State Park
Andrew struggled with the bag of MatchLight charcoal, tugging it with his one good hand to try to get it out of the trunk of his car. He was disappointed to see it was only a ten-pound bag. It felt like a twenty-five-pounder. As if to compensate for his pathetic weakness he tucked the bag under his arm and grabbed the six-pack of Bud Light, ignoring the pinpricks of pain that crawled up his good shoulder, across the back of his neck and over his wounded arm.
He was tired of making the trips back and forth to the cabin, though it was less than fifty yards. Actually,
tired
wasn’t the appropriate word. He was irritated. Even now, with his good arm and hand full and a pain dancing from one shoulder to the other, he considered grabbing the fishing rod and tackle box. But the approaching thunderheads convinced him to leave the fishing gear for now. It was just as well. It would only be one more disappointment if he realized he couldn’t cast left-handed.
He noticed a slice of color moving through the trees, a car making its way up the road. With no free hands available, Andrew raised his chin in an effort to wave to the driver of the Ford Explorer. He waited, wishing he hadn’t been so stubborn in thinking he could carry both the charcoal and the beer, feeling the pull in his wounded shoulder even though it wasn’t bearing the weight. Again, he tried ignoring the pain, refusing to put anything down, especially not now. Not in front of his friend.
He watched Tommy Pakula pull up beside him. Before he got out of the Explorer he was shaking his finger at Andrew.
“You sure you should be carrying all that, Murderman?” Tommy asked, but he didn’t embarrass Andrew by attempting to relieve him of his burden. An ex-fullback, Tommy stood about three inches shorter than Andrew but with broad shoulders and biceps that stretched his T-shirt sleeves. He grabbed his own cooler and Bag-N-Save sack from the back seat. “I brought some filets since it looks like we won’t get any fish.”
“Don’t sound so relieved.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I was looking forward to the fishing part. I just don’t particularly like
eating
fish. My idea of a cookout is tailgating in the parking lot before a Huskers game. You know, with a nice thick slab of real meat, fresh out of the cooler. Not fishing all afternoon and only catching some puny six-inch thing that needs to be cleaned before you cook it.”
“I told you we wouldn’t be eating it. This is a catch-and-release lake. Besides, you’re missing the point. Fishing isn’t necessarily about catching fish.”
“Right, sure.” Tommy set the cooler on top of the Explorer just long enough to swipe sweat from his forehead, his hand continued over the top of his head, a habit he had developed since he began shaving his head. Andrew wondered if Tommy needed to remind himself that he no longer had hair or if he simply liked the feel of it. “I didn’t realize you were like the Zen master of fishing.”
“You’d see what I mean if you’d just give fishing a chance.”
“Yeah, right.”
Tommy picked up the cooler, and Andrew led the way to the cabin, trying not to flinch from the pain, though his back was to his best friend and he wouldn’t notice.
“So, what did the doctor have to say? How many more weeks you stuck in that fucking slingshot?” Tommy asked.
“At least three,” he managed to say without sounding out of breath.
“Holy crap, that’s a bitch. How can you even write?”
“Very slowly.” He put down the load outside the cabin so he could open the screen door for Tommy. That courtesy, Tommy allowed, and he squeezed in past him.
“That’s partly why I’m so far behind deadline,” Andrew found himself repeating anytime someone mentioned his writing, the subject tripping some kind of automatic guilt response. Truth was, his injury was only a small part of the manuscript’s delay. He didn’t want to admit the real reason, as if the
Andrew struggled with the bag of MatchLight charcoal, tugging it with his one good hand to try to get it out of the trunk of his car. He was disappointed to see it was only a ten-pound bag. It felt like a twenty-five-pounder. As if to compensate for his pathetic weakness he tucked the bag under his arm and grabbed the six-pack of Bud Light, ignoring the pinpricks of pain that crawled up his good shoulder, across the back of his neck and over his wounded arm.
He was tired of making the trips back and forth to the cabin, though it was less than fifty yards. Actually,
tired
wasn’t the appropriate word. He was irritated. Even now, with his good arm and hand full and a pain dancing from one shoulder to the other, he considered grabbing the fishing rod and tackle box. But the approaching thunderheads convinced him to leave the fishing gear for now. It was just as well. It would only be one more disappointment if he realized he couldn’t cast left-handed.
He noticed a slice of color moving through the trees, a car making its way up the road. With no free hands available, Andrew raised his chin in an effort to wave to the driver of the Ford Explorer. He waited, wishing he hadn’t been so stubborn in thinking he could carry both the charcoal and the beer, feeling the pull in his wounded shoulder even though it wasn’t bearing the weight. Again, he tried ignoring the pain, refusing to put anything down, especially not now. Not in front of his friend.
He watched Tommy Pakula pull up beside him. Before he got out of the Explorer he was shaking his finger at Andrew.
“You sure you should be carrying all that, Murderman?” Tommy asked, but he didn’t embarrass Andrew by attempting to relieve him of his burden. An ex-fullback, Tommy stood about three inches shorter than Andrew but with broad shoulders and biceps that stretched his T-shirt sleeves. He grabbed his own cooler and Bag-N-Save sack from the back seat. “I brought some filets since it looks like we won’t get any fish.”
“Don’t sound so relieved.”
“Hey, don’t get me wrong. I was looking forward to the fishing part. I just don’t particularly like
eating
fish. My idea of a cookout is tailgating in the parking lot before a Huskers game. You know, with a nice thick slab of real meat, fresh out of the cooler. Not fishing all afternoon and only catching some puny six-inch thing that needs to be cleaned before you cook it.”
“I told you we wouldn’t be eating it. This is a catch-and-release lake. Besides, you’re missing the point. Fishing isn’t necessarily about catching fish.”
“Right, sure.” Tommy set the cooler on top of the Explorer just long enough to swipe sweat from his forehead, his hand continued over the top of his head, a habit he had developed since he began shaving his head. Andrew wondered if Tommy needed to remind himself that he no longer had hair or if he simply liked the feel of it. “I didn’t realize you were like the Zen master of fishing.”
“You’d see what I mean if you’d just give fishing a chance.”
“Yeah, right.”
Tommy picked up the cooler, and Andrew led the way to the cabin, trying not to flinch from the pain, though his back was to his best friend and he wouldn’t notice.
“So, what did the doctor have to say? How many more weeks you stuck in that fucking slingshot?” Tommy asked.
“At least three,” he managed to say without sounding out of breath.
“Holy crap, that’s a bitch. How can you even write?”
“Very slowly.” He put down the load outside the cabin so he could open the screen door for Tommy. That courtesy, Tommy allowed, and he squeezed in past him.
“That’s partly why I’m so far behind deadline,” Andrew found himself repeating anytime someone mentioned his writing, the subject tripping some kind of automatic guilt response. Truth was, his injury was only a small part of the manuscript’s delay. He didn’t want to admit the real reason, as if the
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