The One that Got Away

Dad called today. He asked me to go fishing with him. I had to tell him no.

I didn’t like doing that. He’s retired now and has plenty of time on his hands, and I’m sure he’d like to spend more of it with me. And I want to spend time with him. I really do. I’ll call next weekend and see if he wants to come over and watch the game. We’ll even have a cookout if the weather’s nice.

But there’s no way I’m going fishing.

I told him I had to work on the car. He knew it was bullshit, but he didn’t say anything. He was disappointed, of course, but he understands. At least he thinks he does. He thinks it’s because of what happened to Troy. In a way I guess that’s true--but not really. It’s because of what happened to me after Troy’s accident.

That was nine years ago, the accident. My memory of that morning is still razor sharp. I have a picture of Troy on my desk at the office, and when I look at it, it’s like I can still feel the gnaw of the September air against my cheeks, hear the staccato honks of the geese that "veed" overhead and the soft lap of the water against the shore. I was late. I wasn’t where I was supposed to be, and when I got there it was over and Troy was dead.

I’ve learned not to blame myself. Cold logic eventually taught me that if I had been where I was supposed to be, there in the boat with Troy, then I would probably be dead, too. At least there’s no reason to believe I could have saved him. Being an older brother does not automatically confer extraordinary powers of protection. But I did blame myself that morning when the medics pulled Troy’s limp body out of the quarry like some obscene, waterlogged doll. If I had been there, the orange life vest bobbing in the middle of the lake would have been securely fastened about him. If I had been there, the rowboat would not have been drifting belly-up among the cattails. If I had been there, the lake would not have swallowed him.

I wasn’t terribly late. I just overslept a bit. If he had only waited fifteen minutes, I would have been there.

It was the boat. That day was to be our first trip out in it, and Troy was excited. Well, we’d been out in the rowboat before, of course, but this was different, because now it was his boat. Uncle Ross and Aunt Carrie had given it to him for his fourteenth birthday. It was old and battered, but he loved it anyway. Troy and I had spent most of August patching it up and scraping off layers of old paint. We repainted it green--bright green, like new leaves in springtime--because that was the color Ross had left over from

doing the shutters on the house. Troy was saving up to buy a little electric motor for it.

The following March, Ross and I chopped it to pieces and burned it. I wouldn’t take it, and he didn’t want it sitting around where someone else could take it out and get hurt. We could have sold it, or at least given it away, but it felt good to drive an ax through the bow and watch the splinter ’s fly. It felt like some type of pay back. Ross felt it, too. I wasn’t the only one who felt guilty.

I helped hack it to pieces. I watched the flames devour it. I saw the green latex blister and peel back from the scarred wood. I smelled the smoke. A few days later, I kicked at the blackened scraps that remained.

I thought that was the end of it.

I’ve only been fishing once since Troy’s death. It was in September, a year after the accident. One Saturday night I decided it had been too long. With a vague sense of irritation, I realized I’d been avoiding it. I knew Troy wouldn’t want that, so I drug my gear out of the basement and set my alarm clock for 4:30. I even dug up a few nightcrawlers. The next morning I was out the door before sunrise.

A fog had settled on the city, a dank gray blanket that turned white and cotton-thick in my headlights. I was halfway to the river when I remembered I didn’t have a fishing license. I almost returned home. I wish I had. But I was determined to go through with the trip, so I turned the car about and headed for the quarry. It’s on private property: you don’t need a license, just permission. Even though I hadn’t told Ross I was coming, I knew he wouldn’t mind.

I arrived about five-thirty. Ross’ place is just north of the city. There’s been a lot of construction up that way in recent years, and now it’s on one of those awkward margins between suburban and rural--strip malls one minute and cornfields the next. Eight years ago it was still in the country, though by no means remote. It seemed remote, however, when I parked the car that morning and started down the slope toward the lake. The fog was strangely alive despite the stillness of the morning air. Through its billowy mass, it was impossible to see more than fifteen feet in any direction. Ross’ house and the road beyond might as well have been in the next county.

As I neared the quarry, I spotted a narrow passage in the wall of chest-high grass--Ross only mowed near the house--and plunged into it. I could have fished right up front, but I knew the best places were further along. In less than a minute I was swimming in grass; coarse green blades, damp with autumn dew, sliced at my skin as I plowed along. Spider webs, arching invisibly between overgrown shafts, caught at my face and arms. I hadn’t made it more than fifty yards before the path disappeared entirely. Irritation began to simmer in the back of my mind as I realized I was in the

process of getting lost.

Still, I knew where the lake was. And I knew the way back to my starting point. Or so I thought. I turned and started back slowly, scanning the horizon for the edge of the meadow, but seeing only yard after yard of tufted grass and surging mist. With each step, I grew more dew-damped and less confident. It seemed as though I walked twice as far as I had on the way into the grass, and then I walked still further for good measure.

The grass seemed to close more tightly about me, barely parting to let me pass and closing behind me again without seeming to have moved at all. Blades brushed against me, clinging to my clothing like green leeches. I found myself having to jerk free at almost every step. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but I began to feel hemmed in and edgy.

At last, I saw a black void opening up beyond the grass. I resisted the impulse to rush forward and stepped with greater care. In the mist, the darkness ahead seemed even more featureless than the grassy tract behind me. It made me think of impossibly deep chasms, of the measureless reaches of outer space, of death and the darkness of the grave.

It was a morose thought. I shrugged it off and smiled at myself, convinced my imagination was getting the better of me. As I went forward, my eyes scanned the emptiness ahead; the black expanse seemed suddenly to shift and change. It was like a veil being rent, but I can’t say the fog lifted. The change was more in my eyes, or my brain, than my surroundings. I suppose the change was due simply to my realization that what I was looking at was the lake. One moment I was staring into a formless void, a black pit that meant nothing; the next, the idea lake came to me and the picture changed, became clearer, more familiar.

The surprise sent a vague tremor pulsing through me. Despite my wandering, I had been positive the lake was in the other direction. Usually, my inner compass is fairly dependable, but there, before my eyes, was wet and indisputable proof of its failure. I was a bit shocked, as well as embarrassed about my floundering. Mostly, however, I was relieved to be out of that maze of grass and back on familiar turf.

Or, at least, partly familiar. As I stepped down on the rocky soil of the narrow shoreline, I tried to determine where, exactly, I was. Although I knew most of nooks and crannies of the lake pretty well, I couldn’t get a handle on my location. A series of shapes--a rock here, a tree there--would emerge from the fog and start to take on a familiar pattern, but then some unexpected feature would scuttle the picture forming in my mind and send my memory off in search of another. I felt like I was in one of those weird childhood dreams where the world has been rearranged and all the things you know have been tossed into some strange new alignment. Everything was the same yet different.

I suppose I knew deep down that the morning’s difficulties were due to more than poor navigation, although exactly what was to blame I could not have said. I tried to settle my nerves by telling myself I was being stupid and there was nothing to worry about. I was there to fish, so I would fish. I sorted though my lures and selected a silvery minnow with a pair of nasty treble hooks dangling from its underside. Snapping it to my line, I cast it blindly into the fog. It hit the water with a healthy splash, and I felt the gentle tension of the water as I started to reel it in.

Even though I got no hits, the familiar acts of casting and reeling were soothing. It was nice to be fishing again. But it was different without Troy. I found myself thinking about what it would be like if he were there--how we would swap stories, argue about which bait was going to work best, laugh about getting lost in the grass. I found myself carrying on an imaginary conversation with him as I stood there. I suppose that’s morbid, but it’s perfectly natural, too. I missed him.

The silence of the early morning was pleasant, but it didn’t last. Before long, the faint sound of heavy metal music came drifting across the water. Apparently I wasn’t the only one fishing: someone else was there, armed with a radio. I wondered who it could be. Ross had plenty of friends, who used the quarry from time to time, but they were older guys, not metal-heads, and he didn’t usually let kids fish there after what happened to Troy. Although it was puzzling, I admit I liked the music. As I listened, it seemed to

grow louder, and I could even identify the song: AC/DC’s "Back In Black." It was still so faint, though, that I couldn’t really enjoy it. I wished I’ d brought my own radio to keep me company. Troy and I had often carried one with us, a little transistor I’d kept in my tackle box, but he’d borrowed it and I’d never seen it again. I made a mental note to get a new one.

Suddenly, the line stiffened with a weight greater than the minnow’s. A thrill rocketed through me as I jerked the pole to set the hook in the fish’ s jaw and began reeling furiously. I sensed, however, that there was something wrong with the load on the other end of the line. It had no fight, none of the playful wiggle a fish has. What resistance it offered was simply dead weight: whatever it was, it held on, gliding heavily through the water without the least twitch or shimmy. My best guess was that I’d snagged a hunk of lake trash with the shallow-running minnow. I was right. At about ten feet, I could make out the lumpy, misshapen wad of junk I’d hooked. At five, I could even make out its orange color. But it wasn’t until I landed it that I realized I had hooked a battered, waterlogged life jacket.

As I clutched the dripping jacket by its strap and struggled to pull the minnow’s hooks from its sodden fabric, a smothering sense of déjà vu engulfed me. I remembered Troy’s life jacket, drifting aimlessly in the water, as solitary and unexpected as a child’s stuffed animal lying beside the highway. The paramedics had retrieved it, and I had held the soggy, useless thing while I watched them rush Troy to the squad, gripping it so tightly that water coursed down my arms. The vest I held now was a carbon copy of the one I remembered. I tried to tell myself the revulsion I felt as I worked at the hooks was completely irrational, but a sick lump formed in the pit of my stomach anyway. My hands shook as I tried to work the hooks free, and I gouged myself with one of them. Instinctively, I stuck my wounded thumb in my mouth. My blood tasted thin and timid.

Four of the minnow’s six points had pierced the orange cotton and embedded themselves in the mushy foam underneath. I had no wish to struggle with it any longer. My thumb was smarting. I pulled out my pocketknife, cut the line, and heaved the vest, minnow and all, back into the lake.

Although my line was free, I found I was in no hurry to begin fishing again. I rummaged through my lures without choosing one. Reaching down, I felt the ground beneath my feet; it was damp but not muddy, so I sat down. In the east, I could make out a faint luster along the horizon; a soft radiance within the fog that said the sun was rising. Before long, I would be able to get out of there. The light in the east grew slowly brighter, a luminous glow that swallowed the darkness by gentle degrees. As I waited, I listened to the grinding guitars that surged from my unseen companion’s radio. The sound was louder, clearer than before.

Then, underneath the music, my ear detected another sound--a rhythmic thump, like someone drumming slowly on a hollow log. With a start, I recognized the sound, and I listened for the squeak I thought should accompany it. Sure enough, I heard it. I knew then that the music was louder because the radio was closer; what I heard was the sound of oars bumping the sides of a boat and the whine of unoiled oarlocks.

That made me angry, because I knew Ross had declared the quarry off limits to boats after Troy’s accident. I strained to catch a glimpse of the boat, but I could pick out nothing. I tried to forget it and think instead about the sausage gravy and biscuits I would have at Bob Evan’s once it was light enough to get moving. Already I could make out more than just a short while before, but the sun’s progress was maddeningly slow. I picked up the pole again, attached a new hook, and gutted a plump, juicy nightcrawler on it. The worm twitched frantically, trying to escape the sharp spine. My injured thumb throbbed in sympathy.

I flung the line into the lake and let it play out until the nightcrawler hit bottom, then I propped the pole on a twig and sat watching the motionless line. The fish were determined not to bite, lousy compensation for the trouble I’d been through. Having something to concentrate on, however, made the sun move faster. I tried once more to determine exactly where on the shore I was, but my location still seemed as yet only half-familiar. And I still couldn’t make out a boat, even though the sound of rowing was more distinct and the music--Deo’s "Holy Diver"--louder than ever. It seemed impossible, but I knew how sound could carry over water. Finally, however, I thought the boat must be right in front of me--yet I could see nothing. Then, all at once, the music stopped. Deo died in mid-yelp, like someone had pulled his plug. At the same moment, the sound of rowing ceased.

I’d had enough. Some fog remained, but enough had lifted that a return trip through the grass should be fairly easy. In the improved light, I could distinguish a winding track through the meadow, probably from my previous passage. I shut my tackle box and started to pick up my pole.

There was something on the line.

Although I hadn’t been watching every second, I had a good picture in my mind of exactly how the line lay--how much slack was on it, where it curved, where it disappeared into the water. It hadn’t moved. But as I lifted the pole, there was more weight on the line than there should have been. I gave a tug and began reeling. The line snapped taut and froze. I tried bringing it in slowly, playing out a bit and taking it up again bit by bit, but it didn’t help. Either I’d hooked the world’s largest snapping turtle or I’d gotten snagged on the bottom.

The thought had no sooner crossed my mind when events proved me wrong, for suddenly the line went slack. Thinking that whatever had held it was gone, I started to reel, only to meet the same resistance after taking up only a few yards. I tugged hard, nearly bending the pole double, but nothing budged. I eased off. After a moment, the line went slack again, but, as before, it was as if the hook had only shifted a bit. I reeled up the slack and waited, counting my breaths: at five, it shifted again.

I clicked the line taut. I could tell from where the line entered the water that each surge was bringing my catch, whatever it was, closer to shore. Soon I would have it.

Or, the thought occurred to me suddenly; it would have me.

I froze and watched with mute dread as the line popped and went slack again. I didn’t reel it up. I couldn’t have if I’d wanted to. The line shifted once more. Whatever was down there, whatever had a hold of my nightcrawler, was coming to shore at its own pace, coming regardless of what I did, coming whether I wanted it to or not.

I don’t know how long I stood there, how many times the line moved, how many steps that thing took. I sometimes wonder if I would have remained there, standing passively, if nothing else had happened.

But something else did happen. As I stood watching my mysterious catch work its way toward me, an unearthly chill filled the air. My breath appeared instantly before my face, puff after puff trailing away to join the fog. It was as though I’d walked out into the dead of winter without a coat. I shivered and looked about me, and that’s when I saw it. It was close to shore, close enough that I could have waded to it without getting wet above the knees. It was floating there, turning lazily in the morning light, its upturned belly still wet from its trip around the lake. And it was green--bright green like new leaves in springtime.

I screamed until I had to gasp for breath, and when my lungs were full again I screamed some more. I was screaming when I dropped the pole and plunged through the curtain of grass and away from the lake, still screaming as I charged like a mad bull through the meadow. Somehow, I made it--maybe because the light was better, maybe because whatever wanted me was back there now. When I finally emerged from the grass, I knew where I was. But I didn’t give my aching lungs a rest until I was in my car, and my heart didn’t stop pounding until I was a mile down the road.

Sometimes, like today, I find myself wondering if I did the right thing. I wonder what was on the other end of that line. I think I know. At times, I try to imagine a happy reunion, but the picture is never very convincing. I never try to imagine other possibilities.

Like I said, I rarely think about it anymore. There’s no reason to. I can ’t change what’s over and done.

But there’s no way I’m going fishing.

Previously published in Deadbolt Magazine ( Issue 2)

Bill Hughes is an incorrigible reader and a former English teacher whose list of favorite writers includes such diverse names Mark Twain and Samuel Beckett. He is a big fan of many of the pulp-era crime writers, especially James M. Cain and Jim Thompson; for horror, his tastes generally run to contemporaries like Edward Lee, David Schow, and Greg Gifune. For three years in the late 90s he edited and published Dread, a small-press digest of horror and weird tales. He has also had over 20 stories appear in a variety of print and electronic magazines including Deadbolt, Flesh and Blood, The Edge, The Thread, Rage Machine, and Something Wicked Online. When he isn't writing he watches too many movies and likes to work in the garden.

Email: Bill Hughes

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