999_ Twenty-Nine Original Tales of Horror and Suspense - Al Sarrantonio [125]
Hop grimaced. “Hush up about that! It’s bad enough my woman’s got me out here without you goin’ on about catfish eatin’ daid folks!”
“Sorry. I didn’t realize you was sensitive on the subject.” After another stretch of silence, Sammy nodded towards the guitar. “So—if you’re here to fish, why the git-box?”
“Man can do more than one thing at a time, can’t he?”
“I reckon so—but I don’t recommend it. You’ll scare off the fish.”
“Mebbe I’ll just charm me a catfish gal instead.” Hop grinned.
“If anyone could, I reckon it’d be you.” Sammy sighed as he reeled in his line. “Well, I caught me enough for one day. I better get on home so’s I can clean this mess of crappies in time for supper. Good luck on charming them catfish gals, Hop. Y’all take care.
“Y’all too, Sammy,” Hop replied absently, his gaze fixed on the river.
* * *
Hop had to admit that being out in the sunshine on a day like today wasn’t all that bad. It wasn’t too hot and there was a nice breeze coming off the water … plus, there was the added advantage of being out of his woman’s line of sight.
Lucinda was far from an easy woman to please, and an even harder one to live with when riled. And she was most always riled. Hop knew the signs well enough by now to realize that his days of leisure at the feisty Miz Solomon’s expense were drawing to their close, but he didn’t like to jump ship unless he had a new girlfriend lined up. Unfortunately, for a man of his tastes and inclinations, Flyjar didn’t have much in the way of available lady folk for him to choose from—so it looked like he was going to have to make do with Lucinda for a while longer. At least Steamboat Bend was remote enough that the chances of Luanda’s actually finding how hard he was—or wasn’t—working at making sure there would be supper on the table come sundown were in his favor.
Hop pulled a forked stick from his tackle box and wedged it between the loose planks of the dock. After baiting the hook, he cast the line into the murky waters and propped the reel against the stick. Keeping one eye on the bobber, Hop leaned against the nearby wooden pylon and picked up his guitar.
There was not a time in his memory when music didn’t come easy to him. Ever since he was knee-high, he’d been able to make a guitar do whatever it was he wanted of it. It was pretty much the same with women, too. Playing guitar came as natural to him as breathing and eating—and felt a lot more pleasant than chopping cotton or driving a tractor.
Hop scanned the deceptively calm surface of the river. It was so wide the current’s strength was difficult to gauge with the naked eye. The only way to figure out just how powerful the river truly was was by the size of the driftwood and the speed at which it went past. There were days when full-grown oak trees raced one another to the Gulf of Mexico. Today was relatively placid, with only a few deadfalls the size of railroad ties headed downriver.
Hop found his mind turning once again to the story Sammy had told him. Not about the catfish gals—that was pure hokum if ever he heard it. What piqued his imagination was the Delta Blossom. Hop wondered what it must have been like back in those days, when the steamboats cruised the river, bringing glamour and wealth to pissant little towns like Flyjar.
To think that one of the grandest of the old paddlewheelers had come to its end a stone’s throw from where he was sitting, taking all its splendor to the Mississippi’s silty floor. All Hop had ever seen gracing the river were flat-bottomed barges and the occasional freighter or small leisure craft. These were hardly the kinds of boats that sparked the imagination and quickened the heart. Folks didn’t flock to the levees just to watch a barge pass by.
Hop wondered if there was still anything left of the old Delta Blossom at the bottom of Steamboat Bend. There was no way to know. What secrets the river held it did not give up readily. Still, it didn’t keep him from