The Moon Won't Talk by Morgan Howell

Author:Morgan Howell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2024-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

12

I rose before dawn the next morning, pulled my old Radio Flyer wagon from beneath the back porch, and rinsed it out. Dew was heavy on the ground, birds were singing, and flowers scented the air. Buster and I walked beneath the oaks toward the river, my Flyer squeaking every time the right rear wheel made a revolution. I’ve oiled the wheel on and off since the beat-up little wagon was a bright and glossy red. Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t. No matter: I had my dog back, and all was right with the world.

Set the hooks before dark and check them early the next morning. It’s cruel not to check them early.

We hadn’t set the hooks before dark, but I was certain they’d work. Buster and I negotiated the incline with the Flyer, and I pulled it across the strip of beach to the water’s edge. I waded out and pulled the first line, which was tighter than a guitar string. I gave it a tremendous tug, worried that I was about to lose Iris’s hook on the first trip out.

Getting a better purchase on the river bottom, I put my weight into it. The line gave slowly, loosened, and then tightened again. It wasn’t hung on a submerged log or a stump. The tug of war continued for about ten minutes, and when the cat’s head finally emerged, I was glad I’d thought to bring the Flyer.

As I pulled it from the water and onto the riverbank, Buster showed his true colors, running up the path about halfway, then turning around and barking his head off. The fat fish filled the wagon from one end to the other. I guessed that it would weigh in at somewhere around forty pounds. To my pleasure, the second catfish was about ten pounds larger.

“Damn, those are some fine fishes right there, Bubba,” said a voice from above. I looked in the top of a cypress and, sure enough, there was one Francois Dulcet, dressed like a peacock in some sort of bright yellow circus leotard with red flames leaping up the legs. As usual, he wore the aviator cap and goggles.

“Where do you get those clothes, Francois?”

“At the gettin’ place, Bubba.”

“Where do you come from?”

“Ain’t we full of questions this morning?”

“You certainly ain’t full of answers,” I retorted. “If I tell anyone about you, they’ll take me to the padded room for sure.”

“I don’t know ’bout that, Bubba. There’s some people hereabouts who wouldn’t allow them to cart you to the loony bin.”

“Who might that be?”

“Just think about it, George. It’ll come to you.”

I studied the skinny boy with the red hair and wondered about the summers to come. Surely, none would compete with this one.

“And, Bubba?”

“Yes, Francois?”

“Pug is a mite pleased with you.” With this announcement, he spread his arms and performed a beautiful swan dive, barely rippling the river’s surface.

I waited several minutes for Francois to pop up, but he never did. “Thanks for helping me get my dog back,” I said softly.

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