Get 'em Young, Treat 'em Tough, Tell 'em Nothing by Robin McLean

Author:Robin McLean
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Stories;short stories;poverty;real-life;Alaska;West;American West;America;USA;Cormac McCarthy;Pynchon;Rifles;Revolvers;Mules;John Wayne;Howard Hawks;John Ford;Roy Rogers;Red State;Deplorable;Rural;Civil War;Redneck;Blue Collar;pickup truck;country;folk
Publisher: And Other Stories Publishing
Published: 2022-08-19T22:02:09+00:00

‌Cat

The man fished in a very small creek in the woods at the edge of town. He wore khakis and a canvas hat for ticks. His nylon line looped out to the middle of the still, muddy water, tied to a bobber. When the bobber bobbed and the line got taut, the man snapped up on the rod to set the hook. Sometimes a boy from town came by, or a girl. They stood to chat with the man about where they were off to, to dig for treasure or climb trees or write love letters. They watched the man work. Sometimes he shared hard cheese sandwiches on rye, corn chips, or orange soda from the tailgate. Sometimes it was a slim silver fish on the line and he would cut its throat and keep fishing, but often it was a fat brown fish on the line and he would cut its throat and keep fishing. This went on. The kids came and went with balls and bats, flippers and masks for the beach. The trees were thick and green.

He flung the silver fish and brown fish in separate baskets, blood on the sides.

One boy came who said he lived on the beach in a tent.

“That so?” said the man.

“Just in the summer,” said the boy.

The line was slack. The water bubbled near the bobber.

“Summer is good,” said the man. “Free to sleep anywhere,” and the boy agreed.

“Ah,” said the man, snapping his rod up.

“I think you’ve got a big one on,” said the boy, leaning out, pointing over the water, then squatting, bracing his knees, picking his braces, his toes in the mud, no shoes. These children did not wear shoes in summer except on trips to Anacortes for school clothes, to church, to parties with elderly people.

The line tugged and the face of the man said, yes, I know I have something, but his mouth said, “I used to fish on the beach as a boy.”

It was a big brownish cat on the line, green almond eyes, no blinking, “A nice one,” the boy said, looking up at the man then back at the cat, beautiful despite the water dripping from its fur.

“I like sand,” said the boy, blinking up at the man as the man showed him how to grip the scruff—how the cat scuffled a little, then submitted to the grip, like a mother’s mouth, instinctual relaxation, the man pointed this out, and how the back feet dangled and how the tail still twitched. The cat rolled about under his fist as he peeled the hook from its spotted gums, between fang and fang, one hand and thumb holding the jaw ajar.

“I caught a starfish last month,” said the boy and showed the size with his hands.

“Ah, that’s wonderful,” said the man and took his knife from his hip. “Dried it?”

“Three weeks,” said the boy. “Brought it in for the storm.”

“Ah,” said the man. “Just the way I did.”

The chocolate brown fur strung up along the backbone.

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