Our Love Will Go the Way of the Salmon (15 page)

“Now what’s in your wallet, little bee?” Jesse says.

Myrtle pulls a lone dollar bill out of her coin purse.

She gives Jesse a look like she’s never been more heartbroken to see him disappointed. “Sweety, I’m sorry. I just got one left. Those save-the-dates weren’t cheap. Remember how we splurged on the fancy crème paper?”

Andrew pushes out his lips. His eyes roll down in the sockets, like he’s ogling his upper lip, but really he’s just thinking. “Ninety-four dollars will buy us a shit lot of gas, but we’ll still run dry before we reach Oregon.”

“Then I guess no bacon sandwiches,” Jesse says sadly.

Myrtle sighs. “I guess let’s do us some catfishin’.”

***

With Andrew driving, the ice cream truck pulls up out front of Big Jer’s catfish farm, which is prominently marked with a billboard-sized wooden sign featuring a crudely painted fat man standing arm in arm with a man-sized catfish and the words ‘BIG JER’S CATFISH FARM—WHERE CATFISH FROLIC IN THE FUN SUN.’

Everything is going precisely according to plan, with Jesse hiding in the back and Myrtle in the driver’s seat, pretending to be Andrew’s partner and mechanic, as Andrew steps out of the truck to greet Big Jer, who looks pretty much exactly like the man on the sign.

Thinning hair.

Beefy black mustache.

Plaid shirt.

Fatter than hell.

Andrew calls out in greeting, “Big Jer!”

“Andrew. Good to see you,” Big Jer says, almost solemn, as if he’s just waiting to see how he’ll be fucked over this time.

“Been a long time,” Andrew says, kicking at the dirt.

“It sure has, Andrew. It sure has.”

“How’s the catfish business?”

“Can’t complain. We’re farming only gook fish now. Striped pangasius. Swai. Meat’s cleaner and flakier than channel cats and I’m the only American farming them. One of them cocksucker health food chains has been buyin’ off me like crazy. They sell them as ‘white ruffy’ or some other such horseshit.”

“City folks will fall for anything.”

“And soon they’ll ruin everything. Damn, between the fish, the women, and the food, sometimes I think I should just pack it in and move to Vietnam. I liked it there.” He nods toward Myrtle, who’s gotten out of the ice cream truck and is presently under the hood, pretending to inspect the engine. “That your broad?”

“That’d be her.”

“Engine trouble, huh,” Big Jer says, the wariness returning to his voice.

“Wouldn’t likely be stopping otherwise.”

“Well I got all the tools you need. Sure she don’t need any help with that? I could have one of my men—”

Andrew holds up his hands in kind refusal. “She’s an ace. Best mechanic I ever saw. Truly. Vehicles practically burst with joy when she climbs under the hood.”

“She suck good dick?”

“Come on, Big Jer.”

“Aw, fuck it, let’s have a drink. I got something that might interest you.”

***

In the office, they sit down across from one another at Big Jer’s desk, a steel contraption that more closely resembles a Soviet era torture device than a place where one might conduct business.

Big Jer pours whiskey into two stained, disintegrating paper cups.

“Might want to gulp that down,” he says. “These cups have been through the wringer.”

Andrew raises his cup, which is dripping from the bottom, for a toast.

“To friendship,” he says.

“To friendship.”

They throw back their shots. Then Big Jer roots around in a desk drawer until he comes up with a thick, worn journal. He hands it across the desk to Andrew like it’s some kind of bible.

“Care now,” Big Jer says.

“What is it?”

Andrew opens the journal.

It’s hundreds of pages of log entries.

“I found this among my father’s possessions when he passed away last year. The first entries belong to my grandfather, then my father and his brother. That’s why the handwriting changes. Now if you turn to the most recent entries…” Big Jer thumbs pages for Andrew, finally arriving at the last filled-out page. “That’s me. I only got started a couple months ago. Hell, took me months just to read through my family’s good work, but now I got a good system going. Now I gotta finish the book.”

The journal is a record of fish plants, recording species, age, size, sex, weight, length, date, and locations.

“They marked every fish they released. That way, if they ever caught one of their own, they’d know to set it free again. Do you know my family’s mark?”

Andrew shakes his head no.

“They removed the left eye.”

“I guess you’ve got to take precautions not to eat your own.”

“Maybe. I been thinkin’ a lot about it, and I have another idea. I believe my grandfather and father and uncle removed the left eye because that leaves what? One path to follow. And what path is that, Andrew?”

Laughing, nervous about the tension growing in the room, Andrew says, “The path of the one-eyed catfish?”

Big Jer isn’t laughing. “The right path. The path of God. Now I gotta ask you, Andrew. Have you been following the right path?”

“Come on, Big Jer.”

Rising in his seat, Big Jer shouts, “Did the right path lead you here?”

Andrew is stern and firm in his response. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Big Jer relaxes.

Andrew hands the journal back to Big Jer, who stows it away in the drawer from which it came. He pours them another leaky cupful of whiskey.

“That’s some interesting work you’re doing there,” Andrew says.

Big Jer drains his cup and quickly pours another. “To be honest,” he says, “it’s what keeps me going. With the striped pangasius booming, business is better than ever. I mean, I’m rich. And yet money don’t feed the soul.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Big Jer leans forward conspiratorially, his watermelon-sized head hovering above the desk. “For a while after my father’s death, I was ready to blow my brains out. It was a godsend I found that journal. A goddamn godsend.”

There’s a silence in the office until Andrew, startled by the absence of noise, breaks. “So getting down to business. You got a cooler packed for us?”

“My boys are working on it. I’ma give you some of this striped pangasius for you to try for yourself. You’ll love it.”

“I’m sure I will. Your catfish always was a treat.”

“Well boy, this pangasius is something special.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I don’t think you truly understand.”

“Oh, but I’m sure I will.”

Big Jer nods. “I suppose you will. Anyway, about the girl. When she gets that engine done, I was thinking maybe she could come into the back room with me. It’s dark back there so she doesn’t have to see nothin’. ’Cause, you know, I’m a pig and she’s…pretty.”

Andrew dismisses the idea outright. “No can do. Gonna have to do your business in my truck. We’re on a tight schedule. Heading up to Omaha. Her ma’s sick. Old bitch’ll probably croak before we get there, but you know women.”

“A dying parent. That always is unfortunate.”

“So if you just fuck her in the back of the truck, it’d help us out. Maybe we’d get to Omaha in time.”

Big Jer appears to be mulling his options. “I suppose I could fuck her in the truck. But is there room in there to…you know…”

“Just say it, Big Jer.”

“Take her from behind.”

“Oh yeah, I fuck her in the ass just about every night.”

“Oh no, no, no. I’m not asking to sodomize her. I just want to fuck her like a dog.”

“Plenty of room in the ice cream truck to fuck her like a dog, or pretty much any way else you damn well please.”

“Is there anything she likes? Anything to make the experience special for her too?”

“Give it to her gentle.”

“Gentle.”

“And don’t spooge all over the truck.”

Big Jer collects their paper cups to refill them but they disintegrate in his hands.

He finds two more cups, fills them.

They raise in toast.

“To fucking bitches and stacking Benjamins,” Big Jer says.

“To bitches and Benjamins,” Andrew says.

That’s the moment Jesse chooses to burst into the office, the rocket launcher slung over his shoulder like he’s Rambo.

Jesse says, “Freeze, you fat fuck!”

Andrew spits out his whiskey in surprise.

Big Jer is none too happy about this development. “What the hell is this? Andrew, tell me what this is.”

“It’s a mistake is what it is. Jesse, put the gun down,” Andrew says.

Big Jer lowers a hand to his desk drawers.

“Put your hands where I can see ’em,” Jesse warns.

They’re sweating, measuring movements, every eyelash bat a potential death sentence.

“Everything is under control,” Andrew says. “I want everyone to remain calm.”

The clock on the wall ticks.

Their hearts go thud-thud, thud-thud.

In one swift motion, Big Jer pushes back in his chair, whipping out a Colt .45 that must’ve been attached to the underside of his desk, but before he can fire off a shot, an all-encompassing blast swallows the room.

Suddenly, Big Jer is gone.

Andrew stands, shuffles past Jesse, around the desk to where Big Jer sat moments before.

Andrew mutters, “Big Jer, hey man. Sorry about that. Just a misunderstanding. A little joke. You get it, right? You get the joke.”

But Big Jer is gone. There’s a massive hole in the back of his office wall and his heavy oak chair is utterly destroyed. On the floor behind Big Jer’s desk lie Big Jer’s legs.

Andrew can’t hear himself speak and Jesse can’t hear him either.

“You fuckin’ idiot, Jesse. What did I tell you?”

Jesse gestures that he can’t understand a damn word Andrew is saying, so Andrew finds a pencil and a notepad among the clutter on Big Jer’s desk and they have a conversation on paper.

Andrew:
You fuckin’ idiot, Jesse. What did I tell you.

Jesse:
Myrtle was scared.

Andrew:
What did I tell you.

Jesse:
Nobody fucks my wife but me.

Andrew:
What did I tell you?

Jesse:
To stay in the truck and not be seen.

Andrew.
That’s right. I told you to stay in the truck and that everything would turn out fine if you listened to me.

Andrew searches the drawers until he finds Big Jer’s fish planting bible. He pockets it and hurries out of the office.

Their hearing is returning. No longer are they engulfed in silence. Now it’s just like they’re underwater.

“Come on, his men will be coming,” Andrew says.

Jesse lags after Andrew, lugging the rocket launcher. “What’s the new plan?” he shouts, louder than he probably intends.

“Convince them not to kill us. Now stay here. These guys know me.”

Andrew appears outside about the same time that five men are walking up from the rearing ponds. Andrew stands about ten feet from them, face to face, the men fanned out in a half circle.

One of the catfish farmers says, “If it isn’t Andrew Jackson all covered in blood.”

Andrew guffaws, pretending to be drunk. “Oh, shit. You guys just missed the funniest shit.”

The catfish farmers relax a little, no longer sensing immediate danger. They wait to hear about ‘the funniest shit,’ which Andrew tells. “I picked up a wounded dog on my way up here. Poor fucker’d had his leg snapped by a car. By the time I get here, the dog’s on his last breath, so Big Jer says he knows a way to, you know, put him out of his misery. Big Jer is drunk off his ass by this point. You know how he gets.”

The men nod in agreement, seeming to buy the story so far.

“So I bring the dog into Big Jer’s office and set him on the desk like it’s an operating table. And you know what Big Jer does? He shoves a bundle of M-80s down the dog’s throat with a single fuse hanging out like a serpent’s tongue longer than all your dicks stacked together. The dog is still breathing at this point, too. Big Jer lights the fuse and I’m all like tryin’ to back away, but Big Jer, he’s just laughing. He’s just laughing as the dog explodes all over his office.”

The catfish farmer who spoke first nods. “That’s funny shit. So where’s Big Jer now?”

Andrew points over his shoulder, “He’s cleanin’ himself off in the pisser. If you think I’m bloody, shoo-wee, you shoulda seen him. I was backed against the wall. Big Jer, he had front row seats to the action.”

“Why you have his book then?” one of the other men wants to know.

“Pardon?” Andrew says, touching his bloody fingertips to the book sticking out of his pocket.

“Big Jer don’t let no one touch that book. No one. So what makes you so special? Last I heard, he was pretty pissed at you.”

“Fellas. Didn’t Big Jer tell you I was comin’ over for some business?”

The catfish farmers close in.

One of them says, “Big Jer didn’t tell us shit.”

Another says, “I say we head into the office.”

Yet another says, “I wanna see this exploded dog.”

Jesse, standing out of sight inside the office, mutters to himself, “Fuck this shit.” He reloads the rocket launcher and bursts out of the office. “On the ground, motherfuckers!”

The catfish farmers look confused for a moment, but then quickly drop to the ground.

Andrew turns to Jesse, stunned but also grateful.

“Feel them for weapons,” Jesse says.

Andrew pats down the men for weapons while Jesse holds the rocket launcher trained on them.

“Try anything and you’re all dead,” Jesse says, and then he calls to Myrtle. “Little bee, you can come out now.”

Myrtle climbs out of the ice cream truck.

The men are unarmed except for a knife and a pistol.

With the knife, Andrew cuts the throats of the catfish farmers, one at a time. But when there’s only one man left, that man hops to his feet and bolts for a truck about thirty yards away.

Jesse trains the rocket launcher on the guy, but the guy is weaving back and forth. He’s not an easy target.

Andrew takes long, calm strides toward the truck, pistol in one hand and knife in the other. Big Jer’s book is still in his pocket.