by Lorraine Ray
steps, his hands on his hips.
“Damn nonsense,” said Frank quietly, but not too quietly for his father to hear.
“That’s got to be one of the largest bucks I’ve ever seen,” Harry said, shaking his head. He ambled down the stairs and across the sand to the truck, continuing to study the now vanishing form of the man. “And to carry it on one’s shoulders such a distance.” He reached into the truck bed and pulled out a cardboard box. Frank stood and stretched.
“Get our poles, will you?” Harry said with a nod of his head toward the bungalow, “And see if Jack’s awake.”
Frank carried the pot of coffee in with him past the row of cots that were draped with the sprawling forms of sleeping men. Jack Tatum’s face on a cot in the corner reminded Frank of the death mask of a Mayan priest. Tequila had done that. The barren front room of the bungalow had a sheet pinned in the dusty front window. Their blankets hung off the cots. Several men were sleeping with bottles near them. From the arsenal of poles leaning against one wall, Frank picked theirs.
When he came out, Harry sat on the tailgate of the truck, the expansive top of a high rubber fishing boot spread in his hands. “Jack’s out cold,” said Frank. Frank quickly pulled on his fishing boots, took the can of lures and looped the long piece of twine that served as a handle around his neck so that the tackle can hung in front of him.
“Did you find that lure you wanted?” asked Harry, puffing at the exertion of hauling on the first rubber boot.
“Nope.”
“What was it? Something special?”
“Not really. It was from a survival kit. A flyer at the hospital gave it to me. Before he died I told him about Mexico and the Sea of Cortez and I promised I’d try it out. I thought I’d try it out today. I’ll look for it again tonight.”
“Okay.” Harry grunted his other leg into the second rubber boot and stood off of the tailgate. “I’ll help you look for it. Anything you want to tell me about that guy dying?”
“No,” said Frank curtly.
“No?”
“No.”
“That man with his buck was really something. Jack won’t believe us.” Harry said, changing the subject as he lifted a bucket from the truck bed.
“Did he really say he came from Ahuxlt?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Pop, I don’t know. That’s miles away, isn’t it?”
Harry closed the tailgate. He took his fishing pole from Frank and swinging the bucket at his side he started toward the shore. “Don’t you think he did?”
“No,” said Frank, following along behind and then beside his father, “he was trying to impress us. In Chicago I heard all kinds of bullshit stories. Guys will claim any damn thing. I don’t think he ever ran that far.” He looked over at his father’s face. “Not for two days.”
“Do you remember me telling you once that I came down here in the nineteen twenties?”
“Yeah, maybe. Why?”
“I was sent down to fix those magnetos that were bad.” Harry charged down a small dune ahead of his son.
Frank followed. “Yeah. You told me.”
“Well, I don’t think I ever told you that I went off into the mountains one weekend when I was there. I came into a village somewhere up in the mountains where some men were kicking a wooden ball. I stayed awake to watch them go by. The path they took was lit with pine torches. The villagers were standing in narrow crevices, in cliffs above, watching. They bet everything they owned on the race. Goats. Chickens. Blankets. The runners ran for two days and they wore rattles to help them stay awake. They’d run a lot longer if they were hungry. Or if their families were. That man we just saw was hungry.”
“Well, maybe.” The wind rippled Frank’s pants against his legs and tore at his shirt. It sounded loud in his ears.
Harry stopped. The strong wind nearly pushed him over. He shifted his feet in the sand and plowed on.
They had reached the hard silver and pink shore. Waves came in with white caps. Harry left the bucket outside the reach of the surf and then plunged immediately into the cool November water.
“What did he shoot the damn thing with?” Frank asked, wading into the water. “Where was his gun? Or his bow?”
“He didn’t shoot it, that’s the point. He ran it down. Tired it out.” Harry nearly shouted over the sound of the wind and waves.
Frank and Harry prepared their tackle without saying anything. They both chose spoon lures to start. Frank waded deeper into the water, shaking his head, and shouting back. “Jeez, Pop. I never realized you were so gullible. A guy could get you to believe any damn thing.”
Harry finished tying his lure and attached a few small weights to the line. He double-checked the line while wading to a deeper spot where he leaned back and cast. Out the line spun, cleanly, freely into the spot slightly beyond the break of the surf. The fish would be there at the bottom waiting for food as it was stirred up by the waves. Once he’d put his line where he wanted it, Harry did nothing; he let the water animate the fly. “Does all this cynicism have anything to do with seeing too much death? With the war?” Harry looked over at his son sharply.
Frank recoiled slightly. “No. It’s just my personality.” Frank cast his line in a half-hearted manner; the wind immediately sent it back. Frank reeled in bitterly, cursing all the while.
He tried to cast his line a second time, and the result was even worse. “Damn it!” Frank shouted as he drew the line back in for another try.
He spent no time preparing the third cast, but lashed out furiously with his reel. The cast was abysmal; the line tumbled in the water at his feet.
“Oh hell!” he said, glancing sheepishly at his father.
Harry was smiling. “You need practice. A lot of practice. I recommend we come down here often.”
“I do, too,” said Frank.
They both laughed.
The gulls flocked closer. They came down screeching, crying, and swooping on the cool morning air. Frank recast. This time the line went where he wanted about fifteen feet away from his father’s.
The sound of the wind and the birds’ cries buffeted their ears. A wave swept past them and the water behind it rose over Frank’s boots, dousing his pants up to his thighs.
“All I’ve been hearing since you’ve been back,” Harry began, “is how Chicago taught you so much. How it taught you how damn, damn awful this world is. Where’s the happy little kid who used to come down Saturdays to sweep out my shop? This world-weary act is wearing thin. May I remind you that you’re only twenty-one?” Harry moved nearer his son and reeled in. He recast so that his line shot out past the churning water and slightly over the slick wall of a gray wave.
Frank reeled in his line.
The clamor from the birds was tremendous. They surrounded the water north of where Harry’s line was and then came nearly overhead, diving all around, skimming the surface of the water and soaring away. When one bird snapped up something, it turned in the wind for the shore with a myriad of other squawking birds snatching at its bill, crowding close. “A school’s coming up!” Harry shouted, pointing to a smooth spot moving differently from the tide.
“Damn birds everywhere!” Frank yelled back. He looked for an opening into the area where he thought the school would be when his line reached the water. He then cast rapidly past the pounding surf, through the flock of birds.
“Ah ha!” Harry shouted. His bait was taken. He kept his thumb on the grip and pumped the rod twice. The tip of the rod nearly reached the water each time before he drew it, slowly, back up. In the close shallows the fish bulldogged, but Harry took in every inch of slack the fish gave. Soon a cluster of weights appeared on the line. Harry dragged the fish toward the shore and waded out.
“I’ll come out with you,” shouted Frank.
Together they bent over the flopping fish. It was mostly brown, slightly spotted and had a protruding lower jaw. Harry yanked the hook loose from the mouth of the fish with pliers.
“I
liked your letters,” Harry said, “They were very interesting. Even with all the damns strung out in a row. And please I hope you understand that I’m not wanting to criticize you too much. And I want to sincerely thank you for taking your time when you were in Chicago to write back to me in Arizona. I know you must have been busy.”
“That’s all right, Pop.”
Harry stood and displayed the fish, holding it by its gills. “I estimate this fish might be an eight pounder.”
“Probably. But Jack will swear it’s less.”
Harry laughed. “He will do that, I think. And come to think of it, I don’t believe we brought the scales, of all the foolishness.”
“It’s nice, though.”
“Yes.”
“Is it a Cabrillo?”
“Cabrilla,” Harry said, spreading the slack fins with his fingers. “You can tell by the round fins here.”
“It’s damn nice anyway. Damn nice markings.”
“Sometimes I see a fish like this, but bigger, in my dreams. It’s down here in the bottom of El Golfo,” said Harry. “A big fish gulping away and swimming up and down. I’m going to get him some day.” Harry grabbed the empty bucket and strode to the surf. Still carrying the fish, he filled the bucket with sea water and eased the fish in the bucket’s water. It thrashed for a moment and then swam in circles. Harry carried the bucket back to the shore. “There are a few things I’ve wanted to tell you,” Harry said to his son, who was still standing in the shallow water.
“Yeah?”
“I want you to please stop calling me Pop. It