It was cold and foggy, and
the wind whipped across the lake making the water lap against the
pier in a great slapping noise. I was twelve that bitter spring, and
the thaw that made such a beautiful day for my birthday the week
before had risen the lake to barely a few inches below our feet.
I only just met the man my mother called my father that morning. My sister Idie was eight, and delighted to meet the man Mother had referred to as Daddy all those years. I wasn’t convinced. What kind of man must he be to have abandoned his family? I’d been four years old the last time I’d seen him, and I didn’t recall him all that well. His name was Mortimer, so that’s what I called him. He was nothing to me.
“Yer a chip off th’ ole block, there, Hal.” he said as Mother hastily gathered his duffles and carried them up to the loft. He settled himself on a chair and lit a cigarette. “Remind me of myself at your age. Man o’ th’ house, eh?”
I sniffed. “That’s right.” He eyed me carefully, sizing up my ability to do the job, I suppose. “We’re doing just fine without you. What made you come back?”
“Harold!” my mother gasped from the stairs. “What kind of thing is that to say to your father?” She blushed at Mortimer in apology.
I shrugged. “I don’t know him from Pete.” I said. “How do I know he’s my father?”
Mortimer laughed heartily. “Don’t mind the boy, Pamela.” he told Mother, and patted my head as if I were a child. “He has every right to know. Well, Hal, truth is, I got t’ thinkin’ whilst I was out there all alone on my fishin’ boat ‘Damn, sure is cold and lonely out here. I got me a nice warm house and a family waitin’ on me.’ So, I sold the boat and hopped me the very first freighter out o’ there, and here I am.”
I shook my head. “What makes you think you’d be welcome here after eight years? Idie’s never known you, and I frankly can’t remember a damn thing about you, save you’re a fisherman.”
“Harold, I’m warning you!” Mother said, her voice lowered to that tone she used when she was preparing the whip. I stared at her, returning the admonition.
Mortimer shook his head. “Yep, chip right off th’ ole block.” he repeated. “Well, Champ, whaddaya say we gather up them poles by the door there and hit the lake.”
“Oh!” Mother exclaimed. “What a wonderful idea! I‘ll get my coat.” Mother had never been fishing a day in my life; I couldn’t imagine why she would want to go. Then again, I couldn’t imagine what she could have seen in the man sitting at the table that would make her want to have two children with him.
I laughed. “We won’t catch anything. It’s too cold. The bass are still hibernating at the bottom.”
“Reckon we’ll have to use sinker’s then.” he said, crushing his smoke into the ashtray and moving to the door to inspect the rods. He was tall and lanky, and he wore one of those old ratty hats and a denim jacket. His eyes were a cold, clear blue, wrinkled at the corners, and his hands were like leather, a reminder of a lifetime spent working out of doors. I couldn‘t imagine him being the fatherly type, like the ones I‘d read about that go off to work in the morning, come home for dinner, and sit cross legged at the dinner table with a pipe and newspaper. “Ought t’ replace the line on this one, my boy.”
“My name is Hal.” I threw over my shoulder, but I fetched the line from the cabinet in the corner and snatched the pole from him. “I’ll do it.” He shrugged, ambled toward the sofa, and pulled Idie into his lap.
It was Idie’s pole that needed the new line. It was a little shorter than mine, painted pink, and a little less flexible than your standard fishing rod. I bought it for her fifth birthday with my paper route money. I restrung the pole and set about inspecting the others.
Mortimer was playing I Spy with Idie. She was giggling and spying the many different colored buttons on her doll. I set my own pole against the door and looked at him. “Yer ready to go, then, Hal?” he asked. I nodded and went to the cabinet to get my tackle box.
A man is silent but loving, or so I read somewhere. That tackle box was my pride and joy, next to Idie, that is. I’d been saving for a new lure and finally bought it on my birthday. Grandfather had sent me two dollars in a first class envelope. I had just enough to buy the lure, a loaf of real bakery bread, and one of those big rainbow colored lollipops for Idie.
Mother was humming as she came down from the loft with her parka. She had Idie’s winter coat, and mine, draped over one arm. “Isn’t this lovely, Mort?” she asked. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. Mort? Jeez. “Da sent it to me from Boston. It’s fur.”
“Aye, Pammy, it’s right nice.” Mortimer replied. He grinned and helped her into it. “Hal, Idie, coats. Let’s to the lake.” Who talks like that?
It was still early. The sun hadn’t burned the fog from the murky waters of the lake. Mother and Idie cast their lines off the sides of the pier and stood there watching the tips of their poles like I’d told them. I stood at the front of the pier. A man fishes from the front of the pier. I was more than put out when Mortimer came to stand beside me and cast his line.
“Assuming we catch anything,” I muttered, “shall we throw it back, or keep it?”
“We keep it, boy,” Mortimer answered, “We’ll have us a fine bass supper.” I wanted to hit him. He would probably hand all the wet slimy fish to my mother or me to clean. Mother would spend an hour over the fire cooking them, we would eat in silence, then Idie and I would be sent off to bed while they spent the evening together. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him. Perhaps I wasn’t such a man after all. Perhaps a man would understand.
Idie was flopping her line about, and I could just see it getting caught in the grasses at the edge of the lake. I would have to go into the bitter cold water and untangle it. Of course, Mother would make me run back to the house and get dry clothes before I could continue fishing. They’d all come back while I was there, Mortimer carrying a big bass or two, singing some dumb fisherman song, with Mother on his arm and Idie riding on his shoulders. I whirled about.
“Idie, stop flopping that line. You’ll scare the fish.” I snapped. Idie turned to look at me, wide eyed and sullen.
“I’m sorry, Hal,” she whimpered, “I was just making it dance.”
“It’s not supposed to dance,” I told her, “it’s supposed to catch fish.”
Mortimer dropped his pole on the pier and made his way over to her. “There now, little darlin’,” he said, putting an arm around her, “Hal’s just tryin’ to catch us a good supper for tonight. Just hold th’ pole out like this see, that’s right, and maybe you’ll be th’ one catchin’ the supper, huh?”
Idie giggled. “Thanks, Daddy.”
It was silent for an hour or so. The only sound was that of the water slapping the pier. I was bored. I’d never been bored fishing before, but then, I knew when not to go out. Mortimer apparently did not have the education for fishing in our neck of the woods. He was a big boat fisherman, not a small side-of-the-lake fisherman.
I decided it was time to make a stand. I would tell him I simply wasn’t interested in having a father. I was a man now, and I really didn’t need one. I’d turned out just fine without him so far. Just then a jerk in my pole ripped me from my thoughts.
“I got one!” I screamed, excited despite myself. I cranked the reel for all I was worth. Mother and Idie were at my side, squealing and cheering me as I yanked and pulled and wound the reel. After a horrific battle, I pulled a huge bass from the water and held it up for them to see. “I can’t believe it!” I said in Mortimer’s general direction. Perhaps he was a professional fisherman after all.
He was just standing there, still watching his pole. He said nothing. The excitement in my mother’s beautiful green eyes faded to dullness. “Mort, your son just caught supper. Maybe you could say something.” she chided.
He didn’t move, as if he was frozen in that spot. I moved over next to him. “Mortimer, we can go home now and start cleaning this fish.” I said. I reached out to take his pole from him. Still, he didn’t move. I looked up into his face. It was ashen, his clear icy blue eyes were open, staring out into the lake. “Mortimer? Mother!”
Mother stood behind me. “Oh, my.” She grabbed Idie and ran off the pier onto the path that led to our house. I jerked the pole from Mortimer’s hands and his stiff body fell backward onto the wooden slats.
“Mortimer?” I shook him. He was like ice. Try as I might, I couldn’t stir him. A man would check for a pulse, I told myself. I reached for his wrist. Nothing. I pushed my fingers into the rigid skin of his neck. Nothing. The man was dead, it was as simple as that.
A man would be allowed to talk to the sheriff and the coroner. A man wouldn’t be confined to his room, sprawling on the bed, reading a book when they came to the house. A man would be out there, sitting at the table with them, discussing what is to be done. I heard them say Mortimer had no papers on him, no positive identification save my mother’s recollection of him.
My tackle box still sat at the foot of my bed. I opened it. My prize lures, my whole beautiful collection, each piece was carefully arranged. There was a small pill bottle tied to a lure I’d never seen before. The label said it was Mortimer’s. Inside was a slip of paper. I opened the bottle and pulled it out.
I only just met the man my mother called my father that morning. My sister Idie was eight, and delighted to meet the man Mother had referred to as Daddy all those years. I wasn’t convinced. What kind of man must he be to have abandoned his family? I’d been four years old the last time I’d seen him, and I didn’t recall him all that well. His name was Mortimer, so that’s what I called him. He was nothing to me.
“Yer a chip off th’ ole block, there, Hal.” he said as Mother hastily gathered his duffles and carried them up to the loft. He settled himself on a chair and lit a cigarette. “Remind me of myself at your age. Man o’ th’ house, eh?”
I sniffed. “That’s right.” He eyed me carefully, sizing up my ability to do the job, I suppose. “We’re doing just fine without you. What made you come back?”
“Harold!” my mother gasped from the stairs. “What kind of thing is that to say to your father?” She blushed at Mortimer in apology.
I shrugged. “I don’t know him from Pete.” I said. “How do I know he’s my father?”
Mortimer laughed heartily. “Don’t mind the boy, Pamela.” he told Mother, and patted my head as if I were a child. “He has every right to know. Well, Hal, truth is, I got t’ thinkin’ whilst I was out there all alone on my fishin’ boat ‘Damn, sure is cold and lonely out here. I got me a nice warm house and a family waitin’ on me.’ So, I sold the boat and hopped me the very first freighter out o’ there, and here I am.”
I shook my head. “What makes you think you’d be welcome here after eight years? Idie’s never known you, and I frankly can’t remember a damn thing about you, save you’re a fisherman.”
“Harold, I’m warning you!” Mother said, her voice lowered to that tone she used when she was preparing the whip. I stared at her, returning the admonition.
Mortimer shook his head. “Yep, chip right off th’ ole block.” he repeated. “Well, Champ, whaddaya say we gather up them poles by the door there and hit the lake.”
“Oh!” Mother exclaimed. “What a wonderful idea! I‘ll get my coat.” Mother had never been fishing a day in my life; I couldn’t imagine why she would want to go. Then again, I couldn’t imagine what she could have seen in the man sitting at the table that would make her want to have two children with him.
I laughed. “We won’t catch anything. It’s too cold. The bass are still hibernating at the bottom.”
“Reckon we’ll have to use sinker’s then.” he said, crushing his smoke into the ashtray and moving to the door to inspect the rods. He was tall and lanky, and he wore one of those old ratty hats and a denim jacket. His eyes were a cold, clear blue, wrinkled at the corners, and his hands were like leather, a reminder of a lifetime spent working out of doors. I couldn‘t imagine him being the fatherly type, like the ones I‘d read about that go off to work in the morning, come home for dinner, and sit cross legged at the dinner table with a pipe and newspaper. “Ought t’ replace the line on this one, my boy.”
“My name is Hal.” I threw over my shoulder, but I fetched the line from the cabinet in the corner and snatched the pole from him. “I’ll do it.” He shrugged, ambled toward the sofa, and pulled Idie into his lap.
It was Idie’s pole that needed the new line. It was a little shorter than mine, painted pink, and a little less flexible than your standard fishing rod. I bought it for her fifth birthday with my paper route money. I restrung the pole and set about inspecting the others.
Mortimer was playing I Spy with Idie. She was giggling and spying the many different colored buttons on her doll. I set my own pole against the door and looked at him. “Yer ready to go, then, Hal?” he asked. I nodded and went to the cabinet to get my tackle box.
A man is silent but loving, or so I read somewhere. That tackle box was my pride and joy, next to Idie, that is. I’d been saving for a new lure and finally bought it on my birthday. Grandfather had sent me two dollars in a first class envelope. I had just enough to buy the lure, a loaf of real bakery bread, and one of those big rainbow colored lollipops for Idie.
Mother was humming as she came down from the loft with her parka. She had Idie’s winter coat, and mine, draped over one arm. “Isn’t this lovely, Mort?” she asked. I swallowed the bile that rose in my throat. Mort? Jeez. “Da sent it to me from Boston. It’s fur.”
“Aye, Pammy, it’s right nice.” Mortimer replied. He grinned and helped her into it. “Hal, Idie, coats. Let’s to the lake.” Who talks like that?
It was still early. The sun hadn’t burned the fog from the murky waters of the lake. Mother and Idie cast their lines off the sides of the pier and stood there watching the tips of their poles like I’d told them. I stood at the front of the pier. A man fishes from the front of the pier. I was more than put out when Mortimer came to stand beside me and cast his line.
“Assuming we catch anything,” I muttered, “shall we throw it back, or keep it?”
“We keep it, boy,” Mortimer answered, “We’ll have us a fine bass supper.” I wanted to hit him. He would probably hand all the wet slimy fish to my mother or me to clean. Mother would spend an hour over the fire cooking them, we would eat in silence, then Idie and I would be sent off to bed while they spent the evening together. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him. Perhaps I wasn’t such a man after all. Perhaps a man would understand.
Idie was flopping her line about, and I could just see it getting caught in the grasses at the edge of the lake. I would have to go into the bitter cold water and untangle it. Of course, Mother would make me run back to the house and get dry clothes before I could continue fishing. They’d all come back while I was there, Mortimer carrying a big bass or two, singing some dumb fisherman song, with Mother on his arm and Idie riding on his shoulders. I whirled about.
“Idie, stop flopping that line. You’ll scare the fish.” I snapped. Idie turned to look at me, wide eyed and sullen.
“I’m sorry, Hal,” she whimpered, “I was just making it dance.”
“It’s not supposed to dance,” I told her, “it’s supposed to catch fish.”
Mortimer dropped his pole on the pier and made his way over to her. “There now, little darlin’,” he said, putting an arm around her, “Hal’s just tryin’ to catch us a good supper for tonight. Just hold th’ pole out like this see, that’s right, and maybe you’ll be th’ one catchin’ the supper, huh?”
Idie giggled. “Thanks, Daddy.”
It was silent for an hour or so. The only sound was that of the water slapping the pier. I was bored. I’d never been bored fishing before, but then, I knew when not to go out. Mortimer apparently did not have the education for fishing in our neck of the woods. He was a big boat fisherman, not a small side-of-the-lake fisherman.
I decided it was time to make a stand. I would tell him I simply wasn’t interested in having a father. I was a man now, and I really didn’t need one. I’d turned out just fine without him so far. Just then a jerk in my pole ripped me from my thoughts.
“I got one!” I screamed, excited despite myself. I cranked the reel for all I was worth. Mother and Idie were at my side, squealing and cheering me as I yanked and pulled and wound the reel. After a horrific battle, I pulled a huge bass from the water and held it up for them to see. “I can’t believe it!” I said in Mortimer’s general direction. Perhaps he was a professional fisherman after all.
He was just standing there, still watching his pole. He said nothing. The excitement in my mother’s beautiful green eyes faded to dullness. “Mort, your son just caught supper. Maybe you could say something.” she chided.
He didn’t move, as if he was frozen in that spot. I moved over next to him. “Mortimer, we can go home now and start cleaning this fish.” I said. I reached out to take his pole from him. Still, he didn’t move. I looked up into his face. It was ashen, his clear icy blue eyes were open, staring out into the lake. “Mortimer? Mother!”
Mother stood behind me. “Oh, my.” She grabbed Idie and ran off the pier onto the path that led to our house. I jerked the pole from Mortimer’s hands and his stiff body fell backward onto the wooden slats.
“Mortimer?” I shook him. He was like ice. Try as I might, I couldn’t stir him. A man would check for a pulse, I told myself. I reached for his wrist. Nothing. I pushed my fingers into the rigid skin of his neck. Nothing. The man was dead, it was as simple as that.
A man would be allowed to talk to the sheriff and the coroner. A man wouldn’t be confined to his room, sprawling on the bed, reading a book when they came to the house. A man would be out there, sitting at the table with them, discussing what is to be done. I heard them say Mortimer had no papers on him, no positive identification save my mother’s recollection of him.
My tackle box still sat at the foot of my bed. I opened it. My prize lures, my whole beautiful collection, each piece was carefully arranged. There was a small pill bottle tied to a lure I’d never seen before. The label said it was Mortimer’s. Inside was a slip of paper. I opened the bottle and pulled it out.
Harold, my son, by the
time you read this, with a little luck and the grace of God, I will
be dead. I was a good father when you were a little boy, or so I
thought. My only regret was that you were far too young to take
fishing. My father always said a man and his son bonded over the rod
and reel. My boat was not sold, it was repossessed. I could never
catch enough to pay the loan. I know nothing else. I have always been
a fisherman. Take care of your mother and sister. You are more of a
man at twelve than I was at twenty two. I know you don’t remember
me. You were so young when I left. But if you remember nothing else
through all your days, remember this. Your father loved you, son. I
couldn’t be prouder. You’re the man of the house, now and
forever. Take care. Your father, Mortimer.
I sat back on my haunches and let big tears roll down my cheeks. Mother peeked in the door. “I’m the man of the house,” I cried. “I’m the man of the house!”
I sat back on my haunches and let big tears roll down my cheeks. Mother peeked in the door. “I’m the man of the house,” I cried. “I’m the man of the house!”