Basket Case (46 page)

He rears back with the rod and arcs the fresh bait toward the water. The heavy lead sinker makes a faraway plop. Emma motions that it's time for us to go. Now that she's a deputy editor, she cannot miss the one o'clock meeting. Some things haven't changed at the Union-Register.

"Ike, it was an honor meeting you."

"The honor was mine. Come angle with me anytime." He flashes his handsome store-bought teeth. Then, turning to me: "When will I see your byline again, Jack Tagger?"

"Sooner or later." I shake his hand, mullet slime and all. "You're a piece of work, Ike."

He leans close and drops his voice. "When's the last time you had a checkup? I mean the works."

"Last year." With Emma's support, I've been able to break myself of those compulsive monthly treks to Dr. Susan.

"Next time you go, be sure and have 'em check the plumbing," Ike advises. "They stick a camera up your ass, but it's no worse than your average divorce."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Live a long time, Jack. Remember, it's all diet and attitude."

Emma and I are halfway down the pier when we hear a hoarse cry. Ike has hooked up to a huge tarpon, which is exploding in silvery somersaults across the water. I can see the old man slammed fast against the wooden rail, struggling to keep a grip on the U-bent spinning rod. A few of the other anglers are gathering to watch, but no one seems to be helping. Wispy Ike is easily outweighed by the thrashing hulk on the end of his line. This isn't my sport, but I remember enough from fishing with my mother to know what might happen if the drag on the old man's reel freezes.

"It looks like he's in trouble," Emma says.

I'm already running.

And I'm already thinking, God forgive me, of his obituary. Undoubtedly Hemingway would be invoked. Then some dim acquaintance of the opossum man would be quoted as saying he died doing what he loved best, which is what—gagging on seawater?

Still, being dragged off a pier by a magnificent fish wouldn't be the silliest way to die, not by far. It's not nearly as pointless, for instance, as getting shitfaced drunk and tumbling out of a tree while attempting to romance a raccoon.

And I suppose the mythical aspects of being drowned by a silvery beast of the sea might appeal to a fellow who spent most of his life writing about the mostly ordinary deaths of others. Still, I can't stand back and watch it happen. Ike's had a grand ninety-three years, but I don't believe he's done. I don't believe he's ready to check out.

So I push my way through the gawkers to find the old man doubled over the rail. Of course he won't do the sensible thing and let go of the damn fishing rod; neither would my mother, in the same preposterous fix. The tarpon has run out all of Ike's line, so he has stubbornly wrapped the last loop in the fist of his right hand, which is seeping blood. Meanwhile he teeters like a human seesaw on the weathered railing, his head and shoulders extended above the water and his spindly legs waving in the air.

My view is of the bait-encrusted soles of his deck shoes. I feel a hand in the small of my back, pushing me forward. It's Emma.

Grabbing Ike by the belt loops, I haul him back onto the pier. In the distance the tarpon jumps once more, shaking its bucket-sized mouth. The line goes slack in the old man's doll-like fingers.

"I'll be damned," he says breathlessly. "That was something!"

The other anglers clap amusedly, murmuring among themselves as they drift away. Emma, the would-be nurse, is inspecting the bloody slice on Ike's wrinkled palm.

He's laughing so hard, his button-sized eyes are brimming. "Can you imagine the headline?" he says. "Can you, Jack?"

The End