Round Rock - Michelle Huneven [59]
“Whatcha got over there?” the man called.
When nobody answered, he said something to his wife and kids, then started toward Red’s group. He squeezed into their circle between Joe and the old man. “Freshwater eel,” he said, glancing at Joe. “You caught this?”
Joe looked from Red to Libby to Lewis and said nothing.
The man unsheathed a knife on his belt and crouched down, the blade as bright and clear as a mirror. He flicked the side of the eel with the tip.
“What the—?” Lewis blurted.
“Used to see these all the time in Asia.” He grunted, edging forward, and lowered his foot onto the eel’s head. “Ugly suckers.” With one strong, fluid pull, he sliced the eel in two. The uneven sections, head and tail, went crazy. Everyone hopped back. The man stood up and wiped the knife on his pantleg. “There you go.” He nodded gravely at Red, at Lewis, at the old man. Everyone kept backing away from him and the bloody, flopping eel halves. “Y’all have a good day now.”
They watched him rejoin his family. Then Libby reached down and lifted Joe’s pole from the dirt, the eel’s twitching head hanging from the hook. She took a pair of needle-nosed pliers from her back pocket, grasped the eel’s head, and began to pry the hook loose.
Red roused himself. “I can do that,” he said.
“Done,” said Libby, tossing the head into the lake. “And a free meal for the catfish.” Then she picked up the tail end and threw it in. “Dessert, too.” She rinsed her hands in the water and flicked the moisture off her fingers at Joe. “Some first fish,” she said.
AFTERWARD, Joe sat by himself on the rocks above the shore. Red let him be for half an hour, then climbed up. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Joe said.
“We can leave if you want.”
“I just need to think about it.”
Red went back to his casting, if only to demonstrate his continued faith in fishing, and caught another bluegill. As the sun gained strength, so did the wind. Lewis was in his chair reading a book. Libby, behind sunglasses, stared straight ahead, as if willing fish to her hook. The old guy down the way packed up his chair and poles and left, raising a hand in silent salute. Red wished Joe would start fishing again, but he just sat there above them, scratching a big rock with a little rock.
Suddenly, Libby leapt to her feet. “Here’s dinner,” she called, and pulled in a five-pound catfish as big as Red’s arm.
Joe came down to inspect it, crouching over the fish with Libby. Red couldn’t hear what they were saying, but as soon as Libby got the fish on a stringer, she stood up. “I don’t know about you other fisherpersons,” she said, “but Joe and I are going to have some brunch.”
They sat on quilts and Libby passed out bacon and egg-salad sandwiches. In this fresh air, Red’s hunger was shocking. His first sandwich was gone before anyone else’s was even unwrapped. Libby handed him another one. He restrained himself from devouring it on the spot by reaching into a bag of chicharrones, dipping a dry blistery rind into a carton of fresh salsa.
“Eee-ow, Dad,” Joe said. “You’re really going to eat that?”
“Why not?” Red said.
“They’re delicious.” Libby reached for a rind to prove it.
“Fat fried in fat,” Lewis said. “Makes my arteries harden just to look at them.”
The chicharrón, tasting faintly yet pleasantly like sweat, shattered in Red’s mouth. The salsa filled his eyes with tears. Libby handed Pepsis all around.
Stretching out, Red absently ate chicharrones and watched Lewis hesitate over the sandwich Libby offered. “Come on,” she said softly, “I know you like egg-salad sandwiches. That’s why I made them. But if you don’t want it, I’ll just throw it to the catfish.”
Red wanted to laugh out loud at Lewis’s recalcitrance—such a classic alcoholic need to control. Lewis had no trouble