Call Me Eli

Chapter 1

It had been a long winter, and I’d been planning his death for weeks. I’d visualized the final night of the fishing trip so many times, it felt like it’d already happened.

The razor-sharp fillet knife penetrates deep into his throat. He awakens. His eyes widen, and his arms thrust forward, his hands grasping thin air. He sucks one long, rattling breath, coughs hard one time as though he has a fish bone stuck in his tonsils, relaxes and dies. Well, sort of. He doesn’t die right off. He lays there on the that soiled, old army cot and jerks and quivers for a long minute. Then he exits the world and our lives forever. There isn’t much blood. I’d guess Mom was right. He had rattler venom in his veins.

It had to be done. Griffin Lowe was evil. There was not one redeeming quality within him. Why my mom took up with the lowlife after Dad died was beyond me. She must have figured, since she was no longer a real looker, she needed to latch onto the first guy who came along.

Oh, don’t get me wrong. She was still an attractive woman who kept herself up, but her youth was gone, and she had an eleven-year-old son to raise. Besides, in our small, southern Missouri town, the number of unmarried men with the means to support a family was limited.

Griffin Lowe could look respectable if he wore a plaid shirt beneath his overalls instead of his usual yellowed t-shirt. He had a great head of dark-brown hair under his seed-corn cap. Plus, he probably stayed sober long enough and bragged loud enough to make Mom think his dirt farm would be a welcoming, safe harbor. The fact was, he could easily provide for a widow and a child. What we were forced to provide him over the next six years was not a fair trade.

Even at seventeen, I knew taking a man’s life could change things forever – for him and for me. But I’d done the research, and my fantasy had become a plan. Plunging the thin, ten-inch blade into the soft skin of his neck an inch and a quarter behind his adam’s apple was a moment I lived for. It would slide in fast and easy, sever his jugular, nick his larynx, and penetrate his trachea. And, because of the small, precisely placed incision, I could do it without making much of a mess inside the tent. The mess would probably come later. I expected life on the run couldn’t be lived with fillet-knife precision.

---

Everyone called him “Griff.” In the beginning, I had trouble following suit. I preferred “Mr. Lowe,” but he insisted on “Griff,” and when Griff dug in, it made sense to do as he asked. I learned the hard way. So did my mom. The man could hit, and I’d felt the sting of his strap more than once. If Griff had been drinking, it was best to shut your mouth and give him a wide berth. In the off chance he was sober, you still approached with caution because he teased hard … never playful … always hard enough to make you feel as low as hog slop.

That’s probably why I was certain I could puncture his vulnerable neck without hesitation and probably why finding myself alone with him in the woods wasn’t entirely coincidental.

  It wasn’t my habit to watch television with Mom and Griff, but, as fate would have it, there I was, watching the weather report with them when the idea of a fishing trip popped up out of nowhere.

“It’s been a long winter,” Griff said. “Gotdamn, I wish it’d warm up. March is always a fickle month, but we ain’t had even a whisper of spring. Shit, I wish it’d warm up. Cabin fever ain’t no joke,” Griff said.

Ten straight days of record-breaking cold. Looks like March has come in like a lion and might go out like an abominable snowman, chirped the friendly weatherman.

  “Stays cold like this, I always dream about fishing,” I said, without thinking.

“What do you know about fishin’?” Griff snapped.

Talking with the man was difficult. My dad, who didn’t have much schooling but was very well read, would have said Griff’s parents had dodged the laws of natural selection. He was thick but not tall. His curly, dark hair looked good from a distance. Up close, you had a hard time noticing anything but his lazy right eye. It forced you to reposition yourself when you talked to him because you weren’t sure where he was looking. His discolored teeth made you wish you were still looking at his curly hair from a distance.

And talk … he could talk but could not think. About the only time he made sense was when he was spouting from his collection of memorized, perverse insults. Griff Lowe was born to belittle. An evil laugh was his birthright. Even a simple chuckle made you tense up. And a full-throated knee slapper put you on full alert.

Once again, I tried to glide into a normal conversation with him. “Used to go fishing with my dad,” I said.  “Had fun. Sometimes, we caught fish. Sometimes, we didn’t. Just getting away to secluded water somewhere was half the fun. When we found just the right spot, Dad would always say, ‘This is it, Eli, there’s not another hook in the brook.’”

Mom warmed to the spirit of the moment and surprised us both. “He also used to say, ‘Fish are more elusive than women, and that’s saying something.”

Then came the knee slapper. “Ha ha! Well, I’ll be damned to hell, Norma, that’s a good one,” Griff said.  “I’m surprised you remembered it. Most times when you open your mouth, nothing comes out but flatulence. You know what flatulence is, Eli?”

I’d seen him turn a compliment into a soul-piercing dig more times than I could count. Every time he did it, especially to my mom, I seethed. I had two options. I could stand up and demand his apology. When he laughed, as he surely would, I’d punch him in the face and stand ready for his explosive response. The other option was to swallow hard and avoid a scene. As my face turned red and my hands became fists, I looked at Mom. As usual, she glanced back behind an ever-so-subtle head shake. So, once again, I acquiesced.  “Yes, Griff. I know the word,” I said.

 “Holy shit, a boy genius fisherman, but you just might be on to somthin’ there. On a cold-ass day like today, fishing sounds pretty damned good, doesn’t it? I’ve got a tent and a camp stove in the basement somewhere. Ain’t use ‘em in years. When it warms up a little, let’s me and you make a weekend of it, Eli. I think I can even borrow old Otto DeGroot’s boat. He owes me a favor since I helped him deliver his prize colt last fall. Took us a gotdamned hour to untangle that skinny, little bugger and pull him outa there. He’ll damned sure loan me his boat. What do ya think, boy genius? Think that’s what I’ll call you from now on. Boy Genius, maybe B.G. for short. How’s that sound?”

“I prefer Eli.”

Folks, I’m sorry to say, tomorrow morning is going to be white. We could get as much as four inches overnight. So, bundle up and get ready to shovel. Take heart, folks. April’s on its way,

  “Shut that sumbitch off, Norma. Tired of listening to him. B.G.’s got me thinking about fishing. How about it, B.G.? Me and you goin’ to wet a line first chance we get?”

Griff’s surprising invitation repulsed me and made me wish I’d chosen option number one and broken his nose. The thought of bedding down beside the vile bottom feeder in a moldy tent near a secluded fishing hole made me shudder. My answer, No thank you, Griff. I’ve sort of outgrown fishing, took shape in my throat and was about to tumble out my mouth, when my seventeen-year-old brain reversed course. I could almost hear one trap door slam shut and another swing open. Option three was before me, and camping alone in the woods with Griffin Lowe was a wonderful idea. “Sure, Griff, that sounds like fun,” I said.

My dad taught me to fish. He even bought me waders and a fly rod the summer before he died. He assured me I’d catch no trout with dry britches, so I waded in after him. I learned so much that summer about fishing … and about the value of fishing. When the sun set on our last day of fishing that fall, he was as relaxed and happy as I ever remember seeing him. We caught fish, but that wasn’t what made him smile. “What a day, Eli! Mom’s car needs new tires, which we can’t afford. Plus, I’m getting a tooth pulled next Tuesday, and I haven’t given a single thought to either of those cares all day long. Not one. What a day!”

He said nothing to me about how to handle a fishing trip that requires you to take the problem along with you.        

---

I relaxed by the cold firepit, leaning back in the camp chair with my ball cap over my eyes. Our tent and fire pit sat in an isolated clearing amidst a mix of evergreen and deciduous trees just twenty yards from a clear water cove on a mile-wide lake. It was on an excellent campsite site Dad and I had fished serveral times. I chose it at the risk of defiling fond memories, but I was certain Dad would approve of my plans for Griff’s gullet.

“You gonna fish today or just sit there?” Griff asked as he walked from the tent to the firepit and kicked my booted foot hard. My flash of anger passed almost as soon as it came because I knew he and his insolence would be short-lived. My plan for the day was to be friendly and attentive.  If he wanted me to rig his rod or bait his hook, I’d do it without a fuss. If he wanted more beer, I’d pop the top and hand it to him with a smile. Despite his contrary nature, he deserved a pleasant final day. Plus, more beer meant sound sleep, which would allow me to examine his head and neck for the perfect puncture.

“I was waiting for you,” I said. I sat up and pushed my cap back. “Boat’s ready. All gassed up. Gear’s in the boat, ready and waitin’.”

 “Soda and beer’s ready too – been on ice for twenty minutes. What do want with your cornflakes, coffee or a cold one?” I asked.

“Well, I’ll be gotdamned. You might be worth a shit after all. Cold one’s breakfast enough for me. And don’t you get any ideas about sippin’ my beer on this trip. You ain’t old enough. And your momma would cut me off for a month if she learned I was giving you liquor.”

“In Kansas, you can drink beer when you're eighteen,” I said.

“B.G., this ain’t Kansas, and you ain’t eighteen. If you was, you sure as shit wouldn’t be livin’ under my roof. You can be gotdamned sure of that.”

“I’ll be eighteen in six months. Guess I’d better get busy then.” I said.

“Doin’ what?

"Well, looking for another place to live. That, or deciding on the best way to kill you.”

Now, I had sassed him at times, much to my discomfort – Griff’s knuckles left bruises on my ribs more than once because of what he called my bull-pucky attitude. But I’d never threatened to kill him. He just stood there looking at me with a tight-lipped glare. I smiled at him, raised myself from the low-slung camp chair with one unrestrained motion, and said, “You ready to fish, Griff? How about a friendly wager – first fish for a buck? What do ya say?”

“Slow down, dipshit. I ain’t bettin’ on nothin’ until you explain yourself. What did you just say … you’re going to figure a gotdamned way to kill me! Is that what you said? Did I hear you right?”

“It was a joke, Griff. A joke! Calm down. Figured this trip was a chance to get to know one other. You know, man-to-man like. Thought we could have some fun and joke around a little. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Look, Mr. B.G. pecker head. Never joke about killin’ someone. It ain’t funny.” Griff curled his upper lip and continued to stare, then spoke slowly. “And where do you get off talking to me like that? You’re livin’ under my roof, and you’ll treat me with respect, or your sorry ass will be gone. Seems mighty odd you’d bounce from bein’ a frightened, house-mouse pussy to a back-slappin’ joker just because I agreed to a fishin’ trip.”

Of course, what he said wasn’t entirely true. I’d been thinking about ways to get Mom and I out from under his thumb for a long time. I knew why she wore long sleeves in the summertime. Funny what a few pounds, a few inches of height, broader shoulders, and a little facial hair will do to bolster a teenaged boy’s confidence, even though they do absolutely nothing for his common sense.

 “Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” I said.

Griff downed the beer before we got in the boat. I would man the motor, no matter what he said. I suspected he wasn’t much of a fisherman, so I took a chance, “I’ll drive, Griff. I’m good at it, and this is your day to kick back and fish. Okay?”

“I guess, but if you run into something, Mr. B.G. big shot, you’ll answer to DeGroot, not me. And he’s a gotdamned rabid dog when he’s pissed.”

“Have no fear, Griff. Go ahead,d get in. I’ll push us out and then jump in.” We’d taken the jon boat off the trailer the day before and roped it to a tree, front half grounded, back half afloat in shallow water. Griff sat on the short bow, hoisted his feet up, scooted forward, and found his place on the front bench seat. I tossed my boots in the boat and pushed it into knee-deep water, jumped in, and took my place on the rear seat by the engine. I’d wedged two coolers next to the middle seat, one for the drinks, the other for the fish.  I opened another can of beer for Griff and handed it to him with my right hand and held the orange life jacket up with my left. “Put this on, and we’ll go fishin’.”

“I ain’t wearing that.”

“Come on, Griff. Put it on. You must. I’m the captain today.”

“Well, Captain B.G., how do you do? Think I might change that to Captain B.P. for bossy prick.”

“Can you swim?”

“None of your gotdamned business. Besides, no way am I wearing that thing. It’ll be hot as hell and make me look like a gotdamned schoolhouse crossing guard with big tits.”

“Alright, have it your way. Fall in, I’m not saving your ass.”

Drowning Griff was an option I hadn’t considered, and it held obvious advantages. It was clean and easily accidental. I knew I could get him into the water, but what then? Even if he was drunk, he’d fight like a crazed animal. I could knock him out first, but then I’d have a head wound to explain, which would make an accidental drowning seem less likely. Maybe if I’d thought about it before I became so comfortable with my fillet-knife fantasy, I could have come up with something. No, I’d stick with my plan, which was wonderfully tactile, certain, and fast. And, I had to admit, emotionally satisfying.

I started the engine, and in just seconds, the campsite cove was in our wake, and I’d never enjoyed the open water more. Hanging out in our cove would have required talking. The roar of the motor and the rush of the water allowed me to work my plan patiently without the annoyance of his spiteful conversation. Hand signals and intermittent shouts worked fine until he lost patience. Griff turned and looked back at me, bounced his empty beer can off the floor of the boat, and raised both hands in the air, palms up. His drifty eye was even more unsettling when it opened wide. There was no doubt … he was ready to fish.

“Almost there,” I shouted, giving him an okay signal with my left hand. Three minutes later, we drifted slowly toward an eroded rock cliff, which time had painted with marbled perfection. “This is it, Griff. Not another hook in the brook.”  

“All right, then, B.G., let’s catch a gotdamned fish.”

“What you going to use, Griff?”

“Worms. All I ever fish with. Worms will catch ‘em.”

“Okay, drop the anchor will ya. It’s right there by your feet.”

He grabbed it, stood, and hurled it overboard with an unnecessary two-handed heave. His impressive toss rocked the boat, and its unsteadiness surprised him. He sat, waited for the boat to settle, and put on the life vest. It hung unsecured, the unfastened connecting straps dangling. I said nothing.

The boat drifted with the slight current as far as the anchor would allow, settling parallel to the cliff about forty feet out. It was perfect. We could both cast from the same side of the boat toward the cliff, and I could keep an eye on him. There was no tellin’ what sort of trouble he’d have. Plus, I didn’t want to get a wormy hook in my ear. I let him cast first. He plopped his weighted line with a bobber about twenty feet out. I cast my lure inches from the cliff, let it sink, and started my slow retrieve.

“How about you, what you usin’?” Griff asked.

“Rooster Tail. Don’t use live bait much anymore. Casting and retrieving keep my hands busy.  Don’t have to just sit and wait for something to happen,” I said, nodding my head toward his motionless red and white bobber. “Better have another beer while you’re waiting.” I rested my rod against the gunwale and reached for the cooler.

“Don’t mind if I do, B.G. Don’t mind if I do.”

I reached toward him with the open beer, holding it just short of his reach. “Eli, name’s Eli, Griff,” I said with a smile as I inched close enough to hand him the chilled can.

“Touchy little bitch ain’t ya?”

My continued smile hid my thought, If you only knew, my repulsive friend. If you only knew.

Chapter 2

I caught three fish and released them, while Griff sat glaring at his motionless red and white bobber, getting madder by the minute. I loved it. It was bonus torture, which I hadn’t anticipated. I could almost see the humiliation, envy, and teeth-grinding disgust stirring into a noxious mash, which sloshed around in his stomach and splashed up into his esophagus from time to time. And unless he wanted to look like an absolute idiot, there was nobody to yell at to relieve the pressure. I knew Griff was in pain.

            “Hey B.G., why you lettin’ them fish go? Thought we was goin’ to have a fish fry tonight?” Griff finally asked, without taking his eyes off his bobber.

            “Oh, they were small ones. Besides, it’s early. We have plenty of time to catch dinner. No need to kill more than we can eat, is there?”

            “What kind was they?”

            “Smallmouth bass. Fun to catch. Fight like hell,” I answered, knowing full well my fun was his pain. The words were fresh out of my mouth when I got another strike. It was a respectable fish.

            “Fish on, fish on,” I yelled instinctively to advise Griff not to cast during my retrieve. Of course, I didn’t need to yell. The only motion coming from Griff was the growing ring of perspiration on his seed-corn cap as he stared at his bobber. I yelled anyway. I wanted to shake a little Tabasco into his gastric stew.

            “Holy crap, Griff. This is a good one. Get the net. Get the net.”

            “Do what?”

            “Get the friggin net. It’s under your seat. Get over here and help me land this baby, will you?”

            Griff stooped and groaned as he reached for the net, then moved to the middle seat to assist. My fish wasn’t quite ready for him. I’d reel the two-pounder to the boat, and he’d run … I’d reel, and he’d run again. The problem was Griff. He spooked the fish. He’d perked up and become part of the team, but when he saw the fish approaching, he’d plunge the net into the water too hard and too late. The fish would have none of it and run again.

            “Slow and easy, Griff. Next time, slide the net in the water nice and easy and a little sooner. Let me guide him to you headfirst. If you touch his tail first, he’ll be gone. That’s where his power is,” I said.

            The next retrieval attempt was perfect. Griff scooped the fish from the water and raised the net over the boat, smiling like I’d never seen him smile. The exhausted smallmouth lay hammocked in the net sucking air, wishing it was water.

            “Whoooo Hoooo,” I yelled, my voice bouncing back at us from the rocky cliff. “That baby’s going on ice. Thanks Griff. You done good.”

            “Glad to help ya, Eli. That’s a nice gotdamned fish.”

            “Lay the net down. Let me get him out of there.” As I bent down to remove the hook, I was quietly aware of what he’d just done. He’d called me Eli.

            In keeping with my plan to treat him with kindness on his last day, I said, “Griff, time for a beer, I think.” I put the smallmouth in the fish cooler and took a beer and a soda from the other. “Here you go,” I said as I handed him the beer. “I’ve got an idea, Griff. How’d you like to try something new? Use my rod for a while. My Rooster Tail seems to be working. I’m bettin’ it’ll work for you, too. Come on. There’s a lunker in there just waitin’ for ya.”

            “Naw. I’ll catch somethin’ here pretty quick,” he said, pointing at his unresponsive bobber.

            “I insist, Griff. Just try it.” I handed him my ultra-light spinning rod. “Just try it. Cast that baby nice and easy. Put the lure over there, right close to the edge of the cliff. Let it sink about thirty seconds and reel it back home real slow. You might jig it a couple of times on the way. Go ahead. Try something new. Do ya good.”

            “Guess it won’t hurt nothin’.” His first cast with the lively rod was typical Griff. He reached back and cast so hard the Rooster Tail hit the rock wall and ricocheted into the water. Nice and easy was beyond him.

            “Well, okay. You put it right where you want it. Did it the hard way, but you did it. Now, let it sink and reel it back nice and easy like. Next time, ease up a little. You’re not throwin’ a football.”

            Griff’s thick hands looked odd surrounding the small, ultra-light reel, but he made it work by gently turning the crank handle with his index finger.

            “Now jiggle it a little. Just a little.” I said.

            A fish hit … and it hit with authority that shocked him. He raised the rod over his head and reeled like he was retrieving a blue marlin.

            “Damn, Griff, slow down! Ease up, or you’ll lose him. Keep tension on him but don’t horse him. Your goal is to tire him, not pull his lips off. That’s it. Keep tension on him. You’ll feel him gettin’ tired. Don’t need a sledgehammer here, Griff. When a ball peen will do.”

It took almost ten minutes, but Griff finally guided the exhausted fish into my net, and as I lifted his catch into the boat, he started laughing and didn’t stop. He sat there and threw his head back and laughed hard, caught his breath, and laughed again. Somehow, his vocal merriment was – how do I say this – pleasing. His repugnant cackle was gone, replaced with something bordering on joyful.  

It was a beautiful, three-pound smallmouth. “Good job, Griff. You are a fisherman, and that is a beauty. Bigger than mine. That baby’s goin’ on ice.” I freed the fish from the net and placed it in the cooler, then asked a question with a predictable answer. “Want a beer, Griff?”

“Hell yeah, I want a beer. Time to celebrate, ain’t it? That was some gotdamned fight, wasn’t it? Holy shit, that was fun! Eli, help yourself to a beer, too. We got plenty, and your Mom will never know.”

“Thanks, Griff, but I’ll stick with the soda. I’m driving, you know.” I didn’t mind entertaining him during his final hours, but I’d be damned if was going to buddy up with him over a cold beer.

I watched him swill half the can without taking a breath. As I did, I glanced past him toward the water and his immobile bobber. It was down.

“Griff, your bobber’s down!” I shouted.

“No shit!” He turned to recover his rod, which rested against the gunwale on the other side of the bench seat. He stood too fast. The beer dizzied him. His weight shift rocked the boat, and he stumbled over the metal seat, flailing at his rod. His misstep and his errant grab had momentum, which took him nose first into the gunwale and over the side into the water.

I went to my knees with both hands on the boat’s edge, waiting for its rocking to subside. All I saw was the orange life jacket floating off the bow. I waited a few seconds to see if he would surface, then dove in. Two breast stokes down, and I had him by his overall suspenders. I kicked hard to the surface and placed my arm under his and around his chest. Griff sputtered, coughed loudly, and panicked. He thrashed, splashed, swung his arms, and screamed. I had no choice. I repositioned myself directly in front of him, keeping him afloat with my left hand. Simultaneously, I pulled him forward, and I hit him hard in the face with my right hand. It was a spectacular punch. His head snapped backward hard, then bounced forward, his eyes wide open.

I screamed as loud as I could, and in language I knew he’d understand, “God damn it, Griff, settle down. I’m trying to save your stupid ass. Quit fighting me!” He stopped. I almost wished he hadn’t. The punch was invigorating. One more would have been gravy.

“Now, put this life jacket on so we can get out of here.” He quietly complied. I helped, guiding his arms through the holes and swimming around him to fasten the straps securely.

“Okay, Griff, you still with me?”

“Yeah, sure like to get outa this gotdamned water though.”

“Me too, but I can’t lift you into the boat, so we need to figure another way. I have an idea, but you’ll have to stay wet a bit longer.” I could have helped him climb back into the boat, but keeping him wet a while longer would be more fun.

“What’s your idea, Eli?”

“Well, we have our landing rope in the boat. It’s a good twenty feet long. We need to tie it around you and back the boat away from this cliff to a more gradual shoreline. Then we can reach dry land to straighten things out. Now, we can’t go fast, but if you’ll be patient and hang on, we can get there. That life jacket will keep you afloat. You ready?”

“I guess.”

With a grunt and a splash, I hoisted myself into the boat and threw the rope to him. He paddled forward, grabbed it, and shot me a thumbs-up sign. “Tie it around you. Hang onto it, too, but do wrap it around you. Can you do that?” I shouted.

“Got it,” he said.

I raised the anchor, moved to the back of the boat, and we began our slow, backward ride. We had about a hundred yards of marbled cliff to clear before we reached an agreeable shoreline. I watched him cut a little wake of his own behind me, bewildered and drenched. Toying with him was fun. He was mine for the day, and cutting his jugular would be far more rewarding than waiting for him to breathe water and die trying.

We cleared the cliff, saw our target shoreline, and headed in. I slowed almost to a stop as we approached. Griff found his footing in the waist-high water, released the rope, and waded ashore, while I retrieved the rope, circled and steered the boat, bow first, into the sandy beach.

“What happened to my gotdamned nose?” Griff asked as I walked toward him. He rested against a sun-bleached log, almost as white as the sand he was sitting on.  His enflamed nose, soaked blue overalls, and tangled head of dark hair stood in stark contrast to his monochrome surroundings. I sat down beside him.

“What do you think happened?” I asked.

“Seen my bobber was down. Next thing I knowd, we was splashin’ in the water and you’re puttin’ a life jacket on me.”

“You cracked your nose when you fell out of the boat. When I jumped in to help you, you went nuts—thrashing, screaming. I had no choice. I had to punch you to settle you down. Your nose took a beating today.”

“I think you busted it. Can’t breathe worth a shit.”

“Griff, be happy you’re breathing at all.”

“So, you’re sayin’ you saved my life.”

“Looks that way. You were heading for the bottom when I grabbed you.” I said.

“Well, I’ll be gotdamned,” Griff’s nasal whine dulled the cynical bite of his declaration. “Captain Eli saved my life. Thank you, Captain.” He smiled past his battered nose and offered a mock salute.

“Not sure why I did it.” I smiled. “You know, of course, I’d planned to kill you later today.”

“Gotdamnit, Eli, stop it. Jokin’ around about killin’ me just ain’t funny.”

My sinister whisper bared the truth. “No, it’s not, Griff. Not funny at all.”

His brooding silence hovered between us. “You do hate me, don’t you, Eli?”

“Yes, Griff. I do hate you – with my heart, head, and even my toenails. Every little part of me hates you with a depth you cannot imagine.”

“So, why not let me sink? Chicken out, did ya, B.G.?

I picked up a twig and slowly wrote ‘Cpt. Eli’ in the moist sand between us. “I didn’t chicken out, Griff. Changed my mind after I thought a little about a dream I had last night,” I lied.

“Okay. So, what was your gotdamned dream?”

 “Dreamt about Dad. He was standin’ in a gin-clear trout stream. He smiled and motioned me closer. I waded to him, and he handed me his fly rod. As soon as I touched it, it became a taut rope that extended beyond sight into the sky. He nodded. I yanked, and you fell from a nearby tree into a puddle of raw sewage and wallowed there like an oversized salamander. Dad smiled and disappeared.

“So, it’s simple, Griff. I saved you because your life is so disgusting, so miserable, so offensively pitiful, I’d rather know you lived it than escaped it.”

Griff seemed dumbstruck with uncertainty. “That’s one helluva thing to say to me.” Then he fled for higher ground. “Well, you’ll have to admit, we had a gotdamned good day of fishing, didn’t we?”

“Yes, we did. I enjoyed it. There was a moment there, you know—when you landed that fish—you seemed almost normal, maybe even halfway decent. But you’re not. Not even close. Griff, we won’t fish together again.”

“Why not?”

“Because Mom and I won’t be around. We’re moving out.”

He turned and looked at me hard, his lazy eye aimed somewhere past my left ear. “So, you’re speakin’ for your mom these days, are ya?”

“Yep. You have a problem with that, Griff?”

He continued his dour stare, but it failed him. The drifty eye wavered a little, which was my cue to bear down.

“Be careful with your answer, Griff. Very careful.”

He looked out at the water a few seconds, then down at the white sand between his outstretched legs, and said, “Good gotdamned riddance. Go! Both of ya. Sooner the better.”

I stood, offered him my hand, and helped him to his feet. “You look like you could use a beer. Come on, let’s go clean our fish. You feel like eating?”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

“Good. Let’s go. I have a fancy, little fillet knife I want to show you.”