What This River Keeps: A Novel

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE F rank sat astraddle the three-wheeler and followed the forlorn trail into the woods. He drove slowly, the bumps and ruts ofthe path traveling up through the tires and suspension and shaking his sinewy frame and bones. It was morning and ifrain were to begin falling it would surprise no one, least of all himself Gray clouds hung over his head, pressed low by God or whomever. He studied his fields, green, growing and whistling in the early morning breeze. Seated atop the machine he could no longer look across the tops of the corn. Some of it had yellowed where rainwater had pooled but it might come out ofthat yet. And now into the woods, where the change felt palpable, like driving under the coolness of a waterfall. Sprouts ofbriars and saplings lined the trail, and leaves and soil made from centuries of dead leaves supported the tires as the three-wheeler further ground the loam into powder. When he reached the bend in the river he slowed the engine and shut it down. He watched the current roll into the bend, eddy here beneath his feet, and then wash downstream. It wasn't hard to imagine where the fish would be. There, on the cusp ofthat eddy, where the water swirled back upriver past the exposed roots of the old sycamore tree. Over there, under that partially submerged pile ofjagged concrete from the old back step they'd broken up and hauled down here over twenty years ago. And out there, where the ripple broke down into the deepest water of the hole. All good spots to fish, and they'd yielded catfish more times than a man could count, but he carried no pole today. Instead he perched on the three-wheeler parked above the steep rise ofthe bank and watched the river slip by, the current constantly different in its swirlings. A circling vortex might hold your attention for some time, only to disappear when you looked away. A reliable string ofbubbles trailing behind a leaf-draped limb might last for minutes before the last bubble floated away without replacement. The river rose and fell within minutes, and the water went up and down in ways that humans couldn't see or understand. On the inside bend of this same hole he'd camped with his son many years ago and they'd caught a giant soft-shelled turtle. And had it been that night when the boy woke so scared of coyotes? Yes, he remembered it all. It was a damned shame he hadn't made time for more camping. He didn't know if anything would've turned out differently ifhe had, but it would've been a good thing to try. Chub's house had been sitting empty since the funeral, he figured. Couldn't hurt to swing by there later today and check on the place. He wondered what Charles had done with the old boat, the truck, the catfishing rods and reels. 237 238 Greg Schwipps By birthright, all of that gear belonged to Chub's son now and that had to make sense even when it didn't. No doubt Charles would hire someone to hold an estate sale at the house. Everything in the garage-the mowers, the fishing tackle, the damn tillerwould be sold at an auction. Then the worn-out furniture would go, followed by the house and the property itself. He thought of the bidders standing in the garage where Chub had fallen and pawing through his left-behind junk. The more he considered this the surer he became that he should drive out there today and take those rods and reels from the garage. It'd be locked to guard against thieves, but he knew where Chub hid a spare key. No sense in letting his rods and reels go to some stranger who had no idea what they were worth. The old boy had taken care ofhis reels, and they'd last another fifty years in the hands of somebody who knew how to use them. If Chub had taken out a will, he would've wanted Frank to get them, anyway, so no one was going to tell him they weren't rightfully his. It was too bad about Chub, though, dying when he did. At the meeting, he would've liked that line about fancy fuckers. Once the plan had been stopped they would've laughed about that...