The Anything Box

"Coincidence?" Crae glanced up.
"Yeah. I mean you, feeling like you do, going fishing on South Fork."
"What's my feelings got to do with it?" asked Crae, doubly sorry now thathe had betrayed himself to the old feller. What good had it done? Nothingcould help—ever —but still he sat.
"Well, son, there's quite a story about South Fork. Dunno when it started.Might be nothing to it." The faded eyes peered sharply through the glasses at
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him. "Then again, there might."
"What's the deal?" Crae's voice was absent and his eyes were on the His and
Hers signs. "I've been coming up here for five years now and I never heard any
special story."
"Seems there's a fish," said the old man. "A kinda special kinda fish. Not
many see him and he ain't been seen nowhere around this part of the country
'ceptin on South Fork. Nobody's ever caught him, not to land anyway."
"Oh, one of those. Patriarch of the creek. Wily eluder of bait. Stuff like
that?"
"Oh, not exactly." The rocking chair accelerated and slowed. "This here one
is something special."
"I'll hear about it later, Pop." Crae stood up. Ellena was coming back down
the path, outwardly serene and cool again. But she went in the side door into
the store and Crae sat down slowly.
'They say it's a little longer than a man and maybe a man's reach around."
The old man went on as though not interrupted.
"Pretty big—" Crae muttered absently, then snapped alert. "Hey! What are
you trying to pull? A fish that size couldn't get in South Fork, let alone
live there. Bet there aren't ten places from Baldy to Sheep's Crossing as deep
as five feet even at flood stage. What kind of line you trying to hand me?"
"Told you it was kinda special." The old man creased his eyes with a
gap-toothed grin. "This here fish don't live in the creek. He don't even swim
in it. Just happens to rub his top fin along it once in a while. And not just
this part of the country, neither. Heard about him all over the world, likely.
This here fish is a Grunder—swims through dirt and rocks like they was water.
Water feels to him like air. Air is a lot of nothing to him. Told a feller
about him once. He told me might be this here Grunder's from a nother
dy-mention." The old man worked his discolored lips silently for a moment "He
said it like it was supposed to explain something. Don't make sense to me."
Crae relaxed and laced his fingers around one knee. Oh, well, if it was
that kind of story—might as well enjoy it.
"Anyway," went on the old man, "like I said, this here Grunder's a special
fish. Magic, us old-timers would call it. Dunno what you empty,
don't-believe-nothing-without-touch-it-taste-it-hear-it-proof younguns would
call it. But here's where it hits you, young feller." The old finger was
jabbing at Crae again. "This here Grunder is a sure cure for jealousy. All you
gotta do is catch him, rub him three times the wrong way and you'll never
doubt your love again."
Crae laughed bitterly, stung by fear that he was being ridiculed. "Easy to
say and hard to prove, Pop. Who could catch a magic fish as big as that on
trout lines? Pretty smart, fixing it so no one can prove you're a ring-tailed
liar."
"Laugh, son," grunted the old man, "while you can. But who said anything
about a trout line? Special fish, special tackle. They say the Grunder won't
even rise nowhere without special bait." The old man leaned forward, his
breath sounding as though it came through a fine meshed screen. "Better
listen, son. Laugh if you wanta, but listen good. Could be one of these fine
days you'll wanta cast a line for the Grunder. Can't ever sometimes tell."
The tight sickness inside Crae gave a throb and he licked dry lips.
"There's a pome," the old man went on, leaning back in his chair, patting
the front of his duty checked shirt as he gasped for breath. "Old as the
Grunder most likely. Tells you what kinda tackle."
"Make your line from her linen fair.
Take your hook from her silken hair.
A broken heart must be your share
For the Grunder."
The lines sang in Crae's mind, burning their way into his skeptical brain."What bait?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light and facetious. "Must
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be kind of scarce for a fish like that."
The faded old eyes peered at him. "Scarce? Well, now that depends," the oldman said. "Listen."
"This is your bait, or your lure or flies,
Take her sobs when your lady cries,
Take the tears that fall from her eyes
For the Grunder."
Crae felt the sting of the words. The only time he'd seen Ellena cry overhis tantrums was the first time he'd really blown his top. That was the timeshe'd tried to defend herself, tried to reason with him, tried to reassure himand finally had dissolved into tears of frustration, sorrow anddisillusionment. Since then, if there had been tears, he hadn't seen them—onlyfelt her heart breaking inch by inch as she averted her white, still face fromhis rages and accusations.
"My wife doesn't cry," he said petulantly.
"Pore woman," said the old man, reaming one ear with his little finger."Anyway, happen some day you'll want to go fishing for the Grunder, you won'tforget."
The sound of Ellena's laughter inside the store drew Crae to his feet.Maybe they could patch this vacation together after all. Maybe Ellena couldput up with him just once more. Crae's heart contracted as he realized thatevery "once more" was bringing them inevitably to the "never again" time forhim and Ellena.
He went to the screen door of the store and opened it. Behind him, he couldhear the creak of the old man's chair.
"Course you gotta believe in the Grunder. Nothing works, less'n you believeit. And be mighty certain, son, that you want him when you fish for him. Onceyou hook him, you gotta hold him 'til you stroke him. And every scale on hisbody is jagged edged on the down side. Rip hell outa your hand firststroke—but three it's gotta be. Three times—"
"Okay, Pop. Three times it is. Quite a story you've got there." Crae letthe door slam behind him as he went into the shadowy store and took thegroceries from an Ellena who smiled into his eyes and said, "Hello, honey."
A week later, the two of them lolled on the old army blanket on thespread-out tarp, half in the sun, half in the shade, watching the piling ofdazzling bright summer thunderheads over Baldy. Stuffed with mountain trout,and drowsy with sun, Crae felt that the whole world was as bright as the skyabove them. He was still aglow from catching his limit nearly every day sincethey arrived, and that, along with just plain vacation delight, filled himwith such a feeling of contentment and well-being that it overflowed in asudden rush of tenderness and he yanked Ellena over to him. She laughedagainst his chest and shifted her feet into the sun.
"They freeze in the shade and roast in the sun," she said, "Isn't itmarvelous up here?"
"Plumb sightly, ma'am," drawled Crae.
"Just smell the spruce," said Ellena, sitting up and filling her lungsecstatically.
"Yeah, and the fried fish," Crae sat up, too, and breathed in noisily. "Andthe swale, and," he sniffed again, "just a touch of skunk."