Scarecrow Gods (29 page)

But only two.

As he sat there, the tent began to deflate. He didn’t dare move. God only knew what would happen to him. Doug had once told him about a friend of his becoming paralyzed by tripping and falling on a
hard-on.
He’d said the guy never walked again and had to be wheeled around by old ladies. Even Bergen had said
The brain functions at a much slower rate during times of sexual stimulation.
Something about a
decrease in blood flow.
Whatever the truth was, he was happy to just sit there and wait. No way was he going to chance the worst.

Finally, he tossed aside his blanket, threw some water on his face and hair so it would seem like he’d washed, and then struggled into some old clothes. Before he ran upstairs, he sucked on some toothpaste so his mom wouldn’t send him back down to brush.

His dad was placing the poles and tackle boxes in the back of the Bronco as Danny entered the garage. Danny helped him with the last of the items, then ran over to give his mom a kiss. It was really too early for her to be up, and there was no reason for her to be worried, but that was what moms did. His father gave her a small wave. No kiss for him. They were like to strangers in a mall.

As soon as Danny hit the passenger seat of the Bronco and was seat-belted in, it was lights out. He struggled to ignore the enticements of Julie Newmarr, trying to direct his dreams to the less worrisome scenes of out-witted trout dancing Spandau Ballets on the end of his fishing line, but as usual, when he was in a vehicle he didn’t dream. He merely dozed, awaking at different points along the way, catching glimpses of the road in the headlights as the Bronco hit a bump or his father cursed at some travesty committed by a misguided motorist.

Their trip took them up the interstate, through Cleveland to Sweetwater where his father swung away from the main road and headed east into the Cherokee National Forest. As the road shrunk from four lanes to two to one, they moved higher and higher into the mountains. Likewise, the quality of the road went from well-maintained asphalt to eroded dirt.

They made good time and managed to reach one of their favorite fishing holes along the Tellico River just after dawn. Danny had been completely awake for the last hour of the trip and, as always, had enjoyed peeking through the trees at the edge of the forest. Each turn promised a possibility of the fantastical. Although he never saw any elves or trolls or dwarves, or any of the other creatures that adventured through his favorite books, he wasn’t disappointed. There was something old and comfortable about the Appalachian Mountains and he liked being there.

Several times he’d glanced over to his father and tried to start conversation, but each time he’d stopped. Danny couldn’t pinpoint exactly what it was that held him back—the set of his father’s jaw, the pursed lips or even the eyes that were focused much farther ahead than needed. Conversation was coming. Of that, Danny was sure. What he didn’t know was under what circumstances or under whose terms.

Even after they parked his dad remained silent. Usually he was gabbing away about some article he’d read on how best to catch the mountain trout, or what they’d used before to catch fish in the same place, but now he was all business. It was just as well. Danny wasn’t sure what he wanted to say yet. He needed more information, more time.

The fishing hole was about twenty feet lower than the road, shielded by large granite boulders and sassafras bushes. A well-trodden path led from the road to a great oak that had been split years ago by lightning. The scar was black and deep and ran six feet from bowl to split. The tree marked the demarcation for the upper and lower portions of the hole
.

Danny went left and his father went right, the sounds of his father’s footsteps soon lost in the sound of rushing water and the bugs serenading the rising sun. With his pole gripped in his right hand, spinning reel facing upwards, Danny climbed up the backside of a large granite slab. He lay flat on his stomach and began inching his way closer to the water, the toes of his sneakers pushing him forward. From this vantage point he could only see the far half of the twenty-foot wide river.

The water was clear, both a good and bad sign. Good because it meant the fish hadn’t been feeding on storm run-off, bugs and worms deposited in the water along with substantial quantities of mud. Bad because the trout would be able to see him just as well as he saw them. One of the cardinal sins of trout fishing, according to his father, was to walk up to the water, look at the fish and assume that they couldn’t just as easily see you.

It’s what separates the bass fishermen from the trout fishermen,
his father said.
Bass see you just as well as trout, it’s just that they’re too damned stupid to care.

Danny knew from experience that what his father said was true. He and the gang had spent enough time on the lake to know that. If even Bergen could catch a five pound bass, then the stupid fish were just as likely to jump into a net if one had the patience to hold it out long enough.

Scanning the far bank to ensure there wasn’t a bear or some other mountain animal getting its morning drink, Danny pushed himself all the way to the edge of the rock so he could spy on the water directly below. He only needed a second. As he pulled back, he felt the familiar feel of goosebumps sprouting along his arms. Although the early morning mountain air was cool, it wasn’t the temperature that caused them, but excitement.

He backed up and knelt. Readying his rod, he couldn’t help but grin. Three large trout, mouths pulsating, tails moving minutely to keep them in place as each waited for food to be delivered by the current. Danny knew just the kind of food they liked. He detached a lure from the fishing line and reattached it with a stronger knot. There was nothing worse than a strong fish tugging at an old knot. Many a lure had been lost that way, not to mention fish. His lure, as was his father’s, was a black rooster tail with a silver spinner. Wherever they went, be it South Dakota, Canada, Montana or New Jersey, it was their lure of choice. The only difference between his and his father’s was that his was treble-hooked and his father’s was single-hooked. For some reason his father liked to give the fish a
sporting chance
. Trout were hard enough to catch anyway. If anything, Danny had decided long ago that it was the fisherman who most needed divine intervention, not the fish. If they had sold lures with twenty hooks, he’d buy them in lots.

Glancing to his right, he tried to see if his father was doing okay. His vision was blocked by trees and the kudzu vines that laddered between the trunks and mingling branches. Danny hoped his father was doing well. They needed this time in the forest, alone. His father had always said he did his best thinking while fishing.

Still kneeling, Danny grabbed the lure in his fingers and pulled it back far enough so the tip of the rod bent. Simultaneously, he released the lure and the bail on the reel allowing the
bow-cast
to send the lure into the headwaters of the pool. He set the bait, counted to five as he let the lure sink and float a bit downstream, then jerked the rod slightly to initiate the action of the silver spinner. As he felt a solid nudge from an interested trout, all thoughts of Cat Woman and her purring sensuality left his mind. Here he was the hunter, not some child trying to adjust to a new biological order.

Three hours and five fish later, Danny and his father were trudging back up the dirt road towards the Bronco. The fishing had gone fairly well. Each had thrown several back. The ones they’d kept were sixteen inches and over, the largest twenty-one inches. The closer they got to the Bronco, the harder Danny pressed his mouth together, until the sound of grinding followed him through the dust.

“Stop that,” his father said.

Danny opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it and closed it once again. Within a dozen paces, the grinding had resumed.

His father stopped and stared. Danny continued a few more then also stopped. He stared at the dirt at his feet.

“What you did to that man was a terrible thing,” his father said. “I am very ashamed.”

Danny wasn’t as relieved as he thought he’d be. True, his father was finally speaking, but Danny was unprepared for what he was actually speaking about. There were a thousand responses Danny had run through his mind, a dozen for each of the hundreds of things his father could possibly say. Yet with all the self-examination, with all the practicing, not a single one now seemed appropriate.

“How could you do something like that? Do you have any concept of what you did? You realize he could have died, you know?”

Danny stared at his feet.

“Answer me, Daniel!”

At the time, Danny and his friends had seen what they were doing as heroic, children doing what the parents refused to do. Their cause was perfect and just,
would-be
victims demanding vengeance from a man who had hurt a child. But that was when they’d thought the Maxom Phinxs guilty. One thing was for sure, if they’d been right, he and his father wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.

“Daniel!”

“What?”

“What about it? Why did you do it son?”

“We thought he had…”

“…beat up Bergen?” his father finished. “I know that, already. No. What I want to know is
why
you did it.”

“I told you, we—”

“No!”

Danny didn’t know what his father was asking. He didn’t understand.

“Why did you do this terrible thing, Daniel?” asked his father, voice suddenly low and tired.

“You and mom—”

His father sighed and made a cutting motion with his right hand. “That’s it entirely, isn’t it? Your mother and I. That’s what’s really bothering you. And your sister.”

Danny stood in the middle of the road holding the stringer of fish as his father stepped off the road. Crushing flowers in his wake, he walked over a fallen log and sat down hard.

“Come here, son,” he said patting the wood beside him.

Danny stayed where he was, fishing pole in one hand, fish in the other. He heard a bee buzzing somewhere nearby. He told his feet to move, but only managed to shuffle a foot or two.

“You’ve heard what people have said. You know what some people think. I don’t care about any of that shit. All I care about is you and your mother and your sister. Do you think I did it?”

It.
That damned word held so much more meaning that the pathetic two letters that it represented.
Do you think I did it?
What was he to say?
Yes?
He didn’t know what to say. Truly, he wasn’t as prepared as he had thought. Hot tears began to pour from his eyes.
I’m not sure
was as bad as saying that his father was guilty of molesting…of incest…and maybe even of murder.

“So that’s it, isn’t it?” His father pulled out a cigar. He took his time preparing it. He didn’t speak again until the cigar was lit and he was hidden in a cloud of smoke. “I thought as much.”

Daniel stared down at the rainbow trout dangling limply from the stringer. He remembered how beautiful they’d been when he had first caught them. Like exotic living jewels, their multi-hued scales flashed brilliantly in the morning sun as the trout had pirouetted on the end of his line. Now, through milky eyes, the dead fish stared back at him, their brilliance diminished to gun-metal decomposure, their blank stares condemning.

A sudden incredible sadness came upon him. With a strangled cry, he hurled the trout into the trees and ran down the road.

Ten minutes later his father found him sitting, his back against a rock. “Wasn’t a very nice thing to do to the fish,” said his father.

With his arms crossed over his upraised knees, head down, Daniel’s voice was small. “They’re dead anyway. Who cares?”

“No one, I suppose,” said his father. He sat beside him. “Except maybe the fish themselves. They might just be a little bit upset.”

Daniel turned his head sideways, almost making eye contact with his father.

“Nuh Uh. They’re already dead. They couldn’t feel anything.”

“Mmmm. Maybe not, but don’t be surprised if the next time you’re out here you don’t get a single bite. Don’t be surprised if you don’t even get a nibble.”

The barbed-wire tension in Danny’s shoulders relaxed slightly. His hands unclenched from the tight balls he had wound them into. He didn’t know what his father was talking about, but it was reminiscent of the old days.

“Fishermen believe,” his father began. “No. I take that back. Fishermen and those who are close to nature like hunters, American Indians and the like believe that each fish is a spirit and as spirits are wont, they have a God to govern and watch over them. Each fish, you see, is a manifestation of joy, freedom and laziness. Some fish decide to go downstream to the lakes and the big water. Some stay in the cool tributaries of the mountains. Still others, provided you have the right circumstances like a boy trying to conquer the world, will even allow themselves to be caught. Like sacrifices to the greater good, these fish allow us to be better.”