replied. “The fish should still be active.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Parker felt the tap against his line that signaled the presence of a hungry fish. He quickly raised the rod tip and set the hook. The fight was on.

  “It’s a keeper,” he said as the fish made a run, dragging out line.

  “And it hit the live shrimp,” Frank said. “That’s what you have at the end of your line, Layla.”

  Parker played with the fish until it tired and then reeled it in. It was a healthy twenty-incher, perfect for eating. Layla laid down her rod and came over for a closer look. Parker held up the fish and carefully removed the lure from its lower jaw.

  “Nice one,” Frank said.

  “Are you going to set it free?” Layla asked.

  Parker and Frank both turned and stared at her.

  “This is your lunch,” Parker said.

  “What if I’m feeling vegan today?” Layla replied, pressing her lips together.

  “You’re not a vegan. You loved the mango fish entrée you ate at the restaurant. All you left on the plate were the bones.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t there when my dinner was caught. I can see into your fish’s eyes. It’s pleading for its life.”

  Without a word, Frank took the trout from Parker and lowered it into the water, where it swished its tail once and disappeared.

  “This is going to be a catch-and-release trip,” he said.

  “What about lunch?” Parker persisted.

  “We can dock at Oriental and buy some fresh fish at one of the marinas.”

  “Is that okay?” Layla asked anxiously. “I don’t want to ruin this for you and Parker.”

  “We like catching fish even if we don’t eat them,” Parker said. “And we never keep fish unless we intend to eat them. Opa has a freezer full of—”

  “Maybe now isn’t the time to bring that up,” Frank interrupted.

  “No, it’s okay,” Layla said. “I’d enjoy eating fish at your house. It’s just that I wasn’t ready for the thought of killing a fish I’d met in person.”

  Parker burst out laughing but tried to stifle it at the expression on Layla’s face.

  “Death is a hard reality when it’s personal,” Frank said in a serious tone of voice. “I’m glad you can care about a fish. We’ll make this a trip for photos and fun, not for dinner.”

  Over the next hour, Parker caught four fish, Frank brought three into the boat, and Layla struck out.

  “It can be a subtle bite,” Parker said as he laid down his pole and stood beside her. “More of a tap than a hard-charging gulp.”

  In direct contradiction to his words, a fish suddenly hit Layla’s lure with such force that it almost jerked the pole out of her hands.

  “She’s on!” Parker called out.

  Frank, who was about to toss out his line, propped his rod against the gunwale and came over.

  “Let it run!” Parker said, resisting the urge to take the rod from her hands. “The drag will slow it down a little bit.”

  There’s nothing like the sound of a fish taking out line. The zing made Parker’s heart race. Suddenly the fish stopped.

  “Start reeling!” he yelled.


  Layla looked at Frank. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, yes,” Frank said. “You can trust Parker.”

  Layla turned the crank on the reel, and the line quickly became taut.

  “Not too fast,” Parker said. “And keep the rod tip up in the air. That will maintain tension on the hook.”

  Layla raised the rod and slowly brought in line. The pole bent sharply.

  “Let him run again,” Parker said.

  Layla removed her hand from the reel, and the line zipped out again.

  “This could take awhile,” she said. “The fish is getting farther and farther away from the boat.”

  “It’s great if it takes a long time,” Parker replied. “That means it’s a fish worth catching.”

  Over the next ten minutes, Layla went back and forth with the fish as she brought it steadily toward the boat, only to see it take off on another run.

  “It’s hooked solid,” Parker said to Frank, who nodded.

  “Why do you say that?” Layla asked. “Am I doing something wrong?”

  “No, but don’t try to muscle it in. That could break the line.”

  “I’m stronger than I look,” Layla replied.

  “I don’t doubt it,” Parker said. “I bet you played volleyball on your high school team.”

  Layla glanced at him. “I did. For four years.”

  The fish came to the surface and flopped around for a moment. Parker’s eyes widened at the scope of the splash.

  “Wow,” he said. “Be calm.”

  “I am calm,” Layla replied.

  “I’m not,” Parker said.

  Frank picked up the long-handled net he used to capture fish. The trout was about six feet from the boat when it took off on yet another run.

  “He hasn’t given up yet,” Parker said.

  “How can you tell it’s a male?” Layla asked.

  “You’re right. Based on the way it’s misbehaving, it’s probably a female,” Parker said, correcting himself.

  “Girls don’t like to get caught against their will,” Layla said.

  Layla brought the fish closer. This time its desire to fight was gone. Frank expertly scooped it up in the net.

  “Woo-hoo!” Parker yelled. “Let’s measure and weigh it.”