Fishing
The morning sun was a liar.
It streamed through the wall of windows, painting the great room in cheerful, buttery light that felt like a violation. Caleb sat at the deck table, the same spot as yesterday, nursing a coffee that had gone cold and greasy in his cup. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, the twin images branded his retina: his father’s broken expression, and Julian’s triumphant stare in the lamplight.
He’d scrubbed his skin raw in the shower, but the feeling wouldn’t leave. It was a grime under the surface, a scent stuck in his sinuses.
The heavy tread of work boots on hardwood announced his father. Mark lumbered out onto the deck, dressed in an old fishing vest and worn canvas pants. He looked ten years older. The skin around his kind hazel eyes was puffy and tight, the lines on his face etched deeper, as if carved by a dull knife overnight. He moved with a pronounced stiffness, a careful, sideways gait.
“Morning,” Mark said, his voice a gravelly approximation of itself. He didn’t meet Caleb’s eyes. He busied himself with a thermos, his large, callused hands fumbling with the cap.
“Morning, Dad.” Caleb’s own voice sounded thin. “You, uh… sleep okay?”
A fraction of a pause. “Like a log. This mountain air.” Mark finally glanced at him, a quick, darting look that held none of its usual steadiness. “You?”
“Not really.”
They stood in the silence, the gulf between them wider than the lake. The unspoken things swarmed like midges. Caleb watched his father’s posture, the slight wince as he bent to put the thermos in a tackle box. A hot needle of understanding, vile and unwelcome, pricked his gut.
The sliding door opened with a smooth hiss. Julian entered, fresh and vibrant in a crisp white linen shirt and tailored shorts. He smelled of expensive soap and mint.
“Gentlemen! Perfect morning for it.” He clapped Mark on the back, right between the shoulder blades.
Mark flinched. A full-body tremor he tried to disguise as reaching for a fishing rod.
Julian’s hand lingered, squeezing the muscle there. “All set, Mark? Boat’s gassed up and ready.”
“Yep. Ready.” Mark’s reply was monotone.
“Caleb, you’re in for a treat. Your dad’s a legend with a fly rod. Or so he tells me.” Julian’s smile was a scalpel. He picked up his own sunglasses from the table, his cold blue eyes finding Caleb’s over the rims. The look was a transaction. A reminder. It held no trace of the violent intimacy of the night before, only a bland, proprietorial confidence.
They walked down to the dock in single file, Julian leading, Mark in the middle, Caleb trailing behind. The boat was a sleek, dark green fishing skiff. Julian climbed in first, taking the helm. Mark got in next, lowering himself with a soft, suppressed grunt, settling heavily on the centre bench. Caleb untied the lines and stepped in last, the boat rocking beneath them.
The engine coughed to life, a throaty rumble that shattered the morning quiet. Julian backed them out, then turned the bow toward the vast, open water, gunning the throttle. The acceleration pushed them back in their seats. Wind whipped Caleb’s hair, but it didn’t feel cleansing. It felt like fleeing.
They cut the engine in a secluded cove a twenty-minute ride from the cabin, where the water was still and dark beneath overhanging pines. The silence that rushed in was profound, broken only by the lap of water against the hull and the distant cry of a loon.
“This is the spot,” Julian announced, killing the engine. “Deep channel runs right along those reeds. Big rainbows.”
For the next hour, a fragile, focused normalcy took hold. Mark, moving with a fisherman’s ingrained, gentle rhythm, showed Caleb how to tie a Royal Wulff onto his tippet. His instructions were soft, technical, a safe script. He stood close behind Caleb, guiding his cast. “Easy now. Ten and two. Let the rod do the work.” The familiar scent of his dad—Old Spice, petrol, honest sweat—almost undid Caleb. He concentrated on the fly, on the line, on the shimmering dance of it against the sky. For minutes at a time, he could almost forget.
Julian didn’t fish. He reclined in the captain’s chair, one hand on the wheel, sipping from a stainless-steel water bottle, watching them. His gaze was a physical pressure on the back of Caleb’s neck.
Mark caught a small, spirited rainbow trout. He handled it with practiced gentleness, working the hook free, his big hands cradling the shimmering body in the water until it zipped away. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “There you go, fella.”
It was the first real light Caleb had seen in his father’s face since he’d arrived. It gave him a desperate shot of courage.
Mark then caught a much, much bigger Rainbow Trout. This perked Julian up who, while still showing no interest in fishing, began to show a greater interest in Mark.
Once again, Caleb felt invisible. Rejected. He was the one who had asked for Julian to stop his predatory, invasive behaviour. Yet, somehow, he felt a yearning for the older man’s touch again. The images of his own father from last night, somehow bubbling under his façade. A wave of heat overcame him as he was broken from his trance by Mark and Julian laughing over a terrible fish pun. Why was he so angry? Why was he so jealous of the attention his dad was getting from his boss? He was beginning to accept why.
They fished for another hour, at least Mark did. Three, rather large, trouts were caught to add to the stash. Julian and Mark had continued the jovial, brotherly banter with each other. It was in ho way homo-erotic, more like long lost friends, with many an inside-joke, catching up after many years apart.
That night, Caleb did his best impression of a moody teenager. Grunts and one-word responses were all he could muster through his clouded judgement. As they grilled fish, drank beer, and laughed, Caleb felt entirely disconnected. Disturbing images kept bursting into his mind’s eye. Too often, he had to adjust his waist band and boxers, before clearing his visions to cleaner thoughts. Escape. He needed to get away from this.
“I’m spent, going to call it and have an early night.” Caleb croaked as he excused himself, with barely an acknowledgement.
“’Night, Son – sleep tight!” His Dad called after him as he retired to the guest room.
