Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology

by Budewitz, Leslie

  It really didn’t bother me, working for a woman. I know a lot of guys couldn’t do it. But I was just lucky to have a job, and, if I had to work for a broad, I could handle it. This broad, however, wasn’t the one I’d pick. I think the feeling was mutual. She’d flirted back when I started, but was always too busy to meet me anywhere after work. I dropped the act eventually. I wasn’t going to get any from her.

  I rapped on the door to her office—she had an actual office, with a door—and entered when she told me to come in, after the second knock.

  I walked up to her desk, remained standing. “You know Clark, in the cube next to me?”

  She looked up from her paperwork and frowned. Those little plucked eyebrows were cute. “Jesus, Roy, how would I not know Clark? I’m his boss, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “You have a problem with Clark?” She drew out his name, those fleshy lips caressed it. Not good.

  “Well, not with Clark. With his radio. It’s hard to work with it turned up so high, you know?”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “Can you say something to him?”

  “I’ll see.” She bent her head to the papers on her desk and I left, not hopeful.

  I tried a few more times, but Karen barely listened to my complaints. She only mentioned the radio to Clark once and, when she began picking up the phone and dialing it as soon as I walked through her door, I gave up. Her office reeked of Obsession. Made me nauseated.

  One day I grabbed my dictionary off the metal shelf above my monitor to check the spelling of a word for the report I was writing. The page was missing. I looked up and Clark stood in his cubicle, leering at me over the short wall that divided us.

  “What are you so happy about?” I asked. He didn’t answer, just kept smirking.

  “Do you know anything about this page that’s torn out of my book?” I asked him, trying to be as civil as possible.

  “Oh that. Yeah.” He scratched his armpit. “They were out of toilet paper in the john.”

  I stared. “You used my dictionary for toilet paper?”

  “Worked pretty good.” He turned away and plopped down into his chair.

  I felt my sanity straining against its mooring, threatening to float off, out of my Cubicle From Hell. There was no way I was going to go through the job hunting process again. It had taken months to find this indoor position. Most other employers checked references more thoroughly than these people.

  About a week later I saw that my company directory was missing pages. Clark stood and grinned over the partition when I riffled through the pages to find a number. I didn’t say anything.

  Something had to give and it wasn’t going to be my mental health. I’d had some problems in that area in the past and didn’t need to repeat the trial and the hospital stay. To say nothing of the prison sentence.

  So I plotted all summer until I figured my plan was perfect.

  I started buddying up to old Clark in the fall and it was pathetic how eagerly he joined me for our stag outings. One fine crisp afternoon I had him over to my apartment for a hockey game on television. He didn’t seem to know much about it, asking me what “icing” and “off sides” meant. I took a deep breath and explained as much as I could to him.

  Next I invited him to make the round of sports bars with me. I couldn’t believe the idiot actually got a temporary tattoo, shaped like a hockey stick, just like one of mine. I guess he was trying to get into hockey. He didn’t go for aping the skull on my other arm.

  All winter I endured his poisonous company and things improved slightly at work, but not enough to make me want to abandon my plan. Some days in the office he would ignore me completely and go back to the old radio bit. More pages went missing from the new dictionary I had bought. I don’t think he really wiped his ass with them, but couldn’t be sure. I bought another one and kept it in my drawer.

  Clark and Karen would sometimes disappear together for an hour or so. I refused to even think about that, not wanting to ruin my lunch.

  Other days he would come over and sit with me during breaks, trying to talk about sports. Those days were worse than the blaring radio days. I don’t know why he sometimes targeted me. Maybe he and Karen had occasional lovers’ tiffs. Shudder.

  The third dictionary, the one hidden in my drawer, disappeared.

  I bought an ice house and set it up in Ice Town, but didn’t drill my fishing hole. In fact, I didn’t spend much time there, not wanting to become a familiar face to my neighbors on the lake. I invited Clark out twice. He seemed impressed with my little shack, although I didn’t have a television set, and had only a small ice chest for the beer—no gas-powered mini-fridge. Clark’s pole looked as new as mine.

  The first time, Clark offered to drill the hole inside the fish house, but stood in the middle of the circle of ice. If the hole were a little bigger, it would have put him into the water when he finished cutting, just like in a cartoon. I suppressed my laughter as I had been suppressing my contempt—no, my hatred—for the last several months, and finished up with the auger myself. I at least knew how to drill a hole in the ice. Afterwards I thought maybe I should have let him fall in. We fished and drank beer for awhile. It was obvious Clark knew as little about ice fishing as I did.

  The second time out, what surprised me was the lingering scent of Obsession wafting from Clark’s ragged rug. The boss and Clark must be really, really tight, I thought. Looks like someone will miss him. Good thing it’s nobody I like.

  Finally, it was zero hour—all the fishing houses had to be removed by the end of the day. The contest truck had been positioned, a green Dodge this year. I picked Clark up and we made our way out to Lake Minnetonka for the third time.

  Killing Clark was easy. After all, I’d had good teachers in stir. Those bums had been caught, sure. But most of them had gotten away with three or four times as much stuff as the cops would ever know about. There’s no better place to learn how to commit a crime than prison.

  Since his body would never be found I just stabbed him with my fishing knife as he hunched over the hole, looking at his line as it disappeared into the inky water. After dark, I tossed the weapon into my trunk along with his body. I knew his corpse was leaving forensic evidence there, but why would anyone ever have reason to look for evidence in my trunk? Who would ever connect his disappearance with me?

  A little later, when everyone had gone, I drove over to the contest truck and dragged his body out of my trunk. I didn’t have to worry about leaving footprints or tire tracks in the thin layer of snow that lay on the surface of the ice, since it would turn to slush in the morning sun. I heaved his body into the cab, which was not that easy since rigor was just starting. His wig fell off and I tossed it back into the trunk of my car. The stench of Obsession hit me in the face as I slammed the trunk shut. I’d never be able to date anyone who used that scent. Hell, maybe I’d never open the damn trunk again.

  After today, no one would be allowed onto the ice. And you’d have to be crazy to attempt it. It was cracking a little already that night. When the truck sank, his body would never be discovered. There was no reason to be extra careful about any of this.

  Karen seemed distraught when Clark didn’t come to work Monday. She called me into her office, something she’d never done before. I gagged at the reek of the perfume. She held a few sheets of paper in her hand so tightly they crinkled.

  “Clark isn’t here. That’s not like him. He told me you guys were going ice fishing over the weekend. What happened?”

  I shrugged. “He didn’t show up.”

  A tear tried to fall down her cheek, but the cheek was too round and the teardrop trickled over in front of her ear.

  She showed up for a couple of meetings with red-rimmed eyes, clutching damp tissues. The cops came to the office and talked to everyone and, after they’d left, Karen set up a howl in her office behind the closed door. She was too distracted to micro-manage anyone. I loved
it.

  She was back to her usual bitchy self in a few days, though, hovering and correcting every report I turned in.

  I smiled every time I drove past the truck, morning and evening, and saw it had sunk another few inches. Down, down, Clark, down to hell, where you belong. Work was pretty peaceful without him. I even started keeping my new dictionary out on the open shelf where I could get to it a whole lot more easily.

  Finally, one afternoon the truck’s green roof disappeared and I had a little one-man celebration that night. I even continued it and called in sick the next day.

  The winner of the contest was announced in the paper. I thought maybe I’d place a bet next year. What a great tradition. What wonderful people these Minnesotans were, to think up such a thing. First ice fishing, then the Truck Contest. Great place. Glad I found it.

  Saturday after the contest ended, I decided to go out to the lake. I pulled into a parking area alongside the road, intending to gaze for awhile at the spot where the truck rested. I wanted to contemplate the place of my liberation. I had even brought a folding chair and a couple of brews.

  The parking area was crammed with cars. A crowd stood along the edge of the lake. Something must be going on. Something to do with the truck?

  I dragged the chair out of the trunk and carried it over to the edge of the crowd, where I could get a good view of the lake, unfolded the chair, sat, and popped a tab top.

  Then did a double take.

  The commotion centered around the spot where the truck had gone in. A winch was pulling it from the bottom of the lake.

  “What’s taking so long?” Karen said behind me. My beer can hit the ground. “I wonder why they’ve stopped. Gosh, they’re all looking in the front seat.”

  “Why . . . why are they bringing the . . . the truck up?” I stammered.

  “They always do, Roy. That’s what we’re all here to watch. You think they’d leave those rusty trucks in the lake?” Karen gave me an annoyed look. “What a stupid thing to think. You look pale, Roy.”

  I twisted around in my chair to get a good look at her.

  Her smirk looked like Clark’s. “You dropped something out of your trunk.” She held Clark’s wig, gingerly, between her chubby little thumb and forefinger.

  __________

  Kaye George is an Agatha-nominated short story writer. Her comic mystery, Choke, is available as of May 2011. She lives near Austin, Texas, having lived in most parts of the US. Some of her more interesting jobs have been tractor factory janitor and nurse’s aide. Her webpage: www.kayegeorge.com.

  AMAZING GRACE, by Betsy Bitner

  I have been planning my husband’s funeral for twelve years. No, he doesn’t have a slow-acting terminal illness. And he’s not some bigwig requiring a send-off befitting his stature in the community. It’s just that, like the Scouts say, you’ve got to be prepared. Everyone has to go sooner or later and, with any luck, my husband’s time will come sooner. Call me an optimist.

  It started when I went to the funeral for one of my parents’ long-time friends, an extremely large man who’d wasted away to nothing from cancer. At the end of the service, the wife followed her husband’s casket out of the church as a lone bagpiper played Amazing Grace. While others reached for tissues to dab at their eyes and blow their noses, I was transported by the bagpipe’s mournful sound. I glanced at the wife in her black boiled-wool suit and pearls, gripping the arm of her grown son for support, and I envied her. No, it was more than envy. I wanted to be her. I wanted that casket to contain my husband, Frank. And then a wave of emotion swept over me. Not grief, nor guilt for having had such a thought, but excitement. Did “widow” always have to have a negative connotation?

  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound,

  That saved a wretch like me.

  I once was lost but now am found,

  Was blind, but now I see.

  I haven’t always felt this way. The early years were good. Frank was charming, polite, and attentive when we were dating. Nothing like he is now. I would never have married him if he’d been that way. I’m not stupid. And he wasn’t that bad for the first few years. But as his job got to Frank, Frank took it out on me. He finally realized he was never going to get to be the plant manager, or a foreman, or even a shift supervisor. He was beaten down by years of thinking he would be someone and finding out, in the end, that he was just Frank.

  He couldn’t control things at work, so he controlled things at home. Including me. Our marriage deteriorated over the years as we slid slowly towards our current state of unhappiness. I never dared to imagine him dead while the kids were young. A child shouldn’t grow up without a parent. I would never have wished that on them. What kind of mother would that make me?

  Once the kids were grown and had moved out of the house, it was just the two of us again. We hadn’t really been alone together since we were first married. It was pretty clear that this time the honeymoon was over. Frank would come home from work at the plant and take out his frustrations with the foreman or the weather or the traffic on me. He’d go on and on about my shortcomings.

  But one day, while Frank was griping about how I’d put too many onions in the meatloaf and now he wasn’t going to be able to sleep that night, my mind drifted to the sound of bagpipes playing Amazing Grace. The knot that had taken up permanent residence between my shoulder blades began to loosen. I pictured Frank inside a casket, in peaceful, eternal slumber, eyes closed, and more importantly, mouth shut. Frank’s funeral could become my secret fantasy.

  T’was Grace that taught my heart to fear,

  And Grace, my fears relieved.

  How precious did that Grace appear,

  The hour I first believed.

  Why did I put up with Frank if things were so bad? Why not just leave him? Because if I left him, I would have to leave the house, too, which had been my parents’ house, on the shores of Lake Pleasant. It wasn’t big, but it was mine. And it was full of memories. Memories were all I had left of happy times in my life. Frank may have taken the shine off what was supposed to be our golden years, but he wasn’t going to take my memories.

  My father loved to fish on the lake. He’d take me with him when I was a girl. We’d get up at the crack of dawn to fish for salmon, pike, or small-mouth bass. I never complained about the early hour because fishing on the lake was our special time together. My mother would make sandwiches for us the night before, and I happily carried our lunch basket as I tromped through the wet grass to the dock. My father would help me into the boat and get me settled before starting up the small outboard motor and setting off.

  Once we’d reached his intended destination (always a secret to prevent others from homing in on that day’s quarry), he would open his tackle box and ask me which fly he should use. The array of flies inside the box dazzled me and I took my time looking them over before I made my decision. I wanted to make sure I got it right. My father would wait patiently, as if we had all day. Eventually I would point to one, and he would smile and say “All right then, a Maid of the Mill it is,” and he would pluck the fly from the box and tie it to his line. If I happened to pick a fly meant for bass and he was fishing for salmon that day, my father never let on. But after some time with no nibbles on the line, he’d smile and wink. “The fish must still be asleep,” he’s say. “Let’s try something else and see if we can’t wake them up.” Then he’d tie on a Minister’s Dog or a Hairy Mary and cast off. He valued my opinion, even when it was wrong. I never worried about making a mistake back then.

  Now I won’t get through a day without making a mistake. At least from Frank’s point of view. He blames me for everything—big things, little things, things that can’t possibly be my fault. Like last week when I told Frank to take an umbrella because it was supposed to rain. That afternoon his favorite ball team was ahead 2-0, when the game was called for rain. After the game resumed that evening, his team ended up losing 3-2. The next morning he yelled at me that I should’ve kept my stupid mout
h shut because I jinxed the team. He went on and on about it.

  After he left, I went to my closet. Way in the back I keep my black suits. I have several, in different sizes, to accommodate my ever-changing waistline. If I’d had to put one on that day, it would’ve been the wool gabardine double-breasted jacket and the skirt with the comfortable waistband. I pulled the hanger from the rod, examined the suit and used a lint brush to tidy up the shoulders. I fingered the brass buttons. They’d compliment the necklace that had belonged to my mother. I imagined how I’d look walking behind Frank’s casket as it left the church, and I began to forget that morning’s tirade.

  Through many dangers, toils and snares

  I have already come;

  ’Tis Grace that brought me safe thus far

  and Grace will lead me home.

  My father taught Frank to fly fish. Frank had fished before we met, but only with bait. Dad taught him the finer points of casting, as well as how to tie flies. After we were married, my father even showed Frank his best fishing spots. When my father died, he left the house to me and he left his fishing gear, including his fly-tying equipment, to Frank. Frank kept the gear, but he didn’t wait long to trade in my dad’s boat for a fancy new one with all the bells and whistles my father never needed.

  I missed that boat and the happy times spent fishing when I was growing up. My fishing days are over, now. Oh, I’d tried to fish with Frank. But it wasn’t the same. His self-centered pursuit was the opposite of my father’s attentiveness. As far as Frank was concerned, when it came to fishing, my job was to provide the food, not the company.