by Weston Ochse
"What about your brothers? Your Father?"
"My father is old and blind. My brothers are all married now. I'm not going to worry about them. My mother wants to see me she says. She may die and wants to see me before she goes."
"It's like you rediscovered your life again."
She smiled and put a hand to her lips. "Yes. That's exactly what it's like."
He tried not to, but he couldn't help but ask the question foremost in his mind. "What about us?"
Her smile faltered, then she recaptured the light. She placed his hands in hers. "I'm coming back. I just need to see my mother and get my daughter. Give me one month. Two months at the most. I know it's a lot to ask, but will you wait for me?"
"Do you really want me to?"
"Oh yes," she said.
That evening they made love for the first time. He didn't tell her about the blindness. He hadn't the heart.
They spent the next week together. He tried to fit as much of a life into it as he could. She giggled at all of his attention, never truly understanding. When she left to get her daughter, he cried.
***
The last movie he ever saw was An Affair to Remember. His vision was in and out by then, so there were some parts he only heard. He’d seen it before, though, and was able to piece in those parts by memory.
Miranda would come back and look for him when she'd taken care of her business in Mexico. By then he'd be blind. As it was, half of his waking days were spent in darkness. When he lost his sight completely, the Swan's Sorrow would be powerless to affect him. And where went the Swan's Sorrow, so went his love. She didn’t need that. He didn’t need that.
He brought out a small bottle of Swan's Sorrow that Momma Desta had given him as a gift. He took a deep drought, emptied it and hurled it into the air. As he watched it fall, his vision shifted and the gunmetal ocean transformed to grinning shades of green and blue.
Standing atop the highest jagged out-cropping of Sunken City, Cary Grant watched a final sunset. He'd come to understand the pastels and neon hues that Tudose had spent so much time telling him about. He marveled at the beauty of it all. He marveled at how much different the world looked in color than in black and white.
As he stared at the red, orange and pinks of the sunset, his vision dimmed until it was only blackness. He waited for his vision to return, but it never did. Somewhere in the city, Tudose played a Romanian gypsy dirge. The dark plodding notes stilled the air and silenced the birds. A foghorn sounded far off in the harbor.
Blind to everything but his black and white memories, Cary Grant followed the sound of the horn and tap danced off the ledge into the Pacific Ocean. His last thought was of Miranda and those impossibly emerald eyes.
***
Story Notes: This is one of my L.A. stories. I used to live in San Pedro, so all the places do exist. In fact, if you’re a fan of The Big Lebowski, in the final scene where they let the ashes go and they blow back in their face they are standing in Sunken City. I originally wrote and was paid handsomely for this story to be included in an Absinthe Anthology. After the anthology collapsed under the sheer weight of its excellence, most of us were stuck with absinthe stories. You might remember in the mid-2000s that there were suddenly dozens of absinthe stories being published in various magazines and anthologies. Now you know the reason. As far as the story, I’ve always liked Cary Grant. I’ve also always been intrigued about the idea of someone being colorblind. I can’t see certain shades of green and brown for instance, but I’m not totally colorblind. So I asked myself how would that first bit of color look to someone and how would it change their life? This story is my answer.
NOW SHOWING ON SCREEN 6
Catfish Gods
Starring Trey as the little boy in all of us
and a big horkin’ catfish as our lunker divinity
“Scared me worse than a herd of rampaging wildebeests.”
–Marlin Perkins, Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom
Featuring Southern Fried Photography
Trey sat on the community dock, staring out across the green August water of Chickamauga Reservoir, his tanned legs swinging gently, fingers gripping the rough gray wood as thoughts of pleasure and mortality mingled within his thirteen-year-old mind. His grandfather had died six months ago and there were times when the heat and the bickering of his family and the memory of the loss became so much, he needed to be alone. He would sit and remember every word the old man had spoken; every action and every smile. He basked in the memories. All grandfathers are special, but Trey felt his was even more so. It was as if the man’s mere presence could calm the world. It was as if he was a god and when gods die, one never forgets.
The dock was where Trey went when he needed to think; to remember. Other than his bed, it was the one place he spent most of his time. His first fight, his first bass, the first time he slid his trembling fingers along the curve of a breast as he massaged oil into the soft skin of an older high school girl, had all taken place on the dock. It was called the community dock, but had been abandoned by the city years before he moved into the neighborhood. Although access to the dock had grown over with tall weeds, a path had been pounded into the red Tennessee dirt by a faithful herd of eager children who now called it their own. It was a sacred place, one where parents never tread.
There was one month a year when you couldn’t swim in the lake and this was the month. It made the interminably hot days long and filled with a hundred attempts to ease the constant boredom. The only good thing was that the mosquitoes had all been killed when the TVA men lowered the water level by several feet, leaving the eggs to dry and die along the muddy beaches of the lake. The side effect, of course, was that long weeds grew up from the lake bottom as the sun, for the first time since winter, finally managed to plumb the depths, arousing the lake’s deadly kudzu cousin. The weeds were as thick as a wrist and halted fishing, boating and now even swimming, since Billy Prescott drowned last year. They said the weeds had wrapped around him a dozen times as if the leafy arms had reached out and snagged him, but that was just something the grownups said to scare the kids away.
Even Trey’s thirteen year old mind identified his freedom and the golden sunset against the green water as a rare time, a time he would remember when he was old and the lessons of school and the minutiae of life long forgotten.
***
The next day dawned ugly, the brightness of the summer sun dulled by the dishwater sky. The lake was slate gray and the waves seemed to reach up as if to try and free the oppressed light. Trey struggled out of bed and plodded into the kitchen. The coldness of the sky did nothing to alleviate the humidity, sweat immediately forming as a second skin. He poured himself a tall orange juice, and held the glass momentarily against his face. As he drank, he walked to the floor to ceiling window and eyed the driveway. Only the old Ford was left. His parents had driven to Laverne for a Sunday gathering, part business, part fun, they had said. He had been invited, but had pretended to be sick and promised to stay in bed until they returned. At thirteen, his parents had lengthened their leash, and today, was the first day they had ever let him free.
Trey grinned. They had planned it well, he and Greg. Today was their fishing day. They were going to try the loading dock across the inlet at the old TNT plant. It was the deepest place in the entire lake, except for the dam itself. Barges parked there weekly and loaded up the Army’s secret stuff, creating rumors that were fun to propagate. If all the tales were even half-true, then there were fish down there as large as automobiles.
He’d dressed and was getting the gear together in the garage when Greg swung around the corner of the driveway, toting his favorite rod and an oversized tackle box.
“What’s up, Trey? You ready for a little fishing? Ready to catch the big one?”
Greg was three years younger, but a good friend nonetheless. When it came to fishing, age didn’t matter anyway. As long as you were patient and followed a few basic rules, it was God’s w
ill that sent the fish your way. At least that’s what his grandfather used to say.
“Go ahead and take the poles down to the dock, Greg. I’m gonna get the battery out of the car.”
“Are you sure we ain’t gonna get into trouble about this?” asked Greg, his blue eyes worried under his shag of red hair.
“Naw. They’ll never even find out. They ain’t supposed to be back until after dark anyway, and we’ll be done long before that.”
“What if we actually catch one of them beasts?”
It was Old Man Hassle that called them beasts, and Greg was at the age to believe everything the old caretaker said. Trey was pretty certain they wouldn’t see any catfish that big, but twenty-five or thirty pounders were fairly common.
“Shit. If we bring one in, I’ll just tell the folks I was feeling better. I’ll tell them you and me went fishing from the dock. They won’t be real happy, but Dad will be so impressed with the fish, he’ll shut momma up.”
Greg grinned from ear to ear, the dream of a huge fish and his best friend’s intelligence were going to make this a day to remember.
***
They slid the yellow canoe from under the community dock and Trey pressed his sneaker against the foot pad that was the trolling motor’s accelerator. He had snuck it from the downstairs storeroom. Its very presence among old boxes and broken tools was the genesis for the idea to fish by the TNT dock. It was really too far to paddle, but the small motor would get them there without tiring their arms. It had been a gift from his grandfather to his father, and had yet to be used. Trey felt a sadness in that, and saw his use of the old motor as a way to be closer to his grandfather. In his heart, he knew the old man wouldn’t mind. He could almost see him now, standing in heaven, a martini grasped in his large hands looking down and wishing his grandson luck.
The water had whitecaps, brackish two-foot swells that made the going slow and difficult in the small boat. Greg held onto the front with both hands, and by the curve of his back, Trey could see the other boy’s fear as he guided them around the larger clumps of weeds, both of them wary of getting them caught in the motor. Occasionally, they would pass a fish, held just under the water in the unrelenting grip of the weed, its eyes milky and rotten. The air was heavy with humidity, shirts and shorts already sopping with their sweat. The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the wind, mixing with the smell of rotting fish and the heady scent of the weed. Breathing was hard during any August in Tennessee, but upon the surface of the lake, it was near impossible as both boys alternately held their breaths against the foul smells of deadness and the sweetness of the surrounding forest.
Both boys had grown up on the lake, their summers filled with days where shoes and shirts were left indoors as they tried to become one with the sun and the water. When they weren’t fishing or mowing lawns for some extra money, they were swimming around the community dock. Their favorite sport was underwater tag, spending more time holding their breath under than they did playing above. During those long games, Trey often imagined he knew how a fish felt, chased and cornered by a fisherman. He could hold his breath for over two minutes and would slither in and around the old wooden pilings, propelling himself from one end of the dock to the other in his efforts to escape the touch of his friends. The only greater feeling was when he shot to the surface for that breath of air that was required for another dive.
Often, when his mother and father were fighting and he found himself down on the dock, crying and wishing to be someone else’s son, he would pray to the gods of the fishes. He would beg to be released from his human bonds and become one with the water; a true fish. Their lives were simple and he envied the pleasure of the water, imagining himself too smart for the hook, plumbing the depths and coasting with the current. Trey had often thought, of all the fishes to choose from, that he would wish to become a catfish. Their lives were spent on the bottom, gliding and discovering the cast-off treasures of their human hunters. They were stately and moved with the purposefulness of kings. They lived long lives and grew to be immense. He remembered the picture he saw in the Guinness Book of World Records, the jaw of the fish large enough to swallow a small boy.
And then there were the stories of Old Man Hassle. He wasn’t the only one who talked about giant fish, everyone had heard the rumors, but it was the old caretaker of the community dock who spoke of it more than anyone else. The lake was only about fifty years old. Still, divers would descend every few months to check the dam’s integrity, searching for any cracks or holes in the millions of tons of concrete that could threaten the greater part of Chattanooga, sitting as a magnificent southern gem, just downriver. During the years, old wrecks of cars and trains were dumped along the base to add to the dam’s width. These obtrusions were deadly to the divers, some becoming caught in the tangle of twisted metal as they inspected and pretended to be fishes. Even so, there was no end to divers who wanted to delve the lakes deepest depths. The pay was supposedly the highest of all and the list was long. Yet that list moved quickly as the divers went down, came back up and swore never to enter the lake again.
It was the catfish that sent them scurrying, arriving screaming and babbling as they surfaced. It was the catfish as big as Ford LTDs and Lincoln Towncars that swam up to stare at them as they inspected the aging concrete. People said it was all the old cars that bad been dumped down in the lake’s depths that provided them with their source of measurement and it was this single thing that made people believe the stories. It was also what had people coming from everywhere to catch the mythical beasts.
Trey and Greg crossed the barrier from the haven of the green weed and shallower water, to the black mysteriousness of the deep water. Still, they breathed a sigh of relief to be safe from Billy Prescott’s fate. Greg turned in his seat and began preparing his rod, attaching a number six hook and opening a can of corn. As they moved to the hole, they found themselves in the shadow of an immense dock where the barges were loaded. They stared up at the pilings, easily three times larger than any telephone pole and covered with a black coating of tar that kept water from rotting the timber. The dock itself was at least a hundred feet above them, with a thousand stray wisps of fishing line from the large tires bolted to the side evidenced by bad casts and impossible snags.
Trey cut the motor, they drifted momentarily and then stilled. The dock was protected from the wind by a small peninsula of trees, creating calm water where even the brown bubbles of pollution remained immovable. As Greg, dropped his line in the water, Trey turned and tightened the clamps on the motor. It would be his death if it fell over the side. Like the battery between his feet, the motor was off limits. As long as it didn’t break or sink, however, he felt sure that his father would never find out.
It was mere moments before the smaller boy jumped up, screaming in delight as he reeled in a rather pathetic bluegill.
“Sit down, Greg. Are you stupid or something? You’re gonna dump the boat,” said Trey gripping both sides, attempting to steady the rocking.
“But I got one. I got one,” said the younger boy, smiling happily.
“Shit, man. You got bait. After a few more of those, then we’ll really start fishing.”
Greg sat down and frowned a little as he removed the hook from the flapping fish. Like all kids with scars on their hands, he was careful to avoid the sharp spines along the small fish’s back. He tossed the fish into the middle of the boat where it wiggled wretchedly.
“You know what Old Man Hassle said, don’t you?” asked Greg, casting a line again.
“That old coot says a lot of things. I wouldn’t believe too much of what he says. My daddy says he’s an old drunk, anyway,” replied Trey, also tossing in a line. It was Old Man Hassle that gave Trey the idea to try the old Army Dock for catfish, but he wouldn’t let his younger friend know exactly how much he really liked the old coot.
“Yeah, my mom says the same thing, but still, he’s been around forever.” Greg cursed as he missed the strike of a fi
sh. He brought the empty hook back onto the boat, slid on a kernel of corn and tossed it back over the side.
“So what does he say?” asked Trey, pretty sure he knew the answer already.
“He said the biggest of all the catfish live down there,” said Greg, pointing into the brackish water. “He said this is the place where they lay their eggs… where they grow new ones.”
Trey had heard about the big ones, but the egg story was a new one.
“Old Man Hassle says it’s the catfish that make the weeds grow,” continued the smaller boy. “Like a fence to keep other fish out… and people.”
Trey scoffed loudly. “That’s plain stupid. How could fish make the weeds grow?” It was science, biology rather that made it occur. His biology teacher called it photosynthesis. It was the sun, reaching down to the lake floor, making long forgotten seeds blossom and bloom. “I think the old coot was drunk when he told you that. Anyway, it’s the TVA men killing the mosquitoes. As far as the fish eggs go, they can grow anywhere. This isn’t the only place.”
“No. Really, Trey. Think about it? It makes sense. Old Man Hassle says they are Gods… Catfish Gods. He says they have the power to stop people from catching them if they want. It’s the bad ones that we catch,” said Greg, persisting in his stupidity.
“That makes no sense at all. It’s plain stupid, Greg. How can a fish be a God?” Trey shook his head. “Why would you want to catch them, then? Catch a God?”
Greg frowned and turned in his seat, glancing slowly from at Trey to the fishing gear. He was a pretty strict Catholic and was going through catechism. Finally he smiled.
“Yeah, it is pretty stupid.”
He grinned at Trey and the older boy could tell that his logic had sunk in. The smile was near to one of worship, but then he was used to them. The littler boy looked up to him, and more often than not, would do anything to impress him.