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Authors: Iain Lawrence
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their funnels and masts.
But I can’t let the fog come closer. I beat harder and faster on the drum, sending the sound rolling across the sea like little peals of thunder.
Boom, boom, boom-boom.
In my mind I keep seeing Frank at the fishing pool, bashing at the water. More than six weeks since that day on the river, I can still see the expression on his face as he grew more and more frustrated.
•••
It made me sad to watch him. It made me think of my father, who loved to go fishing as a boy but for some reason gave it up. I never saw him with a rod and reel.
“Did
your
dad ever take you fishing?” I asked Frank.
He didn’t know what I’d been thinking. He frowned for a moment, then said, “Sure. All the time. We went fishing and hunting and everything. I wish he was here now. He’d catch a
pile
of fish. He’d catch them with his bare hands.”
“Not
my
dad,” I said, laughing.
Somehow, even that made Frank angry. He stabbed the gaff into the pool and swore as he slashed it through the water.
“Let me try,” I said.
“I can do it better than you,” he told me.
“Then give me that jigging thing,” I said.
“You’ll lose it.”
“Oh, come on,” I told him. “How am I going to lose it?”
But I lost it. The stones by the pool were slick with salmon blood, and I slipped as I cast out the line. The rusted old bolt flew from my hands.
Frank heard it hit the water. He looked at the little splash out on the pool, and then at me, and very slowly he stood up. I was afraid he would beat me with the gaff, just the way he had bashed the salmon.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“That was our only hook. Do you have any idea…” Frank held up his hands. The veins in his neck looked like tightened ropes. “If we don’t eat, we’ll die.”
“I know that,” I told him. “I said I’m sorry.”
He stepped so close that I could smell seaweed and sweat on his clothes. I stared back at him, frightened. But he only reached out and ripped the loop of wire from my neck, then walked away. He brought out the knife I’d found at the stream and gutted the fish he’d caught. He tied the red wire in a loop through the gaping cheeks of the salmon and hoisted the fish to his shoulder. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Home.
I didn’t like to think of that tiny cabin as home. My home was Vancouver, and I wanted so badly to be there.
Frank’s silence felt worse than ever as we walked along. I wished he would talk, if only to tell me how stupid I’d been. I wished he would shout. But he didn’t say a single word all the way to the cabin. And then he walked right past it, down the trail to the sandy beach.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“We’ll eat on the beach,” he said.
“Like a picnic?”
He grunted. “Yeah, Chrissy. Like a picnic.”
Well, it was no picnic. We ate seaweed that had just washed ashore, still salty and wet and gritty with sand. Frank used the knife to hack slabs from the salmon carcass and we wolfed them down like cavemen, with blood and juice pouring over our hands and our wrists. We spat out the bones.
It was cold and awful, but I didn’t want to disappoint Frank. “It’s like sushi,” I said.
He looked at me, but said nothing.
“You know what my dad used to say about sushi?” I asked. “ ‘When I was a kid we called it bait.’ ”
A little glimmer came into Frank’s eyes. He was careful not to smile, not to show emotion. He just nodded, as though at an old joke. But that encouraged me to keep talking. “My dad died a year ago,” I said. “He was killed in an accident.”
Frank’s expression didn’t change. He looked down the beach, out at the rows of breakers.
“He was an accountant,” I said. Then, “So what does
your
dad do?”
Frank shrugged. “Not much.”
I wiped my fingers in the sand. “Like what?”
“He lies around and decomposes.”
It took me a moment to realize what that meant. And then it seemed a terrible way to put it.
But I can’t let the fog come closer. I beat harder and faster on the drum, sending the sound rolling across the sea like little peals of thunder.
Boom, boom, boom-boom.
In my mind I keep seeing Frank at the fishing pool, bashing at the water. More than six weeks since that day on the river, I can still see the expression on his face as he grew more and more frustrated.
•••
It made me sad to watch him. It made me think of my father, who loved to go fishing as a boy but for some reason gave it up. I never saw him with a rod and reel.
“Did
your
dad ever take you fishing?” I asked Frank.
He didn’t know what I’d been thinking. He frowned for a moment, then said, “Sure. All the time. We went fishing and hunting and everything. I wish he was here now. He’d catch a
pile
of fish. He’d catch them with his bare hands.”
“Not
my
dad,” I said, laughing.
Somehow, even that made Frank angry. He stabbed the gaff into the pool and swore as he slashed it through the water.
“Let me try,” I said.
“I can do it better than you,” he told me.
“Then give me that jigging thing,” I said.
“You’ll lose it.”
“Oh, come on,” I told him. “How am I going to lose it?”
But I lost it. The stones by the pool were slick with salmon blood, and I slipped as I cast out the line. The rusted old bolt flew from my hands.
Frank heard it hit the water. He looked at the little splash out on the pool, and then at me, and very slowly he stood up. I was afraid he would beat me with the gaff, just the way he had bashed the salmon.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“That was our only hook. Do you have any idea…” Frank held up his hands. The veins in his neck looked like tightened ropes. “If we don’t eat, we’ll die.”
“I know that,” I told him. “I said I’m sorry.”
He stepped so close that I could smell seaweed and sweat on his clothes. I stared back at him, frightened. But he only reached out and ripped the loop of wire from my neck, then walked away. He brought out the knife I’d found at the stream and gutted the fish he’d caught. He tied the red wire in a loop through the gaping cheeks of the salmon and hoisted the fish to his shoulder. “Let’s go home,” he said.
Home.
I didn’t like to think of that tiny cabin as home. My home was Vancouver, and I wanted so badly to be there.
Frank’s silence felt worse than ever as we walked along. I wished he would talk, if only to tell me how stupid I’d been. I wished he would shout. But he didn’t say a single word all the way to the cabin. And then he walked right past it, down the trail to the sandy beach.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“We’ll eat on the beach,” he said.
“Like a picnic?”
He grunted. “Yeah, Chrissy. Like a picnic.”
Well, it was no picnic. We ate seaweed that had just washed ashore, still salty and wet and gritty with sand. Frank used the knife to hack slabs from the salmon carcass and we wolfed them down like cavemen, with blood and juice pouring over our hands and our wrists. We spat out the bones.
It was cold and awful, but I didn’t want to disappoint Frank. “It’s like sushi,” I said.
He looked at me, but said nothing.
“You know what my dad used to say about sushi?” I asked. “ ‘When I was a kid we called it bait.’ ”
A little glimmer came into Frank’s eyes. He was careful not to smile, not to show emotion. He just nodded, as though at an old joke. But that encouraged me to keep talking. “My dad died a year ago,” I said. “He was killed in an accident.”
Frank’s expression didn’t change. He looked down the beach, out at the rows of breakers.
“He was an accountant,” I said. Then, “So what does
your
dad do?”
Frank shrugged. “Not much.”
I wiped my fingers in the sand. “Like what?”
“He lies around and decomposes.”
It took me a moment to realize what that meant. And then it seemed a terrible way to put it.
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