Edward Lee: Family Tradition

Coolers full of big fat live jumpin’ Crackjaw eel. Some of them were a yard long and over five pounds apiece; they could be easily cleaned, fileted, vacuumed-packed and frozen for import to Japan at five dollars per six-ounce portion. What they’d caught in a few hours, in other words, equated to thousands.

Just in a few hours.

“We’re gonna buy this fuckin’ lake,” Ashton said. “Or make some kind of deal with those crackers. This lake might as well be full of gold.”

But Bob wasn’t paying much attention. He was looking out the Winnebago’s small window. “I’m worried. It’s almost midnight. Where are the girls?”

“They’re probably out walking in the woods somewhere,” Ashton suggested. “Probably talking girl-talk.” Ashton pulled open the fridge. “Beer?”

“Naw, no thanks.” Bob glanced seriously at his brother. “Ashton, I’m really worried—”

“Well stop worrying, and have a beer.” Ashton thrust a Holsten into his brother’s hand. Then he huffed and puffed, dragging the one of the coolers of eel toward the auxiliary refrigerator in the back of the vehicle.

“Hey, Ashton, I think they went over to the island.”

Ashton frowned. “What?”

“The girls. They must’ve gone over to the island. ’Cos that cable-boat thing isn’t at the pier on this side. It’s over there.”

“So? They’re going for a nature walk.” Ashton giggled. “Maybe they’re making whoopie.”

Bob’s lips pursed as if he’d just sucked a lemon wedge. “It’s too late for them to be walking around this place. I’m taking the boat over.”

Ashton grinned wide. “Hey, they’re consenting adults, and if Carol’s cock is as big as you say, I think Sheree’s pussy might have some interest in it.”

Bob wasn’t digging this avenue of the conversation. “You coming?”

“I’ve got to load all this eel into the fridge. Gotta keep these puppies cool.”

“Fine.”

“Hey, what are you all pissed about? I don’t give a shit what Sheree does. If Carol’s fucking her brains out in the woods, that’s cool with me.”

“Well, it’s not cool with me,” Bob sniped. “And that’s not what’s happening anyway.”

Ashton raised a bushy brow. “Relax, will you? They’ll be back any minute.”

Bob, his face slightly pinkened now, grabbed his beer and stormed out of the RV. Moments later, Ashton heard the SeaRay’s motor start up; then the boat chugged across the lake, its spotlight beaming ahead.

He needs to lighten up, Ashton thought, hoisting the first cooler into the back fridge.

««—»»

“Dang it, boy!” Enoch bellowed in the oil-lamp-lit cooking shack. He smacked his brother hard on the back of the head as Esau was trying to rinse his eyes from the water pump.

“I’se sorry, Enoch!” the younger one pleaded. “He bushwhacked me!”

“What? A kid who’s been tied up in a tub’a shit fer the last month? And that skinny l’il twig of a girl?”

“The fella threw shit in my eyes, Enoch! It burns! I couldn’t see fer awhiles!”

Enoch smacked Esau in the back of the head again. “Quit’cher whinin’, boy. Git on yer feet. We gotta fetch ’em both back. If Grandpa Ab finds out about this, there’ll be some high and might hell ta pay, and you’ll be the one payin’ it.”

“Eeee-OOOW!” Esau shrieked when Enoch grabbed him by the hair, twisted hard, and pulled him up from the pump. He dragged him back outside, into the night.

“And I’ll tell ya somethin’ else, ya dumb-ass,” Enoch added. “Them two rich bitches you was talkin’ ’bout, I seen ’em earlier comin’ onto the island. Didn’t matter none—till you lost the skinny girl and the kid in the canoe. If the rich bitches see ’em, they could talk. So you know what that means.”

Esau looked up dumbfounded. “You mean we gotta kill ’em?”

“Damn straight, and it’s yer fault, A-hole. Can you ’magin’ what’d happen if they saw that kid from the canoe’n then went and tolt their boyfriends? They’d have the cops out here. Then we’d be ruined and Grandpa Ab’d die. The family tradition would end.”

Esau’s throat went dry. Even he realized the totality of the implication. “If, uh, if we gotta kill the girls, then don’t that mean we also gotta kill—”

“That’s right. The two rich brothers, too.”

“Enoch!” Esau wailed. “We cain’t kill Ashton Morrone! He’s a master chef! He’s a tv star! He’s my hero !”

“Fuck him. He’s dead’n gutted. All of ’em are. We cain’t risk any of ’em seein’ what got out here tonight.”

“Ah, dog-gone!” Esau complained.

Enoch gave him another smack to the head. “And don’t’cha forget what I tolt ya. It all your fault. Yer in charge of the kitchen, but I’se in charge of ever-thing else.” Enoch glared his disapproval. “So’s now we split up, that’ll double our chances. You take south, I’ll take north. If we don’t have this whole fucked up mess fixed up by mornin’, you ain’t gonna be worth more than dead dog’s snot.” Lastly, for effect, he kicked Esau hard in the ass.

The stupid boy ran off into the trees.

“Dang boy’s got gopher shit fer a brain,” Enoch muttered. He emptied his nostrils onto the ground, then stalked off for the hunt.

««—»»

“See?” Carol said. There was a small white marker light by the pier, which Carol used to show what she’d found. Newspaper clippings. “Look how old they are.”

LOCH NESS OF THE NORTHWEST? one headline read from the National Enquirer. The article went on to read:

“It was big,” says long-time fisherman Barnabas Marsh, “like a giant jellyfish or a whale with tentacles.” Last week Marsh was fishing at an obscure lake near Port Angeles, Washington, when he spotted the giant “shape” in the water. “It looked like a giant shadow running under my boat. It must’ve been a hundred feet long.” A “Loch Ness Monster” in America? “Whatever it was,” Marsh says, “I’ll never go fishing there again!”

Sheree rolled her eyes. “It’s a tabloid article, Carol,” she complained. “What’s the big deal?”

“Look at the date. It’s from 1961. “nd you know they’re talking about this lake.”

“It doesn’t name the lake,” Sheree countered.

“Well then why would that redneck kid have the article? Here, check this one out.”

DISAPPEARANCES BAFFLE LOCAL POLICE read another headline, this one from The Port Angeles Examiner. The article went on to relate that some twenty people, mostly hunters and fishermen, had disappeared over a five-year period in vicinity to…Sutherland Lake. The date of the article was 1946.

“I still don’t see what the big deal is,” Sheree attested.

“Okay, but what did that redneck kid say his name was?”

“Isaiah? No, Esau. Something like that.”

“Right, and he’s gotta be—what?—in his mid-twenties at the most?”

“I guess.”

“So he couldn’t possibly have been alive when either of those articles were written, right?”

“Right.”

“Okay, so read the third one now.” Carol began to walk toward the woods. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“I have to—you know.”

“What?”

“I have to poop!” Carol whispered back.

Carol traipsed away behind some trees; Sheree turned back to the marker light and unfolded the piece of paper that Carol had secreted from Esau’s foul shack, this one (thinner and more yellowed than the others) was from something called The Juan de Fuca Reporter. But it wasn’t an article, it was an advertisement.