Aquifer: A Novel (18 page)

“Glad you could make it,” shouted Tina.

“Larry, you're center field. Clayton, you take left field,” yelled W.T.

Opal was up at bat and Johnny was pitching.

“Okay Johnny,” yelled Opal as she raised her bat and took a practice swing. “Gimme your best shot, ‘cause I’m goin’ a hit that ball as far as possible.”

Suddenly the three boys burst into uncontrollable laughter. Even Clayton and Larry were snickering.

Opal lowered her bat. “What? Did I miss something?”

“That’s not possible!” yelled Johnny.

The others laughed even harder.

Tina and her two brothers looked at each other bewildered.

Clayton tried to regain his composure and yelled over to Opal, “Never mind, it’s a private joke . . . a guy thing.” But even at that he couldn’t stop laughing.

Johnny was almost in tears, he was laughing so hard. But he slowly got control of himself and wound up for the pitch. Just before he released the ball, Austin yelled, “Look out Johnny! She’s going to hit it as far as possible.”

Suddenly Johnny again burst into laughter and dropped the ball, while his friends, along with Clayton and Larry, also wrestled with uncontrollable laugher.

“What’s goin’ on?” yelled Opal as she broke into a smile and then she too began to laugh.

Even Tina, W.T., and Lillburn began to laugh, not because they had any idea what was going on, but because the laughter of the entire outfield was so contagious.

“Time out,” yelled Opal with a big grin on her face. “I can’t hit a ball unless you can throw it. What’s so dern funny anyway?”

“Never mind,” yelled Johnny between snickers, shaking his head and trying to control himself. “Let’s take a breather.”

He and his teammates lay on the ground giggling for several minutes. Finally Johnny rose to his feet again and picked up the ball.

“Okay, Grandma, for reals this time. Here it comes,” yelled Johnny.

He wound up and threw the pitch. Opal swung and missed. Everyone cheered for Johnny. Everyone’s attention had again returned to the seriousness of the game. Everyone, that is, except for Clayton. The time out had given him time to think, and his thoughts had drifted back to his childhood . . .

*

A Little League baseball game was well underway. Tommy Clayton was up to bat. He searched the bleachers for his parents, but as usual, they were not there.
I ought to be used to this by now
, he thought, though their absence always filled him with an aching emptiness.

The scoreboard showed the bottom of the ninth, the score tied with one out. The pitcher got the signal and threw. Tommy connected and sent the ball deep into left field. He took off running, making it safely to second base. The next batter stepped up. Tommy took a long lead-off. The batter swung and missed but Tommy stole third, just beating the ball. The crowd was ecstatic.

On the next pitch the batter connected with a pop fly deep into center field. Tommy waited to see if it would be caught. It was. He tagged the base and sprinted for home plate. The center fielder threw for home. Tommy slid for the plate as the catcher reached to snag the overthrown ball. The umpire signaled “safe” as Tommy scored the winning run. The crowd cheered.

Tommy's teammates rushed onto the field and hoisted him upon their shoulders. Again he searched the faces of the crowd on the bleachers for his parents.
Can’t they share just one moment of glory with me?
But his wishes were in vain - they were not there. His adoptive parents were extremely generous in showering him with material possessions; but when it came to the things that mattered most to a young boy - their time, their attention, their love, and their praise - they were woefully lacking. For all their education, they were totally ignorant of that which was most important in the emotional development of a young man.

Still in his uniform, Tommy came through the front door of his home. The house was big, silent, and apparently empty. He slowly took off his baseball shoes, slung them over his shoulder and walked down the hall, past the study.

“Tommy?” his father called. Tommy Clayton stopped, backed up, and entered the study. “You're in uniform. Did you have another game today or was it just practice?”

“Yeah, we played. Where's Mom?”

“She’s making a presentation at the university. How did you do?”

“We won,” Tommy replied half-heartedly.

“That’s great. Maybe I can catch next weekend’s game.”

“Today was the last game,” Tommy stated dejectedly.

“I'm sorry son, maybe next year.”

*

The sound of a plastic bat connecting with a Wiffle Ball jarred Clayton’s thoughts.

Opal hit a pop fly into left field. Coming to his senses, Clayton suddenly realized that he was the left fielder. The ball was high so Clayton made a running jump and caught the ball mid-air but slammed into the side of a storage shed in the process.

*

Inside the storage shed, the jarring impact of Clayton’s collision jostled a half-full gallon can of diesel fuel precariously perched on a stack of loose tools piled on top of a work bench. The can tipped over, popping off the plastic cap as it collided with the top of the workbench and slid to the edge. Fuel ran out the opened nozzle into an open bag of garden fertilizer on the floor below.

*

After dinner everyone helped clean the dishes from the dining room table. Opal organized them into an assembly line style so that they wouldn’t create such chaos in the cramped kitchen. Tina put the uneaten food away while Opal scraped food scraps from the dirty plates into a 5-gallon plastic bucket which sat on the floor by the sink. It had already been crammed with corn cobs and husks.

“W.T., take this bucket and dump it on the compost pile. And throw a couple scoops of fertilizer on it,” Opal said.

Obedient and dutiful, as a good son, W.T. grabbed the bucket and headed for the door.

A few moments later W.T. entered the shed searching for the fertilizer. Looking around he quickly spotted the opened bag on the floor beside the work bench. Then he noticed the spilt can of diesel fuel that was dripping into it. “Well, this could be interesting,” he muttered to himself. He stooped down, picked up a garden trowel and began to dig in the fertilizer bag to see how saturated it was. “Yes, we could have fun with this.”

A few minutes later everyone was gathered around a tree stump at the far edge of the garden in the back yard. W.T. was on his hands and knees packing the fertilizer/diesel mixture into a hole dug at its base, cradled by two massive gnarly roots. “Mom's been digging around this stump all summer. Time to finish the job,” he stated. Then he took an M-80 firecracker from his pocket.

Though illegal in most states, almost all types of fireworks could be legally purchased at any time of the year in Missouri. M-80s were among the most powerful of the explosive type and worked almost as good as a blasting cap.

“And now for the secret ingredient.” He buried the M-80 into the mixture, packing it in tight. Then he lit the fuse. Everyone ran for cover. Within seconds there was a tremendous, ear-splitting explosion. When the dust settled, the stump was lying on its side a few feet from the small crater.

“What the heck was that?” asked Larry.

“Fertilizer and diesel fuel. Cheap, but effective,” explained W.T.

Clayton smiled and shook his head in amazement.

*

That night, as Larry and Tina washed dishes in the cramped kitchen at the back of the house, Clayton and Opal sat talking on the front porch steps. Clayton hoped to make up for his miserable attempt at conversation the previous time they’d had dinner.

“Thank you for taking Johnny camping the other night,” said Opal. “He seems to have really enjoyed himself.”

“I’ll have to admit that I had some misgivings at first but it turned out to be a great experience. You have quite a family,” Clayton observed.

“We try to have fun, but you sure spoiled my day this afternoon, catching that fly.”

“I assure you it was all luck . . .” Clayton chuckled. He paused a moment and then continued more seriously. “I've given a lot of thought to what you said last week about logging. I can see how this must appear to you, but we're dealing with a much bigger picture than what you see.”

“No, the picture's the same . . . everywhere. People need work! You researchers are all theory, feeding at the hog trough of tax payer expense . . . figurin’ out ways to prevent common folks from providin’ for their families, all in the name of protectin’ the environment. Well, it’s nice to save frogs or owls, but savin’ people an’ their livelihood is more important,” Opal snapped.

“You don’t understand! What kills the frogs will eventually kill the people, too. It just kills the frogs first,” retorted Clayton.

“Ya got no proof of that!” Opal rebuffed, holding her ground.

=/\=

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY

Current River Slough

Several days later, around dusk, Clayton and Larry were conducting research along the upper portion of the Current River. They were headed upriver in their high-powered bass boat. The outboard motor was opened flat out. A huge rooster-tail of spray kicked out the back end. They had spent most of the day systematically collecting water samples which they planned to analyze back at the lab over the next few days.

They had fallen into a routine of spending an entire day on location, collecting samples and then spending the next two or three days analyzing the samples back at the lab to obtain their data. Larry had learned much from Clayton during the preceding weeks. With Tina’s help, he had also overcome his concerns at being stuck in a small town for the summer.

Clayton cut the engine and the bow settled onto the water. Their forward speed slowed until the boat came to a rest. By carefully throttling the engine to combat the river's fast current, he caused the boat to hover motionless in the middle of the river.

Larry picked up the sampling pole and dipped it into the river six feet in front of the boat. He then retrieved the pole, recorded the temperature, date, location and number of the pre-numbered sample vial. Finally he reattached a new, empty vial to the end of the pole. Clayton gently gunned the engine and angled the boat toward the far shore where Larry repeated the process a few feet from the riverbank. This completed, Clayton gunned the engine into high speed, and the duo headed upriver and around the bend.

*

Night settled in as Clayton turned from the river's main channel into a wide backwater slough. He cut back on the throttle and the bass boat glided effortlessly across the peaceful slough which was as calm as a mirror, deep and still. Patches of cottonwood tree fuzz and pollen lazily floated on the water’s still surface giving it a surrealistic appearance. Darkness thickened as the overhanging trees blotted out the little light remaining in the sky.

Hundreds of fireflies blinked their mating call while the frogs, crickets, locusts and whippoorwills began their nightly symphonic ritual. Clayton killed the engine and switched over to the electric trolling motor. Larry turned on a powerful searchlight with a yellow lens and scanned ahead for logs, rocks, or other debris.

They approached the middle of the slough where several submerged trees, remnants of the spring floods, lay on their sides with massive limbs protruding from the water. The limbs provided platforms upon which large bullfrogs performed their evening concert. Attending the concert, with the intent of frisking the performers for Chytrid, was Clayton’s primary objective for the evening’s stealthy endeavors.

The men worked silently at their task. Clayton slowly, yet skillfully maneuvered the boat forward, bringing the bow within range for Larry to net a large bullfrog. With his captive secured in the netting, Larry swung the pole toward Clayton for removal and the customary toe amputation. He then pivoted the large yellow searchlight in Clayton’s direction.

Gently Clayton removed the frog from the net and held it securely while clipping off a hind toe which he placed into a pre-labeled specimen vial. Then, grasping the frog with both hands, Clayton gently lowered the frog over the side of the boat and released it back into the water.

The men watched the released frog dive for the bottom of the deep slough. When the frog was about eight feet below the surface of the water it turned and headed toward a submerged limb. Suddenly a streaking blur swam out from under the limb. A massive mouth opened, appearing to be larger than the fish to which it belonged. The frog was immediately ingested. The mouth closed and the blur was gone.

“Now you know why it's called a
LARGEMOUTH
bass,” commented Clayton.

“Yeah!” exclaimed Larry.

Clayton maneuvered the boat forward a few feet enabling Larry to net a record-setting granddaddy the size of a dinner plate. Again Larry passed the net to Clayton. But the large frog was too much for Clayton to handle. Before he could gracefully return it to the water it squirmed free of his grasp and leapt from the boat creating a loud splash into the slough.

In the powerful beam of the searchlight the men watched as the frog raced for the bottom. Before going more than a few feet there was a massive swirling motion in the water, agitating the still surface, making it difficult for the men to see clearly. A large mouth, several times the size of the previous one, opened, revealing what appeared to be a mouth full of teeth. The granddaddy frog seemed minuscule as it was ingested and the mouth closed. But the forward motion of the un-discernible predator continued as it swam toward the boat. The surface water swirled again. Then there was a loud thump as something huge hit the bottom of the boat, rocking it so severely that the boat almost swamped. As quickly as it appeared, the object disappeared.