Scarlet late afternoon light filtered through the wavering treetops up and down Cleveland Street, and shadows grew long across the ground like spreading ink. Lincoln loaded his pole, tackle box, and a cooler into the back of his forest green 1994 Jeep Grand Cherokee and slammed the hatch. He wore a plaid shirt tucked into tan cargo pants, a brown vest, and a brown bucket hat threaded with lures and jigs because that's what all the fishermen wore. He pulled a pack of gum from his pocket, slipped two sticks out, then unwrapped them and threw them into his mouth as Ronnie Anne walked up, her arms loosely folded over the front of her pink dress. A warm puff of wind blew a strand of graying black hair across her face and she brushed it away. "Got everything you need?"
Lincoln put his hands on his hips and ran through a mental checklist: Snacks, Cokes, pole, worms. He'd been planning this trip for two weeks, and made sure in advance that everything was packed and ready to go, but there's always that one item that somehow gets left out. Not this time - he had it all. Except knowledge and experience, but those aren't necessary. Life is about learning as you go; anyone who says differently is either ignorant or a liar. "Yeah," he said, "I have it all."
It briefly occurred to him that he'd miss this week's episode of American Gothic, the only TV show he half way liked (the sheriff was the Devil or some damn thing), but eh. That's why God invented reruns.
A loud clang drew their attention to the driveway next door; Chandler's feet stuck out from under his car and shitty music blared from a radio on a kitchen chair and plugged into an extension cord. "Son of a bitch!" the boy roared. Benson, lying flat in the grass nearby, lifted his head and curiously cocked his ear.
"He's been working on that dumb car for days," Ronnie Anne said, a mocking edge in her voice, "and he still hasn't fixed it."
Lincoln snorted. No, he hadn't...and he wasn't going to. "I bet someone put sugar in his gas tank," he remarked. "As payback for what he did to Dave's Blazer...and for letting his dog shit in my yard."
Furrowing her brow, Ronnie Anne turned to him and tilted her head in a gesture so much like Benson's it made him grin. "You did what?" she asked.
"I poured a bag of sugar in the little bastard's gas tank the other day," Lincoln said with a dismissive shrug. Three years ago, during the legendary Blizzard of '93, Chandler threw a rock at Tim's father's Blazer while he and Tim were navigating Cleveland, and because of him, they skidded out of control and flipped. Neither were hurt, but they could have been, and all this time, Lincoln had been meditating on getting back at him. He considered whipping his ass, but that might be a little extreme since, technically, he was just a kid. Then, last year, he came home in that fucking clunker, and Lincoln knew in an instant what he was going to do. Tit for tat. His car for theirs. You don't fuck with my family and get away with it, you little cocksucker. Just thank God I didn't cut your brake lines.
Ronnie Anne put her hands sternly on her hips and glared...then she snickered and slapped his arm. "You're an asshole."
"Kid brought it on himself," Lincoln said.
With another curse, Chandler slid out from under the car and got to his feet. He wore a pair or black shorts, Nikes, and nothing else, his naked chest slathered in sweat and smeared with grease. Flashing, he kicked the front passenger tire. "Piece of shit."
"Car trouble?" Lincoln called.
Head hung, Chandler laid his hands on the hood and nodded. "Yeah," he said sharply, "car trouble."
Ronnie Anne smirked and shook her head. You're too much sometimes, lame-o.
"You know," Lincoln said, "my son-in-law's old man runs an auto shop. I can talk to him if you want, maybe get you a good deal." If Chandler said yes, Lincoln would talk to Dave, to whom he'd already told his suspicions, and let him take it from there. Would he rip the kid off? Fuck his car up even more? Charge him double? Drag him into the garage and beat his head in with a wrench? Lincoln didn't know and he didn't care.
His hopes crashed when Chandler shook his head. "I got this," he said.
"You sure about that?" Ronnie Anne teased. "You look like you could really use some help."
"I got it," Chandler said impatiently. He pushed away from the car and went into the garage; he didn't have a tail, but if he did, it would be between his legs.
Ronnie Anne laughed. "Really, you're an asshole," she said. She leaned forward and Lincoln kissed her lips. "But I love you. Now go on, it's getting late."
"I love you too," he said.
Tipping his hat like a cowboy in a western, Lincoln turned, went to the driver door, and climbed in; after baking in the summer sun all day, the inside was an oven, and sweat sprang to his forehead. He buckled his belt, started the engine, and adjusted the mirror. Ronnie Anne's reflection waved at him, and he waved back, then pulled out of the driveway and cut a right. The wind streaming through the window washed over him like a cooling tide, drying the sweat on his face. Just like old times. Just need some music and a cig -
Stick of gum, music and a stick of gum,
Remembering what was already in his mouth, he chewed furiously as he fiddled with the radio, the Big Red doing little to quench his craving.
He found a station playing The Supremes and left it.
From Cleveland, he turned onto Main and followed it out of town. At Marsh Run, he passed the sign guarding the entrance and followed the winding streets to Alex's, slowing and stopping several times to allow gangs of kids on bikes to cross. Wonder how many trailers are in here, it's gotta be a lot.
When he reached Alex's double wide, he parked at the curb and killed the engine. Blake and Jordan sat facing each other in the yard, a battered yellow Tonka dump truck between them. He wore jeans and a black T-shirt with Goosebumps across the front in green writing meant to resemble slime; she wore yellow shorts, a pink and white patterned blouse, and her dirty blonde hair back in a ponytail.
Blake looked up and brightened when Lincoln walked up. "Hi, Grandpa!" He shot to his feet and hit Lincoln like a small, European car; the air rushed from Lincoln's lungs and he stumbled back a step. "Hi," he said breathlessly and patted the boy's back. "You almost killed me. You're gonna make a good football player one day."
Jordan watched them from the ground, then went back to playing.
"I like football," Blake said and released Lincoln, "it's fun."
"Your great-uncle likes it too," Lincoln said, "he's just too fat to play it anymore."
"I'm fat," Blake said and smacked his stomach.
"Nah," Lincoln said and waved his hand, "you're big boned. Lynn is a heffer."
The storm door opened and Alex came out onto the porch in a pair of jean shorts and a faded orange tank top, her crimped black hair falling over her shoulders. "I knew I smelled lame-o," she said with a mischievous grin. "I said either Tim's home or Dad's here, one of the two."
"It's me," Lincoln said. "Where's Tim? Thought he was off Sundays."
"He's helping his dad with something," she said and came down the steps. "You ready to go fishing?" she asked Blake.
"Yeah!"
She turned to Jordan. "You ready to go fishing too?"
The little girl hummed and shrugged noncommittally. Lincoln didn't think she'd enjoy fishing very much, but she and Blake were like a package deal sometimes: Buy one, get one free. "It's gonna be fun," Alex said.
"Okay," Jordan said airly. She pushed to her feet and brushed the front of her shorts, but neglected the back - dirt coated the seat. "I need to make sure I have everything first." She unzipped the pink fanny pack around her waist and dug through it. She wore that thing all the time, probably even when she slept. Lincoln's curiosity got the better of him and he walked up to look over her shoulder, his shadow falling across her. She started and looked up, her blue eyes guarded. "Hi."
She looked nothing like Alex, or Jessy for that matter, but she reminded him of them anyway. When Jessy was little, she had a stuffed rabbit she'd drag around behind her, and for a long, long, long time, Alex slept with a record like it was a teddy bear. What was it called? He remembered pie...the pie band.
That brought a wistful smile to his face and he wondered if she still had it somewhere, or if maybe it was in the attic.
Jordan watched him warily, and he flashed a disarming smile. "What'cha got in there?" he asked.
Her features softened. "Lots of stuff," she said and returned her attention to the fanny pack. "Beanie Baby," she said and pulled out a tiny white lion plush, "fruit snacks, marbles, Chapstick because my lips get dry, and this." She held something out, and Lincoln squinted: A tiny doll was clutched in her fist, its blonde hair in pigtails and its gruesome red smile frozen in place. "That's Polly," Jordan piped, then her forehead crinkled. "She's embarrassed about her size," she whispered, "so don't bring it up."
Lincoln chuckled. "I won't," he said, "promise."
"Can we get our stuff, Mom?" Blake asked, looking up at Alex with animated suspense, as though there was a good possibility she would say no.
She laid her hand on his head...then grinned and gave him a noogie. He cried out and pulled away. "Go on," she said.
He brushed past her...then rammed his elbow into the back of her leg, driving her forward with a startled exclamation. "You little monster," she laughed as he streaked up the stairs and into the house, his giggles trailing behind. "Sometimes I wonder about that kid," Alex said with a contented sigh. "He might be as big a dork as you and Tim. My genes are the only thing keeping him in check."
"You mean the genes you got from me?"
"Nope," Alex said quickly.
Down a playmate, Jordan took to twirling in the yard with her arms out like a ballerina...or Christ suffering an agonizing death at Calvary.
"The ones you got from your mom?"
Jordan started to hum.
Crossing her arms, Alex lifted her brow, and Lincoln laughed out loud; before he left home to come over here, Ronnie Anne did pretty much the same thing. "Absolutely not. The ones that I got from me."
"Face it, honey," he said, "you're a mix of two lame-os."
"Ah," she said like a woman who had the perfect rebuttal to a moronic point, "but the combination of your genes created the opposite. It's like how green and blue make yellow when you mix them."
The front door slammed open and Blake came out with an armload of stuff. His and Jordan's poles, a tackle box, and other, less nameable things. His fishing hat was perched askew on his head, and as he came down the stairs, he started to trip. Lincoln's heart skipped and Alex sprang forward to save him, but he righted himself, wobbled, and descended the rest of the way. "Here," Alex said and took the poles, "let me help you. You almost broke your neck."
"No I didn't," Blake assured her, "I was okay the whole time."
"I wasn't," Alex said and started for the Jeep, "I think I need a new pair of shorts."
Following, Blake furrowed his brow in confusion. He looked questioningly at Lincoln. "She pooped herself," Lincoln explained.
Blake's face screwed up in a sour pucker, and he drew back as if away from something foul. "Ew."
"Yep," Lincoln nodded, "pretty gross, huh?"
Shivering in disgust, Blake ran after his mother and Lincoln leaned against Alex's car. The laughter of children, the tantalizing scent of an unseen barbeque, and the rapid pop-pop-pop of fireworks leftover from the Fourth seasoned the air. The sun sat well above the horizon, but its light was beginning to a fade, and its color to drain from the sky, leaving it an anemic shade of orange. Jordan spun faster and faster, slowly gaining speed, and Lincoln watched, his head starting to spin with her. He remembered being a kid and loving the feeling of dizziness, not he'd probably throw up.
Blake came back over with Alex in tow and something clutched in his hand. He walked over to Jordan. "Here, you gotta put on your hat," he said and held out a pin fishing hat. Jordan stopped and swayed drunkenly, then fell backwards with a scream. Blake reached out to grab her, and she caught his hand, but instead of holding her up, she pulled him down; Lincoln winced as both kids hit the grass with matching thumps. Blake groaned and Jordan giggled madly.
"It's not funny, buttknocker!"
"Yes it is, chode smoker," Jordan hitched.
What smoker?
Blake got up and Jordan held out her hand, but he whipped away. "Do it yourself."
"Fine," Jordan said. She staggered to her feet, spotted her hat, and snatched it off the ground. Setting it on her head, she grinned. "We can go now. I have all my stuff."
Her smile fell a little. "I think."
She unzipped her fanny pack and rummaged through it. "Yep, we can go now."
Fifteen minutes later, they were rolling north along US28, the kids sitting side by side in the back and happily eating popsicles Alex gave them. Lincoln gripped the wheel tightly and smacked a giant glob of gum between his teeth; the craving was stronger now than it had been all day, and he was starting to feel feverish. A gas station appeared ahead and he briefly considered stopping for a pack of cigarettes, but he remembered what he said to Ronnie Anne yesterday morning. If we can handle being shot, we can handle this. He took a bullet in Vietnam, then spent eight months in a bamboo cage - he was beaten, starved, fed maggots, and passed many long, lonely nights curled up on the ground, nearly in tears and believing that he would never see his family again.
Even so, he never gave up and he never lost hope - persevering was the only way of defying the Cong he had.
If he didn't let them break him, how in the name of God could he live with himself if he let cigarettes break him?
He couldn't.
So he wouldn't.
He'd just deal with it. The way he dealt with Vietnam and everything else life had thrown at him.
All the way to the lake, he worried at his bottom lip with his teeth, tearing shreds of skin and chewing them between his bicuspids. He drummed his fingers on the wheel, nodded his head, and rolled his neck as the craving steadily increased. This was awful. He threw another three pieces of gum into his mouth and chewed.
In the back, Jordan turned to Blake and lowered her voice. "Your grandpa really likes that stuff."
"I think he's swallowing it too," Blake replied conspiratorially.
Jordan gasped. "You're not supposed to do that," she said gravely.
"I know," Blake sighed, "he's gonna blow a bubble out of his butt when he farts."
Jordan giggled. "That won't happen. It'll make it so he can never poop again." Her eyes widened seriously.
"Really?" Blake asked worriedly.
Jordan nodded quickly. "It happened to Veronica. She kept swallowing her gum even though I told her not to. Then they had to cut her open and take it all out. Now she poops in a bag."
Blake opened his mouth to speak, then frowned. "You're lying." He didn't know for sure whether she was or not, but he thought she was; she lied a lot. One time she said her dad had a real pet dinosaur like one from Jurassic Park, but when he asked his dad if they could get one, he said they weren't real.
Sucking her lips into her mouth to hide her smile, she shook her head; an elfin light twinkled in her eyes. "Swallowing gum stops you up. Remember when we put all that toilet paper in your mom's potty and the water wouldn't go down?"
Did he ever, Mom got so mad she turned red and screamed like she did when she stubbed her little toe on the coffee table. There was so much water it soaked into the carpet and Dad had to replace it; they grounded him for a week, took away his SNES, and wouldn't let him watch TV...not even Beavis and Butt-Head.
Jordan nodded seriously. "That's what gum does to your butt. You better tell your grandpa to stop or he's going to have to poop in a bag for the rest of his days." Her smile intensified as she spoke, and by the end, she was almost laughing.
Yep, lying.
"Shut up," he said and turned away.
"He'll never poop again," she sang, "never poop again, never poop again." She kicked her legs and swayed from side to side.
"Shut up, butt wagon," he said.
Jordan's brow darkened. "Don't call me butt wagon, bunghole."
"Butt nugget," Blake said challengingly.
"Dill weed."
"Assgoblin."
Jordan started to say retort, but Lincoln cut her off. "Hey," he said firmly, a pair of hard set eyes in the rearview mirror. "I heard something I don't like."
"Sorry," Blake mumbled and hung his head. In his periphery, Jordan smiled smugly. Fartknocker, she mouthed.
Peckerbutt, he responded.
Twenty-five minutes after setting out, they turned onto a narrow, rutted dirt road flanked on either side by dense walls of pine trees. The tires dipped into potholes, and the frame shook: Blake and Jordan both screamed in delight as they were jostled and thrown.
The lane continued for nearly a mile before the trees fell away and Lake Massanutten took shape ahead, the land sloping down to its dusty banks. Tree crowded the opposite shore, the water's surface still and unbroken. The sun was nearly all down and the sky shimmered with a cool mix of purple and pallid orange, the final amber rays spreading through the woods like light through a prism. Lincoln parked under the shade of a leafy tree and cut the engine, killing Tommy James off in the middle of Draggin' the Line. "Alright," he said, "here we are. Ready to catch some fish?"
"Yeah!" Blake and Jordan cried.
He chuckled. "Okay, hold onto your hats."
Both kids pressed their hands to the tops of their heads. He forgot how literal children take things. One time he told five-year-old Alex to put a sock in it when she was complaining about something, and a few minutes later, she came out of her room with a pink sock in her hand. Where do I put it?
Sharp loss cut through him and he frowned. Some days he really missed Alex and Jessy being young. There's a saying...they grow up so fast...and it's true. Just twenty years ago they were both starting school and still small enough that you could snatch them up and run them through the living room like they were airplanes. He chuckled softly at the memory of how that made them squeal laughter. Again! Again! Now they were grown women - Jessy was a teacher just like her aunt and Alex had a little boy who was already six. Now that happened fast. It was only a little while ago that Blake was a baby; in six more years, he'd be twelve, basically a teenager.
The years come like snow, falling slowly and accumulating a little at a time; before you know it, that dusting has turned into six feet and you finally realize just how much there is.
This was not a new revelation, nor was this the first time he thought along these lines - he'd been nostalgic and introspective a lot over the past ten years. He watched his girls fall in love, graduate high school, start careers, get married, and, in Alex's case, have children; he went from the father of two teenagers to being a baby booming grandfather presiding over an empty nest. All of that reflection had taught him one thing: All you can do in life is enjoy the present moment. Don't look into the past or the future - if you do, you'll miss what's right in front of you.
Throwing the door open, he got out and went around to the back hatch. He had some bonding to do with his grandson and he was not going to let the past, or his deepening sentimentality...or this crippling nicotine withdrawal get in his way.
Blake and Jordan joined him and stood on either side as he pulled out the poles and the tacklebox. "Here," he said, handing the latter to Jordan, "you this this, and you take these." He gave Blake the poles. He scanned the shore and spotted a flat spot off to the right. "Take it all over there," he said and nodded to the lake.
While they started over, he stacked the other tackle box on top of the cooler then slid them out. He carried them to the spot and sat them down in the grass. Jordan carefully placed the tackle box onto a patch of dirt, and Blake dropped the poles onto the ground. Lincoln returned to the Jeep, got his own pole, then slammed the hatch and went back to the water. Jordan, on her hands and knees, leaned over the edge and stared into the lake, her head turning slowly back and forth as she scanned the depths. "Tadpole," she sang out.
"I found a cricket," Blake said from a stand of brush. He emerged with his fist closed and a proud smile on his face.
"Those make good bait," Lincoln said authoritatively; he had no idea whether they did or not. He sat on the cooler, picked up Blake's fishing pole, and stared strickenly at it.
Okay.
How do you work this thing?
Last week he watched an instructional video and took down notes, but...remember that one item that never makes the boat? Yeah, apparently he didn't have everything like he thought he did. That wasn't a big deal, his memory was good despite his age. He just needed a moment to think.
Closing his eyes, he searched his mind. First, you had to tie your line to your reel. Since all three of these poles were brand new and had never been used, the line was probably already tied. He turned the pole over in his hand, and yep, pre-tied for his convenience. Good. Next was...uh...was it adding the bait? What about the hook? He checked, and it was already there. Okay, good. Lifting up, he opened the cooler lid, reached in, and pulled out a small plastic container. Blake and Jordan gathered around, Jordan with her arms crossed and Blake leaning quizzically forward to see better. "What's in there?" Jordan asked.
Lincoln peeled the lid off and sat it aside. "Worms," he said.
The little girl's face wrinkled and her tongue shot out. "Gross." Even so, she took a curious step forward, her eyes wide with inquisition. Fat, slimy earthworms wiggled and writhed in damp, black soil, and Lincoln plucked one out. Jordan fell fearfully back and Blake watched, transfixed.
"Just gotta put this bad boy on the hook," Lincoln said more to himself than to them. Wasn't there a special way to do it? He thought there was, but come on, it's putting a worm onto a sharpened piece of metal, how many different ways can you do that? Bracing the pole between his knees, he pinched the hook and slowly, carefully, impaled the worm on, the tip spearing through its body in a little spurt of blood.
Jordan's jaw dropped in horrified wonderment and Blake grinned like witnessing the ritual sacrifice of one of God's Creatures (™) was the coolest thing ever. The worm's thrashing grew more frantic as it desperately tried to escape its fate, and Lincoln could imagine it shrieking in agony. "What do you know?" Lincoln muttered to lighten the mood; he pushed the hook deeper. "Where are your troops heading?"
The worm didn't reply.
Well, guess it's time to whip out the bamboo shoots. We have ways of making you talk, capitalist scum-dog.
Done, he held the pole out to Jordan, who pressed her fists defensively to her chest and crinkled her nose. "Come on," he urged, "it won't bite."
She thought it through, then reached out one hand and tentatively accepted it. "Give me yours," Lincoln said to Blake. Blake looked around, then turned in a confused semi-circle before spying his pole on the ground. He picked it up and handed it over.
"Can I do it, grandpa?" he asked hopefully.
No, Blake, you can't, I don't want you to bear the stain of having to torture and kill - I'm already besmirched, let me handle it. "Sorry," he said, "but this requires expert precision."
Plop.
"My worm fell off," Jordan said. She loomed over it, head bent; the hapless wretch lie in two on the dirt, both halves wiggling in panic, connected only by a thin, silvery string of guts.
Lincoln frowned. Huh. "Alright, I'll put another one on. Just give me a minute." He pinched Blake's hook between his thumb and forefinger, drew another worm from the mass, and tacked it on. Maybe he should ball it up or something. Isn't that what the guy on the video did?
Nah, he didn't think so. Stabbing it through the middle was the way to -
The worm flopped off and landed in his lap.
- go.
Sighing, he picked it back up, folded it in half, and sank it onto the hook. It flipped and shimmied, but didn't come free. Ha, take that, you little bastard.
He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth (all outta gum and he really wanted a smoke). "Let me see your pole again."
Jordan gave him her rod and he took out another worm. Now at least he knew how -
Plop.
"Uhh, Grandpa?"
Blake's worm slithered across the dirt, leaving a trail of blood and intestines in its wake. Somehow, it was still in one piece. Lincoln sighed deeply, and a gaseous ball of anger formed in his chest. He needed a new approach.
Holding the worm around the middle, he jammed the hook deep into its ass (or its face, he couldn't tell them apart) and didn't stop pushing until the tip came out the other end. The worm gave a spadomic shudder, then fell still. "Here you go," he said and gave it back. "Be careful."
He took Blake's and started to do the same thing.
Plop.
"Blake's grandpa? My worm fell off again."
Oh, goddamn it!
A burning mix of shame and frustration spread across his face and his hand tightened into a fist; something wet filled his palm, and when he opened it, the worm was mangled and limp. He took a deep breath and ground his teeth together; he was suddenly much, much angrier than he should have been, and if the next fucking worm didn't stay where the goddamn motherfucking hell he put it, he was going to snap the pole over his knees and go on a rampage like Godzilla through downtown Tokyo.
Blake and Jordan stared at him expectantly, and he couldn't help seeing disappointment and disdain in their gazes. He can't even bait a hook. What a loser.
Pfft. And he calls himself a man.
"These aren't the best worms for...for fishing," he said with a nervous laugh. Sweat trickled down his face and his hands trembled slightly. He yanked another worm from the container, brought the hook close, and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. "Alright, you little bastard," he said through his teeth. Don't make me look bad in front of the kids, huh? I don't want them knowing I'm a schlub. Okay?
Breathing slowly like he did when he target shot in boot camp, he bunched the worm up, inhaled, exhaled, then impaled it on the hook.
Uncoiling, it fell off in three pieces, and a tiny pile of guts landed on top of his shoe. Lincoln's eyes widened in madness and his lips peeled back from his teeth. Blake and Jordan shared an uneasy glance, then jumped when Lincoln grabbed the pole around the middle like a psychopath clutching a prostitute's throat. He shook it back and forth and sputtered a wordless oath, spittle flying from his lips.
He felt himself losing control, and pulled himself back from the edge moments before tumbling over. He sat the pole aside with exaggerated care and looked at the kids; they regarded him the way one might a dithering madman.
Let's face it, this isn't going to work.
"Screw it," Lincoln said, "you guys wanna go to the arcade?"
Blake and Jordan's faces lit up. "Yes!" they screamed.
"Alright," Lincoln said and got to his feet, "let's put this crap away."