The Ambassador of What

by Adrian Michael Kelly

  TWO

  Lure

  On their way down to Ecky’s for an oil change and filters, his father pulls into Canadian Tire. Stares at lures as long as his hand. Shimmering eyes and thick as sausage—the long wicked dangle of treble-barbed hooks—they look like specimens bungled by God. Or something older than God. And crueller.

  As his father slides a box—called Heddon’s Cobra—from a prong, the boy slips round the end of the shelf. Walks past the spinners and the hairy buzzbaits to the display of shiny spoons. Sees the Red Devil. Notes the price. Moves down the aisle. Stands on tiptoes—his father is reading the back of the box—then scans the display of rods and sees the one his father got him. Checks the tag. Then the selection of open-faced reels. Finds one like his then does the sum. Knows they are not poor. But knows they don’t have heaps. He feels the weight of forty dollars.

  His father says, Son?

  The boy scoots back and says, I’m here.

  Suppose we should be going.

  Gonna get that one?

  Thought I might.

  Maybe it’s the charm.

  Over the box, his father makes a jokey cross. Hope so, he says.

  They walk to the cash, and his father pays half with Canadian Tire money and half with real. Then they drive to Ecky’s. Pull up in front of the service bay. A car in there with its hood way up. The boy’s father rolls down his window. Leans his head out and makes a bullhorn with his hand. Weren’t you fixing that one last week?

  Ecky leans around the hood and says, You’re next.

  Only kidding, Hector. Take your time.

  His father turns off the car. Shall we pop up to Wing’s?

  The boy says, Sure.

  They get out and his father tosses the keys in the car. They bounce beside the bag with the lure in it.

  Up at Wing’s, they sit at the counter, and his father nods hello at the men always there. The waitress named Mary is down near the end talking to a guy in a Rough Riders coat. She puts down her smoke and says, Hey, Morris. Tea?

  The boy’s father says, Coffee, I think.

  And then Mary looks at the boy. He looks at his father.

  Tell her what you’d like, lad.

  The boy looks back at Mary. Root beer?

  Fountain or can.

  The boy says, Can. And then he says, Please.

  Mary serves them and says, How’s Carol?

  And the boy’s father says, She’s well.

  Good to hear, says Mary, and she looks down the counter.

  The boy’s father says, Back on the fags?

  Hard when you work in a place like this.

  Hard anytime.

  Want a menu, Morris?

  Fine just now.

  Back in the kitchen, Wing hits the bell and says, Pick up pick up. Mary goes. The boy bends his straw and watches his father pour cream in his coffee and stir long and slow as he looks down the counter and joins in the blather—jokes, the weather, Trudeau, and who’s died. The boy drinks his Hires. Turns on the stool. But only a little. Nibbles his straw. Closes one eye and looks in the can. His father turns back. You peckish?

  The boy looks up. French fries?

  His father nods. Orders a plate and they share. With malt vinegar.

  Not bad these.

  Mum’s are better.

  So I’ll have the last one.

  The boy looks at it. His father says, Yours, and he slides two bucks under the plate. They get up to go. Wing comes out for a swallow of Coke. Wipes his shiny forehead with the length of his arm and says, Hello, Morris, how are you how are you?

  Good, Wing. Yourself?

  Oh, busy busy. Plan for weekend?

  Fishing, Wing.

  This time of year? Weather no good.

  Perfect for muskie.

  A couple of men at the counter look over and Wing stops drinking his Coke. Looks at the boy and says, You go?

  The boy only nods.

  And Wing says, Wow. Then he spreads his arms wide and says, Big fish.

  The boy nods again.

  And Wing says, Be careful he no eat you.

  The men at the counter laugh, and the boy looks at Mary. She blows out smoke and smiles at him. The boy looks down. His father waves bye to her and to Wing, and Wing says, Bye! Good luck good luck!

  A man at the counter says, He’ll need it he’ll need it. And laughs with the others as the bells on the door—three of them on a shiny red ribbon—bounce and clang and rattle behind the boy and his dad.

  Up at Ecky’s the car isn’t done. The boy and his father stand in the bay. Grease stains and tools. Sunshine Girls all over a wall. And on the wall opposite a huge stuffed muskie—Ecky says lunge—on a fancy piece of wood with a brass plaque. The boy’s father has another look and shakes his head. Forty-eight pounds, Hector.

  Under the car, Ecky says, Yep.

  Must have been a fight.

  Ecky slides out and looks at the fish but doesn’t say anything. Slides under again.

  The boy’s father says, What did you use?

  Ecky says, Eh?

  His father says, Bait.

  And Ecky says, Frog.

  The boy’s father crouches and looks under the car. Plastic? he says.

  Nope, says Ecky. Real.

  Can’t say I’ve tried it.

  Hardly use anything else. For muskie.

  Never jerkbait?

  Ecky slides out and stands up. You know why they call it that?

  I think I hear what you’re saying, Hector.

  Ecky wipes his hands on a rag. Don’t mind my sayin—

  Go ahead.

  Saw that eight-dollar gizmo on the front seat.

  The boy says, Really it was four.

  Yeah, well. You’re goin up to Crowe, right?

  The boy and his father nod.

  Lotta shoals out there, Morris. Weedbeds—right between the islands there—perfect.

  The boy’s father nods. That’s where I trawl.

  Had a follower?

  Earlier this fall. I could see it, Ecky. Not ten feet from me. It nudged the lure. Like it knew, the bugger.

  It won’t nudge a frog.

  How does one—

  ’Tween the islands there. The ones closer to the western shore. Lob it out on the lily pads. Let it sink a little. Jig it a bit. Don’t reel too fast.

  What sort of hook?

  Big one, laughs Ecky. And he hooks his finger—his filthy, pointed nail—beneath the boy’s chin. Put it through here, he says. Then he turns out his leg like a Sunshine Girl. Or here. Points near his crotch and says, The meaty part. It’ll kick. Bleed a little. Hello, fishy—he nods and smiles—that’s what you want.

  Where will I find live frogs this time of year?

  Place outside of Marmora. I know the guy. When you goin.

  Tomorrow, first thing.

  I’ll call him.

  Thank you, Hector.

  No bother.

  The boy’s father turns around and looks at the muskie again. So does the boy. The snout on it. The teeth. The boy’s father says, One hell of a fight.

  And Ecky says, Why it’s on the wall, Morris.

  Can one man land it?

  Ecky points at the boy. He goin with you?

  His father’s hand on the boy’s shoulder. Yes, he is.

  Ecky horks in a grease stain—it jiggles and glistens—and looks at the boy. Guess, he says, you get to gaff the whore.

  ~

  At home, as they pack the car, the boy’s father hefts the big polehook and says, Like this, son. Through the gills. Then you lift it in the boat, and, if it’s still fighting, I’ll bash it with the truncheon. Try.

  The boy takes the hook. Looks at the horrible barb. Tries to picture the fish. Grips the pole
hard. Behind him, his mother opens the door to the kitchen. The boy swings the hook.

  Morris, says his mother, what on earth is he doing with that?

  He’s fine.

  Dad, I don’t think I’m strong enough.

  Son, with my luck, you won’t need to be.

  The boy looks at his mother. She shakes her head and says, Supper.

  The boy and his father quickly wash up and then sit down in the kitchen. It’s mostly leftovers. His mother says she’ll make sandwiches with the rest of the roast and wrap up the last of the cake as well. Then she goes to her room while the boy and his father wash the dishes. After that, they finish packing the station wagon, and the boy watches as his father hitches the trailer and backs out to the end of the drive so there won’t be so much noise in the morning. They go back in and his father says, Make an early night of it. The boy walks down the hall, but the washroom door is closed, and he can hear his mother having a bath. He walks back to the living room, but his father is not there, and then the boy hears the scraping of the chair on the floor in the basement and knows his dad will be there awhile. Sharpening hooks. Or doing maths. Or just sitting there.

  In his room, the boy sets his alarm just in case his dad sleeps in. Then he gets on the bed and kneels at its edge. Imagines the gaff in his hands and swings it. Then lies back. Stares at the ceiling. It has a new crack.

  The release of the lock on the bathroom door. His mother’s footfalls. He reaches over his nightstand and opens the door a little. She still knocks. He says, Come in. She smells of steam and coconuts. A towel on her head the way women twist it. The boy sits up. His back against the headboard. She sits on the edge of the bed. Looks around his room a moment. He says, All done in the washroom? She nods. He says, Have to get ready for bed.

  All right, says his mother. Just came in to say—hope you have fun.

  We will.

  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.

  The boy looks at his feet and says, The presents said from both of you.

  His mother says nothing. Then touches his knee. And she says, Wear your life jacket. Starts to stand.

  But the boy says, Promise.

  And she leans toward him. Her bathrobe bulging at the top. The boy can see down it to the diagonal slash of scar but looks away, and they hug hard.

  It was good on my birthday, Mum.

  She stands and sniffs. I’d best make your sandwiches.

  In the bathroom, the boy swipes the mirror and does behind his ears. Then his teeth and a gargle and he splashes the sink clean. Gives the taps and faucet a shine with the facetowel.

  On the way back to his room, he sees his mum standing at the counter with bread and wax paper and the rest of the beef. She’s holding a knife that has butter on the end, and she’s looking out the window. And humming.

  In his room, he lies down and puts his hands behind his head. Hears his mother finish up in the kitchen and go to her room. Listens for his father coming up the basement stairs. Then lets his eyes close.

  When they open again, it is dark and his arms are numb. He slips them out from beneath his head and flops them down one at a time, and they go pins and needles as he rolls over and squints at the clock—a quarter to one. Hum of the fridge. The heat coming on. Moon on his pillow. He turns the clockface away. Breathes out his nose. Falls back asleep but keeps seeing the frog. As though from beneath. Up through the murk where it kicks and kicks in the warm and the light. He rolls over again and hears the pulse in his ear then opens his eyes and gets out of bed. Kneels at the foot. Head on his fists. And his lips move, but he’s not really talking. Doesn’t know what to ask. Then he sits on his hands at the edge of the bed. Looks at the moon. Then closes his eyes and tries to think nothing until he hears his father trying not to make noise in the kitchen. Running water. Kettle on. The k-tunk of the lid on the tea canister. Three heapers of sugar in the tall orange Thermos. The kettle unplugged before it starts whistling. Water poured into the Thermos and the lid screwed on before his father gives it a shake. Footsteps in the hallway. 5:01. A knock on the door with just one knuckle, and then he pushes it open and takes a step in and stops short when he sees the boy standing.

  I’m ready.

  Shhh.

  The boy nods and follows his father to the darkness of the kitchen, where they share a glass of apple juice and lean against the counter. His father hands the boy the glass and nods at what’s left. The boy gulps it down. Puts the glass beside the sink and looks at the new pink J-cloth draped over the faucet. His father unscrews the Thermos cap and lifts out the tea bags—four of them—by their corners, like the tails of small steaming fish. Drops them in the sink—it still smells of Ajax—and screws the lid and the cup back on and reaches for the cooler on the counter. But the boy says, I’ve got it. And follows his father like a thief through the hush of the house. By the door, they step into shoes, and his father nods at the boy’s windbreaker hanging from the middle hook. He opens the door. Birds. Moon. And crickets.

  The boy puts on his windbreaker and shivers on his way to the wet-gleaming car. The engine idles smoothly, and the boy’s father says, Well done, Hector. And the boy remembers the fingernail. The little notch it made.

  As his father reverses, the boy looks at the blinds on his mother’s bedroom window. Thinks he sees a chink. Waves a little. His father doesn’t notice. Doesn’t speak. Just drives. North. Highway 28. Then east on 7. The car very warm. The boy’s eyelids heavy. His head bobs. He resists. Then doesn’t. Feels between his ribs some time later the thumb of his father. Opens his eyes. Sky the same colour as a splayed lake salmon. But the boy says, Beautiful. He blinks hard and gives his head a shake. Looks around. They have left the places that feel like places. Here is like pictures in Art and Geography. Granite. An esker. Jackpines. A river.

  Much farther?

  His father says no. Turns on the radio then hits the middle button and twists the knob a bit. Mostly cloudy, a high of six, chance of showers in the late afternoon, some gusting. His father says, Good. Then turns down the volume. People talk about the hostages in Iran and then the boy sees a homemade sign—LIVE BAIT 1 M—on a telephone pole. He looks at his father. Looks up ahead. Sees a small shop and says, Looks closed.

  Could be, says his father. We’ll just have to see.

  They pull in. Tall weeds and a camper beside the ramshackle shop. His father turns off the car and gets out. A cat the colour of butterscotch candy—and with only three legs—comes round the corner of the camper. And then the camper’s door swings open and smacks the camper’s wall, and a man with messy hair and his shirt untucked steps out and zips his jeans up. Looks at the car and at the boy’s father. Nods when the boy’s father says something and walks to the shop. The boy’s father follows. So does the cat. A hand—a woman’s hand—and arm in the camper’s doorway. Groping for the door. Pulling it shut. At the door to the shop, the man takes keys out of his pocket and shoves the cat with his foot. Opens the door and turns on a light, and before the boy’s father closes the door behind him, the cat scoots in, and the boy sees on the wall at the back of the shop a display of tackle and above it the stuffed head of a buck and its fortress of antlers. Then the door opens a bit, and the man leans out and tosses the cat. It lands okay then turns around and watches the door.

  The boy shifts. Adjusts the rear-view. Looks at his eyes and then at the rods and the net in the back of the car. The truncheon. And the gaff. He readjusts the mirror then rubs his eyes and looks at his hairless forearms. His spindly hands and broomstick wrists.

  The door of the baitshop opens, and his father—facing in the shop—nods goodbye and turns around and walks to the car with a white plastic pail and in his other hand a pair of Dr Peppers. He sets the pop on the roof of the car. Opens the door and leans in a little. Hold this, will you?

  The boy takes the pail and puts it between his legs. His father reache
s for the pop and gets in and hands the boy a can.

  Are we drinking it now?

  Why not.

  Thanks.

  They peel the tabs and drop them in the ashtray. Then they drink.

  Cold, says his father.

  The boy nods and burps out his nose. How many did you get? he says. And he looks at the bucket.

  His father says, Three.

  Need that many?

  How would I know?

  The boy shrugs. And his stomach squelches.

  Hungry?

  A little.

  As am I. Not far now.

  His father starts the car and pulls back onto the highway, and the boy looks at the pail. Can hear them knocking against the sides. He puts the pail on the floor between his feet. Has half a can of Dr Pepper left. Doesn’t drink any. His father flicks the blinker, and they turn down a gravel road. Then the gravel stops and there are only dirt and potholes. The birch trees gather like a crowd round a body. In the side mirror, the boy watches fallen leaves leap and wrestle then fall back to the road. They pass rutted laneways—a crow on a gatepost—that lead between big evergreens to cabins boarded up. Then a dip and a turn and there is the lake. The colour of blackboards. Here and there on the far side a few cottages, but not a boat on it.

  Just us, Dad.

  His father says nothing, but his face is calm. He slows down and pulls onto a widening of the shoulder where there’s a green public wastebin and then a boatlaunch between dried-out cattails. He swings left a little—there’s a small yellow cottage across the road—then backs the trailer down the slope. Around the corner of the cottage run two dogs—a small black Scotty and a big white sheepdog—and they stop at the laneway and bark.