By: Denis Bernicky
Mid-morning. A man and boy stand atop a forty-foot retaining wall where the train bridge starts its span. The man carries a tackle box and fishing rods, the boy carries a brown grease-stained shopping bag. Warm spring air draws the smell of creosote out from the black bridge as it sweats out the last of winter's deep frost.
"You want to stay up here, or should we go down below?" the man asks. The boy stares at the rocky beach beneath the wall and then at the path along the wall which leads down to the river. "Mr. Jones liked to fish from down there," says the man. "We'll go down. Walk in the grass; the path is too slick." He starts down the slope his feet find the right footing with ease. The boy's feet go out from under him as soon as he starts down. He feels the sharp jab of a rock in his palm and knows before looking that he is bleeding. "You all right Harmon?" The man looks back, his crust brown face shining in the morning sun. The boy nods and starts back down the hill. He is more cautious and holds onto branches of sumac which make his hands feel sticky.
They reach the bottom and the boy washes his hands in the river. The water is cold. He has seen his uncle hold a cut finger under cold water to stop the bleeding and now he keeps his hand in the river to staunch the flow of blood from his palm. The prickly pain of the water passes as the cold works its way up his arm, his pale skin taking on a bluish tint.
"Quit playing with the water, it's too cold at this time of year." It starts as a bark and fades into a request, the man looking out at the water seemingly lost in thought.
The boy pulls his hand from the water and puts it into his windbreaker pocket. "What type of fish we going to catch?" His black hair falls across his wide green eyes as he looks up.
"Carp maybe, probably perch or rock bass. You know what it is by the way the line feels. Carp don't fight much but they turn into dead weight as you get them near the shore. Rock bass fight you all the way, even when you land them. Perch will pull you into the water with them if they get the chance." The man laughs as he ties a lure onto a line. He casts the line and hands the boy the pole. "When you feel a bite pull back real hard and start reeling, then give it line: press this button here." He puts his thumb onto a large green button that stands out from the silver housing of the reel. "Use both hands Harmon, you won't be able to hold on with just one."
The boy grasps the pole with both hands. "Dad?"
"Yes." The man concentrates on knotting a small silver devil lure to his line.
"How come Mister Jones doesn't come anymore?"
The man pauses and casts his line. "He died last year, bad liver." He starts to reel in his line, first slow then quick, then slow again.
"He's not coming back?"
The man shakes his head. "He can't Harmon."
There is a brief silence that explodes suddenly. "I got one, I got one!" The boy shouts.
"Give him line." The man reels in his own line quickly and goes to the boy's side. "Not too much now, O.K., start reeling."
The boy feels the hook set as he starts to reel in the fish. It is fighting hard and he can see it rippling along the rivers surface.
"O.K., now, pull back hard and reel in as you bring the rod down again. That's it, that's it." The man's voice fills with excitement. "I'll get the net."
The boy keeps reeling in the line. His face is bright red and he makes small grunting noises. As soon as the fish is in the net he drops the rod and shouts. "What is it?"
"It's a pike, a big one - looks like 18 or 20 inches," the man says as he wades back to shore his billy boots glossy black and perfect from the water. "Get my pliers from the box." The boy sorts through the box and finds a pair of long nose pliers amid the spools of fishing line, hooks and lures. He gives the man the pliers and watches as the man carefully works the hook free from the fish's mouth. "We have to put him back, Harmon," he says quietly. "Not allowed to take pike from the river."
The boy shakes his head. "But I caught it."
"We still have to put it back." The man carries the fish back to the water. He holds it by the tail and places it gently in the water. With a splash it disappears beneath the inky surface. He turns around and walks back to the tackle box to put the pliers away. He looks down at the boy. "You want a sandwich?" he asks, and opens the brown bag without waiting for an answer.
The boy takes the foil square that the man gives him. It is warm with the deep smell of morning. There is a fried egg and bacon between two slices of buttered bread. The butter has melted and mixed with the bacon fat to make the bread soft. The bread and egg taste of bacon without the salty taste and the boy takes the bacon out of the sandwich because he doesn't like the way it feels in his mouth. The man opens two grape sodas with a can opener and gives the boy one. "It was a big fish wasn't it, Dad?" It doesn't matter to him anymore that they had to let the fish go. The bacon taste and the sweet fizz of the grape soda makes it all right.
"It certainly was." The man smiles. "We'll tell Mum about it when we get home." The man looks out at the river and tried not to think about anything as he eats.
The boy looks up at the bridge and says, "We saw the old train."
"When was this?"
"A while ago. The teacher lets us look out the window and said it only goes by once a year now."
The man nods. "That's right, but this was the last time. They're lifting the narrow gauge."
"What's that?"
"You know when we came up how there were tracks between the tracks?" The boy nods. "Well they're narrow gauge, that's what the old trains use to run on. The new trains use the outside ones and that's all they are going to use now." The man looks up and shakes his head. "It's too bad, I like to see the old trains." He looks back at the river while he finishes his sandwich. He fishes for a while after that, casting and reeling in the line, then casting again. The boy hunts for flat rocks and tries to skip them on the water. He cannot make them jump more than once or twice before they sink. The man keeps fishing though he knows the rocks have scared away the fish.
It is early afternoon before they start to pack-up. The man has to untangle the boy's reel and then they hunt around for the pliers until the man realizes that the has already returned them to the tackle box. Once everything is packed the man sits down beside the shore. "Harmon, can you come here? I'd like to talk to you for a bit." The boy is cautious and stands near the man, but just out of his reach. "Come on, sit down, you haven't done anything. I just have to tell you a few things." The boy's eyes are still wary but he sits down beside the man. "You remember Mister Jones pretty good don't you?"
"Yeah," the boy responds in a small voice.
"Is there anything special you remember?"
"Christmas!" The boys says and his face brightens. "He got me a GI Joe with hair just like his."
"That's right , and you stayed over with him, and Kathy and Alice."
"And he showed me how to play guitar."
"Do you know why you spent Christmas with Mister Jones that time?" The boy shakes his head. "Well I'll tell you and it is important that you should know. You see…" He falls silent for a moment. "Well it's like this Harmon: Mister Jones knew he was dying and that nothing could be done for him, so he wanted to make sure his kids were well taken care of, you see? He had to see to it that they got good homes." He looks at the boy and sighs. "He couldn't find a place for them right away so he asked your Mum and me to help out. We did what we could. He was really worried about not having a say about it. You see, what I am getting at, Harmon, is that Mister Jones was your father, your real one. Your mother died when you were born, and Mister Jones died just after Christmas last year. So your Mum and me, we're sort of substitutes." The man stops talking and waits but the boy says nothing, only looks at him. "When you came to us, we, we just thought that it would be easier if you called us Mum and Dad right off, but we knew you'd have to be told once you could understand it all. You do understand, don't you?" The boy nods. "Good, good." The man lets out a breath as if he had been holding it for a very long time. "You would have figured it out eventually, but we wanted you to know." He falls silent again and breathes deeply as he stares out at the river.
They are both quiet for a long time and then the boy says, "Dad." The man looks at him. "You got any Band-Aids?" The boy holds up his hand which has started to bleed again.
"Just a sec." The man opens up the tackle box, takes out some gauze and wraps the boy's hand. "Mum'll put a real Band-Aid on it when we get home, all right?" He musses up the boy's hair.
"Are we going now?" the boy asks.
"Yep."
"But we aren't bringing anything home."
The man smiles. "That's just the way it goes sometimes." They start back up the slope to the train bridge, the boy grabbing sumac branches so he does not fall. When they reach the top the boy stops and looks across the bridge.
"Are those the ones you mean, Dad?" the boy asks as he points to the narrow gauge rails.
The man nods. "They're going to take them up this summer." The boy shrugs and on the way home hops from the narrow gauge to the wide gauge pretending he is a tight rope walker.