The Journey Prize Stories 21 Read online

  And his father nods at the car. That tea and cooler, he says, I’m famished.

  The boy says I’ll get them. Sees that the man has gone back inside. Gets the cooler and thermos and says Lock it, Dad?

  If you like.

  The boy locks the car and gets in the boat and sets down the thermos and cooler. His father says Sit down – the boy does – and then leans and pushes.

  Mind your hip, Dad.

  I’m all right.

  His father heaves and hops and they’re floating and the bow slowly turns counter-clockwise. His father takes an oar. Pushes off. Stands up. I’ll just get by you, son.

  The boy leans.

  Ta, says his father. And he sits by the motor. Paddles a bit and then he just looks. So does the boy. Straight ahead about two hundred yards a pair of smallish islands. Like the Group of Seven but realer and more sad.

  His father primes the motor. Third pull it starts. He opens the throttle but not so much and the bow rises only a little. The boy leans on his knees and blows on his hands. Thinks of his mother and wax paper and cake. The islands get bigger. His father veers toward the one on the right and ahead the boy sees weeds in the water like exotic dancers in slow motion. His father cuts the motor. Trees lean over the islands’ edges like they’re exhausted by their own reflections. To the left are lily pads. They drift nearer and the boat’s bow turns a little. His father hefts an oar and turns around the boat completely. The boy looks over his shoulder. His father says Best you cast away from the weeds. Into the deeper water.

  The boy says Okay.

  But first, says his father, give us that thermos.

  Here.

  Ta. Oh.

  What.

  Should have brought another cup.

  Mum probably put one in.

  His father opens the cooler and says Indeed she did. Now, what’s this?

  The boy looks in the cooler – cake in Tupperware and the wrapped sandwiches – and his father says She’s written S on these ones. Salmon?

  The boy taps his chest and says No, me.

  Eh?

  They’re for me. No butter.

  Ah. Right. Well. Your sandwich, sir.

  Loin and mushrooms.

  Cold roast beef will have to do.

  And cake.

  At lunch. Give us your cup.

  His father pours tea – Get that in you, lad – and then they unwrap their sandwiches. The boy tests the tea against his lips. Sips and swallows. Heat in his throat and chest. Then they bite and chew.

  She used, says the boy, the posh mustard, Dad.

  His father nods and swallows. About halfway through their sandwiches – the beef’s a little tough and tires out your jaw – he says Let’s get ourselves set, son. We can eat and fish. Then he puts down his sandwich and reaches for the tackle box and says Give us your rod. The boy hands it to him and then his father says Watch. Fixes a leader and then ties on the Red Devil. This, he says, is a classic lure, son. Catch just about anything.

  Muskie?

  If your line held. It’s just ten pound.

  What’s yours.

  Thirty.

  That muskie at Ecky’s –

  Bloody monster, I know. But most muskies round here are perhaps thirty pounds.

  That’s still big.

  Not as big as you. Not nearly. Now, this reel isn’t like your old one. Open face.

  Yes. More control of your cast – with practice. See my thumb?

  Yes.

  Holds the line. Then the motion like so – lift your thumb – it’s away.

  Do one.

  All right.

  The boy watches the lure wag in the air as the line and reel whirr. Then plish the lure lands and his father starts reeling. Neither too fast, he says, nor too slow. You don’t want it to sink and then snag. Keep it moving and then – he flicks the rod this way and that – try that to give it a nice switching motion.

  The boy nods. Watches the wake of the lure as it gets nearer the boat and skims the surface then lifts. His father reels in a little more then hands the rod to the boy and says Try.

  The boy releases the catch on the reel and the lure drops.

  His father says Thumb first.

  And the boy reels in. Holds the line. Releases the catch on the reel. His father leans back and points and says That way.

  The boy casts.

  But the lure flies off to the right and plops in the water.

  Less arm, son. More wrist.

  Okay.

  Reel in. You’ll snag.

  The boy reels in. Tries again.

  Much better, son. Well bloody done.

  Thanks.

  The boy reels in and jigs – Like that? he says and his father nods – and he imagines the tug and the sudden bending of the rod and the high-pitched zipping of the line and he would land it he swears he would.

  You’re all set, says his father. And then he starts to prep his own line. The boy looks back. Sees the hook his father chooses. Like a baby gaff. Then his father picks up the pail and pops the lid and the boy looks away and casts again and starts to reel. And has to look back. His father reaches in the pail and then there is a frog in his fist. Puffy chin. Blackbead eyes. The dangling legs. His father holds the hook between his thumb and two fingers and then – Little bastard! – the frog squirts free and hops onto the seat beside the boy.

  Grab it, son!

  And the boy does reach but not very fast and the frog hops over the side then ploosh the boy watches it kick out of sight. Looks at his father who says That little bugger!

  And the boy tries not to laugh.

  Mind, says his father, your lure.

  The boy reels in.

  Jumped right out my hand it did.

  I saw it, Dad.

  I said mind your lure.

  The boy reels in and casts again and watches his father reach into the pail and say This time.

  The frog does nothing – no sound no squirms – as the hook slides then pops through its chin and its mouth. The boy looks away. Looks back. His father lets out line then lobs the frog – plash – over the pads and plays it across and just under the surface. The boy looks at his half-eaten sandwich. Swallows tea. Casts again. Watches the dangling frog as his father finishes reeling.

  How long will it last, Dad.

  What last.

  The frog.

  About as long as my patience. Tricky work this.

  His father lobs the frog a second time and the boy casts again – his hands getting cold and his wrist kind of tired – and reels until he can see the lure. Then he just lets it lie. Wind picks up. The small boat drifts. Massive clouds pass over the sun and the light on the lake changes like a big dimmer switch. The boy looks across the water to the car and beyond it to the cottage and its smoking chimney and if they started the boat now they could be on shore in no time – he knows this – but this place feels far from everywhere like places in dreams that you know but do not know and that feeling that he and his father will always come back here and everything will be as it is just now. The slateblack water. The fishscale sky. But his father. His father is whistling softly – very softly – Glen Miller music and the boy watches him switch the rod to his left hand and reach inside his jacket and take out the silver flask with his initials on it. He unscrews the cap and takes a nip and then pours some in his thermos cup. Swirls the spiked tea and has a big swallow then whistles some more and the boy remembers his mother – bagging her old dresses. Slowly he jigs his rod and watches the lure rise into sight and sink again. Rise into sight and sink again.

  After a while he sees weeds and looks around – they’ve drifted between the islands – and then at his father. He doesn’t seem to be fishing. Just sitting there. The boy lets him be. Looks toward the open water. He’ll need a real long cast. Stands – his father doesn’t notice – then whips the rod behind him. It bends in the wrong direction and then his father screams.

  The boy turns round. Drops his rod. Stares lockjawed
at the lure – hanging like a leech from his father’s left cheek.

  Fucking hell, boy!

  Oh God I’m so sorry!

  His father – eyes closed – sits very still and breathes through his nose. Barely opens his mouth and says Son, sit.

  The boy – hands shoved in his hair – breathing fast and shallow says I’m –

  And his father says Sit.

  The boy does.

  Now. Come here. Slowly.

  The boy scooches toward his father.

  I need you to look.

  Okay.

  Did all three catch.

  No, says the boy, just one, just one.

  Is it through?

  Through?

  The skin.

  No.

  Settle. The tacklebox. See it there?

  Yes.

  Open it.

  Okay …

  Pliers.

  These?

  The blue handles. Yes. Hand me those.

  His father breathes out and cuts the line and then he says Now, pass me a hook.

  Which one?

  Any fucking one.

  Dad, it’s bleeding.

  Pass me a hook. Right – now, watch.

  His father puts the end of the hook between the pliers and snaps it off and says See?

  The boy nods.

  I need you to do that, his father says – and he holds out the pliers – but first you’ll have to push it through.

  I can drive.

  What?

  The boat. We can go to the hospital.

  We are – listen – an hour away from the hospital and I’m not driving there with a bloody fucking lure hanging from my face.

  The boy wipes his nose with his wrist and says Dad I can’t. His father breathes out. Softly prods around the hook. Give us, he says, the pliers.

  Are you sure?

  He nods. Takes the pliers. Holds his breath and snaps off – grunting – the other two barbs. Takes out his flask. Closes his eye. Pours liquor over his cheek and the nose of the pliers and his fingertips. Then he drinks the last of it. Tosses the flask toward the front of the boat. Applies his thumb to the curve of the hook. Breathes in. Then leans to the right and tries to sick over the side but it’s half in the boat and the smell of it.

  The boy clamps his teeth.

  His father says Son, you’ll have to do it.

  My hands, says the boy. And he looks at their shaking. His father holds the left one then places it against the top of his head and leans hard against it and says Just pop it through.

  Okay.

  The boy pinches the base of the hook and – his father growls – pushes like he’s threading a lace through an eyelet. The hook pops through. His father breathes out. Grabs the pliers and leans his head toward his shoulder. Feels with his fingers and lays the pliers along his face and crimps off the barb. It shoots away like a tiny silver wasp and then his father slides out the lure. Looks at it in his hand for a moment. Then tosses it in the water. Leans on his knees and breathes like a boxer who can’t answer the bell.

  The boy pushes the back of his wrist against each eye and blinks and looks at his father and then – it jitters – at his father’s fishing rod. Dad, says the boy, and he points just as the rod starts rattling along the side of the boat.

  Then the boy lunges. Grabs the rod’s handle and gets to his knees and the rod bends nearly double. But the boy holds on as the reel spins like a tire on ice. His father reaches round him and holds the rod as well and says I’ve got it, son, I’ve got it! The boy lets go. Leans back with his father as he reels and pulls. Pulls and reels. Duck under, says his father. But the boy only watches as the big fish – like the lake spat it out – writhes in the air then splashes and thrashes then dives again as the boy’s father says Blood and fucking sand!

  Then the line goes slack and curly.

  And everything is very quiet.

  And the boy sits between the arms of his father staring at the spot where the monster fish was. And then his father’s right hand lets go of the rod and when the boy turns around his father is looking at the blood on his fingertips. And then he touches his cheek again and looks at his fingers as though they had lied. Then he wipes the blood on the leg of his pants and says to the boy Go have a seat, now.

  The boy moves up the boat and sits and watches his father reel in the slack line and look at the end of it. Wonder, he says, if it swallowed the lot.

  The boy looks at the water and imagines the mangle of frog-and-hook in the muskie’s mouth. Then he shrugs and says We should go, Dad.

  His father’s eyes – wide and glassy. But he puts down the rod and turns to the motor.

  And on the way into shore he reaches for the pail and tosses the last frog over. An old green pickup passes the launch and the boy’s father waves it down. It turns into the laneway of the yellow cottage and stops and the man with the beard gets out. Meets them at the launch. The boy’s father cuts the motor and the man says How did it go? Then he notices. The boy looks down and his father says Bit of a mishap. The man leans forward and grabs the bow’s handle and pulls and the boy steps out and helps him. Then his father steps out too. A little wobbly. The man looks at his face. Fish jump up and bite you?

  The boy’s father laughs but not really and the boy says It was my fault.

  The man says You wanna come in? We got ointment.

  The boy’s father says If there’s a hospital nearby –

  And the man says You know Glanisberg?

  Heard of it, yes.

  Go down number 7. Turn left on 30. Half hour tops.

  That’s what we’ll do, then.

  I’ll watch your boat. You go on.

  Very kind of you.

  No bother.

  The boy’s father drives with one hand and holds Kleenex to his face with the other. The boy’s mother keeps a box in the glove compartment. They use most of it and in Glanisberg see a church letting out. His father pulls over. The boy runs across the street and asks a lady in an old-fashioned hat for directions. Follows his father into Admissions then down to Emerg but they won’t let him through so he sits in the waiting room beside the ambulance drivers’ office. Hears the static and garble of the radio. Football on the television. He glances at the tired- and sick- and sad-looking people and shuffles through old magazines about hot rods and hunting and jet airplanes. Looks up and sees his father in the doorway. Gauze and tape on his face. The boy follows him to the car and the drive back to the boat feels like ages.

  He put it back on the trailer, Dad.

  Bloody good of him.

  The boy’s father gets out and walks toward the laneway but here come the dogs. He stops. Waves. Gives a thumbs-up. The boy looks at the cottage and sees the man in the living room window waving back.

  They quickly pack up and while his father hitches the trailer the boy gets in the car. In the rearview he watches his father turn for a moment and look toward the islands. Then – as they pull away – his father says Some fish that.

  And the boy says Massive.

  Then they don’t talk until Highway 28.

  Dad.

  Yes.

  Will it mend? Son.

  Yes.

  Shush now.

  The boy looks out the window and presses his trembly lips together.

  In his room he can hear their voices but not their words. Outside the light is fading and the moon is already there like a blind eyeball. He sits on his hands at the edge of the bed. Can smell the mince and ’nips. After a while his mother knocks and comes in and sits on the bed beside him.

  Sure you’re not hungry?

  The boy looks at the floor.

  We’re not cross with you.

  The boy looks at her. Then down again.

  It was, says his mother, an accident.

  What if it was his eye.

  It would still be an accident.

  He’d be blind. Well. Half.

  It’s not funny.

  Suit yourself. Supper’
s there if you want it.

  The boy lies down. Curls toward the wall. His stomach growls and he gives it a whack. Footfalls again – his father’s this time. But they go past the boy’s room. Down to the basement. The boy lies there a little longer and then gets up and walks softly to the kitchen. The dishes not done. His place still set and a glass of milk. He peeks into the living room. His mother on the chesterfield. One finger tap-tap-tapping the arm as she looks at the turned-off television like an old movie – the kind that makes her sad – with singing and dancing and natty dresses to die for.

  LYNNE KUTSUKAKE

  AWAY

  After Sayuri disappeared, her picture was everywhere. She stared at us from the windows of Murakami Bakery and Mrs. Nakamura’s noodle shop, from the sliding glass door of Yoshimoto Drugs, and of course from the giant poster in front of the police station. It was impossible to go anywhere without seeing her. Iwata Supermarket and Mori Grocers pinned her picture next to their checkout counters, and smaller versions of the poster were wrapped around all the bus stop poles in town. Do you know this girl? the poster asked. Have you seen Sayuri? It was always the same photograph, the one taken at the beginning of that term. Sayuri was wearing our high-school uniform, a dark navy tunic over a white blouse. As the years passed, the whiteness of the blouse turned grey and blotchy and the tunic faded to a metallic green. But despite the graininess of the photograph and the weathering of the elements, Sayuri’s eyes stayed the same: shiny as new marbles, full of hope and mischief.

  Have you seen me, I heard Sayuri say every time I looked into her eyes. Do you know me?

  Sayuri disappeared thirty years ago from the small town in Shimane where I grew up and where she and I went to high school together. The town is in decline now but it used to be a big fishing port, and boats went far out into the Sea of Japan almost halfway to Korea and China in search of their catch. Over time, though, many young people moved away seeking white-collar jobs in big cities, and I was no exception. I came to Tokyo and started a new life, eventually marrying the man who was my supervisor at Tanaka Electric and becoming a full-time housewife and mother. I rarely went back home, and after my parents passed away, the severing of my ties to the town was complete. There was nothing at all to draw me back to that place or to that period of my life. And then I saw her. Sayuri’s picture appeared on the evening news along with a dozen other young Japanese who had been missing since the late 1970s. Apparently they had been kidnapped and taken to North Korea.