The Pond

by Robert Murphy

“We got duck decoys in the back,” Bud said. “Your father thought maybe some ducks would be in here sometime and he could get shots at them. Have you caught that big bass?”

  Joey had forgotten the bass, and the question came as somewhat of a shock to him. He looked away and searched around in his mind for a way to evade the subject, and then he remembered Mr. Ben saying something about confession being good for the soul and faced up to it. “I caught him,” he said, and Bud’s face fell. “But I didn’t keep him. I put him back.”

  Bud’s face lighted up again. “You put him back? You crazy or something? Why did you put him back, for gosh sakes?”

  “Because I wanted to, gosh hang it! He was my fish; I reckon I could put him back if I felt like it. I bet if you caught him you’d take him home and holler to have him stuffed, and stick him up somewhere to catch dust. …” He was quoting his mother now. “To catch dust, and everything.”

  “Shucks,” Bud said. “How big was he?”

  “I cut the paddle to show,” Joey said. “When we go down to the wharf you can see—”

  “Joey!” his father said. “Get the decoys out of the back, and you and Bud take them on the porch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He opened the rear door and the setter jumped out and licked his face and began to trot around. There were two guns in cases in the back, and he and Bud took them into the house and then came back and stacked the decoys.

  “I’d sure like to try and catch him,” Bud said, when they were finished with the decoys. “You reckon your father would let us go down and try? What did you catch him on? I’d sure like to try him.”

  “I caught him on my Kalamazoo frog. Let’s go ask him.”

  They ran into the living room where Joe Moncrief and Mr. Ben were laughing together about something.

  “Dad, could we go fishing? Bud wants to try to catch the big bass. Could we, Dad?”

  “Didn’t you catch him? Even with the frog?”

  “Yes, sir,” Joey said, and a big smile spread over his face. “Yes, sir, I caught him.”

  “How’s Bud going to catch him, then?”

  Joey looked back at his father and writhed inwardly. “I … I put him back.”

  “You put him back?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Joe Moncrief said and glanced at Mr. Ben. Mr. Ben raised his eyebrows and said nothing. “Well, I’ll be … Why don’t you wait until after lunch? We’ll have it pretty soon. Late in the afternoon would be better anyhow.”

  “Yes, sir. I reckon it would.”

  Before they had lunch Joey showed Bud the Kalamazoo frog, but he didn’t think that confession for the soul necessitated telling how he had come by it. He explained how it worked, and they plotted the bass’s downfall. Then they were called in to lunch, and while they ate their sandwiches Joe Moncrief asked if they had run into any turkeys. Joey’s glance slid toward Mr. Ben; it seemed to him that it was Mr. Ben’s turn for a confession.

  Mr. Ben’s mouth was full of sandwich; he looked around the table, swallowed, and grinned. “Well,” he said, “in a way.”

  “In a way?” Joe Moncrief asked.

  “Let’s say in a manner of speaking,” Mr. Ben said and launched into the story. While Joe Moncrief sat back in his chair and Bud listened with rapt attention, eyes round and mouth half open, he described with gestures their cold trip through the swirling mist, their bafflement, and their defeat.

  “Gentlemen, sir,” he finished up, “that varmint just disappeared, and I’d already said grace over him and eaten twice my share and was mopping up the gravy.”

  “That’s what comes from eating too much,” Joe Moncrief said, after he had finished laughing. “But maybe you’d already taken a spoonful of bicarbonate to help digest him.”

  “I was going to take it when we got back,” Mr. Ben said.

  “I had another shot, Dad,” Joey said, and told about the turkey Charley had sent his way. “And then I forgot to push the safety off.”

  “Everybody I know has got buck fever at his first turkey,” Joe Moncrief said. “I’m sure you’ll do better next time. I’m going to take the setter out for a while this afternoon. Do you two want to go? It’s about time you got broken in on wing shooting.”

  Joey looked at Bud. The prospect was an interesting one, but he felt that Bud should decide; he owed Bud a chance at the bass.

  Bud, being the perfect guest, looked from one of them to the other. “You say,” he said finally.

  “Can we do both?” Joey asked. “I mean, go with you for a while and then go fishing?”

  “I guess so,” Joe Moncrief said. “We don’t want to be too late starting back, though. Go with me until about four, and then you can have half an hour to fish. How’s that?”

  They both agreed to this with enthusiasm, and went off to put Bud’s gun together. Recalling Bud’s feeling about squirrel shooting, Joey asked him whether he really wanted to go after quail.

  “I don’t mind shooting birds,” Bud said. “I don’t feel the same way about them. They’re like chickens. You reckon we can hit a quail?”

  “I hit a duck,” Joey said, “and when I went to get him I fell overboard. I sure was scared.” He told Bud about the water closing over his head and hanging on to the gunwale.

  “Great day!” Bud said. “Wasn’t it cold?”

  “I like to froze. Don’t tell my father about it, either. Mr. Ben said he wouldn’t tell him. He said the fool-killer was teaching me not to drop shells in the boat. I bet I won’t do it again.”

  The setter began to bark in the yard, and they both went to the window. There was a four-wheeled wagon there, unpainted and in the last stages of dilapidation; two oxen were hitched to it with a remarkable set of harness contrived of rope, baling wire, and old pieces of leather, and an old, grayhaired black man was just pulling them to a stop. He was sitting on a plank laid across the sides; one of his hands was bandaged in materials of various colors, as though every old scrap around the house has been utilized. The boys went through the living room and the kitchen to get a closer look at such a curiosity; Joey’s father and Mr. Ben were already in the yard, and the man got down, took off his battered hat, and bowed to them.

  “Hello, Eph,” Mr. Ben said. “I guess you’ve come for the three dollars I owe you.”

  “Yassuh, I was passin’ by, so I think I jus’ come in.” He bowed to Joe Moncrief and then to the two boys again. “Gentlemens, good day to y’all.”

  “Good day to you, Uncle,” Joe Moncrief said. “What happened to your hand?”

  Eph began to chuckle. “Well, suh, I done made a mistake. Yestiddy, I reckon. Yassuh, yestiddy. I see somethin’ run in a hollow log and it seem like a rabbit, so I reckon I get he out. I reach my hand in and he bite me.”

  “A rabbit bit you?”

  Eph chuckled. “Yassuh, he bite my finger. I reckon I done put my finger in he mouth, so I reach in the log again and he bite another finger, and before I get it out he bite my thumb too. Whooee!” he said. He held his bandaged hand up and shuffled comically about in a pantomime of surprise and consternation. “I bleed all over that log. I reckon I have that rabbit in the pot, I ain’t ever hear of a rabbit bitin’ a man, so I reach in again and he bite all the fingers I got left. Then I got me a stick and poke it in yonder and he come out. Lawd, Lawd, that rabbit, he a mink, and he come out right at me and I get out of he way quick.” He jumped to one side to demonstrate, and then slapped his thigh with his good hand and cackled with laughter. They all laughed with him; the two oxen swung their heads and regarded the group solemnly until the laughter died away.

  “So you didn’t eat him,” Mr. Ben said.

  “No, suh, he like to eat me.”

  “I don’t think he’d have tasted very good anyhow,” Mr. Ben said. “I’ll get your money for you, Eph.”

  He went into the house, and the two boys walked over to look at the wagon. There was a dead turkey lying in the back of it, a wild turkey, da
rk and beautiful even in death. They stared at it, fascinated; Joey extended one hand and stroked it, and then turned toward his father. “Dad! Dad! He’s got a wild turkey in here!”

  Joe Moncrief walked over and looked into the wagon. “He has, sure enough,” he said and turned to Eph. “Where are you taking the turkey, Uncle?”

  “I roost he last night and shoot he this mawnin’,” Eph said. “I reckon I take he to Mr. Pitmire, and trade he for a leg of ham meat.”

  “Dad!” Joey said. “Dad!”

  “Wait a minute, now,” Joe Moncrief said. “I’ve got the same idea. I’ll take him off your hands,” he said Eph. “I’ll give you a piece of paper to Mr. Pitmire that will tell him to give you the biggest ham in the place and charge it to me. How about that?”

  “Yas, suh!” Eph said, and his face was split by a wide grin. “The biggest leg of ham meat in the store be right smart ham meat.” He came over and picked up the turkey by the legs; Joey, dancing about with impatience, received it and bore it up to the porch. While he and Bud were admiring it and hunting for a piece of string with which to hang it up, Joe Moncrief went into the house to write the note. He and Mr. Ben came out together and gave Eph the money and the note, and the old man climbed back onto the wagon, got the oxen into motion, turned them around, and still bowing and taking off his hat he drove around the corner of the house. They could hear the ungreased axles squealing and creaking all the way down the lane.

  “We’ll tell your mother we shot it ourselves,” Joe Moncrief said, grinning, “and see how long we can fool her. I’ll make you a bet it won’t be too long.”

  “I bet it won’t either,” Joey said, remembering a number of times that his mother had astounded him with feminine insights that had seemed little short of clairvoyant. “I bet it won’t be more than two days.”

  “Maybe one,” Joe Moncrief said. “Get your guns, now. We’d better get started.”

  They admired the turkey again and stroked it and grinned at one another, then got their guns; the three of them, with Joe Moncrief in the middle, went around the house and out into the big field in front. The setter, which had been capering around them, moved out and began to quarter the ground at a gallop. Occasionally he would pause and look at Joe Moncrief, who would direct him off in another direction with a waved hand.

  The knee-high dried brown grass was a little rosy in the long rays of the afternoon sun, and the setter was pretty moving through it; Joey had seldom felt happier. Although they would soon be going home, away from the Pond, they had a turkey to take with them, he had made peace with Bud, and it was exciting to be going after quail. He scarcely felt the ground beneath his feet, and when the setter slowed down, crept a few feet, and stiffened into a point with its tail high, he ceased to feel it at all.

  “Ah!” Joe Moncrief said. “Remember your safeties, now.”

  Still in line, they reached the setter; he rolled an eye at them, and they were past him. Joey, scarcely breathing, brought his gun to the ready. They took two more steps; there was a roar and the air was full of birds. Few men ever become hardened and blasé to a covey rise, and it was Joey’s first one. Although he knew what was going to happen, it was a big covey and the roar of it, the hurtling birds that seemed to fill up every square foot about him, shook him up. His gun bucked twice against his shoulder but nothing happened; not a bird dropped, and then, seemingly almost at once, they were far out of range. Joey was astounded; he stood for a moment with his mouth open and then looked at his father, who was lowering his gun.

  “Get one?” Joe Moncrief asked.

  Joey shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t see how I missed them all.”

  “You didn’t pick one out?”

  “No, sir. They were so thick—”

  The setter came in with a bird, Joe Moncrief took it, and the dog went out again. “Got a double,” Joe Moncrief said. “Look, there’s a lot of air around each one of them. You pick one out next time.” He turned to Bud, but Bud just shook his head; he had done the same thing. The setter came in again, Joe Moncrief pocketed the bird, and said, “Now you can take turns on the singles.”

  They went on. The setter pointed again presently, and Joe Moncrief sent Bud in to take the shot. It was a difficult one; the bird went off to the left, and Bud shot behind it both times and missed it. On the next point it was Joey’s turn. He was luckier; the bird went straight away, and although he shot too quickly the first time and was under the bird he took more time on the second shot and hit it squarely. The setter fetched it, and Joey, immensely proud of himself, stood and grinned at his father.

  “That’s my boy,” Joe Moncrief said, and solemnly shook hands with him. “Now you’re a quail hunter, but if you still want to fish you’d better take off.”

  Joey was burning to stay with the quail, but Bud looked at him with such entreaty that he couldn’t refuse. “I reckon we’ll go fishing,” he said, and his father nodded understandingly. “Next time you go …”

  “Trot along,” Joe Moncrief said, “and pack up your gear if you beat me back.”

  Bud’s eyes bugged out when Joey showed him the cuts he had made on the paddle. “Great day!” he whispered. “Great day in the morning. It hardly seems like there could be a bass as big as that. Oh, Joey, you reckon he’ll bite on it again?”

  There was so much longing in his face, such an anguish of hope and yearning, that Joey’s heart went out to him; he was glad now that he had put the bass back. Bud wanted the bass even more than he had wanted it; Bud was more of a fisherman than he was, and would be all his life. “I sure hope so,” he said, like an older boy, and took charge of things. “Don’t even make any noise getting in the boat.”

  Bud nodded solemnly; he seemed almost like a boy in a dream, and had already yielded the direction of the affair to his friend. They crept into the bateau like two Indians making an escape from under the guns of enemies by night. After they had shoved off Bud turned and grinned shyly at Joey. “I’m scared,” he whispered.

  Joey smiled back at him, and after they had got out a little way stopped paddling. “Try it now,” he whispered. “Before we get there. Jerk it a little.”

  Bud made several casts. The first time he jerked the rod tip too quickly, but after several casts he settled down and everything was fine. The bateau moved over the dark water like someone on tiptoe, with hardly a ripple; the cypresses slid closer. Bud half rose once, and Joey whispered, “Not yet.”

  They were nearly under the tip of the longest limb when Joey breathed, “Now.”

  Bud stood up slowly, brought the rod back, swung it forward, and sent the frog on its way. It hit the water at the exact spot where the bass had broken on their first day, and before Bud could move it, the monster came up again in a slashing rise and took it down. Bud struck him, the rod arced to a semicircle, and the bass came up again and ran over the surface for five yards on his tail, wildly throwing spray that glittered like diamonds in a path of sunlight slanting through the trees.

  This time the bass didn’t go to the bottom and bore down and sulk; he fought all the way, shattering the water until his strength was gone and he was brought in and Joey netted him. When he was in the live box, filling it, the two boys sat and stared at him almost in awe. Bud was shaking and his breathing was as irregular as though he had run a hard race; presently he looked up at Joey and smiled.

  “Great balls of fire,” he said and gave a vast sigh. “We caught him again.” He was still holding the rod; he looked at the bass for a long moment, put the rod down, and leaned over and picked up the net. He stood up again and started to edge the net into the live box.

  “Bud?” Joey said. “Bud, what are you going to do?”

  “I reckon I’ll put him back in too.”

  “You’re not going to keep him?” Joey asked, unbelievingly. “You mean you’re not going to keep him?”

  Bud shook his head and paused with the net. “I reckon I just don’t want to kill him. You don’t care, do you, Joey? You p
ut him back. If you’ll give me that frog,” he said, “I could hang that up in my room instead.”

  Joey looked at him, recalling the Sears catalogue and his maneuverings with it and how he had felt when he threw the bass back himself. All that was gone now; he had made it up; he was very glad that Bud had caught the fish and fixed everything and was going to put it back. “Okay,” he said.

  Bud made a scoop and dumped the bass over the side. As before, it lay in the water a moment while they both looked at it and then swam slowly away.

  “Thank you, Joey,” Bud said. “I reckon I’ll never catch such a good fish ever again.”

  “You’re sure welcome,” Joey said. “I reckon I won’t either.” He picked up the paddle, and as he did so the duck that he had hit two days ago and forgotten in the press of events, which had been hiding with its broken wing among the cypresses, grew too nervous to stay still any longer and came out beating the water with its good wing and kicking with its feet. It passed them splashing water wildly in its erratic course, and Joey, quickly exchanging the paddle for his gun, shot it. It was a wood duck drake, the most beautiful duck on the continent.

  They climbed the hill, Joey carrying the duck and Bud carrying the paddle with the cuts on it. Near the house they met Joe Moncrief, just getting in from his quail shooting.

  “Where’s the fish?” he asked.

  “Bud caught it, Dad,” Joey said. “But he put it back in too.”

  Joe Moncrief looked from one of them to the other and seemed a little puzzled. “I’ll be damned again,” he said and shook his head. “A man learns something new every day.”

  It was growing dark when they all went out to get into the Model T. The turkey, the duck, an assortment of squirrels, and the quail and Joey’s pile of gear were put on the floor in the back, the setter climbed into the rear seat and curled himself up, and Joey shook hands with Mr. Ben. It seemed that he had been there a long time; a lot of things had happened to him, and it was a sort of wrench to be leaving the old man.

  “I sure thank you, Mr. Ben,” he said. “We had a good time, didn’t we?”