Rock Island Line David Rhodes (ereader iphone .txt) 📖

sandwiches for Wilson in case he came by again, and to spread the news. Two carloads of men returned with them from the bar. Other cars were on their way. By the time Wilson’s erratic, slow movements had taken him around the lake and back along the southwest shore, there were over twenty people in the water and forty-five along the bank. A plastic bag of sandwiches and two cans of beer, with an opener, were ferried out to him by a young girl on a big, patched inner tube. He answered questions from shore and continued on. Middle afternoon was hotter than noon had been.

Before long, several boats full of fishermen came out to meet him and until 5:30 went around the lake with him, talking of how it might be possible to land the fish, telling fishing stories and taking turns holding on to the pole when the fish was moving, to feel the power. None of the men really wanted to ask to do this—almost an unwritten rule that whoever gets the big one (unless he’s a child) is the sole recipient of the fun of landing him. ButWilson could see how much they wanted to feel the power of the fish, and insisted that they all try it, so long as they were in the bow of the boat and did not pull on the line—just feel the strength as he swam. Moss Terry was the only one who refused to take a turn. “I’ve felt ’em before,” he said and wouldn’t go up to the bow. All of them tried to figure how the monster could be landed: perhaps they might feed a light chain and grappling hook down the line and try to snag him under the mouth, or they might get a net and, judging from where Wilson thought he was (according to the amount of line out), settle it down on him from another boat moving at the same speed. But by 5:30 the fun was gone for most of them, and they became as straight-faced about it as Wilson himself. One boat went back in. The other knot of fishermen waited forty-five minutes and followed, leaving Wilson a Thermos of coffee, a steak sandwich, apples and chocolate.

Except for Wilson and one other, evening found the lake deserted, the water ruffled slightly by a ground breeze. The sun crossed a mystical line above the horizon and the air immediately began to cool. The smell of the pines became noticeable. The water became darker and looked wetter . . . loons on the surface and whippoorwills in the timber.

Darkness fell. Wilson was coming around again toward the southwest shore. His fish had been stopping more often, and for longer intervals. But now he was running again. Alone, Moss Terry sat at the picnic table, a pale fire burning beside him to keep off the bugs, smoking cigars without inhaling them. No one else on or beside the lake. Then Wilson felt his pole go limp. He’s turned, he thought, and pulled and reeled. Nothing. The weightless line fed into the spool. He reeled until the hook came up out of the water and caught in the end eye. Putting the pole down, he took up the oars and rowed to shore, where Moss Terry helped him out of the boat. They wedged the anchor among the shore rocks and went up to the table. Wilson paced to loosen his stiff muscles.

“Line bust?” asked Terry.

“No. He just shook it loose.”

“Must have been something to feel him hit. What was it like when you first knew you had ’im?”

“It wasn’t like you might think. See, as soon as I knew it was a fish and not a rock or log, I knew I’d never be able to land him. He was just too big.”

“But you have to try.”

“But you have to try.”

“I know,” said Moss. “I had one like that several years ago—just knew it was too big. . . . You don’t really think it was a catfish, do you?”

“Couldn’t have been anything else.”

“It could’ve been a muskie.”

“I don’t know much about muskies,” said Wilson. “But I’d think it wouldn’t act like that.”

“More of a fighting fish.”

“Exactly. . . . You live around here?”

“No. I live in Ottumwa.”

“Oh, really? I’m from Iowa, too. Say, you know where we might find some bullheads?”

“Not for sure, but they say there’s a bridge down a ways on the creek where they get ’em.”

“The creek off this lake?”

“ Yep.”

“Do you feel like going down there?”

“Sure. Want to take the car?”

“I don’t care. But I shouldn’t leave the boat here on the rocks.”

“OK, let’s take the boat.”

Moss went to get his tackle and they set off across the lake, slicing through the cool air and water and night sounds, dangerously, without a front light, propelled by a three-and-a-half-horsepower motor.

Unlike his parents, July was not a sound sleeper. He accepted it as nothing unnatural to be woken in the middle of the night bythe smallest sliver of noise, or an internal twitch that would hurl him from unconsciousness and into his room. Whatever fear he might have felt at those times—at the very edge of awakening—was quickly dissolved merely by mentally locating his parents, who like silent fighters would come galloping into the room of his emotions, driving the Dark Powers back beyond the walls. He would lie there and listen, and sometimes fall back asleep. Frequently he would get up, go out into the hall, past his parents’ room and downstairs—sometimes to eat, and sometimes to sit in the living room, from where he could look outside at the illuminated crossroads, hoping to see an automobile with its red taillights come up, stop and disappear, wondering what mysterious purpose could be inside—what kind of face would belong to the driver—what sad, doomed circumstances awaited his arrival.

Many of these times he shared with his grandmother, and in the summer they would carefully go out onto the porch and sit