Catch and Release

Catch and Release

Herman looked behind himself, brought up his heavy right arm, and cast
the spinner as far into the still of the lake as possible. He started
reeling in and dancing the line immediately, stopping here and there to
twitch the line and shift his weight. This was his thirtieth cast;
Carla had been counting. If she told him this, he would think she
admired him. She just couldn't help counting, was all. Her book wasn't
as exciting as she'd thought, and she stopped fishing in 1980, the same
day Herman pushed her out of the boat and into Canyon Lake. Carla still
ran the day through her head when she felt like being angry: Do you
think that's funny, you bastard? We're too close to the dam, the water
is too cold, my heart could have stopped. She wanted to cry every time
she remembered it. She wondered if she should just let go of that and
everything else, and just wrap her arms around him. They wouldn't go
all the way around; Herman had shopped at the Big and Tall store for
years, but it would be the thought of it. Like Christmas, when you
don't get what you want, but they love you, anyway: the thought of
it.

She couldn't see the alarm clock when they lay in bed together; he was
too big. He snored, she guessed, because of the fat choking his throat.
The mattress was uneven, and she tended to roll into him while he
slept. Carla worried that he'd think she wanted to cuddle, so she lost
a lot of sleep clinging to the edge of her side of the bed. When they
slept together outdoors, like on the fishing trip, she stared up at the
specks in the sky and drew constellations in the shape of Herman. I saw
you in the stars, she'd say as they woke, I drew you up there. That's
how much I love you, she told him, I see you in my sky. It was morning
then, when anything is possible, before Carla started counting his
casts.

He had always been a large man. She is not proud that in college, he
impressed her by eating an entire pizza, helping it down with a six
pack of beer. She brought him bags of candy and boxes of cookies, which
were eaten in one night. She would fall asleep in his dorm room, legs
tired and crawly, to wake and find him at the foot of the bed eating
alone. The sexy thing was to run her toes over his back, ply him, call
him to climb aboard and love her again, oxygen running low as the
orgasms came, the room spinning sweetly from underneath him. They had
lots of pictures from back then. Her arms fit around him then. His hand
draped meaty and thick on Carla's shoulder in their favorite
picture.

The thing was, what was he going to do if he caught a fish? They didn't
have a cooler or a bucket. Herman didn't much like to eat fish, and she
hated trout. If he caught anything at all, he'd have to release it.
That was the only way, she thought, because there was no point in
pounding a fish against a rock to kill it if they couldn't take it all
the way back to camp. Maybe he forgot; maybe she should say something.
Maybe Herman planned to catch and release the whole time. He cast for a
thirty-first time, and his shirt came out of his pants. Carla lit a
cigarette and turned to face the wilderness.

Herman made coffee right at the campfire, along with drop biscuits and
bits and ends of bacon. Save some flour, he always said, it makes gravy
in the bacon fat. See how that works? Man food. Carla agreed and ate
her share, happy that the coffee tasted like mesquite. She wished he
had the male graces, like skill with a guitar and a baritone stolen
from Jim Reeves, or a way with a .22 that could mean fresh rabbit
instead of bacon. Carla wished these things for Herman all the time;
she remembered wishing such things for him while washing her crystal,
her fingers gliding over the edges, making the goblet sing. She had
trouble remembering why she was washing the goblets.

"Goddamnit, I got one." The rod bent and glinted in the light. Herman's
forearms pressed into his biceps.
Carla stood behind him and stared at his midsection. "Herm, what are
you gonna do if you bring it in? We don't have a cooler."
"Well, there's not much choice now, is there?" He reeled in and pulled
the line.
"You got to throw it back when you get it in."
"I might. Haven't seen him yet."
"It doesn't matter, Herm. You have to throw it back."
Herman played the fish, letting it tire before tugging at the rod
again. "He'll live till camp."
"I don't even like trout. I won't want any."
"How the hell do you know it's a trout?"
"You said we were trout fishing."
"He might be a bass, you know, a freshwater."
Carla half-turned in disgust, or something like it. "I don't care. I
don't want any. And you don't even like fish."
"Well, here he comes, anyway."

It was a trout, silvery and flashing, twisting and flapping at the end
of the line. Herman dunked it back in the water, pulled it close, and
choked it with his right hand. The spinner pulled out cleanly, and
Herman looked around. They could take the fish back to camp, kill it if
it was still alive, and clean it, or he could throw it back and stay at
the lake. Carla lit another cigarette and turned away from the sun,
although Herman blocked most of it out. She looked up above the
treeline into the sky; the moon was already out and the stars would be
bright that night. While Herman dealt with the fish, she remembered
their wedding day, when they were clean and happy.

"Know what, Herm? I think I want to go back. I want to go back to
camp."
"Jesus, honey, I got a fish here."
"Keep it or toss it. I want to go." She crushed her cigarette under her
shoe.
Herman stood, trout in hand, totally blocking the sun, looking
helplessly at Carla. She didn't look back; she thought she would appear
weak if she squinted while looking at him. "OK. Fine. So long, dude."
He hurled the trout as far into the lake as he could.
"Pack it in, Herm. Let's go back." Carla tossed her book in the
cab.
"You know, Carla, I'm getting tired of your bullshit, too."

They climbed into the cab of the truck; he turned on the radio. She
could smell the fish on his fingers, but she didn't give him a chance
to wash them in the lake. Herman shifted back and forth in the driver's
seat, trying to find the groove his bottom had made over the years, and
Carla searched the sky for the moon, which had moved. She closed her
eyes at last, oblivious to the jolts of the truck as it bounced over
ruts. Soon they were back on the narrow highway, headed back to the
camp, where the sky was open, inviting, and the constellations
fluttered with sympathy.