T. Bunn - Winner Take All

The boat had only two rear chairs, so Marcus made himself comfortable upon a life preserver on the side railing. He threaded a nightcrawler onto his hook and slung the line overboard. Charlie harrumphed a cough that tore at his gut. Marcus and Deacon exchanged a glance over the old man’s head, then went back to watching their lines. In the distance, crows cawed crossly at the day’s tragic imperfections.

The shaded waters about their boat were darkest green and utterly still. Which made the eruption even more startling. One moment the loudest sound was the buzzing insects, and the next a fish that looked a full ten feet long shot straight out of the water, rising so high Marcus feared the line was going to catch on the branches. He was so startled he fell off the railing and sprawled on the deck. He heard Charlie’s line zing from the reel and two old men shout with fishermen’s glee.

Charlie had his pole pointed straight out, just letting the fish whiz out every last inch of line. Marcus scrambled across the deck and came up hard against Charlie’s seat back. He reached over and tilted the pole skyward.

“What the … Get your hand off my pole!”

“You’re going to lose the fish!”

Charlie used one hand to swat frantically at Marcus’ arm. “I been fishing since before you drew your first breath. Let go of my pole!”

“Jam your thumb on the reel there, you’re down to your last ten feet of line!”

“You touch my pole again and you’re gonna be driving this rig without some fingers!” Charlie heaved on the pole, finally setting the hook. “Go on, stand back over there outta range!”

Deacon had one long-fingered hand across his mouth, from behind which bubbled a low humming laugh. His eyes were squeezed almost shut with pure pleasure. “Lay into him now, Charlie. You got him.”

“Doggoned right I do, if this little child here with milk dribbling off his chin’ll keep his distance.” Charlie reeled and pulled and reeled some more. “Was that fish as big as I thought?”

“Looked like a silver whale to me.” Deacon wiped his eyes. “My, my, I thought we were gonna have bloodshed there for a minute.”

“Lucky you didn’t leave the tackle box where I could grab the bait knife.” Charlie was puffing and red-faced but his hands moved with the fluidity of a lifetime’s experience. “ ’Bout to have laid me out in the box, when that thing leapt up.”

Deacon was up on his feet now, watching as the line angled up higher and higher. His voice rose to pulpit level as he sang out, “Look there, now! He’s coming up again! Hold him hard, Charlie!”

The large-mouth bass was impossibly huge. It did not leap so much as explode, tossing water across the forty feet separating him from the boat as he furiously sought to throw the hook.

There was a moment’s gasping silence, then Deacon breathed, “Lawdy mercy, Charlie, you done hooked yourself the granddaddy of them all.”

“I didn’t see that,” Marcus agreed. “Did I?”

“Charlie, don’t tug on him quite so hard, else he’ll break your line. Marcus, you unleash us and start that engine.” Deacon never turned from watching the line and the water. “This old man knows his water, sure enough. He’s down there hunting himself a root where he can tie you up good.”

Marcus hauled up the anchor, moved to the wheel, hit the starter, then turned to follow Deacon’s hand signals. The man kept two fingers resting on Charlie’s line as he held his other hand overhead and directed Marcus. Slow and steady, hard right, hold there, reverse again-his only words directed to Charlie in the chair. “Pull in steady like, wind up that slack, ease off now, let him have his head here, that’s it, okay, he’s breathing easy now. Wind in steady, keep the line taut. He’s hunting still.”

Charlie was huffing so hard Marcus could hear the bitter phlegm catch and break over the motor’s rumble. But he was winding steady, in tune with Deacon’s words, anticipating the directions even before they were spoken. Which was why Deacon stopped talking at all, doing nothing now but directing Marcus at the wheel, leaning over the rear transom, squinting at the line and the water.

The fish broke a third time, but it was a feeble effort, for he was tiring. So was Charlie. The old man’s khaki shorts and T-shirt were drenched two shades darker. His breathing was one step away from a constant coughing fit. His arms trembled so from the effort of handling the pole and the fish that his upper body shivered in harmony. But there was no question now. This was his fight. His fish.

Marcus heard a change to Charlie’s labored breathing, and knew with a friend’s wisdom that he was about to give in. Soon he would have to go back and take the pole, which would break the old man’s heart. He could not decide which would be harder on Charlie, to lose the fish or have somebody else land it. Deacon glanced his way, the same question there on his face.

Then the pastor turned back and cried, “Hold on, Charlie! He’s coming in now! Marcus, you cut that motor and get back here with the net! Yeah, here he comes, wind hard, Charlie! Wind hard, man! You got him!”

Marcus gripped the net handle and leaned over the stern next to Deacon. The preacher was hand-feeding the line now, helping Charlie haul in the almost dead weight. The fish came up through the dark waters almost motionless, a flicker of gills and rear fin his only signs of life. “You just watch out, he might break. This is one wily old fish.”

But the fish waited in weary resignation as Marcus dipped the net. He slipped under the bass, settled him in, and drew him out of the water.

The bass was so large he filled the net and spilled out both ends. Marcus needed both hands to heft his load over the transom and lay him down on the deck.

Deacon’s hand slipped back over his mouth as he hummed his deep-throated laugh. Charlie sat in his chair, heaving hard, trembling so that when he tried to set his pole on the deck he dropped it with a clatter. He took three tries to shove his glasses back up his nose. When he reached for a Coke, Marcus needed to unpry the hands and flip the top himself. Charlie took a snorting gulp, choked slightly, drank again. Then he leaned over and stared at the fish. He asked hoarsely, “How big do you reckon?”

“Got to be near on fifteen pounds,” Deacon said, shaking his head in wonder. “That there is an emperor fish if ever I saw one.”

Charlie took another swallow, stared at the fish a moment longer, then said, “Slip him back, son.”

“I don’t have a camera,” Marcus pointed out. “Nobody is going to believe we caught this thing.”

“Don’t matter a bit, does it, Deacon?”

The preacher was already bent over the fish, prying loose the hook. “Ain’t no need to say a word about this to a soul. This here’s our tale. Ours and ours alone.”

As they threaded their way back through sun-dappled waters, Marcus found the day darkened by Kirsten’s absence and his own lack of answers. Charlie must have caught the smoldering drift, for as they approached the Steadman manor he pushed himself out of the rear seat. With Deacon’s help he shifted over to the one directly beside Marcus. “All right, son. Now tell me what’s troubling you so.”

Enclosed within sunlight and sea breeze and the concern of good friends, Marcus found the ability to say, “I’m afraid Kirsten is going to leave me.”

Charlie and Deacon exchanged a single look. Charlie said, “She’s always struck me as a fine young lady.”

“She’s a good woman who doesn’t always do good things. She’s pushed by storms I can only guess at. Which makes knowing what to do here very tough.”

“Maybe you can’t do a thing, son,” Charlie said. “Except survive her passage.”