Fishing

This time it would be different, he reassured himself. Dad said it would be. Not like all the other times. Different. Better. He said.

Excited, Kevin hardly slept a wink that night. Instead, he lay awake in bed in wide-eyed anticipation of the coming morning's events. He loved fishing. Any kind of fishing, really, but ice fishing most of all. He was only twelve, but already saw himself as quite the expert. After all, his net catch to date was nothing to scoff at: Five rainbow trout, three brown, a couple of bass, one perch , and too many suckers not worth mentioning. All of this accomplished in the two short years since he first picked up a fishing pole. All of it accomplished, too, when he was off alone with Mojo, when there was no one else around to put him down or tell him he wasn't doing it right, or that what he caught wasn't good enough for keeping. Maybe it wasn't. But it was a start, and he was proud of himself anyway, even if no one else was.

Still, though, he felt the need to prove himself, and, tomorrow, he would do just that. Tomorrow, he would show his father and Gramp both. Tomorrow, he would make them proud, too. Tomorrow, it would be different.

-----

Kevin was up before daybreak; he had to be. They had to get an early start if they wanted to make a day of it. That was the one thing that ice fishing didn't afford -- long days. So, to make the most of the few hours of daylight to be had, they had to be up and out of the house before the sun came up. It was an hour's drive to Gramp's house and then another half-an-hour to Gramp's favorite fishing spot. The one that Gramp talked about in that special way, and where, to hear him talk, Gramp had caught fish of record size, though no one ever saw them.

Kevin had been there many times, before he'd started fishing himself. Since then, however, the trips there hadn't come as often. So, most of the time he fished the nearby Bear Brook by himself, or Tully Pond or any of a number of other small watering holes within walking distance. And, always, with Mojo at his side.

Because of that, he treasured the opportunity to fish what he considered the "big time". To have the chance to grab the prize at Gramp's divine fishing hole was always more than he could ask for, and to someday actually do it would be the ultimate. It was that aspiration alone that kept him going back regardless of the fact that the thrill of going there had long ago started to lose its luster.

Wasting no time, Kevin scrambled to get dressed, gathered his rod-and-reel, tip-ups and an old coffee can he used as a makeshift tackle box, and headed downstairs to eat breakfast. Sitting there at the kitchen table in the dim glow of the night light, he was quickly joined by his ever-faithful companion and only friend -- Mojo.

"Hey, Mojo! Hey, boy! You ready to do some fishin'?" Kevin greeted the family's pet hound with whispered enthusiasm.

The dog lifted his ears and wagged his tail intently in response. Then, having heard that tone of voice many times before and instinctively knowing what it meant, he began pacing in aimless circles by the kitchen door.

Kevin laughed out loud -- maybe too loud -- and said to Mojo, "Calm down, boy. We'll be goin' soon enough."

Soon after, Kevin himself was greeted not nearly as warmly by his still half-asleep father.

"What's all the noise out here, anyway? And what the hell are you up so early for?" his father asked gruffly, scratching his stubbled face and trying hopelessly to rub away the redness from his eyes along with the dull throbbing in his head.

The unbounded eagerness, which Kevin had exuded only moments before, quickly faded. He didn't answer, and sat quietly -- nervously -- swiftly spooning cereal into his mouth so wouldn't have to. At the same time, Mojo took to cowering under the table at Kevin's feet.

"Well?! You goin' to answer me or not, boy?"

"I... I was just..."

"Well, come out with!"

"I was just gettin' ready to go fishin'. That's all."

"This early? What the hell for?"

"You said we'd be leavin' early. By five. That's why," Kevin's words rushed out awkwardly. "I just wanted to be ready."

"Well, don't get too excited. I changed my mind. We're not leavin' 'til six now. So, you think you can keep it down out here so I can get a little more sleep?"

"Yes, sir," Kevin mumbled, almost imperceptibly.

"What's that?! I didn't hear you."

"I said, yes, sir," Kevin stressed louder. "I'll be quieter."

"Good. You better be. Or we won't be goin' at all."

As his father turned away and started back down the hall, Kevin stopped him and summoned up enough courage to ask, "Is it all right if Mojo comes?"

"What the hell you want to drag that mangy mutt along for?"

Kevin didn't bother to explain. Instead, he simply pleaded, "Please?"

"I don't care. Bring him. Maybe he'll get lost and that'll be one less thing I have to worry about. Hell, maybe you'll both get lost."

-----

His father had managed to get them on the road by eight-thirty, and while Kevin had considered staying home instead, he didn't. Because his father had apologized for the earlier rudeness and delays and promised with all his heart the rest of the day would unfold just like had said it would, Kevin decided he'd go as planned. The desperation he felt to be close to his father and to have his father's approval was too strong for him not to take a chance that this day might finally be different from all the rest. Besides, the day wasn't completely wasted yet. There was still time to make it all worthwhile. Still time to prove himself.

It was an exceptionally warm day given the fact that it was now mid-January. Usually, the temperature could be found hovering somewhere in the sub-zero range, with January being one of the coldest months of the year. However, an unseasonably-warm high -pressure front had moved in over the past week and was breaking all expectations. The previous three-foot-deep snow cover had quickly melted away to one or less, and on this morning a low, heavy mist blanketed the valley because of it. Still, though, the nights were just as cold once the sun went down.

"Damn weather!" Kevin's father griped. The driving was slow, and his father all too impatient.

"Do you think the ice is still safe?" Kevin questioned uneasily.

"Of course, it is!" his father snapped. "It hasn't been that damn warm just because a little snow melted. Besides, I'm not driving all the way there for nothing. We're fishing, and you can count on that."

His father glanced into the rearview mirror. "Jesus! Tell that damn mutt to sit his ass down or I'll throw him out right here!"

-----

Two hours after they had gotten under way, Kevin's father was at last pulling the rusted Country Squire station wagon into the driveway of his grandparent's house. The excitement was building with each passing minute and Kevin couldn't wait to get back on the road and on the way. All they had to do was go in and politely visit with his grandmother for a few minutes while Gramp made a last check of his gear and they'd be off. Before doing that, though, Kevin rounded the back of the car and swung open the hatch so Mojo could run and stretch and do his thing while they were inside.

"He better not go too damn far, or we'll be leavin' without him!" Kevin's father bellowed back as he made his way up the front walk while watching the dog bolt across the yard and break swiftly towards the edge of the woods out back.

"He'll be back before we go," Kevin readily assured his father.

"I don't care if he's not."

-----

"Bill, you old bastard!" Gramp greeted Kevin's father as he always did, with a hearty handshake and an offered beer.

That it was just after ten-thirty in the morning made no difference, Kevin's father accepted and Gramp continued. "For awhile there I thought you and the kid weren't coming. I almost gave up on you and packed it in for the day. Started tying some flies and working on some lures down in the cellar. Come on down for a minute. I'll show you what I've got."

The two of them started for the cellar doorway, talking and drinking as they went.

"Dad?"

"Jesus! What now, Kevin?"

"You won't be long, will you?" Kevin asked, wary of their intentions.

"Don't worry, kid. We'll be on our way soon enough," Gramp promised. "In the meantime, why don't you go in the kitchen and keep your grandmother company. She'll be glad to see you."

The door closed behind Kevin's father and Gramp, and Kevin was left alone in the living room.

Today's going to be different, Kevin reminded himself dejectedly, as he took a seat in Gramp's favorite chair -- a tattered and worn leather recliner in the corner of the room. He kicked it back, turned the TV on low and drifted off to sleep.

-----

"Kevin? Kevin, wake up."

Kevin awoke to the soft, soothing sound of his grandmother's voice. She was standing over him with a plate of homemade cookies and a glass of ice-cold milk. She looked the same as always, too. Always wearing a brightly colored, flower-print dress of one pastel hue or another, with her around-the-house chore apron tied about her waist, and with a well-used dish towel tucked into the side of it. And always she smelled of mothballs. A welcomed sight, though, nonetheless. Kevin gladly accepted her offerings and promptly dug in.

"Thanks, Gram."

"I thought I heard someone in here," Gram went on, shutting off the TV in order to hear him better. "How long have you and your father been here?"

In asking that, Gram exuded the same amount of disgust that she always did when speaking of Kevin's father. She despised the man and wasn't about to apologize for it. In fact, if she'd had her way, the no-good drunken bum would have never married her daughter in the first place. But everything that had come of that union hadn't been all bad, she figured. At the very least, she'd gained a beautiful grandchild from it in the end, and for that she was more than grateful. However, it didn't mean she had to like the sorry excuse for a son-in-law, and she didn't. She made no bones about how she felt either, and didn't like it much when he was around. She figured she had enough to deal with when it came to her husband alone, never mind when the two of them got together.

"Well, Kevin? How long?" Gram asked again, sensing the boy was hesitant to answer.

"I don't know. What time is it?" Kevin answered coyly, gulping down the glass of milk so that for the moment he would have to say no more.

Gram glanced at her watch. "Quarter past twelve."

Still not answering, Kevin lowered his head in despair.

"Kevin?"

"We were supposed to go fishin'." Tears welled up in Kevin's eyes, and he fought to hold them back.

"And you will go fishing," Gram stated firmly, and headed determinedly across the room towards the cellar door. It slammed hard against the wall as she flung it open and hollered down in anger. "Nelson! You and Bill get yourselves up here now!"

Gram waited for a minute that passed with no response coming from the dank semi-darkness below.

"Now! I mean it!" Gram bellowed again, and with more affirmation.

Kevin silently looked on as, in a matter of moments, his father and Gramp emerged from their basement hideaway and, with beers in hand, prepared to face Gram's unforgiving wrath.

"For cryin' out loud, Lena, what's all the racket about?" Gramp asked, feigning naivete.

"Don't give me that! Your grandson's been waiting for who-knows-how-long for the two of you to take him fishing, so what's the hold up?!" Gram eyed her son-in-law spitefully as he swigged down what was left in his can. "As if I have to ask."

"We were just waiting for the fog to lift a little. That's all, mother," Gramp explained.

"Well, it's lifted. Now, put down that beer and take this boy fishing while there's still some daylight left. You hear me?"

"Yes, mother."

"That's okay, Gram. I don't really wanna go now, anyway," Kevin said, in a timid, apologetic sort of way.

"Nonsense, Kevin. They said they'd take you, and I'm going to see to it that they do," Gram promised.

"Well, then," Gramp jumped in, killing his own beer, "I guess it's settled. We'll be on our way."

"Yes, you will. And remember, I don't want you two drinking with the boy in the car, either, so no stopping for beer on the way!" Gram ordered.

"Yes, mother."

Of course, that's the first thing they did.

-----

It was going on two-thirty by the time they turned onto the dirt road leading to the coveted location. Because his father had overshot the turn by ten miles or so the first time by, it had taken longer than usual to get there. In that time, Kevin watched in dismay from the back seat as Gramp and his father guzzled one Schaefer after another.

"Definitely the one beer to half... to have.. when you're having more than one. Hey, Nellie?" Kevin's father slurred, as he pulled the car over to one side of a plowed-out turn-around area just a few feet from edge of the semi-frozen pond.

Looking out the window, Kevin was disappointed to see there was no one else around. At first, that's the way he was hoping it would be. At first. Back when the day was going to be different. But not now. Now, he didn't want to be alone with them again. Not like this. The day was ruined. Just like he'd known deep down from the beginning it probably would be. He'd just refused to accept that the expected, usual outcome would rear its ugly head yet again. Hoping, instead, this time there was some actual truth in his father's words. When would he learn? Maybe never, he thought.

Mojo panted in eager, restless breaths behind Kevin, as he sat unmoving, silently wishing his grandmother had never woke him. The warm, moist air on his neck offering the only comfort on that suddenly-frigid, gray afternoon. An afternoon that was now just another of the many indistinguishable ones that by then he'd come to know all too well. The alcohol-laden conversation up front continued on as if he weren't even there, as if that was the whole point of having gone there. And, really, it was. For Gramp and his father, anyway. Why did they even bother to bring him along? He wondered.

After a short while of passing the time not saying anything, fidgeting with his hooks and lures and sinkers, and believing they'd forgotten all about him, Kevin was finally noticed again.

"Well, this is it, boy," his father piped up, glancing back at him in the rearview. "So, what are you waitin' for? You gonna get out there and fish, or what?"

"Really, kid," Gramp joined in. "We're not gonna get out there and catch them for you. You gotta do it for yourself."

"I know," Kevin softly uttered, as he now sat twisting the fishing line strung on his pole into a jumbled array of knots both big and small. In the back end behind him, Mojo lay curled in a ball, snoring.

"Whadda you doin' back there, anyway? For cryin' out loud, boy, don't do that to your line. It'll be no good. Jesus. Nellie, look what he's doin' back there."

Gramp turned to see the tangled mess. "Holy mackerel! You'll never catch anything with that pole now, kid. If you wanna fish, you'll have to borrow one of mine."

"No, thanks."

"Whadda you mean, no, thanks?!" Kevin's father shouted, and Mojo jumped awake, fully alert. "I didn't drive all the way up here for nothing! Now, get out there and fish!"

"Be easy on the kid, Bill. He's gonna fish. Ain't that right, kid?"

"Yeah, sure. I guess."

"I guess, I guess," Kevin's father mocked him childishly, and the demanded vehemently, "Grab the ice chisel, take one of Gramp's poles, grab your gear and get out there and fish!"

Kevin didn't move. He was too scared to. His only wish was to just disappear. If only he hadn't come...

"NOW!"

With that, Kevin grabbed a pole from the back end and fumbled for his coffee can "tackle box", spilling it in the process. Not bothering to make sure of what he had left in it, he grabbed it blindly and scurried out of the car with Mojo in tow.

"I'll tell ya', Nellie, I don't know what's wrong with that boy. I really don't," Kevin's father grumbled, finishing off the beer in hand and wasting no time grabbing another.

"Well, if you don't know, I don't know. But, I'll tell you one thing."

"What's that?"

"You wouldn't catch me out on that ice today."

"Yeah, I hear ya'. Maybe, if I'm lucky, he'll fall through." Kevin's father chuckled and swilled some more.

"Yeah, maybe. It's just a shame that Lena can't be out there with him, if it happens," Gramp wishfully commented, chuckling and swilling as well.

-----

Perhaps fifteen minutes or so had passed before Kevin returned to the car. Without a word, he let Mojo in first and then crawled into the back seat himself. Lying face down, he buried his head in his folded arms.

"That was quick. You catch somethin' already, kid?" Gramp asked, seemingly interested.

Kevin felt that the question came only out of an alcohol-induced sense of obligation, though, and not because his grandfather really cared. Because of that, he remained silent, sobbing mutely to himself.

"Chrissakes, what's wrong now?" his father questioned.

"Nothin'. I just wanna go home."

Kevin's father turned around and squinted to see Kevin's shoulders shaking with sorrow in the growing darkness. "Good Lord. He's cryin', Nellie."

"Cryin'? What for kid?"

"I just wanna go home."

"I just wanna go home. Take me home. I'm a loser. I can't fish," Kevin's father ranted on in that sickening, taunting tone. Then, more angrily, "I'll take ya' home, ya' good-for-nothing... go get your stuff and we'll get outta here. Jesus."

Kevin didn't move. He couldn't. He was paralyzed with fear. There was no gear left to retrieve. He had lost it through the old hole he'd reopened on the ice, and now he had to tell his father and take his punishment.

"You lost it! How the hell did you lose it?! You stupid, dumb son-of-a...!" Kevin's father exploded.

Petrified of what he knew was about to come, Kevin desperately tried to escape the impending assault by shrinking onto the floor, where he curled into a ball and pressed himself tightly against the back of Gramp's seat. It didn't work, though. It never did. Because just like all of the countless times before, his father tore open the door with belt in hand and the pain returned, unrelenting.

Along with the sharp cracking of leather striking flesh, Kevin's screams of anguish and pleas for mercy filled the cold, dead air in agonizing echoes. But there was no one there to hear them, no one there to save him from the endless hurt that he knew came about undeservedly, even though he was led to believed he'd rightfully invoked such a torture. No one was there to hear, that is, except for Mojo, who was now cowering in fear himself in the back end of the car, wailing in mournful sympathy; and Gramp, who did nothing at all to stop it, but who easily offered frail reasons as to why Kevin deserved his beating.

"That was my best pole, kid. How could you lose it like that? I'm sorry, but you just can't expect not to get punished for doin' things like that. You just gotta own up to it, and take it like a man. That's all you can do, kid. That's all you can do."

The endless whipping, and another beer.

The memories of fishing.

-----

Later that night, hidden beneath tear-soaked sheets, Kevin heard the door to his bedroom creak open, and he pretended to be asleep as the familiar, nauseous stench of stale alcohol filtered in. But, with the faint sounds of his muffled sniffling betraying him, Kevin's father knew better.

"Kevin?"

No answer.

"Kevin, I know you don't want to talk to me right now. But I want you to know I'm sorry. I drink too much sometimes. You know that. I didn't mean to hit you so hard today. I'll make it up to you. I promise. Okay?"

Still, no answer.

"How about next weekend? Whadda ya' say, boy? Just you and me. We'll go back to Gramp's spot. It'll be different this time. No drinking. Really. I promise."

-----

Years later, Kevin still continued to fish. But it was a different kind of fishing than what that of his youth had been. The fishing he did now was a fishing for pocket change with which to buy his next drink. A fishing for a half-smoked cigarette butt on the sidewalk, or a match to light it with. A fishing for someone to talk to and to lean on. A fishing for a job that he might hold down for longer than a week. A fishing for someone to love and care about him for more than just one night. A fishing for some sense of purpose to his life. A fishing for happy memories that didn't exist. A fishing for the child his father had beat out of him long before his time had come to pass. A fishing for an end to the raw, lingering pain which still haunted him, and which the passing of time had done nothing to ease.

A fishing for the lost, comforting smell of mothballs.

*****