Migrators

by Ike Hamill

  Within minutes, Joe matched Alan’s proficiency.

  By the time the sun was high enough in the sky for them to see their surroundings, Joe was able to double Alan’s best cast.

  “Dad!” Joe said. “I think I caught something.”

  Joe pulled back on his rod and it bent over with the tension. Alan pulled in his own line and set down his pole.

  “Okay, did you set the hook?” Alan asked.

  “What does that mean?”

  “You jerk back to set the hook in the fish’s mouth.”

  “Gross.”

  “I know,” Alan said.

  Joe jerked back on the pole and it bent farther.

  “Now reel it in,” Alan said.

  Joe turned the handle and the reel clicked. The boat began to move.

  “Keep going. What does it feel like?”

  “I don’t know,” Joe said. Joe stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth as he pulled and reeled. The boat moved slowly towards where Joe’s line disappeared under the surface of the lake.

  Joe leaned forward and looked at the water.

  “I think it’s stuck on the bottom,” Joe said.

  Alan looked around. The boat had drifted towards the side of the lake. Alan took the short paddle and stuck it in the water. It hit bottom. Alan pushed the boat towards the line and it sprang free. Joe covered his eyes as the lure popped up out of the water and tangled around the end of the pole.

  Alan’s laugh sounded hollow as it bounced back from the trees. Joe frowned and set down his pole so he could untangle the line from the end.

  “Ow!” Joe said. He put his finger in his mouth.

  “I’ll move us out towards the middle again,” Alan said.

  “Are you sure we’re doing this right?” Joe asked.

  “Nope.”

  After another hour, they’d learned a few things. Alan learned how to cast. It was a combination of flicking your wrist and hitting the button at just the right time. Joe learned how to pee over the side of the boat without falling in. Both father and son learned that boat seats were cold on October mornings. Neither learned the secret of catching a fish.

  The sun popped over the trees and a light mist began to rise around the shallows. Joe and Alan sat in the boat with their poles stowed. A little breeze rocked the boat and rippled the surface of the lake. Near the entrance of the stream that led back to their dock, a fish jumped and splashed. Joe turned to watch for it—to see if it would jump again.

  “Oh, shoot. You’re supposed to have a life vest on, I think,” Alan said.

  “Do we have one?”

  “There are a few in the camp. I guess they’re still good. I can get you a new one the next time I’m at the store.”

  “Are we coming fishing again?” Joe asked.

  “I don’t know. Don’t you want to?”

  “Sure,” Joe said. He propped his chin on his hand.

  Alan watched his son staring out over the water.

  What are you thinking? Do you know right from wrong, Joe? Do you know you could have killed that little girl? Do you feel remorse, or did we somehow raise some kind of deranged killer?

  “What do they do in the winter?” Joe asked.

  “Who?”

  “The fish. Do they die and then new ones are born next year?”

  “Oh. No, they live under the ice. People cut holes through the ice and try to catch them. The big fish live for years and years.”

  “Before people came along, did anything eat the fish?”

  “Bears eat fish. They catch them when they’re going upstream. And eagles and other birds catch fish. I’m sure they have lots of predators.”

  “But people are the only ones that catch them on a line,” Joe said. “When people first invented fishing line and hooks, they must have had no idea what was going on. They think they’re getting a worm and then they’re being dragged out into the air.”

  “I’m not sure fish think that much about anything,” Alan said. “I think they’re fairly primitive.”

  “They’re like some people,” Joe said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Nothing,” Joe said.

  “Do you mean that some people are primitive?” Alan asked.

  “Well yeah, I mean, right? Like those guys who used to hang around on the corner near the dry cleaners? You remember how they would come up to the car whenever we’d go to get the shirts? All they did was beg for money and then go buy drugs.”

  “And that makes them primitive?” Alan asked.

  “Like a fish,” Joe said. “Simple.”

  “Simple minded?”

  “No, I mean they would do this and then they would do that. It was simple—only two steps. You remember that movie we watched?” Joe asked.

  “Which one.”

  “The one with the shark,” Joe said. “That guy said, ‘All this machine does is swim, and eat, and make little sharks.’ Fish are simple.” His voice transformed when he quoted the movie.

  Alan smiled past his own dark contemplations. His son was already pretty good with impressions.

  “Joe, people may sometimes act in a simplistic way, but that doesn’t mean they’re primitive or like fish,” Alan said.

  “I know.”

  “We all have primitive sides to our nature, and you have to work to stay above those instincts. That’s where humanity lies.”

  Joe didn’t respond. His eyes widened when the fish jumped. After a second, they slid half-closed and Joe slumped even more. If his hand weren’t propping up his chin, Joe looked like he would slump into a puddle at the bottom of the boat.

  “Do you understand, Joe?” Alan asked.

  “Uh-huh,” Joe said. Joe’s stomach gurgled.

  Alan looked over the edge of the boat. The morning sun was bright enough to show him that the engine was mired in mud and weeds. Alan pushed the paddle down in the muck and tried to push off. The boat was stuck. His new transom flexed when Alan tilted the motor up. The prop came out of the water draped with dripping weeds. The boat floated free. Alan pushed off and sent the boat towards the deeper part of the lake. He paddled gently to get them moving towards the stream’s inlet. Joe let the view change in front of his eyes—he hardly moved.

  “I’m going to try again over there,” Alan said.

  “For that big one?”

  “Sure.”

  Alan gave the paddle a few more good swipes and then picked up his pole. He eyeballed the spot where they’d last seen the fish. He figured it was a long shot—the jumping fish was clearly interested in bugs on top of the water, would it even care about a fake worm? Alan sent a booming cast right to the spot he envisioned.

  “Nice cast,” Joe said.

  Alan smiled. It was the same tone that Joe had used earlier to encourage Alan when he couldn’t cast more than a boat-length.

  When the fish hit, it was unlike any other feeling the pole had given him. The pole was alive and dancing with the fish’s retreat. The reel croaked angrily as the line pulled.

  “Dad?” Joe asked. He sat up straight, watching the spot where the fishing line intersected the water. “I think you got one.”

  “I think you’re right,” Alan said. “You want to reel it in?” He held out the pole with both hands, afraid to trust it to just one.

  “No, you do it. It’s your fish,” Joe said.

  Alan tried to turn the reel as he pulled back to keep pressure on the pole. It was no good. The tension prevented him from turning the little crank. All he could do was let the pole move up and back and reel it in when the fish provided some slack in the line. It became second-nature in an instant. Joe leaned over the side of the boat, watching the fish flash as it neared the surface and then dove again.

  “You’ve almost got it,” Joe said.

  Alan let the tip of his pole dip near the water as he reeled in the rest of the line. The fish breached and Alan lifted it out of the water. It flailed at the end of his line, bouncing up and down. Alan set down the po
le and grabbed the clear line just above the fish.

  “Wow,” Joe said.

  It was about the size of Alan’s flat hand and it had a black marking behind its eye, lined with red. Its fins and gills flared out. They looked spiky and sharp.

  “Can we eat it?” Joe asked.

  “I think this one is too small,” Alan said. “Take a picture so we can look it up later.”

  As Joe used his camera, Alan rooted around in the plastic bag to find the pliers he’d bought. He ran his hand down the line and tried to grab the fish from the top, to push back the spines. The fish thrashed as his hand closed.

  “Ow!” Alan said. “That thing is sharp.”

  He tried again with the same result. His fingers were bleeding.

  “Maybe you should just cut the line and let it go that way,” Joe said. “I don’t think you can get it off of there.”

  “No, Joe, that wouldn’t be fair to the fish. We have to be humane,” Alan said. He grabbed again and this time didn’t flinch when the fish thrashed. He held it still and used the pliers to back out the hook. Alan let the fish tumble back towards the water. It squirted off into the deep as soon as it broke the surface.

  Alan rinsed his hand in the lake. The cold water helped to numb the cuts.

  “You try, Joe,” Alan said.

  He didn’t finish his command before Joe was casting. Joe used Alan’s rod—perhaps trying to capitalize on Alan’s success. A few casts later, Joe announced that he felt a nibble.

  The boat drifted down the stream. Alan pointed to spots near the edge of the weeds and Joe tried to land his lure where his father pointed. When Joe’s fish hit, the pole doubled over and the reel screamed.

  “Dad, I can’t hold it,” Joe said.

  “Sure you can, Joe. Just keep pressure on it. Reel it in when it comes back to you,” Alan said. “Don’t let it run for the weeds. You don’t want it to get caught up over there.”

  “How do I stop it?”

  “Just keep pressure. Keep pulling back,” Alan said. He used the little paddle to move the boat closer to where the line pointed. As Alan shifted the boat, Joe picked up the slack. “Keep pulling.”

  Joe fought the fish until sweat stood out on his brow. His little arms were trembling.

  “I can’t do it,” Joe said. “You take over.”

  “It’s okay, you can finish. Just keep pulling.”

  The pole rose and disappointment flashed on Joe’s face. He started to reel in the line without resistance. Alan expected to see a broken end come up out of the water.

  “Did it…” Alan started to ask. He didn’t get to finish his question. The pole bent again and Joe struggled to hang on. He picked up the slack once more and the fish leapt from the water. Joe turned the crank furiously as the fish came out again. It looked enormous. The pole couldn’t lift it from the water. Alan grabbed the line and helped Joe lift the fish. The line dug into Alan’s tender hands.

  “Holy cow,” Alan said. “That thing is enormous.”

  “Don’t touch it,” Joe said.

  “It’s okay,” Alan said. “I don’t think this one is sharp.”

  The fish was a completely different shape than the one Alan had caught. This one was long and cylindrical. Its mottled brown and green scales faded to tan on its belly. Alan gripped it just behind the gills. It was almost too slippery to hold. Alan braced the fish between his knees as he worked the hook from its mouth with the pliers.

  “Look at those teeth,” Joe said.

  “We could eat this one, I think,” Alan said. “It’s big enough. Here—you have to hold it so I can take a picture.”

  Joe held it up horizontally with both hands while Alan captured the image. The fish thrashed and Joe launched it towards the stream.

  “You didn’t want to eat it?”

  “No,” Joe said. “Not with those teeth.”

  “Wash your hands over the side,” Alan said.

  After they cleaned up, they left the poles sitting in the boat. It seemed that one fish apiece was their limit. Instead of starting up the motor, Alan just used the paddle to keep them in the middle of the stream. The gentle current moved them slowly back downstream.

  “So you understand what I was saying about humanity earlier, Joe?” Alan asked.

  “I guess.”

  “I’m saying that even when your anger calls and you feel like you have to do something or you’ll explode—that’s when it’s most important to exercise control. You can’t be simple, like the fish. We live in a society with rules. It’s how we get along without killing each other. It’s what makes us civilized.”

  “I know,” Joe said. “I get it.”

  “Good,” Alan said.

  They started to take the last turn. Alan saw their little dock off in the distance.

  “But that’s only true for humans, right?” Joe asked.

  “No, Joe. You have to treat animals humanely too. You wouldn’t mistreat a puppy just because it wasn’t human,” Alan said.

  “But if something is evil it doesn’t count, right?” Joe asked. “People in movies are always fighting things that are evil. It’s okay to kill evil things.”

  Alan shook his head as he spoke. “No. No, Joe. What are you talking about?”

  “We can’t let evil things get us. We have to fight them, right? We have to kill them?” Joe asked.

  “Joe, no. We’re not going to kill anything. It’s not up to us to decide who’s evil. Do you understand?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Say it—tell me you understand, Joe,” Alan said.

  “I understand.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Remodeling

  OCTOBER 7

  ALAN LET himself in through the garage. Bob’s mudroom serviced as a temporary laundry room and kitchen. Alan poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot sitting on top of the dryer. He opened the door to the room that used to be the kitchen.

  “Still fighting it?” Alan asked.

  Bob looked up from the floor and smiled. He was on his knees over in the corner.

  “I can’t let it go,” Bob said. “I’ve been using this.” He held up a metal spatula.

  Alan laughed. There was a spot in the corner where they couldn’t quite reach. It was gunked up with some kind of adhesive and until they cleaned it out, they couldn’t get the cabinets to sit correctly in the corner. Alan was a proponent of cutting back the corner of the cabinet until it sat flat, but Bob wanted the floor perfect. That wasn’t the focus of the day though. Today they were putting in the new plumbing for the bathroom. Alan was excited—plumbing was something he’d always wanted to learn.

  Bob dropped the spatula and dusted off his hands as he stood up. He grabbed his own coffee cup and led the way to the basement. He had lights set up in a circle, pointing up into the hole where he’d removed all the ceiling tiles.

  “These pipes here are going to pull back to here,” Bob said, pointing up at the copper. “And we have to extend these supply lines over to there.”

  “Wait, isn’t that where the toilet is going? Why do you need both hot and cold over to there?”

  “That toilet tank sweats in the summer. The cold water from the well makes condensation form on the outside of the tank and then mold grows on the wall. I thought if I put in a mixing valve, I could add some hot water when the tank fills. That way it won’t be too cold,” Bob said.

  “Sounds wasteful,” Alan said.

  “If the new owners don’t want it, they can turn the mixing valve all the way to cold. At least they’ll have the option,” Bob said.

  Alan nodded. He worked as Bob’s assistant that morning, mostly handing him tools and asking a couple of questions. Bob was good at giving brief explanations of what he was doing. As Bob fired up his torch and heated the copper, he made conversation.

  “So what did you do before you moved up here? You said you’re a photographer?” Bob asked.

  “Yeah,” Alan said. “I did mostly freelance stuff, and some assi
gnments.”

  “Arty stuff or gritty?”

  “Gritty,” Alan said.

  Bob nodded.

  “Battlefields, conflicts, riots, Congress—you know, feel-good stuff. It was dangerous sometimes. There’s nothing more unstable than a politician.”

  Bob laughed.

  “Seriously though—it got to the point where I couldn’t justify it. I saw some of my colleagues get unlucky and I figured I couldn’t do it anymore. It wasn’t fair to Joe and Liz, you know? She makes a good enough living that neither of us should have to risk our lives.”

  Bob hissed as hot flux sputtered and hit his arm.

  “You should be wearing safety glasses,” Bob said.

  Alan dug in the pouch of his sweatshirt and pulled some out.

  “But you still do photography?” Bob asked.

  “Yes and no. I’ve been trying to get something going with nature shots. It’s a hard transition. When I’m shooting a riot, I know where I want to stand. I know what the shot should look like automatically and I move with the flow. I’m trying to take a picture of a tree and I just can’t get the feel of it. Everything’s so static and you could get it from any angle. I can’t find the movement of it. You know what I mean?”

  “Not really, no,” Bob said.

  “But you’re a movie director, right? You create visual art.”

  “I work with visual artists,” Bob said. “My role is a little more humble than that. I’m like the drive shaft that connects the engine to all the moving parts. I keep lists and make sure we have enough footage to cover the script. If we miss something, I’m the guy who figures out if we need to reshoot or if we can cobble something together from what we’ve got.”

  “Like an editor?” Alan asked.

  “I’m like what the print world calls an editor, yes. Some directors visualize the whole thing. I’m more of a manager.”

  Bob moved on to the next joint. Alan had already cleaned up the ends and brushed on the flux. Bob just needed to heat it up and add the solder, sweating the copper to fuse the metal.

  “What kind of movies do you do?”

  “I’ve done a couple of features you might have seen,” Bob said. “Did you see Lingering Doubt or Nevercome?”