Read Online Dirt by David Vann - Free Book Online

orange soda, his grandmother gumming away at her sandwich making little smacking sounds. Jennifer with her potato chips that sounded like trees splitting. He hated human chewing and swallowing. He tried to focus on bees circling around in the wildflowers, and the sound of the creek not far away, a light breeze in the treetops farther up the hill, or even the cars passing on the highway, muffled by the forest. But all he could really hear were the wet sounds of tongues and gums and throats.
    Listen to all of you, he said. All the chewing and swallowing.
    None of the sounds stopped or even paused. We’re eating, his mother finally said.
    Jennifer took a bite of her sandwich and then gummed and smacked it as loudly as she could. She was smiling, watching him. She opened her mouth to show him the chewed-up mush.
    Galen looked down at his deviled egg. The white a kind of cup for a bright yellow whip of goo, sprinkled with paprika. He sniffed it, and his stomach lurched. It had the smell of barnyard, and he was having to listen to the animals all around him.
    Animals, he said. You sound like a bunch of animals.
    Galen, his grandmother said.
    Sorry. Galen climbed down and walked into the center of the clearing. He found a stick and dug a small hole, nestled the deviled egg inside, and covered it with earth. Grow, he said. Grow more deviled eggs.
    He stretched his arms and tried to feel this open meadow and cool air, this familiar space. He gave a little yelp to see if there’d be an echo, but nothing came back. He could still hear their chewing, even from thirty feet away.
    I’m going to the creek, he said. He tromped down through the small trees at the side of the cabin, grabbed his lance from the tree at the spigot, and soon stood at the bank where he had stood every year. Slim shadows flitting away under rocks and overhangs. The trout.
    Hard to tell how the trout knew his intentions, but they knew. Whenever he appeared, they were in the wide, shallow section, in less than a foot of clear water over a mottled bed of stones orange, green, dark blue, and brown. A kind of camouflage, but the trout knew. They knew the camouflage wasn’t good enough and they instantly disappeared into the faster water, narrow chutes of white between larger stones and deadfall. Hidden pockets, caves and ledges. Places Galen couldn’t see or reach.
    For years, Galen had tried with various temptations: salmon eggs, bacon, corn, lures, and flies. He’d never caught a single fish. But this year was going to be different. This year he had brought the lance. He didn’t have a spear point, so he’d duct-taped a ring of nails on the end, a dozen small stabbers. And he was going to sneak up on them from downstream, so they wouldn’t smell him.
    Through the trees, a larger pool that was a little deeper, almost two feet. This would be his entry point. He approached the pool carefully, but as soon as he was at the bank, the little shadows took off.
    Run for your lives, he said. Papa’s coming in this time.
    He stripped at the bank and stepped in with one foot, then stepped quickly out. Holy shit, he said. The water was unbelievably cold. But he stepped in again, both feet, his ankles already in a dull ache, and went down on his hands and knees.
    Oh, he said. Oh this is cold. But he eased forward, slipping his belly and chest in, and went under. His arms waving frantically underwater, the lance dropped. Trying to warm up, kicking his thighs in place, treading with his arms, banging his knees and feet and elbows on the stones as he thrashed. Nowhere to go in this small pool, but he had to warm up, had to move. He opened his eyes and they stung in the cold. He could feel the exact shape of his eyeballs, hard little lumps freezing in their sockets. He needed a mask and snorkel. He had to come up for air, and then he submerged again, smooth stones a few inches from his face, dappled light making a confusion of color. Everything