What This River Keeps: A Novel

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER THREE T he act ofleaving-motoring upstream against the current and will of the river, trailering the boat, and throwing gear into the truck bedbroke the night's spell and made Frank worry about getting home to his wife. He left her alone many nights, even now, but always to fish. Still, Ethel was not as strong as she once was. Years ago they'd owned a dog they kept tied to the barn, but it'd died a long time ago and these days there was nothing around to protect her. He hadn't worried all those hours they'd been fishing, but now they weren't, and he just wanted to get home and make sure she was all right. Frank took Chub to his house but couldn't leave until he'd looked at his old garden tiller. Frank knew the routine-Chub would find anything he could to postpone being left alone. Even though Frank was tired and knew she'd be waiting lunch on him, he had to take a look, at least. Chub had been talking about his tiller the entire drive home. "It ran fine last week but now the old girl is actin like she got fed bad gas," Chub was saying. "Yesterday I couldn't start it." They walked through the side door into the garage that sat slightly behind and to the right ofhis house. It was a two-car garage with dented and faded metal doors. Chub lifted the big doors overhead, grunting with each one. Here came the midday sun into the place. The garage smelled ofoil and gas. On one side he kept his boat-a jon boat like Frank's. A sixteen footer with a big dent in the side. They hadn't fished in it yet this summer because he'd let the registration expire. The Conservation officers rarely checked the river around here, but you never knew. On the other side ofthe garage he'd built a workbench. You couldn't see a flat spot on it. It sat heaped with old belts and parts from different machines. There was, among other things, the front of an oscillating fan and the motor from a push mower, leaning offkilter on its shaft. The wood ofthe bench was black from grease. It would never look like wood again. In front of the workbench stood his tiller and two riding lawnmowers, neither of which ran well. He left his Dodge truck outside in the elements. Only a tornado could do further damage to it. The men paused over the tiller and Frank bent to inspect the engine. The tiller was probably fifty years old and some ancestor of Chub's had built it. The frame had been welded together solidly enough that it'd withstood the gardens offifty seasons, but now maybe the motor was worn out. Frank took off the spark plug wire and scraped the circular end with his pocketknife blade. He opened the fuel tank and sniffed the gas. It smelled normal. He removed the air filter cover and knocked the foam on the side of the frame. Dust flew. 22 What This River Keeps 23 "You got a screwdriver?" he asked. Chub got one and he twisted the cap offthe oil reservoir. It was filthy black but high enough. "Hell if I know," Frank said. "Why don't you try to start it?" Chub propped one foot on the frame and the tiller leaned under his weight. He pulled the starter rope. The motor turned over but didn't catch. After one pull Frank could hear that the motor was fine and would probably start. Two pulls later, it did. It popped loudly in the small garage. Chub pulled the throttle lever back and the motor revved. White smoke from the burning oil piled around them. 'TIl be damned," Chub yelled over the noise. "Why don't you go get them fish and I'll sit here and watch it." Chub nodded and got down a five gallon bucket that hung from a nail on a rafter. Frank watched as he walked out toward the boat and opened the livewell. He pressed his gut against the gunnel and reached in and lipped the catfish one at a time and dropped them headfirst into the dry bucket. He got three out and Frank laughed as he struggled to catch the last one. It had more room in the livewell now and was able...