David Macinnis Gill's Blog: Thunderchikin Reads, page 8

Fly

The first time I took flight

Superman had just single bounded

Black and white across the screen of

A tiny TV topped with rabbit ears so

Tying a towel around my neck, I

Ran across the living room

Winding swishing the cape behind,

Leapt into the air and

Hung there

Suspended mid-air for an eon before

Landing on the mattress

Bouncing and laughing.The next time I flew was

Third grade, recess, swingset, legs

Kicking me so high, the chain

Bucked and popped, my laughter

Caught in the wind when the bell

Rang and I let go at the summit of

The swing and

Hung there

Suspended in apogee

Long past the echo of the bell.

Never again have I flown so well, though

Many attempts were made.

Jumping from high concrete walls.

Zip lining through forests.

Hang gliding from mountain sides

Seat squeezing on transatlantic flights.

Never again have I readily released

The chains of millstone milestones and

Hung there

Suspended in mid-life for only a blink

Wondering what part of this worn-down body

Would tear or bend or wrench

In service of

The endless yearning to fly.

Night Fall, Regret

A man I knew died today.

He had driven himself to hospital

Sweating and shaking

From heart failure,

The way some diabetics do.

The attack was just a symptom.

Too much of his liver had died,

His body buoyed with toxins.

One by one

His organs faltered.

He lasted long enough

For the family to gather,

To make their apologies

Before his last breath.

Night falls

And he is past.

When the time comes that

The night finds me,

I hope my last words

Are not regrets

Whispered in the dark.

Going for Broke

Thirty miles from the white sandy beaches of the Gulf of Mexico, the Florida panhandle became a dense forest of straggly pines. The two-lane highway that Coby had taken south from Dothan slithered through the rough underbrush, far away from the hotels and tourist traps on the coast. An occasional car flickered in the darkness then passed Coby’s truck, a lonely firefly that droned into the distance before disappearing.

Then when Coby neared in a dot on the map called Ebro, and the night was cut by the fluorescent beacon of the Washington County dog track. On this warm June night, Coby Hawkersmith followed something other than the lights into the woods: something other than money had brought him back to the greyhounds.

Just a few long hours after his father’s funeral, Coby wheeled his truck into Ebro’s parking lot, then joined the crowd at the gate. At the ticket window, he had his dollar bill changed into two fifty-cent pieces. One, he dropped into the turnstile, the other he kissed twice and put in his left breast pocket, a ritual he’d picked up from his father.

“For luck,” his father had always said.

He patted the half- dollar in his pocket and looked at his racing program. Arcane notes and figures peppered the pages. He’d picked up the program in Bonifay on his way down from Dothan and had spent an hour going over it at the McDonald’s there.

First race, he thought. Daily Double. Seven minutes to post. Big crowd for a Thursday night.

His father’d had a special affection for the Daily Double, though if he did hit one, he would walk out of the track, saying, “Winning the first one means it’s all downhill from here. Might as well go on home, because it can’t get no better.”

Coby stepped onto the concourse where huge ceiling fans puttered overhead to move the stagnant air around to keep the crowd from suffocating. He glanced at the monitor. Time for the first race. The favorite, Scalded Dog, Number Four had 2:1 odds.

“Not much to work with,” he said then asked the cashier at the first window why the crowd was so big.

“Dumptruck,” the cashier said. When Coby didn’t respond, the man said, “Dumptruck. Y’know, the Superdog? He’s won fifty-one in a row. Everybody comes out to bet on him.”

“Fifty-one in a row, wow,” Coby said.

But he knew that everybody and his brother would bet on a dog like that. The track had to pay the legal $2.20 on a two dollar bet but made money hand over fist on the gate and the other races.

“Odds like that ain’t even worth betting on,” Coby’s father would have said.

But Coby, no high roller, liked the idea of an instant ten-percent turn-around on his money. That’s something Coby’s father never realized–sure things existed and they could make you money. Even though his father had schooled him on the art of betting, Coby had a different way of playing the dogs.

Everyday during their Florida vacations, Coby would spend six hours pouring over the racing program, and his father would shake his head, wait until they got to the track, eyeball the winners and say, “This is the way to bet, son, with your gut, with the feeling in your bones. You figure and add all you want, but you ain’t never going to get nothing but little payouts. Go for the big win, son.” His father would then add as they leaned on the rail where handlers showed the dogs, “Pick you the winner and bet heavy. Don’t mess around with boxing them pissant quinellas.”

“I just want enough in my pocket to bet on the next race, Daddy.” Coby would tell him. “I just want to walk out with more money than I came with.”

Now leaning against a column, Coby looked over his first picks, numbers 7-4-1. Number Eight was a close fourth. In the 2nd race, Likity Split, Number Two, looked like a lock.

“Whadya like in the first?”

Coby looked up. A man with droopy pants and droopy eyes, his breath fermented, stood too close–an old drunk looking for a tout.

“Oh yeah. The Eight dog, Hosenpfeffer,” Coby lied.

“Yeah, the Eight?” The drunk clicked his tongue and leaned closer to sneak a peek at Coby’s program. “It’s possible. It’s possible.”

When Coby turned the page, the man seemed to lose interest and bobbed over to the cashier at the first window. “Whadya like?” Coby heard him say. Drunks like that were part of the scenery–dried up, hagged out, going for broke, but they were already there. The cashier would give him some number, and the guy would bet it. If it came in, the cashier would get a fat tip and a chance to pick the next race. If it didn’t come in, the drunk would move on down the line.

Though he wasn’t a drunk, Coby’s father would pull the same trick sometimes when he couldn’t trust his instincts. “Who you like?” he’d ask around. “You seen that little brindle run before?” And Coby would ask him, “But you never ask me what I like, Daddy. Why is that?” His father would smile, “I already know who the favorite is, son.”

Coby looked at the monitor. Four minutes to post. Number Four, Scalded Dog, was still the favorite at 2:1. Number’s Seven and One were close behind. Straight betting, his father’s play, was out. To get decent odds, Coby would have to go to the faithful quinella. The Daily Double wasn’t hitting on much, though. The lock in the second race, Likity Split, seemed to be everybody’s boy. The best daily double odds on Coby’s picks, coupled with Likity Split, were 5:1.

“Not worth it,” he said.

He moved to the shortest line. The monitor showed two minutes to post when he put down a hundred dollar bill. “Quinella box 1-4-7. Ten times.” Sixty dollars rang up on the tote.

“Betting the Double?” the cashier said, his face long and features plain.

“There’s nothing worth it.” He glanced at the monitor. Odds for the 8-2 Daily Double combination were 27:1.

Bet that Eight Dog, something whispered to him. He jerked around to find no one nearby.

“Well?” said the cashier.

“What the Hell. 8-2 Daily Double. Five times.” The tote machine flashed eighty dollars, and he took his ticket and change.

Drifting back onto the concourse, Coby snaked his way through the lawn chairs and blankets to the rail. Ebro track was 1560 yards from start to finish for the short races and 1880 yards for the long ones. The center of the track was bare, but beyond the backstretch, a huge hedge protruded. The green tote board loomed over the infield, framed by dozens of match stick pines. Off the first turn, the paddock led to the kennels. Two starting boxes waited at either end of the course, and a small cube on the inside rail hid the mechanical lure, Swifty. The track had not changed in twenty years. Coby always found that comforting. No matter what happened–college, job, marriage, kids, divorce, death–Ebro remained the same, year after year, vacation after vacation.

At the rail, Coby crossed his arms. For a second, he felt someone at his elbow. “Dad?” Then the sensation was gone. He wiped his face and watched them load the dogs into the boxes. Coby liked to stand half-way between the last turn and the wire. If a dog were to lose the race, it was usually in the last turn. All it took was a little bump, and the leader was flying toward the rail instead of the finish line. The handlers tossed the dogs like seventy-pound rag dolls into the boxes, and the hounds crooned through their muzzles. Handlers ran to positions, empty leashes in hand. Coby twisted the program, wringing ink onto his hands. He closed his eyes.

“Here goes nothing.”

“Here comes Sa-wifty!” the caller drawled over the PA.

The squeal of gears on the lure cart. Quick click of the house lights. Track lit like a stage.

“Greyhounds are gentle souls,” his father had often said..

Splam! Catapulting out of the box came eight scrawny, majestic, emaciated athletes. Swifty the lure zoomed down the rail. The pack shot by Coby, spraying the railbirds with sand. Coby opened his eyes As the pack rounded the first turn, Scalded Dog grabbed the lead, followed by the Two dog.

“Come on Four,” he screamed and hopped around on tip-toes.

“At the half, it’s Number Four, Scalded Dog, by two lengths. Number Two is second but fading. Number Seven is gaining, followed by 5,6,8,3 and Number One is bringing up the rear.”

Coby laughed and wrote off Number One. “Come on!”

“At the three-quarters pole, it’s Number Four by two, Number Seven slides by Number Two and it’s the Eight, Hasenpfeffer, making a move.”

“No, no. Eight, get out of there, get out of there,” Coby said. “Come on, Seven.”

“As they round the corner, it’s Scalded Dog, by one over Hasenpfeffer.”

“Fall down, Eight. Fall down!”

“And at the wire, it’s…Hasenpfeffer by a nose. Number Four is second, Number Seven is third.”

“Don’t do this to me,” Coby said.

The announcer: “Please hold all tickets until the race is official.”

Coby pulled the ticket out of his pocket and folded it. He and his father never tore their tickets, just in case. “Damned Eight Dog. Where’d you come from?” He started to throw away the ticket when he heard a whisper, You bet the Eight Dog. He unbent the ticket. “Yeah, I did.”

“The windows are open for the second race, grade M,” said the announcer.

Coby drifted toward the betting windows. For the second race, he observed, “The Two Dog is the one to beat next time. Nobody else is close. Let’s see, the odds are 3:5 on Likity Split. The best quinella is 7:1 on the 2-6 combination. Even if I won on the quinella, I’d barely make back my bet. “The Six, the Six…” He ran his thumb to Number Six, “Oleo. Shut out in the last six races. Never broke his maiden. Best time in the 1560 was 32:10. Even for a maiden that’s sorry. No bet this race.”

On the board, Likity Split drew the action, but Coby noticed that Bare Handed, the Seven dog who had some good times but lousy luck, had been overlooked.

Be patient, the voice whispered. This time, he didn’t look around. As the minutes ticked to post, Coby waited in line, letting another bettor, then another in front so that he could watch the monitor and still make sure he didn’t get shut out. At one minute to post, a quinella on Bare Handed showed 16:1 odds with Likity Split and 40:1 with Oleo.

“Quinella box, two-six-seven, ten times,” he told the cashier. He traded sixty dollars for the crisp ticket.

As he reached his place on the rail, the announcer called, “Here comes Swifty.” The mechanical rabbit screeched into action, and the dogs bayed on cue.

“Here goes nothing.” He closed his eyes.

Splam! Likity Split lived up to her name by breaking first and leading wire to wire. Coby opened his eyes in time to see Oleo get greased on the first turn and finish out of the picture. He jumped up and down when the Seven dog nosed into second place, giving him a winner on the Daily Double and quinella. He kissed the ticket the way he’d never kissed his wife and skipped to the window.

“Four hundred, five hundred, six hundred,” the cashier counted out. “Looks like you got lucky.”

“Not lucky,” Coby thought of the voice. “Skilled.”

“Yeah, right. It’s always skill when you win and luck when you lose.”

“I’ve never lost.”

“Where have I heard that before?”

Coby looked at the ashtray on the counter. Winners usually left their silver change as a tip. “You owe me sixty cents.” As he stuffed the change into his wallet, his father’s words came back to him, “Can’t get any better than this. Might as well go to the house.”

Coby thought about the times his father had left after the double, a few dollars in his pocket. “You’re too superstitious, Daddy,” Coby would say. “Let’s go win some more.” But his father would start the car and head back to Panama city, knowing that his big race was already won.

Coby stopped at the rest room. He stepped to the urinal and closed his eyes. In the blackness, he saw his father’s open casket, his father’s face in make up, shaped by wax molds to hide the weight lost from the prostrate cancer. A flat smile stretched across his face, his lips glued together. Coby yanked his eyes open.

“Not again. Not now. Would you quit bothering me?” He zipped up and almost hooked himself. “Wake up, Coby. You’re going to lose the family jewels.”

He washed, smearing water on his face. In the mirror, his eyes weren’t red. Outside the rest room, he looked toward the parking lot, but he couldn’t spot his truck in the sea of cars.

“Why should I leave? I’m doing fine. I got a wad of money on me. I got a bunch of winners in this book. I’m in the groove. All I need is a cold Coke and a dog to bet on. Sorry, Dad, but I can’t walk out.”

On the way to the snack bar, he stopped to talk to a pretty girl who had an older greyhound on a leash. Kids were petting it, and she was trying to get their parents to adopt it.

“This one of those “Save the Greyhound’ programs?” he said.

“Sure is. You want to pet her?”

“I usually only bet on them. How much y’all asking?”

“The fees four hundred dollars, but you get to pick your dog. Some folks want to save a dog that’s been a good racer.”

“For four hundred bucks, I want one that still was racing. Take it easy.”

After he got a drink, Coby sat down to check the next race, a maiden. In a maiden race, dogs that constantly came in second were death. The long-shot bettors went crazy over them, but they always, always, always came in second. Coby’s father was like that, laying a hundred bucks the dog wouldn’t come in. “This time it will win,” his father would say, “I can feel it in my bones.”

“That’s asinine,” said Coby when the board showed Gottawin, with three seconds in five starts, as a 2:1 favorite. The best two dogs were complete virgins but had good times running training races.

“No way can Gottawin run with these two. This race is a lock.”

He chose a new cashier, a robust woman with a sheath of jet black hair and a booming voice.

“Howyadoing?” She grinned and threw her head to one side.

“Not bad. Give me the quinella box, 1-2-5, ten times.”

She took his money as the machine spit out his ticket. “Break a leg and pawn your mama.”

“Thanks,” he said.

Coby kissed the ticket twice and put it in his breast pocket. His mind wandered a few years back to a matinee when he’d hit every race but one. The payoffs were so slim, though, that he’d come out only twenty dollars ahead. His father, though, had hit the one race Coby’d missed, a trifecta that paid a thousand dollars, and he had practically giggled when he said, “Now that’s how you bet, son.”

“No.” Coby returned to the window, “I do not bet trifectas. I do not bet trifectas.” He looked up at the booming-voiced woman. “I do not bet trifectas.”

“And?”

“2-5-1 trifecta, straight.”

“Two dollars. There anything else you don’t want to bet before you go?”

He laughed as he walked to the fence. When they loaded the dogs, he heard someone laughing beside him and caught the sharp smell of Pall Malls. “Dad?”

The drunk man stood beside him, smoking a cigarette and laughing. “So you didn’t like nothing in the first. What about that eight dog?”

“Don’t mention it.”

The drunk leaned closer. The smell of booze followed him. “Who you like in this one?”

“You aren’t supposed to ask me that.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Coby shut his eyes. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Here comes Swifty.”

As Coby stood at the rail, the lure rolled toward him. Before opening his eyes, he visualized the finish: 2-1-5 in order.

The box oozed open. Curiously silent, the dogs seemed to stretch lazily. Sand thrown by the pack seemed to drift endlessly before settling. Like a 45 playing on 33 RPM, the announcer’s voice deepened and drawled the numbers of the winners. Then in one cacaphonic surge, the world returned to full speed. Coby stayed calm until he looked at his trifecta ticket, worth $1097.60.

He wore an angelic smile as he cashed out with his favorite cashier.

“Jeez, Louise. Looks like you won the croqueted hockey-pot.” Her eyes popped wide open. “You want a check or a voucher? I can’t give out cash for more than a thousand bucks.”

“A what?”

“A voucher,” she said. “Instead of cashing in and out, I cut you this voucher and you do all your betting off it. Beats carrying around a bunch of checks.”

“Sounds good.”

She cut the voucher. “What’s your poison?”

After glancing at the program, he decided, “None. Think I’ll sit this one out.”

“Suit yourself, hon. Now, don’t lose that thing. It’s just like cash.”

“I hear you.”

After kissing the voucher twice, he drifted left of the concourse. The dog watchers lined the rail to inspect the next racers. His father, Coby remembered, had always liked looking at the dogs before he bet. One time, when Uncle Holland stayed with them, they all three came to the track. Holland had this theory. He claimed a dog that crapped before the race was lighter than the others and therefore would win. The first race they watched, Holland’s pick came in. The same thing for the second. Coby’s father tried the theory out on the third race. As the trainers trotted out the dogs, each and every one took a long, squishy dump on the track. “Well, Holland,” his daddy had said, “What you call that, a dead-heat?”

Coby still laughed every time he remembered the story. He was laughing then, scrubbing the corners of his mouth with the napkin, when someone hollered, “Was your daddy a glass blower?” Behind him, a cluster of tanned, fat bodies massed around one whalish woman on a chaise lounge. A loud, flowery mu-mu draped her body.

“Mama Jo-Jo, I be damned.” Coby held out his hand.

She craned her neck, the fat unfolding down her chest. Her eyes narrowed and seemed to disappear. “I know you?”

“Sure do. Only fifteen year old in the history of Ebro to hit sixteen quinellas in a row.”

“Coby? Is that you?” She probably knew it was, but Mama had to be wary of strangers who pretended to be friends.

“In the flesh. Just a few more wrinkles.”

“Damn, son come give Mama a hug. “Uh, uh, ummm. Let me look at you, just look at you. My, you are a pretty thing. Where have you been, son. Mama’s missed you.”

“Been busy, Mama. Teaching school, getting married, getting divorced…”

“Ah, Hell, I been divorced three times. Ain’t hurt me none. Leon, fetch Coby a cool drink. Sheila, move your butt out that chair like you got some manners. Now, son, how’s that daddy of yours doing?.”

Coby coughed

“Sheila, go tell your cousin to bet us the 1-7-8-2 tri-box, wheel the One and Seven, run down the 1-7-8, key the Seven in the two spot, and–wait a minute–bet a straight quinella on the 1-7, just for old times sake. Yeah, I said quinella. Coby here’s got a soft-spot for his quinellas, ain’t you, shug?”

Coby blushed a bit and rubbed his neck. “I like them all right.”

“But you can’t win a pot to piss in with quinellas.”

“Maybe I just being right.”

She shook her head. “Now your daddy, he’s got some dog sense. Where’s he, ain’t he with you?”

“No, Mama. Daddy, well Hell, he just died. Lung cancer. The funeral was yesterday.”

“Sorry to hear that. How did you get down here so fast?”

“Don’t know. Drove I guess. After the service, I got in my car and headed…somewhere. Found myself on I-59 to Birmingham, then on 89 to here.”

“You just like your Daddy, a gambler at heart. Just can’t stay away. I always did like your daddy. He didn’t suffer, did he?”

Coby remembered his father in the hospital bed, a robust man whose body had shrunk down to a bags of bones, thinner than even the most emaciated-looking greyhound. And he’d killed himself with the morphine, probably, holding off the pain. “No,” Coby said, “he didn’t suffer.”

“That’s good. I know it’s hard when somebody’s suffering.”

Coby stood, his hand extended. “I got to go, Mama.” He bit the inside of his mouth until he tasted blood.

Mama Jo-jo nodded. “I can see that. You go on then. Y’all be good. Shayra, get me a cigarette.”

Coby walked down the length of the concourse. The dogs exploded out of the box. He didn’t turn to watch them. When he had reached the kennels, he turned back, feeling more or less in control.

 

Races five and six proved simple to handicap. Both Grade A’s, they played out according to form. In the fifth, Coby won $158. In the sixth, Bodontknowjack almost blew it in the last turn, but he held out for second behind Tarzan. He took in $116.

“Lordy mercy,” his cashier said, “you are on a roll. We’re going to have to spray you down, you’re so hot.”

He allowed himself a tiny “aw shucks” smile before he returned the voucher to his pocket.

He worked his way to the rail. “Grade B race. What a bitch.”

All the dogs looked good, none looked great. Cold Steal ran on an even keel. Though her times weren’t brilliant, she had enough get-up-and-go to beat these pups. And that eighth position, what a plus. The voice told him to bet her.

“Quinella box, 4-6-8, one hundred times,” he told his cashier.

She flipped her black mop over her shoulders. “Oh, baby. Do you know something we don’t?” She fed his voucher through and keyed in the bet.

Coby kissed the ticket twice and stuck it in his pocket. The bet was the biggest he had ever made. He knew better than to gamble so much when the outcome was so shaky: he should have played it safe, stayed within his ability and budget.

“Forget safe, forget it all,” his father would have said. “That’s why they call it gambling.”

Coby wiped his face. “Easy for you to say, Dad. You lost your biggest gamble. Rolling the dice with your life.”

He expected to be scared, expected the race to last forever, expected Swifty to run amok, expected the dogs to refuse to budge when their boxes sprung open. But even as he squinched his eyes tight, the lure started. In thirty one seconds flat, it ended. The tote flashed official, then 6-8-1. Coby opened his eyes to an obscene pay-off.

“You’ve just won five thousand dollars, Coby Hawkersmith,” he said quietly, so quietly that no one heard him. He patted his pocket and bit his tongue. The walk to the windows took forever, but he got there, a wild, startled look on his face.

“Oh, my God,” the cashier said. “You won it, didn’t you?”

Coby slid the voucher across the window.

The cashier whistled.

“In the next one, I want one thousand dollars on the Four Dog to win. Superfecta wheel the rest.”

Don’t get greedy, the voice said, always quit a winner.

“This is a lock,” said Coby. “Even at the lowest payout, I’ll make money. It’s a sure thing.”

The cashier cut a new voucher. “You trying to convince me or yourself about the Four Dog?” She just smiled. “Everybody and his brother wants the Four Dog. That’s Dumptruck, the Superdog.”

“Fifty-one in a row. I’ve heard.”

He took his ticket and fought his way through the huge crowd to the rest room. Because so many folks had come out for Dumptruck, he had to wait for a urinal. When he finally unzipped, the man next to him said, “Hey buddy, Thanks for the tip.”

Coby glanced at the drunk. “Do you mind?”

“Y’know, Hosenpfeffer, in the first race. Made me a bundle.”

“No problem.” He zipped and flushed.

“So, who you like in this one?”

“Anybody but Dumptruck,” he lied.

“Is you crazy? Ain’t nobody beating that dog.”

“Suit yourself.”

The old man moved to the next urinal. “Hey, buddy, whadya like in this one?”

Outside, Coby made for the rail. This time, he had to settle for a spot on the last turn, just before the dogs hit the homestretch. The handlers brought the dogs. Dumptruck, a regal, blonde male carried himself with confidence. Coby looked at the program. “All those wins.” The pattern was always the same. Dumptruck stayed near the leader until the final turn, then exploded down the stretch. Once, a dog had become so disheartened after being overcome, she stopped cold in the middle of the track. The other dogs piled into her, and only the mutt trailing the pack had managed to finish.

Coby whistled. The tote board showed what he already knew. Dumptruck had the worst odds that pari-mutuel betting could possibly give.

As Dumptruck trotted by, Coby caught his eye. “Talk to me puppy,” he said.

He would never admit it to himself or anyone else, but somehow he heard that dog, heard Dumptruck say as clearly as he’d heard the other voice, “This one’s gravy, mister.”

“What does that mean?” Coby said, but the handler yanked Dumptruck away.

The man next to Coby spit out tobacco juice and nodded to his brother, “Listen to this, Cole, this boy’s got it bad. He’s talking to the damn dogs.”

“Shut up,” the brother said. “You see if any of them took a crap?”

Don’t get greedy, the voice said again.

“Here comes Swifty.”

The lure moved around to the boxes. The dogs crashed head-long down the track chasing a lure they could never catch. Coby knew their futility, the inability to catch the one thing they raced every race to get. Just winning wasn’t enough. You could win every time, and you still didn’t get to catch the rabbit. Coby opened his eyes to see Dumptruck trailing after the first turn. But he got his head in the back stretch. Breaking his usual pattern, he led going into the last turn.

Then it happened: Because he’d never led going into the far turn, Dumptruck always dipped his shoulder and cut inside the lead dog, finishing on the rail. But Dumptruck had the lead over a tiny 52 1/2 pound brindle bitch, and as they leaned into the final turn, Dumptruck tried to make his normal cut inside. The brindle sensed his move and bumped him. If he had been smaller, if he had been younger, he might have kept his balance.

But he didn’t. As Coby watched, horrified, Dumptruck stumbled across the track and onto the infield. A foreleg got twisted underneath him, and Coby heard the snap of the bone just before the dog’s massive body finally stopped when it crashed into the rail. At Coby’s feet, Dumptruck shook loose from his muzzle. He looked up at Coby with sorrowful eyes and tried to get up.

“Greyhounds are such gracious creatures,” Coby said.

Before he could stop himself, Coby ducked under the railing. He wrapped his arms around Dumptruck and slipped the muzzle on, expecting to get bitten in the process. The handlers streaked across the track toward the dog that forced himself up and was hobbling on three legs. Coby tried to force him to stay still.

Hands and arms and people and voices came from everywhere. Coby was yanked away as the crowd gathered like gawkers at a car wreck. Security guards remuzzled the dog and led him away on his leash. The crowd around him, Coby put his hands to his face. He didn’t know why, but he started crying, not little tears that he could wipe away, but heaves the size of his father’s wagers. One image stayed in his mind–Dumptruck, the Superdog, head bowed in humiliation and disappointment, no longer invincible.

“Get that drunk off the field,” Coby heard a guard say before he was pushed under the rail.

“You’re still a good dog,” Coby yelled.

A security guard led him to the concourse. “Think you had enough tonight buddy. Why don’t you go to the house?”

You got greedy, the voice said.

Coby nodded. “I need to cash out first.”

The windows were deserted, the cashiers all gathered around the monitors. They wanted a look at Dumptruck, too. Coby waited patiently, his face pasty-colored, until his cashier noticed him.

“Going home?” she said.

“Yeah,” Coby said.

She called over the crew leader, who said, “Go ahead and give him some cash. I’ll get him a check cut for the rest.”

She counted out hundreds. “Lucky for you Dumptruck run tonight. Normally, we don’t have this much of a handle. You sticking around for the next one?”

He looked back at the guard. “No, I got what I came for.” He stuffed the money into his wallet. The board flashed official. The trifecta paid $9657.60.

A voice, droopy and sweet with liquor, rang across the concourse, “Shit howdy! I hit it! I hit it! Nine thousand frigging dollars.”

Coby smiled. In a minute, the bookkeeper brought him a check, minus the IRS and State of Florida taxes.

On the way out, he stopped by the dog-adoption girl. She had a different greyhound, a big yellow male.

“So,” he said, “you say I can adopt any dog I want?”

“That’s right.”

“I want Dumptruck. He just broke his leg. I figure his racing days are over.”

She bit her lip and tightened the leash on the dog. “Don’t know about that one. I’ll have to ask his trainer what they’re planning to do with him.”

“Here’s a five hundred dollar deposit and my phone number. You give me a call when you fins something out?”

“I sure will, but you positive you want a dog with a broken leg? Might not heal right.”

“You ever heard of a sure thing?”

He filled out an information card then left the building. In the half-empty parking lot, he found his car and put down the windows. The PA squawked as he rolled out of the parking lot and drove down the highway. The sea air had reached inland. The muggy swamp air had drifted away, and to Coby, the land smelled clean and new. He listened to the singing of the crickets, like a voice in his head that he could carry with him. The starlight in the wide night sky appeared as the artificial light of the track shrank, becoming a distant, faded memory.

END

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

Copyright © 2014 David Macinnis Gill

 

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission from the publisher in writing.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

David Macinnis Gill has been a house painter, cafeteria manager, bookstore schleper, high school teacher, and college professor. He now lives on the Carolina coast with his family and a rescued dog who thinks he’s a cat.

OTHER WORKS BY DAVID MACINNIS GILL

For Adults

Tin City Tinder, a Boone Childress Mystery

For Young Adults

Soul Enchilada

Black Hole Sun

Invisible Sun

Shadow on the Sun

Rising Sun, a novella

Short Stories

“Broken Circles”

“Cut Bait”

“Eating Dirt”

“Going for Broke”

“A Pale Heart”

“People’s Song”

“The Scent of Apples”

If you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.com or Amazon UK.

For updates and info on new releases, please subscribe to David’s So-Often-Awesome Mailing List! at http://davidmacinnisgill.com

Website: http://davidmacinnisgill.com

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Twitter: https://twitter.com/thunderchikin

National Book Award Finalists for Young People’s Literature

The committee for the NBA for Young People’s Literature has released is short list:

Kate DiCamillo, Raymie Nightingale

John Lewis, Andrew Aydin & Nate Powell, March: Book Three

Grace Lin, When the Sea Turned to Silver

Jason Reynolds, Ghost

Nicola Yoon, The Sun Is Also a Star

In addition, YA/children’s author Jacqueline Woodson made the shortlist for the general award for fiction:

Chris Bachelder, The Throwback Special

Paulette Jiles, News of the World

Karan Mahajan, The Association of Small Bombs

Colson Whitehead, The Underground Railroad

Jacqueline Woodson, Another Brooklyn

>

You’re

01011010

And I’m

3.14 to ∞

Which is why you’re all

Yes/no, yes/no, yes/no.

And I’m all about the

Maybe.

Tøffelhelt

So you want to be the wolf,

She says with fangs bared.

You want to hunt with the pack.

The scent wild in your nostrils,

The taste of prey in your mouth.

You want to stalk silent

Beneath the moon

and be free to roam.

You, soft man, shallow man, empty man.

How dare you lust for the hunt?

Then she chuffed and lunged for my throat

The heat of her hot breath

On my puckered skin.

I flinched and bowed

then turned

and smiled

and showed her my teeth.

Fight or Flight

My fight or flight response is broken

Or the flight gene never coded my DNA.

When an Everglades catfish ripped the cane pole

From my hands and I dived into Okeechobee

After it and into the personal space

Of a swamp gator who hissed and chuffed a warning,

I punched the gator on the snout

And only on my father’s hand on my neck

Saved my six-year-old skin from perforation,

Like luck did the night Cousin Jimmy stuck

His face in the kitchen window and screamed

While I was washing dishes, and I stuck a

Fist through the glass and into his nose.

It left not a mark on me (my cousin wasn’t so

Lucky. Jimmy carries a lot of marks from me)

And they called me fearless or too stupid

Because I didn’t have enough sense to run.

But I’m not fearless. I wanted to run every time

The kids popped a fever of 106 at 2am

And we were in the ER till lunch the next day or

When there wasn’t enough in checking

To cover the power bill and the water company

Turned off the tap outside in the middle dinner or

When the insurance said our policy didn’t

Cover the prescription for good glaucoma meds or

When the years fly buy like a Bugs Bunny cartoon and

You can’t punch a calendar for terrifying you.

Is it any wonder that something awakens within,

A strange yearning to return to the Sea of Grass

To find a big daddy alligator dozing in the glade,

Look him in the eye, and see if you’re still too stupid

To run.

Dreaming

This is what happens when

you get too much coffee and

not enough exercise.

This morning I awoke speaking Australian

To a mob of high school kids who

Loved my books and the TV series

Based on them. They wanted to know

How I allowed this certain actress

To play the ballerina assassin. So

I asked, what actress?

What TV show?

What rights got sold?

Why am I speaking Australian?

So I called my agent up and

Her office was closed and

It would cost $20 for her

To call from vacation.

So I called the film agent

Who was on vacation at

42 Wallaby Way, Sydney.

In the background

The high school kids

Chanted my name, “Rob Thomas! Rob Thomas! Rob Thomas!” and

I realized things had gone horribly wrong

In this dream I was dreaming in Australian

And learning that I

Was a cheap Veronica Mars knock off.

At least I was still dressed

And wearing good boots with

Goodyear welt construction and

Cordovan shell leather.

But even if you’re dreamland naked,

You can wade through a lot

Of anxiety if

You’re wearing a pair

Of good boots with thick soles.

Sounds

The Yamaha that summer money

Bought two seasons and a half ago

Rests easy on her knee, a foot tucked beneath

As she strums a bright chord

Then sings, you be you and I’ll be me,

And that’s all I ever wanted for her.

Mind if I play another one?

As if she has to ask.

She can play for me

As long as the music lasts.

Cut Bait

Do you remember the first time you caught a catfish? How about the first time a catfish caught you? I do. I have a inch-long scar underneath my thumbnail to remind me of how I once wrestled with both a mud cat and my faith in my daddy. I had just turned twelve, and Daddy packed the fishing rods, my little brother Coby, me, and a dozen bologna sandwiches wrapped in a bread bag into his Ford truck. About four in the morning, he had woke us up with, “Hey boys, you going fishing?”

Like we had some kind of choice. By 4:30, Daddy had us and the bologna sandwiches headed south on Highway 127 toward Gadsden, Alabama. I was itching to go fishing, but Coby just slumped down in the front seat of the Ford, shivering in his jacket and slobbering on my shoulder. When my shoulder got too soaked, I’d shove him toward Daddy. Coby’s little fat face would root around on the seat like a blind mole until he found Daddy. If Daddy got too wet, he’d send him back towards me. This game of Coby ping-pong would go on for at least an hour. We were not what you’d call full of motherly affection.

Finally, Daddy would bark at Coby, “Boy, you better sit up and take off that coat. You’ll be cold down by the water and won’t have nothing to put on.”

Coby would sit up, squinch up his mole eyes, then shuck his jacket. It just so happened that this particular trip, our Uncle Holland, our cousin, Floyd Lee and his friend Tater would be meeting us at the lake. They was traveling in Holland’s land-boat, an Oldsmobile Delta 88.

When we got to the fishing hole at Cedar Bluff, we stopped at the bait and tackle shop and waited for Floyd Lee and them. The sun had just come up, ugly and gray, when the Delta 88 pulled up.

Uncle Holland got out, took a deep swig of the Alabama morning and his flask. “Ah, smells like morning.”

I took a sniff. “Smells like dead fish to me.”

Daddy handed me the minner bucket. “Get eight dozen, Small John.”

Me and Floyd Lee, who was my age but smaller, waited outside, helping the man count out the minners. Floyd Lee had on a flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves. His blonde hair was greased down with Brylcream and tucked behind the ears, he combed it about forty times before the minner bucket was full. Then we went inside to grab us a Co-cola and some pork skins. Tater come into the store wearing this big old heavy overcoat.

“He’s going to get cold by the lake, with that thing on,” I told Floyd Lee.

“Naw,” he said. “He just wears it to go shopping.”

Daddy hollered from the counter, “You boys ready?” He had a six-pack of Schlitz and Coby ready to go.

I put my stuff on the counter and whispered something to Coby, who was looking puzzled over at the girlie magazines behind the counter. Just I was about to kid Coby about it, I saw Tater loading the lining of his coat with Funyons and Cokes. My mouth just plopped opened, I was so shocked. Tater wasn’t much older than Coby and already he’d left the path of the straight and narrow to become accomplished in the ten-finger discount. They’d always said Tater was the black sheep of the family, but I thought they meant his complexion. I didn’t know he had sticky fingers, too.

“Daddy,” I said, “look here.”

Daddy watched Tater steal some Debbie cakes, I swear he did. But he didn’t say nothing, only picked up the bag.

“Grab them minners, Small John. Sun’s about up.”

“Coby,” I hollered.

He followed me out like a fat half-drunk lemming. All the while, I was thinking about Daddy not saying nothing to Uncle Holland. I couldn’t figure it out. My daddy weren’t no Abe Lincoln, that’s for sure (he wasn’t that handsome, for one), but he’d always told me to be honest. Then he goes and does something like that–let’s Tater steal without a word. Now, was that what Honest Abe would’ve done? I decided my daddy was a hypocrite, no two ways about it. Though that decision changed the way I looked at him, it did not, mind you, change my desire to go fishing. Some things go beyond ethics.

A half-mile down the road, Weiss Lake jumped out of it hiding place behind some wind-breaking pine trees. We parked next to the highway, beside the guard rail. When the cold lake air hit Coby, he snapped awake in short order, eyes flicking wide open like a baby doll’s. You’d think we was in Alaska the way he yanked on that jacket.

After grabbing my rod and the minner bucket, I hopped down the big boulder-size rocks to the bank. Quick as I could, I baited my hook and threw the line in. My bobber was bobbing before Daddy even got down to the lake. He set the ice chest down on level ground then sat down on top of it. He could both relax and keep an eye on the beers so me and Coby couldn’t sneak one. A few minutes later, Daddy threw in. He worked the line, reeling in gradually, giving it a yank or two. Daddy had learned to be a patient fisherman from his Grandmaw Hawkersmith, the best fisherman he ever knew.

Coby stuck a Styrofoam cup in the bucket. “Gimme some them minners.” He chased the little fish around and around, then he reversed directions and mad a awful scramble when them minners tried to put on the brakes. After a couple of times, some minners give up the ghost and floated to the top.

I hollered, “Coby’s killing the minners again.”

Daddy turned his reel a couple of times. “Boy, you better quit messing.”

Coby snatched up one minner and went off to his own rock to pout. He had a time baiting the hook: I thought his thumb was about to be an endangered species. When he finally threw in, that minner had six holes in him, no belly and just a piece of tail dangling.

“Minners is supposed to be live bait,” I said.

“Shut up.”

He threw that line in as hard as he could. The lead carried to line and bobber half-way across the shallows. The minner sailed straight up in the air then landed plop beside Coby. It stared up with its only eye.

“Good throw,” I said.

“Thanky.”

“Think you’d catch more fish with some bait?”

“Shut up, Small.”

He reeled in as fast as he could, re-baited with that same minner, the hook stuck between its eyes, then threw in again. The line zinged through the air. The minner escaped again, plopping into the lake about six feet from shore.

“At least it made it to the water this time,” I said.

Him being so sensitive and all, he probably would’ve cried and run back up to the truck if Floyd Lee and them hadn’t showed up, hollering and jumping down the rocks like loose pebbles. Floyd Lee carried his rod and reel. All Tater had was his pump action pellet rifle. Uncle Holland puffed and heaved his way down to the shore beside Daddy. He spread out a folding chair, stuck the pole-holder in the mud, opened a three-layer tackle box, and started making his choice of lures.

“Crappie ain’t going to bite no lure,” Daddy said.

Holland tied a spinner jig on his line. “Ain’t looking for no G-D crappie, Johnny. I’m shooting for me some bass.”

Daddy popped the top on a can of Schlitz. I once saw him do the same thing when a Fire Alarm salesman had come to the house. He’d hauled in three kinds of alarms, an extinguisher, and a fancy tape player, along with a six-pack of Pepsi to grease the wheels. At first, Mama, thinking he was an evangelist, wouldn’t let him in the door, but when she saw that Pepsi, she said for him to come on in. Normally, nobody made it past the door ‘less they had some Co-cola, but times was hard and like they say in church, beggars can’t be choosers.

The salesman settled in with his tapes and pictures and liked to scared us to death. Turned out he was so convincing about the hidden dangers of night fires, I was afraid to be burnt up as soon as my head hit the pillow.

Mama must’ve felt the heat, too, because she said, “Well, John Mark, what do you think?”

Daddy, who’d sat there, not saying a word, just popped the top on a Schlitz and took a good, long drink.

“Thanky, Mister,” Mama said and held out her hand. “I don’t believe we’re interested. We’ll be seeing you. Shelva, help the man with the Pepsi.”

That night, I was sure our house would burn to the ground. When I got up the next morning and the house still stood, I felt a pang of disappointment. For the next few nights, I went to bed expectant, only to wake up to disappointment. In the end, I realized my futility. That house never did burn down, but it did make me think of my daddy as somebody who could see through folks, like that sales, and know when they was truthful and when they liars.

So when Daddy popped that can at Uncle Holland, I knew it was his way of saying just how little respect he had for Uncle Holland’s fishing skills. That’s what puzzled me about Daddy not stopping Tater from stealing. Couldn’t he see through Tater like he could see through my Uncle?

“What’s the gun for?” Coby asked Tater, catching my attention.

Tater pumped the gun twice. “Shooting shad.”

I wondered if he stole the gun, too. “Pull up a rock,” I said to Floyd Lee. “Let’s do some fishing.”

“Nah.” He laid his rod and reel next to me. “Think me and Tater’s going to shoot some shad.”

Coby followed them around to an inlet where the water had undercut the bank. Shad schools hid under the banks away from the biggest fish like carp and catfish.

Tater pulled up his pump-action pellet gun and fired two shots. “Got the suckers.”

“Let me try,” Coby said.

Floyd Lee grabbed the gun. He pumped the gun seven, eight times. The pellet thwumped through the water.

“Like to blowed that one’s head off.”

He shot a dozen more times then Tater took a turn. When they took a breather to reload, a halo of dead shad–chunks of meat and fins and scales–glimmered in the water.

Now the fish’ll never bite, I thought.

“My turn now,” Coby half-asked.

They traded looks. Floyd Lee handed Coby the gun. When he pulled the trigger, the gun kicked. The pellet skipped across the water like a smooth, flat rock.

Tater laughed. “How many you figure he killed?”

“Give me that before you hurt somebody.” Floyd Lee took the gun back, and they went about their business.

“Let me have another shot, please. Please?”

I wasn’t going to look at Daddy. I wasn’t, but I could feel his eyes on me, and I got a bad case of the cold, clammy shivers. Then I had to. I had to look. Daddy had his jaw set, his eyes set on the bobber. Then it happened. He gave me The Look. He could’ve gone on for days, but I cut him off by looking out at my bobber while I reeled in.

My daddy was a man of few words, but he made his meaning clear in little ways. Nodding. Staring. Showing his teeth. All this meant something. Living with Daddy was like having a third base coach in the house. Bunt. Pass the salt. Steal second. Hand me the Phillips head screwdriver. Take on for the team. Go help your brother.

I cussed to myself and set my rod down. I wandered over to the inlet, acted like I was checking out the scenery.

“Hey, Small,” Floyd Lee hollered. “You want to do some shooting?”

“Ain’t thought about it,” I said.

“Come on. It’s a lot more fun than baiting a hook.”

“I guess I could be persuaded to.” I took the gun from him, pumped it two times, which was more than enough to kill a shad, and handed it to my brother. Coby giggled like it was Christmas. He managed the feat of shooting every single pellet with without injuring even one shad.

“Thanks y’all.” I handed the empty gun back.

“Hey,” said Floyd Lee, “that’s all the pellets.”

“Do tell.” I grinned, and they knew they’d been had.

Me and Coby headed back over to our fishing spots.

“You boys keep it down over there,” Uncle Holland hollered. “We’s trying to do some fishing here.” He reeled in his jig, which by then looked like a soggy wad of snot. “Don’t believe they’s biting the spinner, Johnny. Maybe a rubber worm.”

“Ain’t no bass in this lake.”

“So I hear tell. But let me ask you this can you guarantee that? Can you see into the hearts and minds of them fish?”

Daddy stuck a fresh minner on the hook and threw in.

I started to tell Uncle Holland about Daddy’s Ma Hawkersmith. From what I heard, that woman could catch fish with a bare hook, and when she didn’t have no hook, she just talked to them real gentle and they swam clean up to the bank. I imagine it was a pleasure for a fish to be eaten by Ma Hawkersmith. She was a legend in Mystic, Georgia. I wondered what she’d do about Tater’s stealing. I started to tell Uncle Holland all this, but something told me he wouldn’t get it.

Uncle Holland took a big swig from his flask then spit liquor on the worm. “This’ll drive them nuts.”

“Wish I had me some of them rubber worms,” Coby said.

“What for?” I said.

“So I won’t have to bait the hook.”

“Won’t catch nothing with them.”

“Don’t catch nothing anyhow.”

There he was, belly-aching again, feeling sorry for himself. At a young age, Coby knew there was two kinds of folks–them that was born to catch fish, and them that was born to cut bait. Didn’t take much to figure out which one he was.

“Won’t catch nothing shooting them shad,” I said. “Come on, let’s go drown some minners.”

“Nope. Don’t want to.”

“Suit yourself.”

We passed by Daddy and Uncle on my way back to the rock. Daddy had collected two fish that was barely keepers and a six pack of empties. About the time I threw in again and was watching that bobber out there mocking me, Daddy said, “Any you boys want something from the store?”

I almost asked for some Funyons, but a funny wisdom came over me and I kept joke to myself. “Another Coke,” I said.

“Can I go?” Coby said.

“I reckon that’d be a good idea. Tater, you and Floyd Lee come on ,too.” Daddy eyed Uncle Holland for signs of a “no,” but he just sipped from his flask and watched his lure get water-logged. Tater and them shrugged then headed for the car.

“Daddy,” I ran up to him and spoke so nobody could hear. “Watch out for Tater. He’s got sticky fingers.”

Instead of nodding like I expected, Daddy squinted up his eyes. “Mind your own business, son. You let me handle the boys, understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Keep an eye on my line while I’m gone.”

I flopped down on the rock, my mind all mixed up. I would have to think about this. My daddy always told me to be honest, including telling stories about Abe Lincoln’s walking miles to give back pennies–like he was kinfolks. Things like this made my head hurt, when you been told something all your life, then you find out it might not be true. Like when Mama told me Santa Claus wasn’t real. My heart about broke. But this was worse, because with or without Santa, I still got Christmas presents. I knew I had to decide whether or not I was going to believe in my daddy.

Before I could, though, my bobber made for hills. Normally, when a crappie bites, it just nibbles the bobber almost never goes underwater, and when it does, it never stays long. My bobber disappeared so fast, I knew I didn’t have no crappie on the line.

I yanked to set the hook and started to reeling in. That old reel squealed like stuck pig, and the rod almost bent in two. That fish fought by yanking and pulling something awful. I figured I had me a carp or the like. My arms started to hurt. I almost let go of the reel to stretch out my hands, but I knew the way it pulled, I’d lose it sure as the world. The reel squealed again. I let the line loose so the fish could run, but the funniest thing happened; as soon as it felt the slack, that fish just give up. When I didn’t feel nothing on the line, I just reeled in, disappointed.

When the bobber came in, the rod bent in two again. I looked down in the water, and staring up and me was the biggest, yellowest mud cat I’d ever see.

“My God,” I said. “I caught the granddaddy of them all.”

Either it was dead or played better than any possum, because it just floated in the water, not fighting, hardly even moving. I reached down for that catfish, but there didn’t seem to be no place to catch hold. With a crappie or especially a bass, you just grab it by the lower lip and that mouth opens easy as you please. With a catfish, though, that mouth’s like sharp sand paper. I studied on it for a minute. I decided to do what Daddy always done. I hooked my thumb and pinkie finger under its bottom fins and squeezed.

Like it’d been goosed, that catfish come to life, twisting and barking up a storm. Before I let loose, it caught my thumb, right under the nail, with a razor-sharp fin. Blood spurted out ever which way. The cut burned like fury.

I dropped that fish real quick.

While the blood washed down my arm, that cat flopped around on top of the rock, hoping, I guess, to land in the water. I flipped it on its side, held it down with my boot. Lord, that thumb burned, but I let it bleed in hopes the poison would run out. The fish laid there, pretty much tuckered out.

When I reached for the hook, I found four rusty old hooks and a rotted lure in its mouth. They seemed sort of like medals, the fish-purple heart or Iron Cross. Maybe he’d got then in battles with fishermen. I imagined some pecking order amongst the fish–”Here come o’ Joe. Lookit dat dere rubber worm he got on. Took it off some angler t’other day.”

I felt sort of sorry for him, until he tried to stab me again. For his troubles, I kicked him off the grass. I got the needle-nose pliers out of the toolbox. I squashed that fish again, satisfied when it grunted. With the pliers, I yanked on the hook. It popped out, a piece of catfish jaw still stuck on it. Remorse was not what I felt at that moment.

I shoved a nylon stringer through its gills. Tempted as I was to let it go so the stringer could eventually drown it, I set the fish in the water. I tied the stringer off with a square knot. Bent down, I washed the fish slime off my hands. When the water hit my thumb, I screamed bloody murder.

“What’s the problem son?” Uncle Holland sounded aggravated. “I’m trying to fish here.”

“My thumb.” I held up the evidence.

“Bring it over here. Let me take a look see. Come on, I don’t have all day.”

My legs didn’t feel too steady, but I made it over there. I showed him my bloody thumb.

“What happened?”

“Catfish got me.”

“Catfish huh?” He never got up or took his eyes off his bobber. “Well, it don’t look too bad. Get you some ice and soak it. That’ll take out the sting.”

“You sure?”

“You disputing me, boy?”

“No sir.”

“Then do like I told you.”

I opened Daddy’s ice chest and to save time, stuck my hand straight in. “It burns,” I cried.

“Sure does, don’t it,” he laughed.

I kept my hand in the ice, mostly just to spite him. A minute later, Coby and them come running down the rocks.

“We got us some more pellets,” Coby said.

Daddy hollered from the car, “Get your hand out of my ice chest, boy.”

I guess he thought I was sneaking a beer. “Can’t, Daddy. Uncle Holland told me to soak it.”

Carrying a grocery bag, Daddy climbed down to us. “What are you soaking it for?”

“Catfish got him,” Uncle Holland said. “Told him ice would take the sting out.” He winked at me, and I didn’t know who I hated more, him or that mudcat.

Daddy pulled out my hand and slid his six-pack and my Coke in. The bleeding had stopped, but the cut had puffed up something terrible. My thumb looked like it’d been boiled ’til it burst. The water in the cooler had turned the color of pink lemonade it almost made me thirsty, until I realized that was my blood. Daddy closed the lid.

“Holland,” Daddy said to Uncle Holland, “don’t you know nothing about catfish stingers?”

Uncle Holland just played with his lure, reeling in, resting, reeling in, resting. All of a sudden, I knew the answer–he didn’t know nothing about catfish or fish in general. Like Coby, he’d been born to cut bait.

“You got the fish, son?”

He acted surprised when I said, “Over yonder on the stringer. Lord, Daddy, this burns like fire.”

“Sit down.” He half-pushed me down on the ice chest. He reached for the fish, and it about yanked loose. Expecting it, he hauled it up, it wiggling and squirming, trying to cut Daddy it’d done me. He thumped twice on its belly, then seemed to tickle it. That durned mudcat ceased squirming, acted like it’d gone to sleep.

“Here.” He brought the fish over to me. “My Ma Hawkersmith taught me how to fix a mudcat sting.”

“How’d you do that?” I said.

“Do what?”

“Make it go to sleep. It about sliced me to bits.”

“Ever seen one of them alligator wrestlers? Same principle. Just tickle its belly some.” He grabbed my hand. “Ma Hawkersmith learned me about catfish slime. You ever stopped to think what happens if a cat sticks itself?” He rubbed my cut thumb on the fish’s side, coating it in thick slime. “Ma said its slime fixes it up real good.”

I flinched, waited for that fiery hurt, but I was amazed. When the slime sunk in, the pain went away. The swelling started sown gradual.

“Better than Mercurochrome,” he smiled.

“Or ice water.”

He got a Band-Aid out of the tackle box.

“I never knew you had Band-Aids in there.”

“You’d be surprised, son. Being a Army medic makes you pack some unusual tackle.”

He wrapped up my thumb. He put on Band-Aids faster and better than Mama, who always took care of my cuts.

“All fixed up. You can go back to fishing.”

I couldn’t help grinning ear to ear, like I’d just got a new toy. I went back to my rock, amazed my thumb felt better. Daddy got out a Schlitz and sat down on the ice chest.

“I reckon the ice would’ve worked,” said Holland, “if you’d give it time.”

Daddy popped the top. “One thing I learned in the Army–a man’s got to have the equipment for the job.”

Everybody got quiet. Coby and them had gone off somewhere. Daddy sipped at his beer like he didn’t want it and watched his bobber do the two-step. Holland reeled in his lure, water-logged and sad-looking, then changed over to a spinner.

Just when we’d settled down to some serious fishing, Coby and them come tromping through the woods on that inlet. Between them, Tater and Floyd Lee carried this big snapping turtle by the rim of its shell. Coby flitted around them like a puppy anxious to be patted.

I remembered this one time when I caught me a little snapping turtle and put it in a box. My mama said to watch my fingers. If that turtle caught hold of me, It wouldn’t let go until sunset. The thought of putting my finger in a turtle’s moth had never occurred to me. If she hadn’t said nothing, I probably never would’ve done what I did.

I stuck my finger in its mouth. When it didn’t do nothing, I tickled its nose and neck. I was just about to give up when it chomped down on my thumb. Now, it didn’t hurt as much as that mudcat, but I jumped by, that snapper still stuck to my finger, and ran around like a chicken with its head cut off. I tried shucking it. I tried pulling on it. I even tried slamming it on the ground and against a tree. Still, it had ahold of me like it wouldn’t let loose until doomsday. I sat down, worn out, and started to crying. I felt so bad for myself, I didn’t notice that turtle letting loose and crawling off. I must’ve felt pity for me because when I finally stopped bawling, that turtle was nowhere in sight. I’d thanked the lord for good, Christian turtles.

That turtle was a shrimp compared to the one Coby and them carried.

“Looky here,” Floyd Lee hollered to his Daddy. “Look what we got.”

“Well, don’t that beat all,” Holland said.

“Weighs at least fifty pounds,” Coby lied.

They set it down by Holland’s tackle box, arms and legs tucked inside for safety. Floyd Lee rummaged through his Daddy’s tackle box. “Where’s the can opener?”

“What you want it for, son?”

Coby and them traded sinful looks.

“We’re going to open up this here turtle, see what’s inside,” Tater said.

“That’d kill it,” I said, bewildered they’d even think about it.

Coby said, “it would?”

Tater looked at me like I was some dumb shad. “So?”

“So? So?” I left my line in the water and got up in Coby’s face. “Who do you think you are?”

“You ain’t his daddy,” said Tater. “Don’t tell him what to do.”

“Yeah,” said Coby.

I looked the situation over. “Shooting shad’s one thing, but using a can opener on a turtle ain’t right. It just ain’t right.”

“Why not?” said Tater.

I could tell by the look on his face, he really didn’t know. “Because it ain’t like to Oldsmobile. You just can’t lift the hood and give it the once over. That shell’s attached.”

“So?” said Tater.

“So you’ll kill it.”

“That’s what I had in mind.” He smiled the same way Holland had when I stuck my hand in the ice chest. Coby and Floyd Lee turned pasty white. I could tell that wasn’t what they had in mind.

“The opener’s in the bottom,” Holland said flatly, “underneath the tray of rubber worms.”

Tater got it out.

Daddy never turned around. “Put that thing up.”

Tater waited, unsure of himself, for Holland to say something.

“I told you to put it up. I don’t want to tell you again.”

When Tater dropped it, the opener rattled in the metal tackle box.

“You boys let that turtle loose. Coby, you and Tater set him in the water over here by me.”

Tater didn’t want to, but both boys did like they were told. After it had drifted out some, the turtle stuck out its head, took a look around, and dove out of sight. Tater and Floyd Lee stood around, I think waiting for my uncle to do something–to say something. Holland kept an eye his line like it was his birthright to sit there and fish.

“Coby,” Daddy said, “why don’t you bait you a hook and drown some minners.”

Coby knew that wasn’t no request.

Right about then, Holland got ready to go. “Don’t guess them bass is biting today.” He clipped off the lure and threw it in the tackle box. “Boys, grab my seat. Let’s get on to the house.”

Nobody seemed disappointed that Holland had made this decision. His “boys,” grabbing what they could or felt like, climbed up to the car.

“Y’all don’t rush off now,” Daddy said while shaking Holland’s hand. “We got a whole bunch of minners left to drown.”

“Just ain’t my day, I guess, Johnny. Let’s get together again sometime.”

By the looks they gave and the way Daddy let them leave without waving, I knew we’d never go fishing with them again.

“So,” I said to Coby so Daddy couldn’t hear. “what else did Tater steal at the store?”

“Oh yeah, I didn’t get to tell you about that. Daddy took him by the arm to the counter and made him pay the man for what he stole.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Ain’t done it.”

“And Tater done it?”

Coby wrinkled up them mole eyes. “Would you tell Daddy you wasn’t going to do something?”

I didn’t even need to answer that. We settled into fishing. Even Coby set still for awhile so we could listen to the lake, enjoy the frogs singing. We didn’t catch nothing after that, but we faithfully baited and threw in until all the minners was gone.

“It’s getting about that time, boys,”

I got the stringers and the rods. Coby brought up the minner bucket. Daddy hefted the ice chest up to the road. We put the mudcat on ice for the ride back home. A fish that big wasn’t no good for eating, but it’d look great with me holding it up for Mama’s Polaroid. I had me a trophy and a good scar. We got in the truck, squeezing together like sardines and smelling like them, too.

“That was useless,” Coby said.

“What you mean?” I said.

“We didn’t catch hardly nothing, except that catfish, and it about took your thumb off.”

“Fishing ain’t about catching fish, son,” Daddy said.

“Huh?”

I knew Coby didn’t get it and probably never would. If wasn’t no explaining it to him, though, so I just popped the top on a Co-cola, took a good long sip, and settled in for the ride back home.