Nine Lies of B.G. Davies

The Crooked Fish

The brush smudged a line below the noontime sun and added a splash of blue to the day. The painter's hand skirted over the horizon and paused above foreground walkway, where the boy should be standing. A straw hat, rolled-up pants and freckles would have allowed the youth to exist in this scene, but the boy, wearing a faded and torn jean jacket, a dirty, red ball cap pressed down by headphones, his shoes untied, pants falling down, this boy would need to be overlooked in the townscape.

The artist squinted above his bifocals and adjusted his eyes to the quiet village across the harbour. The boutiques shone in the distance, red and yellow and blue. The polished brass and varnished cedar of a recently restored racing sloop reflected on the green water of the bay. The quiet town glistened. Above, the bell hung motionless in the church steeple. It was Easter.

A group of fisherman formed a line along the harbour wall, taking advantage of a summer sun in April. Six rods, synchronized with one another, followed the slow pulse of the current, each anxiously awaiting a break in the rhythm of the river. The rainbow trout had started their spawning run early this year, one angler was saying.

"Ya, they're up as far as the bridge on the Twelfth Line". Larry knew all there was to know about the spawning habits of the rainbow trout. He was, after all, a life-long resident of the quaint village and a member in good standing of the local legion hall for the past thirty years. "It's 'cuz of the warm spring, you know."

Larry paused to search for a lighter, hidden in the breast pocket of his red plaid shirt. The incense of burning tobacco rose above the river. "Up at Ron's place on the Eighth Line they're packed in there so thick you can walk across the river on their backs." He coughed a laugh.

"Ya?"

Larry's new companion had arrived to take a place along the river wall. He glanced across the river at the town waterfront, then turned to Larry. "Any luck?"

A gull passed overhead, its shadow slicing the years between the two men. The young man looked at the wrinkles beneath Larry's stained lips. The old man cleared his throat of phlegm. "Na, Not a bite."

In the silence that followed, Larry turned and poked short glances at the newcomer. The young man looked like the typical fisherman from the city: neoprene waders, name-brand fishing vest—complete with black and orange floats hanging from a pocket—and an approvable cap hiding his collar-length hair. Larry's eyes caught the young man's fishing rod.

"That's quite a pole ya got there. Is that one of those new space-aged rods I seen in the fishing magazines?"

"Ya. Just got it.  One hundred percent boron graphite blank. Never fished with anything this sensitive before. "

Larry moved two steps down the wall, allowing the younger fisherman to have access to the river. The newcomer lifted the bail across his reel and with one eye closed in concentration, threw his bait into the slow current. A splash received his sinker. The line sank evenly between the young man's two neighbours, and joined the slow sway of the black rods. The young man breathed a long sigh.

The painter saw Larry move toward the young man. They were laughing together now, but their sounds were buried beneath the clamour of a passing truck, laden with rocks for the government project to beautify the harbour. The artist steadied his hand and applied a glint of white to a distant pair of sunglasses. Beneath them, a young woman, in her twenties, lay, head stretched back, to accept the sun. Her flesh, a winter white, reached across a blanket from under her T-shirt and shorts.

"Now that's a pretty one."

"Pardon?"

"I said, that's a pretty one—the girl."