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Van
Gogh's Ear
Halfway down the path to the lake Jack opened his hand and studied a patch of red, blistered skin. Cold lake water, he thought, was bound to quell the pain. He squatted at the margin of the lake, and dipped his hand beneath the surface; minnows skittered in the shallow water just beyond his reach. And sure enough, after awhile the pain began to subside. He looked back at the cabin, and through the gray mist discerned Emily's face in the illuminated window; surrounding the cabin were birch trees, which soared like ghosts into a dense, surrealistic curtain and disappeared. He sat opposite Em and watched her sip hot chocolate from a mug. Between sips, she ate her oatmeal with brown sugar and butter. "Are you almost ready to go fishing?" he asked. "Just let me get my slicker and a hat," she said. "I've got a thick sweater to wear underneath the raincoat. It's not that cold, anyway, is it?" "I've got the fishing pole. The carton of worms is already in the boat, so I guess we're all set." "Don't we need a fishing license? What if we get caught?" "If the fish-and-game warden can find us in this gray soup, I'll go to jail without a fuss." Tied to the wooden dock was the aluminum rowboat belonging to their cottage. A subtle lake current caused the hull to grate softly against the round pebbles in the shallows. He tossed in the fishing pole, untied the rope, pushed the stern of the boat into the water, then helped Em climb aboard. When she was comfortably situated, Jack shoved the boat completely into the water, then climbed aboard and pushed off with an oar. On the floor of the boat between them was the carton of angleworms they had bought from a coin-operated machine in front of a gas station just outside Benzonia. Cold weather seemed to have thrown them into cryonic inertia. Crystal Lake was flat and quiet. The oars, clunking softly in their brackets, pulled nicely, if unevenly, through the green water, creating perfect little whirlpools. Em studied his lopsided rowing technique, which was due partly to his injury and in no small measure to pure incompetence. He hauled in the oars for a moment or two and let his hand trail in the water while the trees along the shore disappeared into the fog like ghostly apparitions. "So, how did your mom really feel about your taking the bus all the way to Benton Harbor by yourself?" he asked. "I think she wasn't real comfortable in the beginning. But she knew I wanted to see you, so she finally said okay." "Think she's happy?" he asked. "Sometimes she is. Sometimes she isn't. She doesn't really talk about things very much." "Maybe she doesn't want to trouble you." "I guess," Em said. "That would be my guess, too." He imagined their having rowed nearly to the edge of the mysterious drop-off, where any sensible fish would do his feeding, although without a compass, it was just as likely they'd been merely going in circles for the last hour. Finally, he just hoisted the oars and surrendered to the subtle lake current. His hand had almost stopped hurting, so he didn't really have to think about it much anymore. "Want a Cert?" he asked, and tilted a freshly opened pack toward her and raised his eyebrows. "No thanks," Emily said, and zipped her jacket tight under her chin. She leaned forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped. Her prettiness was nice to look at. She was child whose various mannerisms always seemed calculated to undermine her best features. Biting the inside of her mouth, for instance, or pushing at the flesh of her face, or squinting for no apparent reason. But now, at ease, her face was so appealing that his chest ached with affection. If she'd been somebody else's child, he'd have rowed forever just to keep her captive. He took off his baseball hat and put it on her head, but turned the brim up, making her look slightly crazy. She promptly removed the hat and lay it on the seat beside her. "Well," he said, "let's see if this funny little pole can catch fish." Relying on my good hand, Jack threaded a fat worm onto the hook; some technique was required to pass the barb around rather than through the bulbous heart. The worm struggled in his fingers and exuded a sticky substance, causing Emily to cringe. "Pretty
gross," she said.
They fished silently for nearly an indeterminate span of time. Once Jack believed she might have had a bite, but it was only the bait dragging bottom. After awhile she asksed, "Can I have a Cert now?" Emily peeled one out of the pack, popped it in her mouth and began crunching. Impatience, he knew, was the one trait the two of them shared; Connie would have sucked the thing to oblivion. "You and mom are going to get divorced, aren't you?" Em asked. "Why would you say such a thing, Sweetie?" "Just a feeling," she said, "that's all." "Well, put that feeling out of your mind, okay?" She smiled half-heartedly, but her eyes were glistening with tears. She placed the fishing pole on the floor of the boat and looked at him. "But you do love mom, don't you? Please, say you love her." Em's fingers located the wretched yellow hat, which she pressed against her face for awhile. When she finally allowed herself to look at him, her eyes were red from sobbing. "Please say it." "I do love her, Em. She's got her reasons for being upset with me. And I deserve to be mistrusted right now. But I promise I'll do my best to see that we stay together. Did you ask her if she loves me?" "Yes. She said it was one of those complicated things one can't properly discuss." "Em. You need to put all this stuff out of your head, okay? Things will work out." He reached out and patted her knee. "So tell me, you ready to go back?' "You mean back to Milwaukee, or just to the cottage?" "Choose one." "I'm getting used to the weather here." "Don't you want to go shopping in Traverse City? We could check out the mall." She shrugged and examined one of her cuticles. "Not especially. I hate malls, and I don't really need anything anyway. Besides, the weather's supposed to be improving, right?" "Right," he said. He had almost forgotten the bobber, but when he saw the thing half a foot below the surface, he grabbed the pole from the floor of the boat and quickly handed it to Em. "Looks like something's after our worm. When that bobber sinks again, give the line a good jerk." Seconds later the bobber dipped again, and Em yanked hard to set the hook. "Lost him," she said. "Maybe not. Reel it in." When she brought the line out of the water, a striped perch no bigger than a fountain pen was hooked through its lip. Gently, he removed the barb from the fish's mouth and held the specimen up for her to see. "Nine, maybe ten pounds, I'd say." He dropped the fish over the side. Emily looked disappointedly at the perch as it squirmed next to the boat, then swam away. "Why do people like fishing anyway?" "Oh, I couldn't really tell you for sure. Maybe because they just need to know what's out there. Maybe people get tired of eating burgers and bologna all the time. Sometimes it's just fun to catch a fish, then throw it back. It all has to do with mystery and surprise, I suppose." The boat had drifted several miles eastward, he surmised, so it would take awhile to get back to the dock. The right oar thrashed in the water when he pulled backward. His hand had been throbbing for the better part of an hour. "Let me see it," Emily said. She bit her lip when she discovered how bad it was, all raw and blistered. She reached out as if to touch it, but stopped short of doing so. "Better let me row for awhile," she said. "You sure?" he asked. She ordered him to move. Staying low in the boat to avoid capsize, they traded places. He sat in the stern like a sultan, with his elbows resting on the gunwales. Em situated herself on top of the white floatation cushion and grasped the oar handles, then pushed them down hard so that the blades lifted out of the water. She seemed to be determining whether some large underwater creature had gnawed off the blades. Satisfied that they were intact, she lowered them just until the tips disappeared beneath the surface. She looked wistfully at the gray fog, thinning out now above the lake. Only when she was good and ready did she begin her careful rowing. [ Back to TCR ] |
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