Catch and Release
by Bryan WangOne Sunday in April, long ago, my father set out into the Little Akron River, about twenty miles from our home in Center Run, Pennsylvania. He was alone. By his account, the creek flowed fast that day, churning with the melt from two March blizzards and the early spring rains. Pap had fished this stretch many times before, and his luck held through the morning. By noon his creel overflowed with trout, some ten inches long - a fair catch for the Little Akron.
He had just begun to consider packing up when his line seized tight. His rod nearly doubled over with the hit. An enormous fish torpedoed downstream, and Pap pressed his hand against the screaming reel to stop it. The fish zoomed back and forth, seeking cover. They fought for the better part of an hour until, finally, it surrendered.
Pap pulled in the fish. Dark stripes straddled its sleek body, and a regimen of sharp teeth lined its gaping mouth. A muskie! And thirty pounds if it was an ounce!
Pap reached down to lift the lunker from the water and unhook it. The fish made a sudden thrust and snapped its jaws. Pap jerked back an instant too late. As the monster slid free, blood dripped from Pap's right hand, the drops drifting into the river like mayflies spent after their brief day in the sun. His middle finger was a full two knuckles shorter.
That day, when Pap came home to me with this alibi and his injured hand as proof of its veracity, I accepted the tale; I was only eight years old. Over time, though, suspicions formed and then hardened into disbelief. The story he had woven was full of holes, his yarn stretched tighter than Simon Peter's nets with their miraculous haul of fish. Despite my doubts, I never questioned Pap about the incident, guessing that the truth lay in a place better left unexplored.
Fictional or not, the tussle with the mythical muskie changed Pap. He did not fish again - lost the passion, he claimed. He began attending church and studying Scripture. He'd whistle as he left for work at the plant, and when he came home, greet me with a kiss on the cheek. I suffered the gesture without comment; it was a modest price to pay for my father's remarkable transformation. After his encounter, Pap lived as if he had traveled to a faraway land and returned home with an entirely foreign sensibility. He lived as if Death had wrapped him within the folds of its robe, whispered his name in admonition, and then released him. He lived as if he had been born anew.
Pap and I never fished together. He forbade me from tagging along on his excursions, saying that fishing is best done alone. When I took it up myself after college and caught the bug, I understood why Pap had fished - for the incomparable feeling of casting a fly and presenting it with all the delicacy demanded by a wary trout; of sensing the rise of the quarry and witnessing its take of the lure; of reeling in the fish, pulsing with life, and marveling at its beauty before setting it free; of succeeding, gloriously and absolutely, if just for a moment, in this grand endeavor. I could not fathom why Pap had stopped.
Perhaps this is why, when I finally returned to Center Run to test the waters there, I skipped the blue-ribbon streams nearby and trekked instead to the Little Akron, Pap's onetime paradise. Approaching the river was like entering Pap's sanctuary, both an intrusion and a chance to commune with him.
It had been fifteen years since I had last seen my hometown, since Pap had passed away. After I finished school in Boston, I settled into adulthood there: a decent job, a house, a wife and two kids - all of which conspired to keep me away from Center Run.
When a business trip brought me to the area, I leapt at the opportunity to visit home. I felt summoned back, drawn there by nostalgia and curiosity and something else, something that I could not define any more than a spawning salmon can define the impulse that governs its pilgrimage from the ocean to its natal stream. I did not fail to notice that the trip also represented a signal opportunity to relax, by myself, and to fish.
And so there I was, married with children and alone for an entire weekend, hip-deep in the Little Akron. Life rested quietly on that fine morning in early spring. I had not seen another angler since I had arrived. The birds lay silent, and the mayflies and caddis flies that, on a good day, would swarm by the hundreds had not yet hatched.
The Little Akron itself, however, roiled angrily and pushed against its banks. I had settled in just a few feet from the edge. Farther in, where the riverbed dropped off precipitously, the stream rose to six feet or more.
I tied on a muddler minnow and cast a few times to the seams in the water, where the riffles and eddies met. I imagined a trout hovering in the backwater, waiting for the current to deliver its meal, but I failed to coax a strike. I waded downstream a few yards and tried again. Still nothing.
The unpromising start mushroomed into a morning of frustration. I switched flies - different patterns, sizes, and colors - without luck. I added split shot to pull the fly down. I tried a finer tippet, although in that rushing water, the fish would scarcely have noticed if I had knotted the lure on the line with twine.
I moved on, another dozen yards, a hundred yards, a half mile. I cast again and again and again. More than once, I lost my fly as my line tore through the brush behind me on a sloppy backcast. Finally, with my stomach growling and my patience exhausted, I resolved to make one final cast. I tied on the worthless muddler minnow that I'd begun the day with and tossed it in front of me.
As the lure dropped beneath the surface of the water, a rainbow flashed its colorful flank and took the fly. I set the hook and slowly reeled in the young trout. I smiled grimly at its size, smaller than the legal limit. I bent to release it.
Just then, a gargantuan form emerged from the water and sped toward us. The icthyan submarine, whatever it was, inhaled my little prize and sailed past me. As I took in the enormity of the beast, its bony plates grazed my leg. It had the appearance of a devolved crocodile - an aquatic armored tank with fins. It stretched for fifteen feet and more, and its girth easily matched mine, spare tire and all. The behemoth slid about and fixed me with a steady look, sizing me up. It turned around again and shot off downstream, my fly line tucked in its mouth like a strand of dental floss.
Its surge forward toppled me, and a moment later, I lay face down in the water, struggling to regain my footing while clutching my rod. The drag mechanism on my reel had failed. Fish or cut bait, I thought to myself. I could hang on, cling to a fragile thread of hope that I could somehow land this beast, or I could let it all go: my rod, my reel, my line, that magnificent trophy. I did not see the danger the monster represented, that it could take a man's leg with a nibble. I did not see its place in nature as the ultimate link in the river's food chain. I did not see its potential value to science, perhaps as the last member of an ancient species, a living fossil, a connection to the past. I did not even see the sheer beauty of the animal, the fluidity and grace of its movements, like it was as much a part of the stream as the water it passed through. I saw only the catch of a lifetime, and I held on.
I stumbled forward, straining for a moment to halt the progress of the fish. It slowed and then began to swim back toward me. I relaxed, until I realized that the monster had accelerated and zipped around me, encircling me and binding my legs together with my fly line. I kicked unsuccessfully as the beast wound about me several more times. The leviathan took off, dragging me downriver for what seemed an eternity. Then, it dove. The rest of the trip was an onslaught of water and rocks, futile thrashing and gasping for air, and the creature looking back once more, its face fixed with a mischievous expression as it bid me farewell.
When I came to, I found myself on shore. It was nearly dark; I had lain unconscious for hours. There was no sign of the fish, or of my belongings. My passage downriver had stripped me of my vest, my waders, all of my tackle - everything, it seemed, but my clothes and my body. I spread my hands before my face. All ten fingers remained intact.
I wondered where I had beached. The creek burbled beneath the sandy bank behind me. A barren landscape stretched beyond. The air had died to a warm, smothering stillness, and above, I saw nothing, as if an ebony curtain shrouded the heavens. But ahead in the distance, a carnival organ fluted merrily, and the glow of streetlamps penetrated the darkness. I walked toward the light.
I arrived at a town bustling with festivity, infused with the atmosphere of a theme park or a beach boardwalk. A tall iron fence surrounded the town. Strings of lights outlined the shops, restaurants, bars, and other buildings that stood side by side in orderly rows. People strolled along the avenues - many in couples or threesomes - their laughter and chatter accompanying the organ music.
A stern, imposing man attended the entrance. He wore a plain but neat maroon uniform and stood stiffly near the wide gate. A wooden stick, the size and shape of a police baton, dangled from his belt. A trio of metal barbs crowned the end of the baton. I shuddered as I envisioned the guard wielding the stick like a medieval mace, the hooks piercing my flesh. The man greeted me kindly, though, and invited me in.
"What will it cost me?" I asked, realizing that my wallet had perished with my waders.
"Free to enter, my good man," said the guard.
I exhaled in relief. "You pay as you go?" I recalled amusement centers of the past, chains of paper tickets dispensed at glass-fronted booths.
The guard thought about my question and chuckled. "That's right. Pay as you go." He pulled a card from a stack on the counter beside him, stamped it with the date and time, and handed it to me.
"It's your exit pass," the guard said. "Good for exactly 24 hours. But don't worry about that," he added, "most don't use it." He swung the gate open and motioned me in. The gate shut behind me with a cheery clang.
Famished, I headed straight for the nearest food stand, which bore a sign that read "Deep Fry." I had avoided fried foods since my early twenties, but the aroma and the hiss and sizzle of battered goodies in the fryer were overpowering.
Salivating, I scanned the menu board. Corn dogs, chicken tenders, French fries, and cheese curds topped the list. The prices were absent. I wondered what kind of deal I would have to strike in return for a meal.
The proprietor asked for my order. The man had the same face, the same build, and wore the same red uniform as the guard at the entrance. They might have been brothers.
"How much for the cheese curds?" I asked. I craved the cheddar balls as if they were a junk-food version of the forbidden fruit: I would have sold my soul for a plate.
The deep fry guy grinned. "First night? You've got a real treat in store. Anything you want here is yours." He passed me a platter of cheese curds, their bulbous skins steaming hot and glistening with oil. "These are on the house."
He gestured to a stately building on a hill, a quarter mile up the way. A giant gold coin twirled slowly above the roof of the building. "Your next stop is the bank. You can open an account there."
"A bank account? But I don't live here - " I started, but the man had already turned to another customer.
As I set out for the bank, gulping down kernels of deep-fried cheese, I passed a fountain. Marble statues of pagan gods and goddesses frolicked in the center of the pool, tumbling streams of water barely hiding their nakedness. Around the fountain, lovers huddled together in various stages of romantic engagement. Several loners idled nearby. A cluster of gaunt figures reclined on the ground, inhaling, imbibing, ingesting, injecting. The scene stirred up pleasant memories of raucous fraternity parties at Delta Alpha Omega, the pills the brothers passed around, and the escape that the drugs afforded.
Farther on, I weaved past a group of older women. "You should have seen the look on her face," one woman said to the others, "when I told her that same gentleman paid me double what he paid her. Best ride over 65, my eye!"
The gaggle tittered. Repulsion welled within me, an instinct borrowed from my wife. Jodie abhorred any public display of affection, and she surely would have disapproved of such prurient bravado, no less from a woman of that age. But the woman's lewdness aroused me as well; horrified, I jogged ahead until I was out of earshot.
My progress slowed as I climbed the hill. Throngs of people crowded the street and the establishments here, the press of bodies adding to the stifling heat, but the devil-may-care ambiance of the town persisted - so different from the chilly air of purpose and efficiency of the city back home. I matched my attitude with my lazy pace. There was no job to worry about here, no wife to placate, no children.
No children. I was unencumbered by Maggie, her juggernaut of a stroller, and the heap of baby paraphernalia that accompanied her everywhere. I was liberated from Sam's chatter and the need to herd him away from oncoming pedestrians; from shops meant for adults (of which there were many here) and their expensive, fragile wares; from shops meant for children (of which there were none; in fact, I had not seen a single child since I had entered) and their expensive, irresistible baubles. On this day, I was unchained from the demands of parenthood - the responsibilities and the expectations that shackled me to my family, to my home, to my wholly unremarkable existence. Here, I was a free man.
I finished the last of the cheese curds and caught myself licking the salt and grease from my fingers when I reached the bank. A young man on his way out held the front door open for me. He gripped a wad of red bills. I thanked him and entered, and he sauntered off into the night.
There were no other customers inside the bank. Another man in a maroon suit stood behind the bars at one of the windows. I requested an account.
"Of course," the teller said. "Ask and it shall be given to you."
He placed a form in front of me. "Sign here." The teller dabbed a quill pen into a jar of bright red ink and pointed to a line at the bottom of the page. Without bothering to read the tiny script, I took the pen and made my mark beside his tapping finger.
"Pleasure doing business with you," the man said, taking the paper. He laid a pile of bills on the counter. I trembled from excitement and anxiety, feeling like I had just claimed a jackpot with a stolen lottery ticket. I quieted the impulse to bolt. The cash was my due - it was everyone's due in this place. Anything you want here is yours, the deep fry vendor had said. I slid the bills off the counter.
As I pushed open the door and strode out, I realized that the polite young man whom I had encountered upon entering had left the bank with a roll twice as large as mine. I started back inside to demand an explanation, but a young female voice stopped me.
"Looking for a friend?" she asked.
I wheeled about. A dress of sheer black satin concealed her body. Her dark hair curled about her face, framing it. Her lips, seductively painted and glossed, underscored and undercut her eyes, wide and round with an innocence that hinted at infinite possibilities.
This woman was everything that Jodie wasn't. After delivering Sam, Jodie had convinced herself that a woman's body never fully shed the weight gained in pregnancy. That she no longer had time to exercise or to eat properly. That she looked better than most mothers her age, even if she had become plump, even a little dumpy. Jodie's body was irretrievably laden with folds and sags. I ogled the woman before me, picturing myself in her embrace, in her bed, in her.
She introduced herself as Isabelle and offered a hand, which I took and lifted to my cheek. Isabelle glided in close and put her lips onto mine. She tasted sweet, and her tongue melted in my mouth like taffy. I dared a naughty suggestion, one that I could never have uttered to Jodie, even in jest. Isabelle giggled. She kissed me again, dispelling all thoughts of my family.
"Let's go to the hotel," Isabelle said. She linked her arm with mine and led me down another avenue toward a sprawling complex.
The route to the hotel led us near the border, where another red guard stood alone, attending a narrow, unmarked break in the fence.
"The exit?" I asked.
"Yes, but you don't want to go there." Isabelle winced. "Yucky stuff."
Despite her warning and my body's own desire to continue on, I halted. The exit held my gaze for a long moment. Isabelle nudged me toward the hotel. Instead, I murmured, "I'll be right back," and started for the gate.
The guard sat perched on a high stool, humming to himself. His barbed baton lay on the counter next to him. He stopped humming when I approached.
"Thinking about leaving, Chief?" he said. "What's the matter, having too much fun?"
"No, I was just - "
"Have you got your exit pass?"
I handed him the slip.
"You know the price of departure, don't you?"
"There's a price?" I fingered the wad of bills in my pocket. I steadied myself and continued, "I'm not leaving. I just want to know the terms."
At that, the guard smiled. He gave the exit pass back to me. "Sure," he said in a friendlier tone.
The guard reached beneath the counter and, with a noisy jerk, opened a drawer. He retrieved a heavy contraption and set it on the counter with a thud. The device, the size of a heavy-duty three-hole punch, comprised two cast-iron blocks, one atop the other and fastened with a hinge. At the other end, the upper block tapered to a handle wrapped with a black handgrip. A sliver of metal glistened from between the two blocks. The guard bolted the device to the countertop.
"The terms are simple," the guard said. He lifted the handle of the device, and the iron jaws yawned, exposing a gleaming blade about three inches wide and running the length of the upper block.
"In exchange for your release," the guard said, "you will give me your valid exit pass, and - " he slammed the jaws shut with a horrifying clang - "the middle finger from your right hand."
I stared at the man and licked a bead of sweat from above my lips. I glanced at the exit and then back at Isabelle. She beckoned me with a wave. A smirk broke on the guard's face. My gaze returned to the chopping block. The guard opened the drawer again and began to unfasten the apparatus.
As the first bolt slid out, a vision of Pap appeared, shimmering like a beacon in the distance. The apparition advanced to the gate, his eyes trained on the guard. They traded words, and then Pap stood motionless for a time. He reflected on this strange place and the life that it offered. He remembered what he had left behind, his place in the world outside, his commitments. He made a promise to himself, a pledge guaranteed by the price he would now pay for his freedom. Pap spoke again to the guard, and then he laid his hand within the maw of the iron beast.
As the blade descended on my father's hand, I flinched. "Stop!" I whispered.
The guard had taken out the last bolt and set the device in its drawer. He looked at me, surprised.
"I want out," I said, the faintest trace of a quiver in my voice. The guard snatched the pass from me, and I bent my head as I prepared for my release.
©Bryan Wang
Bryan Wang trained and worked for ten years as a molecular biologist before turning to writing fiction. His work has recently appeared in Espresso Fiction. He lives a wholly unremarkable but carefree and satisfying existence with his wife and two children in Wyomissing, Pennsylvania.