The Fishing Trip
By Gene Lass
Tom turned the Grand Cherokee around the corner and pulled down the dead-end street where he grew up. One block down, turn right at the green house across from the red house. Some things never change.
He pulled into the driveway and got out. He knocked on the front door, tried the handle, took a breath, and opened the door.
“Hey old man!” he bellowed, stepping in and closing the door.
His father, Bob, leaned out of the open bathroom doorway at the top of the stairs, his face covered in shaving cream. “Tom?”
“Good morning! I took the day off, thought we might go fishing. It’s been a while.”
His father turned back toward the bathroom mirror and shaved a stroke off his right cheek. “Well, I don’t know pal, I’ve got a lot of…”
“There’s beer and breakfast in the car.”
“Coors?”
“And Miller. So you can support your local brewery.”
“Well how can I say no to that? Give me a minute and I’ll be right down. Go ahead and load up the car.”
“Right,” Tom said. He walked across the small foyer into the hallway and toward the kitchen. “’Cause I’m a kid and I live to tote your shit around. Sir, yes sir,” he muttered.
He walked through the kitchen and into the living room, slowing briefly to glance around the room. It hadn’t changed in the year since his mother had died. Nor had it changed much in the 10 years since he had moved out after college. He sniffed the air. The room still smelled faintly of dog, though it was more than two years since Gunther, their Irish setter had gone. Still, there was likely enough dander and slobber on the couch and in the carpet to last forever.
He stopped and glanced across the room at the built-in shelving unit in the corner. It consisted of three shelves above a cabinet. He was an adult before he ever opened the cabinet, where he found nothing of interest. He was hoping for treasure or a clue to a deep family secret but found only just the mortgage papers, some envelopes, a dull scissors, and odd bits of string. The shelves were full of familiar and carefully arranged and dusted frames of Mom’s pride and joy - 8” x 10 “ full-color prints of all three kids, Tom, Sara, and David. Each of them as babies, as kids, as graduates, and marrying. One of each, to be fair. Then photos of each of the grandkids, Tom’s son Kevin, and Sara’s kids Cullen and Brianna, and even one of Tom’s dog Shane. One of each, to be fair.
In the center of all of them, an 8” x 7” black and white photo of Tom’s parents on their wedding day. Bob and Sharon Nowak, June 22, 1975. It was the only photo they ever posed for, the only one they had ever had on display. If anyone took pictures of them at events over the years, those photos always ended up in an album or more likely a drawer while the one photo remained in the frame on display. It had been there so long that if it weren’t surrounded by the other pictures, Tom thought no one would notice it any more.
He heard footsteps behind him and felt a shove on his shoulder. “What, are you daydreaming?” his father said. “Come on, you could have loaded the car by now. It’s bad enough we’re going in the middle of the day.”
“Dad, it’s 8 in the morning.”
“See? It’s late! Let’s go!” He grabbed Tom’s arm and pushed him along. Tom shrugged off the older man’s grip and opened the garage door.
“You in a hurry or something? The Early Bird Special at Golden Corral isn’t until 3 or 4, and Judge Judy is on at 5.”
“Very funny.”
Tom took the pole cases off their customary place on the wall while his father grabbed the tackle box.
“Then what, you have to get a nap in before Golden Corral?” he put the poles in the back of his father’s truck.
“What are you doing?”
“Loading the car. You’re driving.”
“What?”
“Gas is expensive. You don’t expect me to drive, do you? And what if we catch a fish? You’ll get fish water all over my car. The truck already stinks like fish and cigars, you have nothing to lose.”
His father shook his head and laughed. “Man…”
Mark opened the door to the house as his father climbed in the truck, “Where are you going now?”
“I have to pee. Be right back.”
“We’ll never get out of here.”
* * *
“So, Dad, I thought it was too late to catch any fish. Looks like you’ve caught another one.”
The old man pulled back on his pole reflexively and began to reel. “Probably another bluegill or sunfish. Too late for trout, not enough shade for muskie.”
“But you eat blue gill.”
“Yep.”
“We could move the boat.”
“No point now. We’re getting bites and moving would scare the fish.”
“Right.”
Tom’s father peered over the side of the rowboat and scooped the net in the water. In a series of slight, practiced motions he unhooked the fish, put it in the bucket of water with the three other bluegills, put back the net, checked the lure, baited the hook, and put the line back in the water. To Tom it was so smooth it looked like one motion, as did the next, when his father popped open the cooler.
“Ready for a beer?” He popped the top on a Miller.
“No, still too early for me.”
“It’s 10 o’clock and you’re three beers behind. Besides, what do you care, you’re off today, right?”
Tom shrugged. “Yeah, well.”
“Suit yourself.” He took a sip and looked at Tom. “We should have brought sandwiches or donuts or something. We’ll be hungry soon.”
Tom looked out at the lake. “Yeah, well, we had bagels in the car and we’ll be going back soon.” He listened to the stillness. A frog. A crow. The lapping of the water against the boat. They were less than half a mile from the house, on the far end of the property, yet it always felt so different here. The dirt road that connected the small lake to the area where their house was always seemed to take them to a better place.
“How’s Jill?”
“Fine. Working today.”
“Kevin?”
“Fine. Getting bigger all the time.”
“Think he’ll want to learn how to fish?”
“Maybe. Not yet. So far, he likes computers and bugs. Want another beer?”
Bob looked at the can in his hand. “Barely touched the one I got.” He smiled feebly and drank, looking at Tom from the end of the can. He emptied the can, crushed it, and dropped it in the paper bag between them with the other empties. He opened another beer and had a sip.
“Ahh. So, what’s this really about? Do you need money?”
Tom winced slightly and looked out at the cattails. “No,” he shrugged. “Everything’s fine.”
His father snorted. “Yeah, right. Since when do you just stop by to fish, or say hello, or anything? You only come by for a handout and a couple hours on the holidays. You never call. If people didn’t call you, no one would know you’re alive.”
Tom stared out at the water. The field. He glanced at his father, who stared at him. He held his father’s gaze for a moment, then looked away.
“Sorry,” the older man said.
Tom shrugged and fiddled with the reel on his pole, watched the red and white bobber tug back and forth in response. He thought of his wife’s hand as she leaned against the counter in his parents’ kitchen, just before his mother died.
On the boat, his father opened a beer, drank it, fished. Tom stopped paying attention to his bobber. He felt a tug on his line. He reached in his jacket pocket.
“Get in the water, Dad.”
“What?” Bob slurred.
“I…” He thought of his wife’s hand on the counter, then his father’s hand placed down next to it, an inch away. His father’s index finger reached out and stroked her hand. Her hand pulled away.
“I said get in the water.”
Bob turned to face his son, squinted to focus. “Is that my .38?”
Tom nodded, his jaw clenched. He had put the fishing pole down. His left hand lay flat on his kneed. In his right hand was Bob’s snub-nosed revolver, pointed steadily at Bob’s chest.
“Are you crazy?”
“You made a pass at my wife. Mom wasn’t even dead yet, and you tried to sleep with my wife. That’s disgusting.“
“You’re crazy. I never…”
“Don’t lie to me. I saw it. And she told me. It doesn’t matter. Go.”
Bob’s eyes widened, froze, and relaxed. “It was a hard time, I made a mistake, I…”
“There’s no excuse. Really. Mom was sick. You knew we were having a hard time. Kevin wasn’t doing well, we were thinking of divorce. And you picked that time to go for Jill. There’s no way of looking at that and making it right. One time or ever. Get in the water.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Nothing. You’re committing suicide. Or having an accident. Not sure which.”
Bob raised his eyebrows incredulously. “You’re not sure? So you haven’t thought it through. What if I change my mind?”
“You won’t. You’ve been drinking, which is nothing new. You’re either going to pass out and fall in or jump in and drown out of sorrow over the loss of your wife.”
“I don’t think so. You’re not going to kill me and throw your life away because of that. Come on, you’re not stupid. You’re not some animal like the idiots on TV. When did she tell you, today? Yesterday? You’re just mad.”
“She told me that day. Months ago. And it isn’t just that. That was the final straw. You were an abusive father. You tried to undermine or mock or take away everything I cared about until I got married, and even then, you tried to make me question my decision. When that didn’t work, you tried to take her away. That was the final straw. The only thing keeping you alive was mom. She needed you. Now she’s gone, and I gave myself time to make sure. I wanted to be calm and ready.” He stared and his father and blinked slowly, counting heartbeats in his chest. Behind Bob, a crane landed in the water, then changed its mind and took off again.
“Huh,” Bob said and sipped his beer. “Okay.” He put the can down between his feet.
Bob lunged at Tom, reaching for the gun. Tom leaned to the side, the boat lurching with the movement of the men. As Tom leaned over, he brought his forearm up and under his father’s chin. He pulled the trigger.
The .32 went off with the sound of a cherry bomb. The bullet tore into the underside of Bob’s jaw, just in front of the Adam’s apple, cut through the brain, skirted along the inside of his skull, and popped out of the back of his skull a split second later. Bob jerked and dropped on top of Tom, twitching.
“Ugh,” Tom grunted as the weight of his father landed on him. He pushed, half-raising out of his seat, and shoved the older man up and over the side of the boat. Bob flopped in the water hard, almost capsizing the boat and taking Tom with him. Blood trailed from his head and clouded in the water as the body sank. Tom picked up an oar and pushed his father down, jabbing at his back. The body sank faster, then was out of reach.
Tom put the oar back in the bottom of the boat then picked up the bucket of fish. He looked inside at the 4 bluegills, then poured them into the lake. He marveled that they immediately swam away, right through the dissipating cloud of his father’s blood. No pauses, no confusion.
He tossed the bucket in the pond, then pulled a medium size trash bag out of his inside coat pocket. He stripped and stuffed the clothes inside the bag, tossed the gun in the lake, and jumped into the water. Pulling the bag of clothes behind him, he swam toward shore. Under his family’s dock he pulled out a large Ziploc bag. He climbed out, opened the bag, put on the clothes inside and walked back to the house to get his car. He paused and turned once on the path to the house, looked at the lake, and was gone.
About the author
Gene Lass has been a professional writer and editor for more than 30 years, working in all forms of media from newspapers and magazines to books and blogs. He has written, edited, co-written, or contributed to more than a dozen books, and has published 9 books of poetry and two collection of short fiction. His most recent book of poetry, American was one of the Amazon Top 100 Books of American Poetry. His poetry has appeared in Every Day Poems and The Albatross. His fiction has appeared in The Albatross, KSquare, Electric Velocipede, Schlock!, Coffin Bell Journal, Black Petals, and Yellow Mama. His short story, “Fence Sitter” was nominated for Best of the Web in 2020.