Pay them no mind, son. They carry on like that.
The boy and his father get out, and as they’re putting the boat in the water, a big man with a thick black beard comes out of the cottage and calls to the dogs. They stop barking and lope back to the cottage but look back a few times like they’re saying, We’re on to you. The boy’s father waves, and the man waves back and lets his dogs in.
Know him? says the boy.
Not really. Spoken to him a couple of times. Decent bloke.
The man stands on the stoop as the boy and his father unpack the car. The boy takes the gaff and says, Where does this go?
Out, says his father, of harm’s way.
Along the side?
That’ll do. Frogs?
Oh, says the boy. Then gets the pail. Here okay?
That’s fine. Right. Life jacket.
The boy bows his head and over it his father pushes the fat orange collar. Wraps the ties and knots them.
You wearing one?
No.
Water’s kind of choppy.
I’ll be all right. Now. The most important.
The boy looks in the boat and says, What.
And his father nods at the car. That tea and cooler, he says, I’m famished.
The boy says, I’ll get them. Sees that the man has gone back inside. Gets the cooler and Thermos and says, Lock it, Dad?
If you like.
The boy locks the car and gets in the boat and sets down the Thermos and cooler. His father tells him to sit down—the boy does—and then leans and pushes.
Mind your hip, Dad.
I’m all right.
His father heaves and hops, and they’re floating. The bow slowly turns counter-clockwise. His father takes an oar. Pushes off. Stands up. I’ll just get by you, son.
The boy leans.
Ta, his father says and sits by the motor. Paddles a bit, and then he just looks. So does the boy. Straight ahead, about two hundred yards, a pair of smallish islands. Like the Group of Seven, but realer. And more sad.
His father primes the motor. Third pull it starts. He opens the throttle, but not so much, and the bow rises only a little. The boy leans on his knees and blows on his hands. Thinks of his mother, wax paper, and cake. The islands get bigger. His father veers toward the one on the right, and ahead, the boy sees weeds in the water like slow motion exotic dancers. His father cuts the motor. Trees lean over the islands’ edges like drunks just waiting to sick on themselves. To the left are lily pads. They drift nearer, and the boat’s bow turns a little. His father hefts an oar and turns the boat around completely. The boy looks over his shoulder. His father says, Best you cast away from the weeds. Into the deeper water.
The boy says, Okay.
But first, says his father, give us that Thermos.
Here.
Ta. Oh.
What.
Should have brought another cup.
Mum probably put one in.
His father opens the cooler. Indeed she did. Now, what’s this?
The boy looks in the cooler—cake in Tupperware and the wrapped sandwiches—and his father says, She’s written S on these ones. Salmon?
The boy taps his chest and says, No, me.
Eh?
They’re for me. No butter.
Ah. Right. Well. Your sandwich, sir.
Loin and mushrooms.
Cold roast beef will have to do.
And cake.
At lunch. Give us your cup.
His father pours tea—Get that in you, lad—and they unwrap their sandwiches. The boy tests the tea against his lips. Sips and swallows. Heat in his throat and chest. Then they bite and chew.
She used, says the boy, the posh mustard, Dad.
His father nods and swallows. About halfway through their sandwiches—the beef’s a little tough and tires out the jaw—he says, Let’s get ourselves set, son. We can eat and fish. He puts down his sandwich and reaches for the tackle box and says, Give us your rod. The boy hands it to him, and his father says, Watch. Fixes a leader and ties on a Red Devil. This, he says, is a classic lure, son. Catch just about anything.
Muskie?
If your line holds. It’s just ten pound.
What’s yours.
Thirty.
That muskie at Ecky’s—
Monster, I know. But most muskies round here are perhaps thirty pounds.
That’s still big.
Not as big as you. Not nearly. Now, this reel isn’t like your old one.
Open face.
Yes. More control of your cast—with practice. See my thumb?
Yes.
Holds the line. Then the motion like so—lift your thumb—it’s away.
Do one.
All right.
The boy watches the lure wag in the air as the line and reel whirr. Then plish, the lure lands, and his father starts reeling. Neither too fast, he says, nor too slow. You don’t want it to sink and then snag. Keep it moving and then—he flicks the rod this way and that—try that to give it a nice switching motion.
The boy nods. Watches the wake of the lure as it gets nearer the boat and skims the surface then lifts. His father reels in a little more then hands the rod to the boy and says, Try.
The boy releases the catch on the reel, and the lure drops.
His father says, Thumb first.
And the boy reels in. Holds the line. Releases the catch on the reel. His father leans back and points and says, That way.
The boy casts.
But the lure flies off to the right and plops in the water.
Less arm, son. More wrist.
Okay.
Reel in. You’ll snag.
The boy reels in. Tries again.
Much better, son. Well bloody done.
Thanks.
The boy reels in and jigs—Like that? he says, and his father nods—and he imagines the tug and the sudden bending of the rod and the high-pitched zipping of the line, and he would land it—he swears he would.
You’re all set, says his dad. And then starts to prep his own line. The boy looks back. Sees the hook his father chooses. Like a baby gaff. His father picks up the pail and pops the lid, and the boy looks away and casts again and starts to reel. And has to look back. His father reaches in the pail and then there is a frog in his fist. Puffy chin. Blackbead eyes. The dangling legs. His father holds the hook between his thumb and two fingers and then—Little bastard!—the frog squirts free and hops onto the seat beside the boy. Grab it, son!
And the boy does reach, but not very fast, and the frog hops over the side then ploosh, and the boy watches it kick out of sight. Looks at his father who says, Little bugger!
And the boy tries not to laugh.
Mind, says his father, your lure.
The boy reels in.
Jumped right out my hand, it did.
I saw it, Dad.
I said mind your lure.
The boy reels in and casts again and watches his father reach into the pail and say, This time.
The frog does nothing—no sound, no squirms—as the hook slides then pops through its chin and its mouth. The boy looks away. Looks back. His father lets out line then lobs the frog—plash—over the pads and plays it across and just under the surface. The boy looks at his half-eaten sandwich. Swallows tea. Casts again. Watches the dangling frog as his father finishes reeling.
How long will it last, Dad.
What.
The frog.
About as long as my patience. Tricky work, this.
His father lobs the frog a second time, and the boy casts again—his hands getting cold and his wrist kind of tired—and reels until he can see the lure. Then he just lets it lie. Wind picks up. The small boat drifts. Massive clouds pass over
the sun, and the light on the lake changes like a big dimmer switch. The boy looks across the water to the car and beyond it to the cottage and its smoking chimney, and if they started the boat now, they could be on shore in no time—he knows this—but this place feels far from everywhere, like places in dreams that you know but do not know and that feeling that he and his father will always come back here and everything will be as it is just now. The slateblack water. The fishscale sky. But his father. His father is whistling softly—very softly—Glenn Miller music, and the boy watches him switch the rod to his left hand and reach inside his jacket and take out the silver flask with his initials on it. He unscrews the cap and takes a wee nip and then pours some in his Thermos cup. Swirls the spiked tea and has a big swallow then whistles some more, and the boy remembers his mother—bagging her old dresses. Slowly he jigs his rod and watches the lure rise into sight and sink again. Rise into sight. And sink again.
After a while, he sees weeds and looks around—they’ve drifted between the islands—and then at his father. Who doesn’t seem to be fishing. Just sitting there. The boy lets him be. Looks toward the open water. He’ll need a real long cast. Stands—his dad doesn’t notice—then whips the rod behind him. It bends in the wrong direction, and his father screams.
The boy turns round. Drops his rod. Stares lockjawed at the lure—hanging like a leech from his father’s left cheek.
Fucking hell, boy!
Oh God, I’m so sorry!
His father—eyes closed—sits very still and breathes through his nose. Barely opens his mouth and says, Son, sit.
The boy—hands shoved in his hair—breathing fast and shallow says, I’m—
And his father says, Sit. Now. Come here. Slowly.
The boy scooches toward his dad.
I need you to look.
Okay.
Did all three catch?
No, says the boy, just one, just one.
Is it through?
Through?
The skin.
No.
Settle. The tackle box. See it there?
Yes.
Open it.
Okay . . .
Pliers.
These?
The blue handles. Yes. Hand me those.
His father breathes out and cuts the line and then says, Now, pass me a hook.
Which one?
Any fucking one.
Dad, it’s bleeding.
Pass me a hook. Right—now, watch.
His father puts the barb of the hook between the pliers and snaps it off. See?
The boy nods.
I need you to do that, his father says—and he holds out the pliers—but first you’ll have to push it through.
I can drive.
What?
The boat. We can go to hospital.
We are—listen—an hour away from the hospital and I’m not driving there with a bloody fucking lure hanging from my face.
The boy wipes his nose with his wrist. Dad, I can’t.
His father breathes out. Softly prods around the hook. Give us, he says, the pliers.
Sure?
He nods. Takes the pliers. Holds his breath and snaps off—grunting—the other two barbs. Takes out his flask. Closes his eye. Pours liquor over his cheek and the nose of the pliers and his fingertips. Then he drinks the last of it. Tosses the flask toward the front of the boat. Puts his thumb to the curve of the hook. Breathes in. Then leans to the right to sick over the side but it’s half in the boat and the smell of it.
The boy clamps his teeth.
His father says, Son, you’ll have to do it.
My hands, says the boy. And he looks at their shaking. His father holds the left one then places it against the top of his head and leans hard against it and says, Just pop it through.
Okay.
The boy pinches the base of the hook and—his father growls—pushes like he’s threading a lace through an eyelet. The hook pops through. His father breathes out hwah. Grabs the pliers and leans his head toward his shoulder. Feels with his fingers and lays the pliers along his face and snips off the barb. It shoots away like a tiny silver wasp and then his father slides out the lure. Looks at it in his hand for a moment. Then tosses it in the water. Leans on his knees and breathes like a boxer who can’t answer the bell.
The boy pushes the back of his wrist against each eye and blinks and looks at his father and then—it jitters—at his father’s fishing rod. Dad, says the boy, and he points just as the rod starts rattling along the side of the boat.
Then the boy lunges. Grabs the rod’s handle and gets to his knees, and the rod bends nearly double. But the boy holds on as the reel spins like a tire on ice. His father reaches round him and holds the rod as well and says, I’ve got it, son, I’ve got it! The boy lets go. Leans back with his father as he reels and pulls. Pulls and reels. Duck under, says his father. But the boy only watches as the big fish—like the lake spat it out—writhes in the air then splashes and thrashes then dives again as the boy’s father says, Blood and fucking sand!
Then the line goes slack and curly.
And everything is quiet.
And the boy sits between his father’s arms staring at the spot where the muskie was. And then his father’s right hand lets go of the rod, and when the boy turns around his father is looking at the blood on his fingertips. And then he touches his cheek again and looks at his fingers as though they had lied. Then he wipes the blood on the leg of his pants and says to the boy, Go have a seat.
The boy moves up the boat and sits and watches his father reel in the slack line and look at the end of it. Wonder, he says, if it swallowed the lot.
The boy looks at the water and imagines the mangle of frog-and-hook in the muskie’s mouth. Then he shrugs and says, We should go, Dad.
His father’s eyes are glassy and wide. But he puts down the rod and turns to the motor.
And on the way into shore, he reaches for the pail and tosses the last frog over.
~
An old green pickup passes the launch and the boy’s father waves it down. It turns into the laneway of the yellow cottage and stops and the man with the beard gets out. Meets them at the launch. The boy’s father cuts the motor and the man says, How did it go? Then he notices. The boy looks down and his father says, Bit of a mishap. The man leans forward and grabs the bow’s handle and pulls, and the boy steps out and helps him. Then his father steps out too. A little wobbly. The man looks at his face. Fish jump up and bite you?
The boy’s father laughs, but not really, and the boy says, It was my fault.
The man says, Wanna come in? We got ointment.
The boy’s father says, If there’s a hospital nearby—
And the man says, You know Glanisburgh?
Heard of it, yes.
Go down number 7. Turn left on 30. Half hour tops.
That’s what we’ll do, then.
I’ll watch your boat. You go on.
Very kind of you.
No bother.
The boy’s father drives with one hand and holds Kleenex to his face with the other. The boy’s mother keeps a box in the glove compartment. They use most of it, and in Glanisburgh see a church letting out. His father pulls over. The boy runs across the street and asks a lady in a hat like the Queen. Follows his father into Admissions then down to Emerg but they won’t let him, so he sits in the waiting room beside the ambulance drivers’ office. Hears the static and garble of the radio. Football on the telly. He glances at the tired- and sick- and sad-looking people and shuffles through old magazines about hot rods and jet airplanes. Looks up and sees his father in the doorway. Gauze and tape on his face. The boy follows him to the car, and the drive back to the boat feels like ages.
He put it back on the trailer, Dad.
Bloody good of him.<
br />
The boy’s father gets out and walks toward the laneway, but here come the dogs. He stops. Waves. Gives a thumbs-up. The boy looks at the cottage and sees the man in the living room window waving back.
They quickly pack the car, and while his father hitches the trailer, the boy gets in. In the rear-view watches him turn for a moment and look toward the islands. Then—as they pull away—his father says, Some fish, that.
And the boy says, Massive.
Then they don’t talk ’til 28.
Dad.
Yes.
Will it mend?
Son.
Yes.
Shush now.
The boy looks out the window and presses together his trembly lips.
~
In his room, he can hear their voices but not their words. Outside, the light is fading, and the moon is already out like a blind eyeball. He sits on his hands at the edge of the bed. Can smell the mince and ’nips. After a while, his mother knocks and comes in and sits beside him on the bed.
Sure you’re not hungry?
The boy looks at the floor.
We’re not cross.
The boy looks at her. Then down again.
It was, says his mum, an accident.
What if it was his eye.
It would still be an accident.
He’d be blind.
Well. Half.
It’s not funny.
Suit yourself. Supper’s there if you want it.
The boy lies down. Curls toward the wall. His stomach growls and he gives it a whack. Footfalls again—his father’s this time. But they go past the boy’s room. Down to the basement. The boy lies there a little longer and then gets up and walks softly to the kitchen. The dishes not done. His place still set and a glass of milk. He peeks into the living room. Sees his mother on the chesterfield. One finger tap-tapping the arm as she looks at the turned-off television like an old movie—the kind that makes her sad—with singing and dancing and dresses to die for.
The Door Opener
The Ambassador of What Page 11
