Catch & Release (17 page)

“You know, I think we should still make that movie,” says Odd. “And we should both be in it—you know—the way that old fat guy was always in his own movies. The one about those fuckin' birds is the creepiest thing I've ever seen, because that could
happen
. That would be a shitty way to die, pecked to death by birds. And Stephen King, he does that too. So we should totally do that.” He takes a few steps away from the picnic table and then lies down on the dirt.

“Want me to pitch your tent for you? It'd just take a minute,” I say.

He's still talking about the movie. “You can be horribly disfigured by the acid. I can be a guy who got bit by Troutzilla and loses a leg. So we're like after revenge and shit.”

“Odd, that sounds like
Moby Dick
.”

“
Moby Dick
,” Odd snorts, “
Moby Dick
. What's bigger than Winnie's poo? Moby's dick. His dick!”

I don't say goodnight. I pitch my tent. I crawl into my sleeping bag. I poke around with my toes until I can feel the lumps. This little bloody sock is full of bullets, and this little bloody sock is full of gun, and this little bloody sock says, “Pee, pee, pee, you can't make me go home.” Goodnight socks. Goodnight gun. Goodnight flies. Goodnight scum. Goodnight monsters. Goodnight bears. Goodnight noises everywhere.

 

“Blemish,” says Mom. She points at her own cheek, but I know she means on mine. The damn zit has been bugging me since this afternoon. “Make sure you put something on it before you go to bed—don't touch it! Polly, how many times to I have to tell you to keep your hands away from your face?”

More than a kajillion? Because she's said it that often. But it's almost impossible not to reach up and touch that thing.

“Is Bridger coming home this weekend? Is he calling tonight?”

“No. Not this weekend. He might call, but it will be late. He's got this study thing on Wednesday nights.”

“You think this little dab of leftovers is worth saving? It's not enough for a real meal, is it? I'll just throw it out. Nobody ever wants leftovers.”

“Night, Mom.”

“Night-night,” says Mom, and she steps closer, tucks my hair behind my ear, and squints at the zit. “Make sure you put something on that.”

Sometimes homework is interesting, but honestly, I have zero interest left in the fantasy life of W. B. Yeats. Nothing like ten pages, double-spaced, one-inch margins to suck the fun out of an idea. But Ms. Kimmet has already decided I'm going to get an A, so I have to live up to her prejudice. When I hand it in next Monday, it's going to look like something. It's going to have that Polly Furnas sparkle: a companion CD, illustrations, a bibliography in exact MLA style.

The zit is more like an angry little blister, but I scrub the top right off it while I'm exfoliating. It hurts, especially when dab the zit cream on it. I'm probably going to have to use some concealer in the morning.

 

I wake up because it hurts. Every time my heart beats, my cheek hurts. My eyelashes are glued together with snot. It hurts to touch, but what my fingers feel is worse than hurt. This is wrong, so wrong. “Mom!”

 

The whole time he's driving us to the hospital, Dad is using his comfort-to-animals voice, “Shhh-sh-sh-sh, there now, there now, shhhh, it's all right . . .”

When we get to the hospital, I see his face in the light streaming out the ER doors. I know something new and horrible. The animal who needs comfort is him.

 

What doesn't kill it makes it stronger.

That's the story of MRSA.

What doesn't kill it makes it stronger.

They sucked away the pus.

They trimmed away the skin and meat that was dead, that was dying. And deeper and deeper into live flesh, they had to slice that away.

They scraped the bone.

Then they waited. They waited for organ failure. They waited for the flesh to die.

But it didn't.

I didn't.

What doesn't kill it makes it stronger.

But it hurts.

It hurts.

It hurts.

When I wake up, there's a moment when I almost remember. There was a clock with big, red digital numbers in the exam room. They cut my T-shirt off because it would have hurt to pull it over my head. White tile. Bright lights. The smell of rotting bird. Thing is, lying around in a slightly smelly sleeping bag almost remembering rotting to death gives me no joy.

It's light, it's morning cold, and it's time to stand up and go fishing. It beats the alternative. I unzip the tent and crawl out into the world on my hands and knees. Good morning dirt. Good morning pine needles. Good morning river.

Odd didn't even make it into a sleeping bag. He's immobile in the dirt. It scares me for a minute, but then I can see his back move a little. He's still breathing.

So this stretch of river is mine, for this morning, for this moment. The die-hard early risers are fishing someplace less fished. Easy to reach as it is, this water has been fished and fished to death. The water is as green and dark as wine-bottle glass where it runs deep in the channel, but there are no lunkers lurking there. At my feet the riffle is just thicker air, a gloss over the round rocks of the riverbed. So I might catch nothing. I'm OK with that. Right now, it's just me and the morning and river. I am only that little slice of wind I can whip up with my line. I put this moment, I put this moment, I put this moment—here.

I'm self-medicating. Casting is anesthetic.

 

When I come back to the campground, Odd is up and sitting hunched beside the fire pit where there is no fire.

“Fuckin' leg hurts,” he says. “Every fuckin' thing hurts.”

“That's what happens when you sleep on the dirt like a drunk. Get up and move around. Eat some aspirin. Go fishing.”

“I don't want to fish. Just get your shit in the car, OK?”

So I do. Ten minutes later my rod is broke down, my tent and sleeping bag are made into bundles, and I'm ready. We drive down the canyon and through a couple piddly-ass towns where half the houses are falling apart and the other half are held together with a fresh coat of paint and some potted geraniums.

We stop for coffee at a place before we hit the interstate. I guess we timed it just right. It is so hot it is impossible to drink. Even doctored up with three tiny cups of Irish Creme and two packs of sugar, it is bitter. I take tiny sips and try not to blister my tongue.

Odd turns on the radio.

I check my phone.

“My dad says you need to call your brother,” I say. “You can use mine.”

“Piss on that,” says Odd.

“OK,” I say.

I delete seven messages from Mom. I think she's stopped talking to me. I'm probably in time-out.

 

We are rolling past the town where Bridger went to university. He's been places here. He's sat in chairs and licked spoons and seen the way the river looks from the bridges in this town. Polly-That-Was was supposed to do those things too, in the future that isn't going to be. Bridger was supposed to take her to movies—and steer her to the easy teachers—and kiss her while they were hiking up to the big M on the side of mountain. That won't be happening. Bridger, that douche, isn't here now. And Polly-That-Was is dead, dead, dead. We don't stop. The interstate blows right by, and so do we.