Fishing

WKTU promised the two-week heatwave was winding down. The overly optimistic DJ promised a break in the heat as early as this evening. 

Too little, too late.

George wiped his brow with an old dishtowel and pushed his sunglasses back up upon his nose. Everything ached. Overused muscles throbbing over arthritic knees and hands.The sun was climbing over the hills in the east and the world wasn't boiling quite yet, but the night had been one for the books and the ceiling fan didn't cut it. Everything was in a sort of suspension. Like a staged play thirty seconds before the curtain rose. His world held its breath, the deep blue sky staring up at itself from the glassy lake.

George dipped his hand into the water, enjoying the cool relief. Half the valley blazed green, awash in the morning light, and the stillness disappeared with the ripples left by his fingers. There was birdsong and the occasional splash of a fish chasing food. From the radio, Don Henly lamented about the boys of summer; and Janet's labored breathing.

This used to be my favorite time of day.

The small row boat rocked gently and the oars quietly bumped against the rings. His fishing pole lay between his feet. Now was the best time to fish. They were always biting at this time of the day. George had been coming to this lake for thirty years, and he knew both when and where they jumped. But for the first time in forever, he didn't care.

“Just this once. It will be fun.”

God, he used to love fishing. One week every year he left everything behind — the office, Janet's mother, the television, the same tired conversations -- all of it stayed in Jersey. One beautiful week each year spent on the lake, soaking in all the peace and solitude that God and this world had to offer. A week to forget all the small, back-breaking weights that life saddled you with when you weren't looking. The lake was perfect -- just big enough for George to lose himself in.

“I don't see why we have to start so early. The lake isn't going anywhere.”

They were quite a ways out by the time the sun pushed all the shadows back from the water. George looked over his shoulder, unable to spot his small cabin from here. He could make out the larger houses on the west side of the valley. Smoke escaped from a few of the chimneys. Some of the old timers still cooked their breakfast over wood fires. George imagined thicks slabs of bacon and eggs frying in grease and his stomach rumbled in sympathy. He had two scrambled eggs for breakfast, but Janet had taken a few large forkfuls off his plate, insisting she wasn't hungry. Not a breakfast person, she'd been content to pick off his plate. Again. There are things you accept forever, until one day you don't.  

“I don't care about fishing. I just thought some time alone on the lake together would be nice.”

George felt angry and ashamed. He stopped rowing and stretched the best he could in the small boat, trying in vain to crack his back and neck. He'd been cracking knuckles, toes, back and neck since before he had hair on his pecker and now was addicted to it as sure as a women were addicted to gossip. Hell, as sure as everyone was addicted to gossip these days. He found no relief today, however. His fingers kept cramping up and his neck twinged whenever he tried to turn to the left. Damned arthritis. If they were at the cabin, George would have had Janet walk on his back. That always seemed to do the trick. Janet hated the sound of popping joints, but she empathized with his pain and she was usually a good sport about it.

“I packed a lunch, turkey and swiss.”

His stomach rumbled again and he wished he had gone back for the sandwiches. They were back on the porch. Turkey and Swiss wrapped in wax paper. Probably the property of raccoons by now.  

Careful not to rock the small boat, George cautiously stood and looked down at Janet. She was on her stomach, her legs hanging over the side of the boat, not quite touching the cool water. The yellow sundress was bunched up around her waist, showing a bit more leg than he was used to seeing on her, but nothing obscene. Her arms wrapped around the cooler in a protective hug, bound by fishing line; her head resting on the cooler's top. She looked like she was making sure George didn't try to steal a sandwich before lunch. He smiled but it didn't last.

No sandwiches today, he remembered. Today the cooler kept only stones cold.

Blood trickled from where the fishing wire cut into her wrists and ankles, adding itself to the small puddle in the center of the rowboat. She moaned just the slightest bit when George manhandled her so that her torso hung over the side, the heavy cooler secured to her hands and chest with fishing wire and duct tape. She'd long since lost the energy to do much more.

Tears trickled down George's face, a few splashing on the back of Janet's neck.

“So what should we talk about?”

George stared at the water. He had never asked for much, and karma had obliged. George was a piece of sandstone and life an unforgiving river. Before this morning, nothing terrible ever happened to him, but it wore on him nonetheless -- just the tiniest bit each day. It was just the way of things, he supposed. A little wearing down here and there, until one day you woke up and there was hardly nothing there. 

Except fishing. And the lake. A little echo of Eden; a memory of a life he'd never live, except for a few days a year. But sweet and no less dear for it.

He grabbed Janet underneath her arms and heaved. She hardly made a splash as she slipped over the side and disappeared.

The tears came free and easy and George let them come. She deserved that much, at least.

"Some things should never be shared," he whispered.