“By the time you get back the warm current will be gone. I need you here now. Fishing is your job, and it’s the most important job in this valley. You can go south some other time, in the winter maybe when we aren’t going out.”
“I can pay someone to fill in for me,” Steve said desperately. But John just shook his head, the grim set of his mouth shifting to an angry down-curve. I shrank in my chair, frightened. So often it came to this between them; they got right to the breaking point so fast that it seemed certain they would snap through one day. For a moment I was sure of it; Steve’s hands clenched, John was ready to launch himself… But once again Steve deferred. He turned on his heel and ran out the dining room. We heard the kitchen door slam open and shut.
Mrs. Nicolin got up and refilled John’s glass. “Are you sure we couldn’t get Addison Shanks to fill in for the week?”
“No, Christy. His work is here, he’s got to learn that. People depend on that.” He glanced at Tom, drank deeply, said in an annoyed voice, “You know I need him here, Tom. What are you doing coming down here and giving him ideas like that?”
Tom said mildly, “I thought you might be able to spare him.”
“No,” John said for the last time, putting his bulk into it. “I’m not gaming out there, Tom—”
“I know that. I know it.” Tom sipped his brandy and gave me an uncomfortable look. I imitated Emilia and pretended I wasn’t there, staring at the portrait of us all on the black glass of the window. We were a pretty unhappy looking group. Steve was long gone, on the beach, I figured. I thought about how he felt at that moment, and the fine meal in my stomach turned lumpy. Mrs. Nicolin, face tight with distress, tried to refill our glasses. I shook my head, and Tom covered his glass with his hand. He cleared his throat.
“Well, I guess Hank and I’ll get going, then.” We stood. “Wonderful meal, Christy,” Tom muttered to Mrs. N. She began to say goodbye as if nothing had happened; Tom cut her off with a pained expression and said, “Thanks for the meal, John. I’m sorry I brought all that up.”
John grunted and waved a hand, lost in his thoughts. We all stood looking at him, a big man brooding in his chair, staring at his own colorless image, surrounded by all his goods and possessions… “No matter,” he said, as if releasing us. “I can see what caused you to do it. Come tell me what it’s like down there when you get back.”
“We will.” Tom thanked Mrs. N. again and we backed out the door. She followed us out. On the doorstep she said, “You should have known, Tom.”
“I know. Good night, Christy.”
We walked up the river path full of food, but glum and heavy-footed. Tom muttered under his breath and took swings at branches near the path. “Should’ve known… nothing else possible… impossible to change… set like a wedge…” He raised his voice. “History is a wedge in a crack, boy, and we’re the wood. We’re the wood right under the wedge, you understand, boy?”
“No.”
“Ah…” He started muttering again, sounding disgusted.
“I do understand that John Nicolin is a mean old son of a bitch—”
“Shut up,” Tom snapped. I did. “A wedge in a crack,” he went on. Suddenly he stopped and grabbed my arm, swung me around violently. “See over there?” he cried, pointing across the river at the other bank.
“Yeah,” I protested, peering into the dark.
“Right there. The Nicolins had just moved here, just John and Christy and John Junior and Steve. Steve was just a babe, John Junior about six. They came in from the back country. One day John was helping with the first bridge, in the start of winter. John Junior was playing on the bank, on an overhang, and the overhang fell in the river.” His voice was harsh. “Fell plop right in the river, you understand? River full of the night’s rain. Right in front of John. He dove in and swam downstream all the way out into the sea. Swam nearly an hour, and never saw the kid at all. Never saw him again. Understand?”
“Yeah,” I said, uneasy at the strain in his voice. We started walking again. “That still doesn’t mean he needs Steve for fishing, because he surely doesn’t—”
“Shut up,” he said again, not as sharp as the first time. After a few steps he said quietly, as if talking to himself, “And then we went through that winter like rats. We ate anything we could find.”
“I’ve heard about those times,” I said, irritated that he kept going back to the past. That was all we heard about: the past, the past, the God-damned past. The explanation for everything that happened was contained in our past. A man could behave like a tyrant to his son, and what was his excuse? History.
“That don’t mean you know what it was like,” he told me, irritated himself. Watching him in the dark I saw marks of the past on him: the scars, the caved-in side of his face where he had no teeth left, his bent back. He reminded me of one of the trees high on the hills above us, gnarled by the constant onshore winds, riven by lightning. “Boy, we were hungry. People died because we didn’t have food enough in the winters. Here was this valley soaked with rain and growing trees like weeds, and we couldn’t grow food from it to stay alive. All we could do was hunker down in the snow—snow here, damn it—and eat every little hibernating creature we could find. We were just like wolves, no better. You won’t know times like those. We didn’t even know what day of the year it was! It took Rafe and me four years to figure out what the date was.” He paused to collect himself and remember his point. “Anyway, we could see the fish in the river, and we did our best to get them into the fire. Got some rods and lines and hooks out of Orange County, tackle from fishing stores that should have been good stuff.” He snorted, spat at the river. “Fishing with that stupid sport gear that broke every third fish, broke every time you used it… it was a damned shame. John Nicolin saw that and he started asking questions. Why weren’t we using nets? No nets, we said. Why weren’t we fishing the ocean? No boats, we said. He looked at us like we were fools. Some of us got mad and said how are we going to find nets? Where?
“Well, Nicolin had the answer. He went up into Clemente and looked in a telephone book, for God’s sake. Looked in the Goddamned yellow pages.” He laughed, a quick shout of delight. “He found the listing for commercial fishing warehouses, took some men up there to look for them. First one we found was empty. Second one had been blown flat on the day. The third one we walked into was a warehouse full of nets. Steel cables, heavy nylon—it was great. And that was just the start. We used the phone book and map to find the boatyards in Orange County, because all of the harbors were clean empty, and we hauled some boats right down the freeway.”
“What about the scavengers?”
“That was when there weren’t too many scavengers, and there wasn’t any fight in the ones that were there.”
Now there I knew he was lying. He was leaving himself out of the story, as he always did. Almost everything I knew of Tom’s history I had heard from someone else. And I had a lot of stories about him; as the oldest man in the valley legends naturally collected around him. I had heard how he had led those foraging raids into Orange County, guiding John Nicolin and the others through his old neighborhoods and beyond. He had been death on scavengers in those days, they said. If ever they were hard pressed by scavengers Tom had disappeared into the ruins, and pretty soon there weren’t any scavengers around to bother them anymore. It was Tom, in fact, who introduced Rafael to guns. And the tales of Tom’s endurance—why, they were so numerous and outlandish that I didn’t know what to think. He must have done some of those things to get such a reputation, but which ones? Had he gone for a week without sleep during the forced march from Riverside, or eaten the bark from trees when they were holed up in Tustin, surrounded? Or walked through fire and held his breath under water for a half hour, to escape? Whatever he had done, I was sure he had run ragged every man in the valley, and him over seventy-five years old at the time. I had heard Rafael declare that the old man must have been radiated on the day, and mutated so that he was destined never to die, like the wandering Jew. “One thing’s for sure,” Rafe said, “I walked with him by one of the scavengers’ geiger counters at a swap meet once, and that machine almost busted its bell. Scavengers took off…”