by Pratt, Tim
Still, Graydon was hardly an expert on catfish, so perhaps he’d overestimated Shiteater’s size. Starting Monday he tried the recommended approaches for catching giant catfish from the shore, setting multiple poles and lines on the bank, with hooks set at various depths. He tried different baits, from small fish to rotten chicken and beef, but none of it worked, and the bait came out again sodden but untouched, and there was no sign of the big fish at all, not even a ripple.
Graydon didn’t catch anything, as if there were no other fish in the pond at all, which he supposed was possible. Shiteater could have eaten them all. By Wednesday Graydon had given up on catching the monster, already bored and frustrated by the effort. It had been hubris to think he could catch such a monster, just one more instance of his reach exceeding his grasp.
On Thursday he sat on the bank with his dead brother’s fishing rod jammed into the mud, line in the water, staring at the sky. The fishing rod was almost a formality now, just a prop, set-dressing. It justified his sitting by the water, in the shade, listening to the willow’s drooping branches sway in the breeze.
The rod fell into the water. The bobber was submerged—had Shiteater bitten the hook and pulled in the rod? Graydon splashed into the pond, up to his knees, going after the rod, which was already floating away.
He reached for the rod... and something passed before him, brushing against his legs. He looked down, and there was Shiteater, far bigger than one hundred and eleven pounds, as big around as a barrel. Shiteater took the fishing rod into its mouth, like a dog picking up a thrown stick, and dove with it, disappearing.
Graydon stared down into the water for a moment, then shouted and slapped at the water angrily. “You fucking fish! Bring that back!” Shiteater ignored food, it ignored everything, but it tried to eat his brother’s fishing rod? What kind of beast was this?
Graydon slogged out of the water and sat, dripping, beneath the willow tree, thinking dark thoughts about fishing with dynamite, or about blasting Shiteater with a shotgun, but he didn’t have dynamite, or any guns at all.
Something drifted on the surface of the water, eddying gradually toward the bank, until it floated just offshore in front of the willow. Graydon leaned forward to look at it.
It was a dreamcatcher, a wooden hoop threaded with string and hung with wet feathers. Alton had given one of those to Graydon years and years ago, after a trip he took to an Indian reservation in the Southwest. Graydon had lost it in one of his many moves, and he’d missed it, a little. Graydon reached into the water and lifted the floating dreamcatcher out.
It was the same. The same snapped threads, the same gray-and-white feathers, the same size, everything. It was the dreamcatcher he’d lost, the one Alton had given him, he’d almost swear to it.
Graydon looked at the pond for a while. He’d baited his hook, that first day, with one of Alton’s lures. He lost the lure, but found a motorcycle helmet. Now he’d lost Alton’s fishing rod, and found a dreamcatcher.
The thoughts that occurred to him were ridiculous.
But, on the other hand, they were testable.
Graydon went back to the house, and came back a bit later, carrying some of the things Alton had left behind.
***
There are myths about salmon, but catfish don’t warrant much more than folklore. Some say that catfish bite well when it thunders, or that they’re easy to catch when it rains; that catfish will bite a hook dipped in motor oil, or that you’ll be lucky fishing for them if your pockets are turned inside out. If an owl hoots in the daylight, the catfish are easy to catch.
All of those beliefs are true. But some of them confuse cause and effect.
***
By nightfall, Graydon had thrown almost all of Alton’s possessions into the pond, and received an equal number of things in return. Throwing in Alton’s class ring brought back one of his brother’s running shoes, his initials written in permanent marker on the inside of the tongue. Throwing in freshman algebra class notes brought back a sparkling geode Alton had used as a bookend, though Graydon had to fish that out with a net after Shiteater swam repeatedly over the spot where it rested, like Flipper the dolphin from that old TV show, trying to explain something to the stupid humans. Shiteater ate almost everything Graydon threw him. Graydon intentionally threw in a few things with no connection to Alton—a used paperback he’d picked up at a yard sale for a dime, a salt shaker that came with the house, a handful of change. Shiteater ignored those things, and nothing came back in return. After an hour of casting in and receiving back, Graydon sat by a pile of returned objects, all of them things lost for years before.
“Did you eat my brother, you fuck?” Graydon asked, but knew it was absurd. Alton had died in a body of water that was little more than a creek, miles from here. The connection between his brother and Shiteater was stranger than that, more complicated, more mysterious. Perhaps it would prove too mysterious for Graydon to understand. When it grew dark, Graydon started to gather the objects Shiteater had given him, or allowed the pond to give him, or whatever. But why would he want to keep those things? They were just lost things, some with a charge of sentimental value, most lacking even that. Graydon began tossing the objects into the water, as he’d thrown back the helmet that first day, and Shiteater rose up again and swallowed it all, wolfing the things down as quickly as Graydon could throw them in.
It was hard to tell in the dark, but Shiteater seemed larger than he had been before. Nothing new came floating out of the pond after Graydon finished throwing everything in, and Shiteater didn’t break the surface of the black water again once he finished eating. Graydon kept only the dreamcatcher—he suspected he might need it, as nightmares seemed inevitable— and trudged back to his house, thinking.
***
In psychoanalysis, “fishing” refers to a process whereby subconscious thoughts, feelings, and motivations are drawn up randomly, without any attempt to order or explain them until later. The process is poorly named, since it is more like dredging or using a dragnet than the precise efforts of an angler—it pulls up everything, garbage and treasure alike. It’s a technique that only a catfish could love.
A good fisherman, on the other hand, knows just what sort of bait to use, and where to cast his line.
***
Graydon woke early on Friday morning and decided to continue his experiments.
He threw in one of his mother’s good china cups and received a small jar, labeled with a piece of masking tape, that contained the gallstones she’d had surgically removed when Graydon was fifteen. He remembered visiting her in the hospital, remembered her telling him that the doctors were going to give her the gallstones, how she planned to throw them into the ocean next time they went to the coast. She was already starting to lose it, then, her mind beginning its slow unraveling, but it had seemed like simple eccentricity in those days, not the full-blown dementia it would become.
Graydon looked at the jar for a while. This was a valuable discovery. This meant the fish didn’t have anything to do with Alton, not specifically. Graydon threw the gallstones back into the water. Shiteater was—was—
He didn’t know what Shiteater was. Something to do with the dead, maybe. Or memory, or loss, or grief, or hope, or closure. Graydon couldn’t figure it out. It wasn’t like in stories, where things were neatly explained, where the mystery had a function, however obscure, where the operations of the supernatural could be explained. This was something else. Something magical, but incomprehensible, which was perhaps the nature of real magic. But Graydon couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t turn his back and go on living, forget about the pond, and the creature that lived in it.
There was a story about a magical salmon. Rebekah had told him about it, after her trip to Ireland, where she met Lorrie. There once was a wise salmon that lived in a pool, and ate magic nuts, and some great Irish hero caught the fish, and roasted it, and that was a pretty good deal, because whoever ate the fish would gain its wisdom.
What would happen if Graydon ate Shiteater? Would he gain wisdom? Or magic? The ability to call the dead, speak to the dead? Or the ability to forget the dead? There was supposed to be a river in Hell whose waters made you forget, and Graydon suspected that, if such a river were real, it would be inhabited by fat brown channel cats, just like Shiteater. What better fish to have the flesh of forgetfulness than a bland catfish, fed on garbage?
Hadn’t Rebekah said the fish was also called Sineater?
It didn’t matter. He’d never catch it anyway.
Graydon lay under the willow tree, and looked up at the sky, and after a while he fell asleep.
Someone nudged Graydon in the ribs. He opened his eyes, and there was his brother Alton, standing over him, wearing his motorcycle jacket, boots, and jeans. His hair was wet, even his stupid little goatee. “You’re more full of shit than that fish, bro,” he said.
“Alton?” Graydon said. The tree was making a low noise, like weeping, and the branches were moving despite the lack of wind.
Alton squatted down beside Graydon. “Oh, don’t get up,” he said ironically. “I’m not offended. I’m dead, after all. But you’re not.”
“Alton, I don’t understand,” Graydon said. That was the simple truth, and it almost made him burst out crying—he didn’t understand why his mother had lost her mind, why Rebekah had fallen in love with a woman, why his brother had died, why grad school had been so difficult, why Shiteater was eating the physical reminders of his loss without taking the memories themselves away.
“Nobody understands,” Alton said. “Maybe that’s for the best. Listen. You don’t want to eat that fish. I don’t know what would happen if you did, but it’s a big monster that eats dead things, it’s not shiny and silver and full of magic nuts. Let it go. Quit wallowing. Get your life back together, while you still have one.”
Alton had never been so blunt in life—he’d always been very live-and-let-live, but maybe death had changed that. “Shit, Alton, it’s hard, you don’t know what it’s like.”
“Nobody knows what it’s like. And just because it hurts your feelings when I say you’re wallowing, that doesn’t mean it isn’t true. You can’t go on like this.” The tree was moaning more loudly now, and night was falling quickly. “I have to go,” Alton said. “It’s getting late.”
“Alton, no, I still don’t—”
Someone nudged Graydon in the ribs. He opened his eyes. Rebekah stood over him, the sun behind her and a bottle of wine in her hand, looking down at him with a grin. “Have a nice nap? Shall I assume dinner isn’t ready?”
Graydon groaned and sat up. “I had a dream...”
“I bet,” Rebekah said. “Did it involve me and Lorrie and warm oil?”
Graydon grimaced. “Lorrie isn’t my type.”
“I thought all you guys got off on the idea of two women together.”
“I like it better when the women are interested in me, too.”
“Well, hey, it’s your dream,” she said. “Come on. I brought steaks.”
“I was supposed to cook for you!”
“Knock yourself out. I don’t mind if you do the cooking. I just brought the food.”
“Does Lorrie know you’re eating steak?”
“What Lorrie doesn’t know...” Rebekah said airily, and Graydon wondered what that meant, if Rebekah had other things in mind for tonight, more things Lorrie didn’t need to know about.
He went back to the house with her, and for the first time in days, he didn’t think about Shiteater at all.
Graydon made steaks while Rebekah good-naturedly insulted his housekeeping.
“You never used to care so much about tidiness,” Graydon said, standing at the stove, sautéing mushrooms.
“You try living with Lorrie, you’ll start to care about tidy, too. One of us has to, and it’s not going to be her.”
“Sounds like you guys are going through a tough time.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think Lorrie realizes it. She can be pretty clueless sometimes.” Rebekah had opened the wine right away, and now she sipped from a full glass. “Her newest thing? She says I drink too much. I have a few beers on the weekends, maybe a glass of wine at night, and she says I’m an ‘incipient alcoholic.’”
“Sounds like she’s worrying about all the wrong things,” Graydon said.
“I didn’t come here to talk about Lorrie, Gray,” Rebekah said. “No offense, but it’s a subject I’m a little tired of, having to live with it every day.”
“Sorry. What did you come here to talk about?”
“Honestly? I’d hoped we could talk a little bit about you, Gray.”
He kept cooking, unsure how to take that. Rebekah always favored the direct approach—she would just ask, in his position—but Graydon was not so comfortable. So he said, “I’ve been trying to catch that fish. I see it, all the time, but I can’t get it.”
“Try a speargun,” she said. “They’re pretty accurate over short distances. If you really see it that often, you can probably get it.”
“Yeah? Nothing I’ve read suggested a speargun.”
She shrugged. “Well, you could try dynamite, but I figure you want to get the fish out in one piece. Should I take this change of subject to mean you don’t want to talk about you? Because I’m worried about you, Gray. I think you’re sinking here, and I’m trying to throw you a rope.”
Graydon turned off the heat under the mushrooms. “Oh,” he said. “And here I’d hoped you were planning to confess your love.” He said it lightly, but he could tell from her expression that she saw past that. She’d always been able to look straight through him.
“I wish I could, Gray. I know you’ve carried a candle for me all this time, but...” She shook her head. “I’ve got to stick things out with Lorrie. We’ve been in it too long to just give up.”
“But if things don’t work out...”
Rebekah looked into her wine, then shook her head, her braids swaying. “No, Gray.”
“I thought you always said you were bisexual?”
She half-smiled. “It’s not about the sex. It’s... I don’t know. I just don’t see you that way anymore. Romantically. I’m not sure I did even when we were dating. You were the nicest guy I knew—you still are—and that’s what attracted me, but as for any real spark, chemistry... I don’t think it was there. I wanted it to be.”
Graydon poured a glass of wine for himself, trying to keep his hands steady. “That’s great, Rebekah,” he said. “Telling me you never loved me at all.”
“I always loved you. I still do. Just... not that way. And I think you needed to hear that, so you’d stop holding out hope, if that’s what you’ve been doing. The way you look when I tell you I’m having problems with Lorrie, you try to hide how happy it makes you, but I can see it, and I don’t like it. Maybe it’s my own fault, for not saying this before.”
“Understood,” Graydon said, turning back to the stove. “I’m going to make salad.”
“Do you want me to leave?” she said.
Graydon stood stiffly for a moment, then slumped. He sighed. “No. I like having you here. Obviously. You can’t blame a guy for hoping, can you?”
“I guess not,” she said.
Dinner was subdued, but after a few more glasses of wine Graydon began to relax. He felt oddly burned-out inside, hollow, but not tense. The reason for the tension was gone. Besides, maybe Rebekah was just fooling herself, maybe in time she’d see how good he was for her... He thought of his dream of Alton, his dead brother telling him to move on. But he wanted to move on with Rebekah. What else did he have left?
Midnight came, and went, as they talked about books, movies, old memories. They didn’t talk about Lorrie, and Rebekah didn’t bring up whatever she’d wanted to say about Graydon wasting his life and his time. Finally Rebekah stretched and said, “So where do I sleep?”
“You can take my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
She nodded, then looked down at her han
ds in her lap, uncharacteristically shy. “Listen, Gray, I know you must be feeling very isolated and cut off... if you wanted, you could come to bed with me. I know how hard it is to be alone, to crave intimacy and not find it. Things haven’t exactly been warm between me and Lorrie lately, and I could use some comfort, too. It wouldn’t mean anything, except that you’re my friend and I love you, but, if you want...”
In that moment, Graydon realized that Rebekah didn’t know him, not really; or if she did, she was deluding herself now, or just using him for her own needs. If Graydon made love to Rebekah, he wanted it to mean something. He wanted it to mean that she was coming back to him, that they would be lovers, that they would be together. To have sex together, without any of that... it would be a killing thing. He would hate himself tomorrow, and this hollow feeling might never go away. He should say no.
But how could he say no to the chance to make love to Rebekah?
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like that.”
***
Here is the reason the salmon of wisdom laughed when it thought of being eaten:
It was prophesied that the hero Finegas would catch the salmon, and cook it, and eat it, and gain all knowledge, and thus become a greater hero. Finegas caught the salmon, but, being a hero, he was not accustomed to doing his own cooking, and so he had his apprentice Fionn roast the fish instead. The apprentice would not have dreamed of eating his master’s meal, but he accidentally burned his thumb while turning the fish on the fire. Without thinking, Fionn stuck his burned thumb into his mouth and sucked it.
