"Crap. Sorry."
"It's fine," said Swamper. "That was a small one. We'd have let it go anyway. He just saved us the trouble. Just take it slow on the next one. When you pull fast like that, the line gets too taut and that gives them an advantage. Keep it tight, but not
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so tight that they get leverage. It's a feel thing. You'll get it. Just feel it in your hands."
Clifton nodded again, determined not to lose the next one. Two more empty hooks dangled from clear leader before the next fish nosed the surface.
"Okay," said Swamper, "now that's a nice one. Five or six pounds, looks like. Keep her steady."
The muscles in Clifton's stomach tightened as he methodically went hand over fist against the wetness of the line. His forearms started to sting as he fought against the weight. How could something five pounds be so heavy? The fish fought viciously when it met the cool morning air, splashing so hard that drops of water dappled Clifton's face. But this time he showed patience and eventually lifted the fish to the dock where it flopped on the boards, leaving a film of slime with every convulsion. Its wide mouth repeatedly opened and closed, pulsating for breath.
"Okay, hold what you got."
Clifton's heart thumped in his chest as the long whiskers of the fish twitched against the faded, splintered wood.
Swamper pulled a pair of gloves from his back pocket and put them on. "See those barbs on the side of its head? Right by the gills? Get poked by those little bastards and your hand'll swell up in nothing flat. These gloves are lined with
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steel mesh. The barbs can't get through. Now watch how I do it and then you can do the rest. Just keep hold of the line."
Swamper pulled out a buck knife from his pocket, opened the blade, and set it on the dock. From his other pocket he retrieved a pair of needle-nose pliers, then grabbed the fish at the back of the head with his other hand. He snapped the pliers onto the shaft of the hook and pulled with a twisting motion; the hook slid out effortlessly. He dropped the pliers, picked up the knife, and, like a skilled surgeon, drew a red line across the throat. A stream of crimson dirtied the blade's silver edge. He set the fish on the dock, where its mouth pulsed slowly before stopping altogether. "Nothing to it. See?"
By the time Clifton had finished, seven catfish lay on the dock, their throats slit and the blue of their bodies already evaporated to a dull gray. None was bigger than the first one Swamper handled, but they were all between three and six pounds. Clifton beamed with pride as he looked over the catch.
"We'll filet this one," said Swamper, pointing with the tip of his knife at the smallest of the group. "We'll fry him up later."
"What about the rest?"
"All we got to do is gut them and remove the heads. Tricky Bob will take care of the rest. Today's Friday, so it's payday."
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Clifton had no idea what Swamper was talking about. "Who's Tricky Bob? What do you mean?"
"He buys my cats from me. Colored fella or ... well... black, I guess. Afro-American. Whatever's right to say these days."
Clifton noticed that Swamper seemed uncomfortable as he stumbled for the proper term. And he knew it was because of his own skin color that Swamper felt that way. He'd been called everything in the book, and he didn't take offense, one way or the other, unless the name was spoken with malice. He understood that Swamper was just trying to get it right. "I think you mean African American. But black is fine too. Colored is a little out of date though, Swamper. Like, by forty years."
Despite Clifton's attempt to placate Swamper, he still looked ill at ease. "Old habits die hard, but I'm trying. I didn't mean no harm to you. I'm sorry."
Clifton smiled as the warmth of the sunshine now beat down on the two of them. "Listen to you, you old son of a beech. Look who's being polite now."
Swamper's face eased slightly, but he still appeared anxious. "You know what it's like? You ever walk into town, go by the post office, and see the flag at half staff. And as you're looking at it, you've got no idea in the world who the hell died. Must be somebody important, but you ain't got a clue. Looks like
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everybody around you must know because they don't seem to pay it no mind. But you, you're standing there feeling all ignorant because you got no idea. That's how I feel sometimes when it comes to calling people the right thing. Sometimes I just don't got no idea. Makes me feel stupid."
Clifton could tell by the way Swamper scrunched his eyes, by the softness in them, that it really bothered him. "I promise, it's no big deal. Most black people I know aren't offended by being called black. In fact, most people prefer it. My dad was black," he said, and then paused for a minute. He hadn't really wanted to get into it, but he'd already started. "I remember him telling me when I was little, when the whole African American thing first came around, that he thought it was stupid. He said he wasn't from Africa, he was from America. So were his parents, his grandparents, his great-grandparents. He said he was black, white people were white, and that was that. Really, Swamper, it's no big deal."
"Well, I appreciate it. I didn't mean no harm. I'm just an old fool."
"Forget it." He looked down at the row of fish by his feet. "So what about Tricky Bob? Who's he?"
Swamper gazed out at the river as he nervously tapped the spine of the knife against his palm. "Just one more thing and then I'll tell you about Tricky Bob." He paused for a moment and then turned to look at Clifton. "I knew your daddy.
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Just thought you should know. I know what happened to him and all."
Clifton's heart sank a little. A needling heat prickled his chest. He dropped his head toward the fish again, then turned away and looked out at the water. A pair of barn swallows came racing upriver, undulating only feet over the surface. "You did?" A little knot formed in his throat as he watched the birds sweep by. "How'd you know him?"
"Years ago we worked at the pipe shop together. We didn't hardly ever talk much, but I knew him. Like I said, just thought you should know."
Clifton nodded as the movement of the current trickled along. He felt a quick flash of sadness, but it passed as fast as it had come, in the same way a cold chill will sometimes run down the spine for no reason and then disappear. He turned back and said, "How'd you know I was his son?"
Swamper looked out across the river once more, squinting to block out the glare. Or maybe it was for another reason altogether. "Crocket's Mill is a small town."
Clifton nodded again, finding himself squinting in the same way Swamper just had. "Okay, thanks. I appreciate you telling me. So, anyway," he said, wanting to get away from the subject, "who's Tricky Bob?"
Swamper's face finally relaxed; apparently he was happy to get off the subject too. He rubbed a hand through his white
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hair and said, "Tricky Bob's a fishmonger. He should be coming down the river any minute now. You can set a watch by him. Soon as the seven-twenty coal line comes by, he'll be here directly after. He buys my cats at two dollars a pound, gutted and headless. In fact, why don't you start gutting and I'll tell you about him." Swamper handed the butt of the knife to Clifton. "Stick the point in its ass there, and then rip the belly to the neck. Then turn the knife at an angle and take off the head."
Clifton sat down on the dock, the warmth of the boards wiggling through his shorts in a pleasant way, and started to grab one of the fish.
"Hold up," said Swamper. "Better use the gloves. They might be dead, but they'll still sting you."
Clifton put on the gloves and took hold of one of the slippery fish, turning it belly up. He stuck the point of the knife into the tiny brown dot of the fish's anus and then sawed a line to the throat, just as Swamper had instructed. The purple-sacked stomach and the beige intestines, which looked like grainy, mashed cornmeal, spilled out.
"Just use your hand and pull that stuff out," said Swamper. "Toss it on the bank if you want to. The coons'll thank you later."
Cl
ifton followed the instructions and was surprised by how easily the viscera pulled away. Immediately, swarms of green-
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headed flies zipped around him, their metallic bodies glimmering in the sunlight. He put his weight on the butt of the knife to get through the bony spine, which crunched as he worked on the head. As he got into a rhythm, Swamper continued. "Anyway, Tricky Bob works a ten-mile stretch along this part of the New. He comes by every morning and buys the catfish that people catch and then sells them to a few restaurants in Samford. Makes a pretty good living, I reckon, because he's been doing it for years. He gets at least double what he pays me, then the restaurants charge double that, so everybody makes out. It's how I get a little spending money."
When Clifton was on the last of the fish, his gloves now covered in slime, entrails, and blood, he heard the rumble of the next train.
"Hurry up and get that one finished. Tricky Bob'll be here within five minutes--you watch." Swamper took the pile of gutted fish and slid them into the oversize Ziplocs. After Clifton handed over the last fish, he got on his belly and leaned across the edge of the dock. He scrubbed the gloves and then his own hands, creating an oily residue atop the surface. Tiny brass-colored minnows suddenly appeared from all sides, joining in a feeding frenzy as they slurped up pieces of the dead fish that flaked from Clifton's hands.
He tossed the gloves on the dock, and when he felt his hands were reasonably clean, he stood up. He clapped his
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hands together and put his fingers to his nose. The overpowering smell of fish and guts still lingered like garlic under the fingernails.
Swamper winked at him and said with a sly grin, "Smells just like one of them dirty girls at school, don't it?"
Thankfully, the hum of a little outboard motor coming from upstream saved Clifton the trouble of having to reply. From around the bend, the snub-nosed bow of a flat-bottomed johnboat chugged toward them. Sitting at the stern, with one hand holding the control of the motor, was the darkest man Clifton had ever seen. He wore a white tank top and had a wide-brimmed Bermuda hat sitting low over his eyes. As he approached, he swung the boat around the head of the dock and came in on the downstream side. He brought it in parallel and killed the engine as he slid to a perfect stop only inches from the wooden decking. The bow of his boat barely tapped the stern of Swamper's little skiff, sending off just the slightest ting of metal against metal. The tap raised Swamper's eyebrows, but he didn't say anything. A wake rippled downstream in dissipating rings, causing a pair of Canada geese to bob over the little waves like buoys.
Swamper put his foot on the bow to hold the boat in place while reaching down for the rope resting on the metal bench. Like a magician skilled at sleight of hand, he wrapped several
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figure eights around an iron cleat and had Tricky Bob tied off so quickly that Clifton wasn't sure if he'd actually seen him do it or not.
"Little late today, ain't ya?" said Swamper, tapping at the flannel of his watchless wrist.
"The hell, Swamper. I ain't never been late. Howdy, young'un," said Tricky Bob as he fingered the brim of his hat and nodded.
Clifton gave a tentative wave and said hello in return.
"This here's Clifton. He's thinking of going into business with me. I'm showing him the ropes, so to speak."
"Good, good," said Tricky Bob with a broad smile. His skin was so dark that when he smiled, his white teeth lit up like neon in contrast. He appeared to be about the same age as Swamper, but his arms and shoulders still bristled with taut muscle. A tiny nub of yellow pencil was tucked behind his left ear. "I can always use another fisherman. Cap'n Swamper here's the best in the business. You'll learn good from him."
"Well, he did good today," said Swamper. Clifton noticed that his voice sounded full of pride. "First time hauling a trot line and only lost one."
"Slow and easy," said Tricky Bob. "That's the key. Slow and easy. Just like being with a woman. Get going too fast,
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you'll blow the whole thing and lose her every time. Ain't that right, Cap'n?"
"Shoot, it's been so long I don't even remember no more. I reckon the thing's broke by now."
"Broke? Shee-it."
"I'm telling you, my swanson's more wrinkled than an old accordion."
The two men got a chuckle out of that, and Clifton laughed despite himself.
"So what you got for me today there, Mr. Swamper? A couple of lunkers?"
"Hell no. Same as usual." He handed the bags over.
"That seems to be the way more and more these days," said Tricky Bob, shaking his head. He got right to work, talking all the while. He held a large scale with an alligator clip hanging off of one end, and he attached each bag to it as he took a reading. He didn't write anything down, keeping the numbers in his head even while talking. "Had Eli from up in McCoy hand over a fifteen-pounder this morning though. They're still out there, but fewer and farther between than it used to be. Don't hardly ever see a forty-pounder come in no more."
After he weighed a bag, he stuck it in one of several ice-filled plastic coolers sitting on the floor. When he was finished with the last bag, he draped a blanket over the coolers and said, "Looks like twenty-eight, even." He pulled a little
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notebook from the front pocket of his jeans and slipped the pencil from behind his ear. He tapped the point against his pink tongue and then scratched something on the pad. Then he did a little figuring, making notes on the paper. "Comes to one forty-six for the week. That sound about right?"
Swamper looked toward the sky as he added numbers in his head. "It was one twenty-eight before today," he said, mumbling to himself more than he was talking to Tricky Bob. "So that's one fifty-six, ain't it?"
"It was one eighteen before today, you cheap son of a bitch." Tricky Bob smiled and laughed as he looked at Clifton. "I've been dealing with this rascal for the past twenty years and there ain't been one week out of all of em that he don't try and cheat me out of ten pounds."
Swamper gave a fox's grin and winked at Clifton. "And there hasn't been one week in twenty years that he hasn't caught me. My mama said you always gotta try."
"Gotta try robbing a poor black man busting his ass to make an honest living? I don't think she had that in mind when she was trying to raise you right." Tricky Bob reached into his other pocket and pulled out a thick roll of cash. He unfolded it, licked his fingers, and peeled off a number of bills. He pinched the money in half and handed it to Swamper. Swamper began counting as Tricky Bob said to Clifton, "You watch him now and make sure he gives you your fair share.
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If I know Swamper, he'll have you working like a mule for him in no time while he sits back and sips whiskey on the porch."
Tricky Bob slipped the rope from the cleat and dropped it into the boat. He pulled the string on the motor as if starting a lawnmower and revved it to life. "Y'all be good and I'll see you in the morning." Clifton waved, but Swamper put up his hand to halt him.
"Hold up there. This is only two seventy-two. You owe me another twenty-spot."
This time it was Tricky Bob who winked at Clifton. "You sure?"
"Hell yes, I'm sure."
"Must've miscounted," he said as he peeled another twenty from his roll and handed it over. "Y'all be good." He swung the boat around, and the air clouded with blue exhaust as he chugged away down the river. The two Canada geese honked and frantically scurried toward the bank as he playfully aimed for them.
"Now I guess you see how he got his nickname," said Swamper with a scowl on his face but a smile in his voice. "Yep, I guess so."
Swamper took the extra twenty and handed it to Clifton. "Here you go. This is for your help this morning."
"I can't take that. I didn't do anything."
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"Didn't we agree that you're gonna stop being so damn polite? Take it."
Clifton reached out and received the folded twenty. "Thanks."
&
nbsp; "You're welcome. And if you want, you can start helping me every morning to make a little spending money of your own. I'm getting old. Can't rig the line as easily as I used to."
He thought of the possibilities. He'd been considering getting a job bagging groceries at Good Enough's, but what could be better than getting paid to fish? "When do you rig the lines?"
"I usually do it every evening before dark. Beef livers and turkey necks work best. If you want to help, I'll give you half. It's up to you."
"Yeah ... I mean ... yeah, I'd love to. You can make a lot of money, can't you?"
"Hell, no. But it helps get some groceries. And it gives me something to do. Season's just starting to pick up now with the warmer weather. Can usually do pretty good until about October. When the cold sets in, that's all she wrote until about April or May."
"Okay," said Clifton, thrilled about the idea of making money while fishing. And he was quickly realizing that spending more time with Swamper wouldn't be so bad either.
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"Let's clean this dock and get the guts off. Then we gotta get this little girl in the fridge before the heat spoils her. You come back this evening and we'll fry it up. Then I'll show you how to rig the line. Shoot, you can be running this show on your own in no time. Now grab a bucket and swamp the deck. You gotta earn your keep."
"Yes, sir," said Clifton, trying to stifle the excitement in his voice. But once again he didn't do a very good job. "Swamp the deck?"
"Yeah, swamp it. What--you ain't heard that before? That's how I got my name. In the Navy. I was a cook on a destroyer during the war. Had the cleanest scullery in the United States Navy. My floors shined. My pans sparkled."
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