On the third Friday in June, right around four, John came chugging up the river, piloting his old bass boat to a wooden dock that was not far from my house.  He was still sporting his Forest Service duds, though he had finished work two hours ago.  His day, like any other, was fairly straight-forward: he checked fishing licenses and access permits; he surveyed the water for gator nests and for people, other than himself, who might be too boozed up to safely operate a boat.  He brought it in close, cut the engine, then let it drift towards the planking.  It was only then, with the boat so close that I saw, back by the transom, a small white umbrella carefully stowed by the engine, a woman’s umbrella, and knew, of course, that it belonged to Missy Gardiner, a woman recently hired to work the visitors’ station. 
     “Sorry I’m late,” he said, looping a line around a dock pin. 
     “No need to be sorry,” I said. 
     He stepped up and helped load the fishing tackle I’d brought with me—a rod and two reels, a collection of lures (white spinners mainly), a bag of ice (now half melted), and an extra spool of eight pound test, just in case.  When we had my gear loaded and the ice dumped into the live well (optimists as we were), he looked at me, his eyes holding a darkness I’d only recently seen in them. “You got to be back by any particular time?” he asked. 
     “I’m meeting Hannah for dinner,” I said, “if that’s what you mean.” 
     “So things between you and Hannah are still on?” 
     “Sure enough,” I said.  “And I’d like to keep it that way.” 
     He eased into the engine, a 10 horsepower Merc, running us out into the river.  As he got us up and going I glanced down at the white, somewhat feminine umbrella, carelessly dropped at the back of the boat, then looked away.  “You been drinking?” I asked. 
     “Enough to think some things through,” he said. 
     “Think through what?” I asked. 
     “Usual things.  Like what’d happen if I skipped town, changed my name, and lived incognito the rest of my life.  You know, married-man-thoughts.” 
     “I’m glad you’ve settled down and have begun to look at the realistic possibilities.  That’s a big step in the right direction.” 
     “I think so too,” he said.  “Last week I was merely thinking about a trial separation or perhaps about going on vacation.” 
     “Vacation,” I said, “by yourself?” 
     “No,” he said.  “With Sam.  Thought maybe we could work things out if we got out of town.  Crazy thought, I know, but I’ve thought it.” 
     “Didn’t know you were thinking like that?” 
     “Truth is,” he said, “I’d like nothing more than to go away, maybe up to Keyser Springs, and to come back feeling good.  Only problem, don’t know how to make things better once we get there.  If it wasn’t for the details, I’d have life figured out by now.” 
      He cut the motor and let us drift a ways.  Above us Live Oaks arched over the water, Spanish moss hanging like gauze from their branches; mixed in were a fair number of swamp pines, and towards the ground a prickly shrub I could not name. There was nothing but the sound of water and the sound of a breeze.  Nothing but us and the river and the fish we hoped to catch—nothing, except for the odd gator, an occasional manatee, possibly a snake or two stupid enough to wander away from dry land.  I turned to face him, and as I did I saw the white umbrella, as convicting as a fingerprint.  He was the worst kind of criminal, a criminal in need of confession and unsure how to get it. 
     “About those details,” I began, “is one of them that you’re sleeping with Missy Gardiner?” 
     He looked at me, as if he had not expected this question, though of course he had.  “Been thinking about it,” he said, “but haven’t yet.”  He handed me a lure (one of my trusty white spinners) then took another for himself, a number designed to look like a cricket.  He was an odd, practical man, a man much like my father had been: he could not talk seriously without doing something else along with it (like fishing) and acting as though the talk were nothing more than idle conversation to pass time between fish bites.  We cast off, side-armed, aiming for the shallows, beneath the shade of trees where big mouth bass (the laziest of all fish) like to lie.  Daybreak and evenings, as anyone around here can tell you, are the best times to fish, because the damn bass are more active then, but even during the hottest of afternoons, fair fishermen (as we liked to picture ourselves) should land at least one honest catch with a bit of luck and a nicely tied lure. 
     With our lines trailing (as we were drifting down river), he said, “I’d like nothing more than to go tooling up to Keyser Springs, spend a week with Sam, get things good between us, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.  Don’t think I could talk her into going.  And if I could, don’t think it’d do much good.  I just get so damn lonely thinking Sam and I are on this long road to nowhere and that I might find a little piece of happiness if I’d sleep with Missy Gardiner.”  He wound in his reel, the wooden cricket bubbling up with nothing more than river moss fixed around its hook.  “You know what that’s like?” 
     “Only a little,” I said.  “Hannah and I haven’t reached that point yet.” 
     “That’s the difference between being thirty and being forty,” he said.  “At thirty my life still had a little of that hopeful haze.  At forty, that haze is all but gone, and I can see how, if I was only halfway smart, I might’ve done things different.  I suppose I would’ve gone down another path entirely.  Fifteen years ago Sam and I might’ve separated with the dumb compassion of kids, all kisses and handshakes.  But I’m beyond that now, and I have to make the best of everything.  That’s what forty means, I think, pulling together what you’ve got and giving it your best because it’s a long hard haul until the end.  It means finding whatever love you got in your life and making it good, which is why I’d like to go up to the Springs.” 
     “If that’s what forty means,” I said, “I’m entirely unprepared.  I have enough trouble as it is.” 
     “That’s the beauty of it,” he said.  “No one’s prepared.”  He cast out again, the zing of his line unwinding across water then the ker-plop of his lure going down into the soup.  “I’ll tell you this though.  Books will save you.  They’ll give you options, and if you’re lucky they’ll help you sort out the choices.” 
     “You have been drinking,” I said. 
     “No, I’m serious,” he insisted.  “If more people read books, we’d all be better off Movies are the biggest sack of bullshit I ever seen.” 
     “Not all of them,” I replied. 
     “Most all.  They teach you the wrong things about growing up and getting older.  It’s all about style and flash and working yourself into a place like where I am now.” 
      “So Hollywood flicks are the scapegoat of the week, are they?” 
      “Pretty much,” he said, his voice drawing low and crackling, as if he realized the foolishness of what he had just said.  The sun was getting hot—especially on my neck and arms—and the air was thick with an evening humidity.  “I’ll tell you this, though.  I love how Missy looks at me, just out the corner of her eyes, a quick little glance while she’s fixing things up at the visitor’s center.  It’s real nice being looked at like that.  I wish Sam would look at me that way again.  It’d be nice, even if it only lasted a little while.” 
     I cast out again, aiming for a shady patch, but missed, my lure sinking into a section of eel grass that housed nothing but brim and mud turtles, neither or which I fancied at the end of my line.  I started to feel little tugs, but knew it was nothing but vegetation, so I wound in quickly.  There’s nothing worse than loosing a perfectly good lure without a fish to show for it.  “What if you just put Sam in the car, drove up to Keyser Springs,” I said, “didn’t tell her where you were going until you were on the road.” 
     “Would something like that work with Hannah?” 
     “Probably not,” I said. 
     “Don’t see Sam falling for it either.  I’d probably find myself locked up on charges of kidnapping,” he said.  “Or worse.” 
      “Wouldn’t be that bad,” I said. 
      “That,” he said, “is the talk of someone who’s still thirty.” 
      “And that,” I said, “is a full bore cop out.”  I set my pole into a wedge, so I could reach into the cooler, maybe catch up to the blissful, buzzy world he presently inhabited.  He was looking out at the water, a visible slack in his body (poor fishing form), and cast out towards a small private dock, another likely place to find large mouth bass.  After I found a beer and opened it, I kicked back and looked down the river, past docks and rock markers, past old river trees (here since Lee led the locals north ), past wooden signs which simply stated, “Caution Manatee Area.”  John had gone back to fishing and was content to keep to himself. 
       By the time we reached Three Dock Point,  I had settled into another round of fishing as well, thinking of the bass I would, with luck, bring home, maybe as a peace offering between Hannah and myself.  John no doubt was thinking of other, more important things so he wouldn’t have to think about them later that night.  We had not caught any fish but had had a few strikes, a few bass curious about our lures.  Bass are territorial and will strike almost anything in their particular patch of water.  I looked back at John every now and then, checking on him, and saw how the empties were piling up around the motor. 
     We floated down past small Ma and Pa canoe rental joints, past an inlet where kids swung out on a rope and went ass-over-teakettle down into the drink, past a small Hispanic man who stood on the bank and hawked sodas and boiled peanuts (an item I had not known even existed before moving South), past homes and picnic areas, past two riverside restaurants, past Avery’s Point where Arnold, a gator having lost his natural shyness of people, would paddle over to small boats and beg for hand-outs.  When we were a good ways down stream, where the water was deep and where, if I stood, I could take a fair gander at the Gulf, the way its blue-and-gray sheen curved over the earth, John brought in his pole and set it across the boat.  He was sad and pretty damn looped, not a good combination for anyone.  He took on this long hound dog expression as though he were going to tell me some bit of news I did not really want to hear: his wife had run home to her parents in Idaho or, perhaps, he had in fact slept with the lovely Miss Missy who now ran the show down at visitors’ central. 
     “If I could do anything at all,” he finally said, “you know what I’d do?” 
      I turned to face him.  Behind us the river narrowed—on one side, a grassy park, on the other, a terrace bar called The Crawdad Pad.  I looked up there for a moment, catching sight of someone I knew, Barry Stone, a math prof down where I worke: he sat there gesturing with his hands in a way I believe is indicitive of recently divorced men.  “If I could do anything,” John said.  “I’d go back and start over with Sam.  I wouldn’t move to the South.  I’d go live in Washington D.C..  I think Sam would’ve come with me.  We might’ve done better for ourselves there.” 
     “Why D.C.?” I asked. 
     “Because,” he said, but before he could finish his thought, I noticed the woman sitting beside old Barry Stone.  I saw her, then because I didn’t believe it, needed to see her again.  It was John’s wife, Samantha, her hair pulled back into an attractive French twist, her chin resting on her fist, her whole body leaning into hear whatever old mushmouth Barry was going on about, most likely (if I knew Barry) something about Calculus and how if everyone could just learn to find the area under a curve the world would be a much better place.  I turned away as soon as I could, real natural, trying to save John from something he shouldn’t see.  He made it as far as, “as a lobbyist, I could’ve done a lot more for the Forest Service,” before he turned to see his wife, wearing a pretty cotton dress, her and Barry at a riverside bar, where from the looks of things they had been for a quite a while.  As we watched, she lifted her glass, half full with white wine, and sipped it.  Neither of them looked down towards the water. 
     John, I saw, was trying not to tense up, his hands still loose around his pole, his shoulders slouched, but he looked down at the water for one telling moment, wishing we had not come this way.  “Just Barry Stone,” he said, as though the situation were something other than what it was. 
     “Yes,” I said, because he’d want me to believe that, “just Barry Stone.  Your poor wife is probably being bored to death right now.” 
     He tried to laugh at this, letting out a short Haw which was a little too loud.  “If there’s one person I’d hate to work with,” he said, “it’s Barry Stone.” 
     We agreed, in our silent way then, to pretend what we saw was just a business affair, two people chatting over drinks.  John’s wife was a high school counselor and had estlabished a transfer program between her school and the college.  We looked over the water and tried to hold ourselves with a certain dignity which kept us friends, and if lucky, John married.  It was a terrible thing to see, a man’s wife out with another man, the two of them casual as could be, but we had seen it and needed to (at least in this case) forget about it. 
      “Don’t know who I feel more sorry for,” he said because we had been quiet too long, “Sam or Barry.” 
     “You feel sorry for Sam,” I said. 
      “Yes,” he said, “I probably do.” 
      He reached into the cooler and pulled out two beers, passing one to me, small rings of ice stuck to its sides.  I opened it, releasing spray, then took two swallows.  “You’re lucky to have Hannah,” he said, but I did not say anything back because I knew, if things kept going the way they were, I might not have her much longer.  This thought, more than the others, made me sad.  A mullet, as we watched, popped from the river then came down hard, a trick designed to knock small worm-like parasites from its gills.  We waited to see it again, as mullets often perform this stunt repeatedly (once to loosen parasites, a second time to shake them free), but saw only the smooth surface, the water holding the blurred reflection of clouds and, off towards the bank, a thicket of sweet gums and oaks.  John turned on the trolling motor, a small electric engine quiet enough not to scare fish, and guided us down stream, far from The Crawdad Pad, where we could be by ourselves again and believe our world might eventually be all right, though it was a thin illusion at best. 
     We fished using new lures, me with another white spinner, him with a number called a silver spoon, a curved piece of metal that, when pulled through water, was supposed to swim like a small wounded fish (easy pickings for bass).  Already it was evening.  Fish could be had almost anywhere, if only we weren’t so quick or tense with our poles.  John tossed out his line, then sat there staring into the flow, waiting for a strike, as if a good catch might somehow save his life—a fair-sized fish he could carry home and feel that, at least for a few brief moments, life was still good.   “Come on, big mouth,” I heard him whisper.  “Come on, you damn fish.” 
     I sat there looking at the water, trying to see my white spinner and any fish that might be curious.  As I did, I also thought about Hannah.  I pictured her on my front porch swing, her legs crossed beneath her, a thin gold chain (which I’d given her) around her neck.  I knew, though, I’d probably find her inside when I got home, flipping through magazines (something she didn’t used to do) because the ease between us had lessened, replaced by a more routine (but still comforting) type of companionship. 
     We fished for another twenty or so minutes—enough time for John to prove something and for Barry and Sam to leave—then turned the boat around and began to motor home, all hopes of landing a keeper gone.  We passed the same things we had earlier, though the swimming holes were empty and The Crawdad Pad was filled with different people.  John, I saw, was doing his best to keep himself together, just looking out at the river, staying free of eel grass, drag weed, and driftwood that strayed down stream.  He looked north, perhaps towards faraway Keyser Springs, which no longer held the possibilities he had wanted it to hold.  He and his wife had hoped a baby might make things better, though that had not happened, and now they were here, in a place they had not wanted to be. 
     When we got to my dock, I said, “Sure you don’t want me to follow you home?” 
     “Naw,” he said.  “I’ll be good.” 
     “What are you doing tonight?” I asked, taking my tackle from his boat.  I set my rod and reels on the dock, then reached in for my collection of lures. 
     “Might go see a movie,” he said.  “Have a couple drinks then catch a flick.” 
     “You don’t want to go by yourself,” I said.  “You can come up to my place.  Hannah and I are just going to end up watching a video.”  This, of course, was a lie, but one I could’ve arranged (in a quiet, hush-hush way) with her. 
     “No,” he said.  “I haven’t seen a movie by myself since I was a kid.  It might be nice to do that again.”  He looked away then, a distant sadness moving across his face. 
     “Still,” I offered, “if you change your mind, call.” 
     “That’s me,” he said, “the calling fool.”  He revved up the motor, iridescent smoke rising around us, then let it idle out.  He waited a moment, as if he had something important to tell me, but he only offered a short piece of advice before he left: “You should be sure about what you want before you go and do it,” he said.  He pulled away, keeping the motor at a good manageable speed (a difficult thing to do at that moment, I imagine) then, when he was in the middle of the river, opened her up, the sound of the engine deep and loud, almost echoing, and cut a path home.  He did not look back, just sat there, the front of his boat (without me as weight) rising out of the water, but if he had looked, he might have seen me for who I was, a small displaced man (who like him) had moved here late in life and hoped to move on soon, a man who had trouble settling down and who, at one time, had been a short story writer, a wanderer, a half-hearted grad student, a man who was in love with a woman and was hoping things would stay that way. 
     When I could no longer see his boat, I took my gear and headed home. 
 

Pierce home page 

Smoke, Part 1 

Smoke, Part 2  

Dinner at Charlie's, Part 2 

Dinner at Charlie's, Part 3 

The Last Good Night