Black Water and Blood

written by: Russell B. McCaughan

His father lifts the white line out of the black water and begins to pull, causing the john boat to move slowly across the water and out towards the center of the river.  The mosquitoes are out in force tonight and it is as if they haven't eaten in a month.  The boy slaps the back of his neck, causing a loud clap to echo across the still black water, killing one of the blood suckers.  "Be quiet, boy!" his father screams at him in a whisper.  The boy looks at his hand, but it is too dark to see anything with any level of certainty, but he can feel something there in his palm.  If it were brighter he would see his own blood splattered around the crushed corpse of a large mosquito, but with the waning moon hidden behind the clouds the only satisfaction he can get is from the knowledge that there is at least one less creature out for his blood.

"Yep," his father says as he nears the first drop hook on the trotline,  "Got one.  I can feel'em pull'n."  He is seated on the bench at the very front of the little boat.  In nautical terminology you would refer to it as the bow, but he just calls it the front -- besides a term like that would be wasted on such a shoddy little aluminum john boat.  He is facing backwards towards his son who sits on the bench at the back of the boat.  His arms are busy tugging on the thin white rope that has been submerged by weights under that black murky water.

"Is it a big'en?"

"Hell I don't know.  Cain't know that till we get-eem in-na-boat."  He reaches the first drop hook and pulls up a four pound blue channel catfish out of the water.  

"How big is it daddy?  Is it a big'en?" 

"Big enough to stank the grease," he says as he tosses the fish with a thud into the floor of the boat.  He searches the pockets of his Levis with the torn patches at the knees but can't seem to find what he is looking for.  "Shit!  Where-da-hell'd I put that knife?"  A warm summer breeze blows in, bringing with it some relief from the stale humid air and the buzzing bloodsuckers, but it also moves the thick black and grey clouds away letting loose what little light the quarter moon has to give.  For the first time tonight the boy can actually see his father.  He is a short stocky man with a strong rough upper body.  He is shirtless and his hairy barrel chest glistens with sweat in the moonlight.  To the nine year old boy, he is all a man is supposed to be.  "There it is.  Hand me at knife, boy."

"Where is it?"

"Right there in front-a-ya."  The boy sees the knife laying next to the tackle box on the bench in the middle of the boat.  The boy gets up slowly and begins to make his way to the knife.  With every step the little boat rocks back and forth.  His little legs start to tremble and he pauses for a moment to let the boat level out.  "Come on boy!  We ain't got all damn night."

"I don't want to tump the boat over."

"Goddamn it boy!  You ain't big-a-nuff to tump us over.  Now light a fire under ya ass."  The boy conquers his fear, at least momentarily, and reaches the knife and hands it off to his father.  He takes a seat on the bench in the middle of the boat and watches as his father skillfully opens the little locking blade knife, using only the thumb of his left hand, and slices through the drop line that holds the hook that holds the catfish.  He grabs the fish from behind the sharp needle like fins on either side of its white belly and holds it out to his son. 

"Take-is and put it in the ice chest."  The boy using two hands carefully grabs the fish.

"Dang daddy!  This a big'en." 

"Watch out for them fins," he says, already tugging on the main line pulling the boat towards the next drop hook.  The boy reaches the chest, opens it and places the slippery grey fish on top of the bag of ice that his father took from the freezer outside the EZ mart on parkway road without paying for it.  The warm breeze that had blown away the dark clouds, now brings in an even darker one, and the night becomes blacker than before; but before the light is completely wiped away the boy gazes at the slowly dying fish.  Its mouth opens wide and then slams shut as its gills spread wide in an ironic attempt to gather oxygen.  He watches the fish squirming, gasping, dying until what little light that remained is smeared away.

"Daddy," he says softly.  His father doesn't hear.  "Daddy," he says a little louder.

"What boy?"

"Can we let this'n go?"

"Let this what go?"

"That catfish, cain’t we just put-eem back and let-eem go?"

His father stops pulling on the line and turns to look in the boy's direction.  "Why-The-Hell would you wanna let that fish go?" 

"I-on-know."  The boy looks down into the darkness where his feet should be.

"Naw, go on and tell me what it is that makes you wanna set that catfish free."  The boy can tell by his father's tone that he is grinning as he speaks.  

He can see in his mind's eye that mean grin his father gets when he has found something to pick on him about.  His cheeks and ears begin to burn as the blood rushes to his head. 

"Nothin.  Never mind." 

"Boy you better tell me else I throw you in the water instead of that fish."

"I just..."

"You just what, feel sorry for the dyin’ bastard?"  He begins to cackle.  "Gya-lee.  You don't feel sorry for the ones you eat up at the Catfish Inn do ya?  As I recall you told me that fried catfish was yo favorite food."

"Yeah but..."

"But what?"  The boy can't find the words to reply with.  He can't even explain to himself why he would want to set the fish free.  "Well as much as I enjoy listen' to the crickets and crockers, I got some trot line'n I wanna get done.  Shut the lid on that ice chest and sit down."  The boy does as his father says.

"I'm sorry daddy."  His father doesn't reply.  He turns and sits down on the closed ice chest.  Like a bolt of lightning, a beam of white light suddenly cuts through the black night and shines right into the boy's face.  His heart jumps into his throat and then sinks deep down into his belly.  It had finally happened.  Jesus done come down from heaven to punish me and daddy for thiev'n, just like aunt George said he would, he screamed in his head.  Without thinking the boy hops up, flings open the ice chest and grabs the cold catfish and raises it above his head.

"Please forgive us Jesus!" he screams as tears begin to pour down his face.  "We just done it cause daddy got fired from the Spee-D-Lube and mamma spent all our money on scratch-offs!  Us sinners gotta eat too Lord!"  His father, also bathed in a beam of light, just stares at his son in confusion.

After what felt like an eternity of silence, the sound of two men chuckling began to emanate from the source of the light a few yards away.  "We're with the Arkansas game fish," the voice says with restrained laughter.  "There have been some reports of some trotline theft.  Is this y'all's trot line?"  The boy plops back down on the ice chest and drops the fish to the floor.  His face and ears burn blood red again.