Big Fish (5 page)

The crowd around the booth grew larger, and moved in closer, and my father found he couldn't move. There was no space for it. Crowding up close beside him at the edge of
the booth was a man older even than Willie. He was like
pet­rified life. His skin had dried and grown tight around his bones, and his veins were blue and as cold-looking as a frozen river.

“I—I wouldn't trust that dog,” the man said slowly. “I just wouldn't take the chance, son. He didn't get you before but you never know about the next time. S'unpredictable. So sit tight,” he said, “and tell us all about the world you want to go to, and the things you want to find there.”

And the old man closed his eyes, and so did Willie, and so did they all, all of them wanting to hear about the bright world my father knew was waiting for him just around the bend, on the other side of this dark place. And so he told them, and when he finished they all thanked him and smiled.

And the old man said, “That was nice.”

“Can we do it again tomorrow?” someone said.

“Let's do it again tomorrow,” another whispered.

“It's good to have you,” a man said to my father. “Good to have you here.”

“I know a real nice girl,” Rosemary said. “Pretty, too. Looks like me a little bit. I'd be happy to get you two together, if you know what I mean.”

“I'm sorry,” my father said, looking from one to the other. “There's been a misunderstanding. I'm not here to stay.”

“I reckon there has been a misunderstanding,” Ben Lightfoot said, looking at my father with a deep loathing.

“But we can't let you go,” Rosemary said, in a soft voice.

“I
have
to go,” my father said, trying to stand. But he couldn't, they crowded round him so.

“At least stay for a little while,” Willie said. “A few days at least.”

“Get to know us,” Rosemary said, brushing her hair from her eyes with her terrible hand. “You'll forget about the rest.”

But suddenly there came a rustling sound from the back of the circle of men and women around him and then a scream, and a barking growl, and like a miracle the people moved away. It was Dog. He growled a vicious growl, and showed them his terrible teeth, and they all backed away from the drooling monster, clutching their hands close to their chests. My father took his chance and ran through the opening and he didn't look back. He ran through the darkness until it became light again, and the world turned green and wonderful. The asphalt gave way to gravel, the gravel to dirt, and the beauty of a magic world seemed not too far away. When the road ended he stopped and breathed and found that Dog was right behind him, tongue lolling, and when he reached my father, he rubbed his warm body against his legs. There was no sound now save the wind through the trees and their feet along a barely beaten trail. And then all at once the woods opened up, and before them was a lake, a huge green lake bending off into the distance as far as he could see, and at the edge of the lake was a small wooden dock, bobbing in the waves the wind made. They made their way down to it, and once there Dog collapsed, as if emptied of all strength. My father looked around him, proud somehow, and he watched the sun set behind the stand of trees, and he breathed in the air, and he dug his fingers into the loose skin around Dog's warm neck, rubbing the muscles there with a thorough gentleness, as though he were rubbing the muscles of his own heart, and Dog made his dog-happy sounds. And the sun set, and the moon rose, and the water in the lake began to gently ripple, and in the white light of the moon then he saw the girl, her head breaking the surface a good ways out, the water flowing through her hair and back into the lake, and she was smiling. She was smiling, and my father was, too. And then she waved. She waved at my father, and he waved back.

“Hello!” he said, waving to her. “Good-bye!”

Entering a New World

T
he story of my father's first day in the world he would come to live in is best told perhaps by a man who worked with him, Jasper “Buddy” Barron. Buddy was vice president of Bloom Inc., taking over the helm when my father retired.

Buddy was a natty dresser. He wore a power-yellow tie, an executive's dark blue pinstripe suit, black shoes, and those tight, thin, almost transparent socks, in the same blue hue of his suit, that climbed to an undetermined length up his calves. He had a silk handkerchief peering like a pet mouse over the edge of the false pocket on the heart side of his suit. And he was the first and only man I've ever met who actually had graying temples, just like they say in books. The rest of his hair was dark and full and healthy, and his part was one long straight line of pinkish scalp, a country road across his head.

When he told this story he liked to lean back in his chair and smile.

“The year was nineteensomething or other,” he'd
begin. “Longer ago than any of us want to remember. Edward had just left home. Seventeen years old. For the first time in his life he was on his own, but was he worried? No, he wasn't worried: his mother had given him a few dollars to live on—ten, maybe twelve—more money, at any rate, than he had ever had in his life. And he had his dreams. Dreams are what keep a man going, William, and already your father was dreaming empire. But looking at him on the day he left that town he was born in, you would have seen little more than a young, handsome boy with nothing but the clothes on his back and the holes in his shoes. You might not have actually seen the holes in his shoes, but they were there, William; the holes were there.

“That first day he walked thirty miles. That night, he slept under the stars on a bed of pine straw. And here, on this night, is where fate's hand first tugged on your father's belt loops. For as he slept he was come upon by two men-of-the-woods, who beat him within an inch of his life and took from him every last dollar he had. He barely survived, and yet thirty years later when he first told me this story—and this to me is vintage Edward Bloom—he said that if he ever met with those men again, the two thugs who beat him within an inch of his life and took his last dollar, he would thank them—thank them—for, in a way, they determined the course of the rest of his life.

“At the time, of course, dying in the dark of that
strange wood, he was far from grateful. But by morning he was well rested, and, though bleeding still from various parts of his body, he began walking, no longer knowing or caring where he was going, but just walking, forward, onward, ready for whatever Life and Fate chose to hurl at him next—when he saw an old country store, and an old man out in front of it, rocking back and forth in his chair, back and forth, forth and back, who presently began to stare with alarm at the bloody figure approaching. He called for his wife, and she called for her daughter, and within half a minute they had a pot of hot water, a washcloth, and a bunch of bandages made from a sheet they had just torn into strips, and stood ready as Edward hobbled to meet them. They were ready to save this stranger's life. More than ready: they were determined.

“But of course, he wouldn't let them. He could not let them save his life. No man of your father's integrity—and they are few, William, they are a precious few and far between—would accept such charity, even when it was a matter of life or death. For how could he live with himself, if indeed he did live at all, knowing that his life was so inextricably bound to others, knowing that he was not his own man?

“So, still bleeding, and with one of his legs broken in two places, Edward found a broom and swept the store clean. Then he found a mop and a pail, for in his haste to do the right thing he had completely forgotten his open, profusely bleeding wounds, and didn't realize until he had finished sweeping that he had left a trail of his own blood throughout the entire store. So he mopped. He scoured. He got on his knees with a rag and scrubbed as the old man, the wife, and child watched him. They were in awe. They were awestruck. They were watching a man trying to remove his own blood stains from a pine wood floor. It was impossible, impossible—yet he tried. That's the thing, William: he tried, tried until he could try no more, until he fell on his face flat out, still clutching the rag—dead.

“Or so they thought. They thought he had died. They rushed to his body: there was some life in him yet. And in a scene, as your father described it, that has always reminded me somehow of Michelangelo's
Pieta,
the mother, a strong woman, lifted him up and held him in her arms, in her lap, this young man, this dying man, praying for his life. It seemed hopeless. But as the others anxiously crowded around him, he opened his eyes and said what might have been his last words, said to the old man whose store Edward had immediately realized was empty of customers, said in what might have been his last breath,
‘
Advertise.
'”

Buddy would let the word ring through the room.

“And the rest, as they say, is history. Your father recov
ered. Soon he was strong again. He plowed the fields, weeded the gardens, helped around the store. He roamed about the countryside posting little notices, advertising for Ben Jimson's Country Store. It was his idea to call it a ‘country' store, by the way. He thought it sounded more friendly, more appealing than just ‘store,' and he was right. It was also at this time your father invented the slogan ‘Buy one, get one free.' Five little words, William, but they turned Ben Jimson into a rich man.

“He stayed with the Jimsons for almost a year, earning his first little nest egg. The world, like a splendid flower, opened up for him. And as you can see,” he would say, gesturing to the gold and leather extravagancies of his own office, and with a minor nod in my direction, as though I, too, were nothing but a product of my father's legendary indus­triousness, “for a boy from Ashland, Alabama, he's done rather well.”

The Old Lady and the Eye

A
fter leaving the Jimsons my father wandered south through the countryside, going from town to town, having many adventures, and meeting a number of interesting and fantastic people. But there was an aim to his wandering, a purpose, as there was to everything he did. He had learned many of life's lessons in the past year, and now hoped to expand his understanding of the nature of the world even more by attending a college. He heard of a city called Auburn where such a college existed. It was to this town he traveled.

He arrived there of an evening, tired and hungry, and found a room in the home of an old woman who took in borders. She fed him and gave him a bed in which to rest. He slept for three days and three nights, and when he awoke felt strong again, clear in mind and body. Thereupon he thanked the old woman for her assistance, and in return offered to help her in any way he could.

Well, it so happened the old woman had only one eye. The other eye, which was made of glass, she took out every night and soaked in a cup of water on the nightstand beside her bed.

And it so happened that, some days before my father arrived, a group of youths had broken into the old woman's home and stolen her eye, so she told my father that she would be grateful if he could but find her eye and return it to her. My father made a vow then and there that he would do it, and he left her home in search of the eye that very morning.

The day was cool and bright, and my father full of hope.

The city of Auburn was named after a poem, and it was, at that time, a great center of learning. Young people eager to know the secrets of the world crowded into small classrooms, alert to the words of the peripatetic professor before them. This is where Edward longed to be.

On the other hand, many came there merely to fool around, and organized in large groups for this purpose alone. It didn't take long for my father to learn that it was one of these groups that had broken into the old woman's home and stolen her eye.

Indeed, the eye had become the focus of some notoriety, and was discussed openly and with great veneration among certain individuals Edward Bloom shrewdly befriended.

It was said the eye had magic powers.

It was said the eye could see.

It was said to be bad luck to look directly into the eye, for the old woman would know you then, and on a dark night she would hunt you down and find you, and then she would do unspeakable things to you.

The eye never stayed in the same place twice. Each night it was given to a different boy as a rite of initiation. It was the boy's duty to see that no harm came to the eye. All that night the boy possessing the eye wasn't allowed to sleep; he could only watch the eye. The eye was wrapped in a soft red cloth, and the cloth was placed inside a small wooden box. In the morning, the eye was returned to the leader of the group who asked the boy questions, and who examined the eye and then sent him on his way.

All this Edward learned in a short time.

In order to return the eye to the old woman, Edward realized, he would have to become one of the boys who possessed it for the night. This is what he sought to do.

Edward expressed his desire to become one of the boys to a new friend and, after a moment of circumspection, was told to come alone to a barn some miles in the country that very night.

The barn was dark and crumbling, and the door
creaked spookily as he pushed it open. Light from candles hung from black-iron holders played on the barn walls, and shadows danced in the corners.

Six human figures sat in a semicircle toward the back of the barn, and all were wearing dark brown hoods, which appeared to have been made out of burlap.

On a small table before them was the old lady's eye. It rested like a jewel on top of a red silken pillow.

Edward approached them fearlessly.

“Welcome,” said the one in the middle. “Please be seated.”

“But whatever you do,” said another, quite ominously, “don't look into the eye!”

My father sat on the ground and waited in silence. He did not look into the eye.

After a moment, the one in the middle spoke again.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“The eye,” Edward said. “I've come for the eye.”

“The eye has called you here, has it not?” he said. “Have you not heard the eye calling for you?”

“I have,” Edward said. “I have heard the eye call to me.”

“Then take the eye and place it in the box, and stay with it all through the night, and return it here on the morrow. Should anything happen to the eye—”

But the one in the middle stopped speaking, and there arose a mournful murmur from the others.

“Should anything happen to eye,” he said again, “if it becomes lost, or broken—”

But here he stopped again, and stared at my father through the slits in his hood.

“—then we shall take one of your eyes as recompense,”
he said.

The six hoods nodded as one.

“I see,” my father said, unacquainted with this rather serious stipulation until now.

“On the morrow, then,” he said.

“Yes,” said my father. “The morrow.”

L
EAVING THE BARN AND
entering into the dark country night, Edward walked toward the lights of Auburn, deep in thought. He didn't know what to do. Would they truly take one of his own eyes if he failed to return the
glass one tomorrow? Stranger things have happened.
Clutching the box in his right hand as he walked, he touched his eyes with his left hand, each of them, and wondered what it would be like if one of them were gone, and if indeed his vow to the old lady should be honored when so much was at stake. He knew it was possible that the figures in the hoods had no intention of taking one of his eyes, and yet, if there was but a ten percent chance, even a one percent chance that this would happen, was it all worth it? His eyes were real, after all, and the old woman's eye just made of glass. . . .

He stayed up with the eye all night, staring into its shiny blueness, seeing himself within it, until the sun, rising above the tree line the next morning, seemed to him to be the shining eye of some forgotten god.

T
HE BARN LOOKED DIFFERENT
in the light of day—not so scary. Just an old barn with missing slats, hay poking through holes like stuffing out a pillow. Cows chewing on the grass, an old brown horse fenced in nearby, nose full of air. Edward hesitated at the barn door, then pushed it open, its creakiness not so spooky now.

“You're late,” someone said.

Edward looked to the back of the barn but there were no hooded figures this time, just six college boys, roughly as old as Edward was, dressed about the same—loafers, khaki trousers, light blue button-down cotton shirts.

“You're late,” he said again, and Edward recognized the voice from the night before. He was the one in the middle, the leader. Edward looked at him for a long moment.

“Sorry,” Edward said. “There was somebody I had to see.”

“Do you have the eye?” he asked him.

“Yes,” Edward said. “The eye is here.”

The man pointed to the small box Edward clutched in his hand.

“Give it here then,” he said.

Edward gave the man the box, and as the others crowded around to see, he opened it.

They stared into the box for what seemed a long time, then all of them turned to Edward.

“It's not here,” the leader said, almost in a whisper, his
face turning red with fury. “The eye's not here!” he
screamed.

All at once they came for him, until Edward raised his hand and said, “I told you the eye was here. I didn't say it was in the box.”

The six boys stopped, fearing the eye was somewhere on my father's person, and that if they were to beat him badly they might end up hurting the eye as well.

“Give it over!” the leader said. “You have no right! That eye belongs to us.”

“Does it?”

It was then the barn door creaked feebly open, and all turned to watch as the old lady, her eye newly restored, came toward them. The six stared, uncomprehending.

“What—” one said, turning to the others. “Who—”

“The eye,” my father said. “I told you it was here.”

And as the old lady drew near they could see that it was here indeed, not in the box but back in the old lady's head. And though they would have run they couldn't. And though they would have turned away they couldn't, and as she looked at each of them, each of them in turn stared deeply into the old lady's eye, and it was said that within the eye each of them could see their future. And one screamed at what he saw there, and one cried, but one merely looked deeply into the eye uncomprehending, then looked up at my father and stared, as if he knew him now in a different way.

Finally she was done, and all of them ran out the barn door and into the bright morning.

Thus Edward's short stay in Auburn began, and he was rarely ever bothered by anybody, for he was thought to be under the protection of the old lady and her all-seeing eye. He began attending classes and became an A student. He had a good memory. He remembered everything he read, everything he saw. And he remembered the face of the leader in the barn that day, just as the leader would remember Edward's.

It was the face of the man my mother almost married.