Baggage Check (24 page)

She considered calling the Goodwill guys and asking them to skip tomorrow, but a missed pickup would mean the yard remained crowded with junk for an extra three days. “Alex,” she breathed, shaking her head, and went back to work resorting everything she had just done.

By the time she left the house that night she was ravenous, and stopped at the Git up N' Go off Highway 9 on her way to her dad's. A toothless old man held the door for her, and she went out of her way to give him her most genuine, not-snobby smile.

She could not be sure, but Rebecca thought he let out a wet-sounding whistle as she brushed past him. She glanced down at herself, in filthy jean shorts and an ancient white tank top, sweaty and rank from the day's work. There was an odd line of grayish dust across her midsection from something she had carried, and she could feel a matted curl of hair hanging across her brow. Commercials and
Flashdance
had taught her that men had fantasies about sexy women doing hard labor in skimpy clothes, but she was almost positive she could never live up to those images in her current state.

“People are
weird,
” she said aloud.

“You tellin' me,” agreed the old black man behind the counter. He was counting a stack of bills at the register and did not look up at her.

She contemplated an egg salad sandwich in the cooler, but decided she did not trust the expiration date on gas station egg salad, no matter how hungry she was. In the end, she returned to the counter with a stick of beef jerky, a bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, and a large Diet Coke to wash it down. It was a far cry from the juicy burger and mixed green salad with balsamic vinaigrette she was craving, but it would have to do.

“Have a blessed night,” the cashier said when he handed her the change from her rumpled five-dollar bill.

“I'll try,” Rebecca said.

She was almost to her father's house when she slammed on the brakes and put the car in reverse. It only took ten minutes to get back to her mother's house, but she felt inexplicably panicky the whole way.
What if it's gone? What if I'm too late?

But there it was, exactly where she'd left it on the blue tarp, in all its tacky glory. She loaded it into the backseat, thinking how ridiculous the red tassels and eclectic design were going to look in her sleek, modern apartment. “Maybe it's time to make room for some weirdness in my life,” she said. It was too late that night, she decided, but she would call Alex tomorrow and set him straight.

 

26

That Saturday morning, for the first time in a month, Rebecca got up at 3:30
A.M.
On purpose. She put on jeans, a light jacket, and a baseball cap, along with the old tennis shoes she cleaned in, and headed out the door.

“I can't believe I let you talk me into this,” she told Alex when she found him, using her phone as a flashlight. He was about thirty yards from the parking lot next to Lake Ofeskokee, sitting in a folding camp chair.

“Shhh,” he said. “You'll wake the fish.”

“Can you catch them if they're sleeping?”

“No, but you'll scare them away. Did you bring coffee?”

“Yes,” she whispered dramatically. She fumbled carefully to get the foam cup into his hands in the dark. His fingers were warm and lightly calloused as they brushed against hers. “Can I get you anything else? Blanket? Pillow? Beverage napkin?”

“You really do miss your job, don't you?” She could hear the smile in his voice.

“I don't miss getting up before dawn to bring people coffee, no.”

“This was our deal—I bring the gear and you bring the coffee.”

“I don't understand why we couldn't do something during daylight hours. Or something with other people around. How do I know you're not going to strangle me and dump me in the lake?”

“It's still a possibility,” he said drily.

“Or worse, I'll be eaten by some wild animal out here in the wilderness.”

“Hey, you're the one who asked me what you could do to prove you weren't a snob. This is it. Well, it's this or pig wrestling.”

“Fine. Where's my pole?”

“Here. I even baited your first hook for you. After that, you're on your own.”

“After that, I'll probably just go back to bed.”

“Okay, fine. I'll bait all your hooks. Jeez, girl, you'd never know that you were born and raised in Alabama. You've gotten all prissy and citified.”

“Yes, I can see how the fact that I have some minimal hygiene standards and basic literacy would make me seem like an outsider.”

“Whoa, now. That's harsh. This is your town, too. And we're not
that
bad. We have a library. I've even been in it. Nice clean bathrooms.”

She gave his arm a gentle shove and lowered herself carefully into the second camp chair. “So what do I do next?”

“Put the hook in the water.”

“Yeah. And?”

“Wait.”

“Just wait?”

“Just wait.”

*   *   *

She waited. And waited. Fifteen minutes went by, and then twenty. Alex pulled three decent-sized bream out of the water and tossed them in a bucket between them where they thrashed and rested in turns. He caught a few smaller fish that he threw back. But Rebecca got nothing. Once in a while she felt a tiny bumping sensation at the end of her line, but each time she pulled it out, the worm was gone and Alex had to hook another one on. She watched him do it the first time, piercing the short yellow mealy worm with the point of the hook so that a bubble of white blood formed around it while the poor thing squirmed helplessly. She felt all the blood rush out of her face so that she was nearly sick. From then on, he baited her hook while she looked in the other direction.

The sun began to rise behind the trees, painting the sky in glorious warm pastels. She wedged her pole between her knees, the leg of the chair, and the bucket so that it would not move, and allowed herself to sit back and watch the sky beneath the brim of her cap. Slowly the world came into being around them, from gray outlines of predawn to orange light like flame, and finally a muted version of full daylight. Alex materialized next to her, too, in an army sweatshirt and black jogging shorts, with his eyes closed and head leaning back against the canvas of the chair. His jet-black hair was a rumpled mess, sticking out in every direction. She felt a sudden impulse to run her fingers through it, and then something stirred between her legs.

“Ah!” she yelled, forgetting the early hour and Alex's orders to be quiet. “I think I've got something!”

The pole jerked sideways, nearly knocking over the bucket next to her; it almost got away from her before she could get out of her chair and get her hands tight around it. Alex jumped from his seat to help her as the pole bent under the weight of whatever was at the other end of the line. He reached around her to grab the pole and widened his stance to give them stability. She was aware of his body behind her, close and warm, his arms around her.

“Here,” he said, “anchor your right foot back and put your left foot forward.” She did so just in time, as something tugged mightily on the other end of the line and nearly pulled her over.

“I hope it's not an alligator,” he said.

She turned to glare at him. “Don't even play like that.”

“Kidding. I'm kidding. It's almost totally impossible that it's an alligator.”

“Almost? Alex!”

He laughed in her ear, finding the reel with his right hand and beginning to spool the line in. “You just hold on, okay? I'll bring it in. It's fine.”

She could not believe how strong a fish could be, as she struggled to hold the pole steady while he turned the little silver handle on the reel. The pole looked like it was in danger of snapping in half at first, and when the fish finally broke the surface, they both reeled backward. She thought she would fall and the fish would end up halfway to the parking lot. Alex held her up, though, and managed to swing the pole back around so that the fish finally dangled in front of them, shimmery green and silver. She'd never thought a fish could show emotion, but this one looked
angry
.

She squealed in half-squeamish, half-victorious delight as Alex moved carefully around her to lower the fish into the bucket. “Oh my God! I caught one! And it's huge!”

“It really is a beauty,” Alex said. “Looks like a red-eared bream.”

“Do you see how big my fish is?” she said, ignoring the specifics and doing a little jumping dance. “I caught a really big fish!”

“I knew you could,” he said. He threw his arms around her and jumped with her while they hugged in celebration. She felt giddy, and a little silly. But she thought she was beginning to understand why her dad liked fishing so much.

Alex stopped jumping and grinned at her, hands still on her shoulders. “See? I told you.” And then something in his eyes changed, and he leaned into her with a gentle kiss that tasted like stale coffee. His face was rough with stubble and prickled her chin. For a moment, she was swept away. She closed her eyes and let her hands rise to his shoulder blades and her mouth press against his kiss. He pulled her closer. She trembled just slightly—whether from the chill of the morning, the excitement of catching the fish, or Alex, she could not have said. But she felt his warmth against her, and moments later, a hardness stirring in his jogging shorts. This brought her back to reality.

“Oh, no,” she said, pulling away from him and nearly falling over her chair. “No, Alex, we can't—”

“What?” he said. The bright smile was still on his lips but fading from his eyes. “We can't … what?”

“It's me,” she said. “I'm sorry. I can't do this anymore.”

“Can't do what? Fishing? Or kissing me?”

“Any of it. This … us. This relationship, or friendship or whatever it is … I can't do it.”

His smile was feigned now, but he kept it. He raised his palms to her. “Was it something I said? Do I need a breath mint? I might have some gum in the car.”

“No.”

“What, then? I thought that kiss was kind of nice.”

“It was, but … look, Alex. It's obvious that you think of this as more than friendship, and I know you had a crush on me in school. But it's not that simple. That was almost twenty years ago. I'm not that little girl in the bleachers anymore.”

“I know who you are, Rebecca.”

“I don't think you do, questions or no questions. You don't want me—I'm a mess. I'm going to end up completely crazy just like my mom, and I am hopeless with relationships. You've been great, and I like you—”

“You
like
me.”

“Yes, I do. But I can't stay here much longer. My life is in Atlanta. My job. My friends. I can't live in Oreville.”

“What about Birmingham? It's basically West Atlanta.” His tone was playful, but it was clear he'd been thinking about it.

“That's not the point.” She was getting frustrated.

“What is the point?”

“It's that I just don't…” The next part came out in a rush. “Alex, I just don't return your feelings. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, come on, you're just saying that because—”

“I am not just saying it,” she said. “I know it sounds like a bad line, but I don't think I'm good for anyone right now. My life is a disaster, my family has fallen apart, and what I feel most of the time is numb. Just numb. I have nothing to give you. I'm not what you need.”

He looked at her for a moment, his face unreadable, ashen. He went to the bucket and began to work at unhooking her fish. When he spoke, his voice was neutral, steady. “Yours is probably two and a half pounds. You can keep it if you want. Cook it.”

“Alex,” she said gently.

He did not look up from his work, but released the fish in the bucket and began winding up the line. “I'm going to throw mine back. They're a little iffy, and to be honest I just don't feel like cleaning them today.”

“Alex.”

No answer. He quietly packed up the tackle and folded his camp chair, watching intently what he was doing as he wrestled it into the sling that fit around it. She sighed and did the same with the other one and handed it to him. He shouldered them both and bent down to get the tackle box. “Please talk to me,” she said.

“It sounds like there's nothing much else to say, Rebecca,” he said, looking at her briefly, finally, and then turning toward the car. “Listen, I have to go. Do what you want with the fish.”

“Alex, I—”

“I need to go,” he said. “Thank you for being honest with me.”

Rebecca had never seen him angry. She did not want it to end this way. “Look, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that the way I did. We can still be friends—”

“I have friends.”

The words landed like a slap across her face. The implication was clear.
Unlike me
 …

Rebecca sensed that trying to repair the damage with Alex would only make things worse. Her eyes were stinging and her hands fell to her sides as he walked away, her only friend in Alabama, hating her.

When the taillights of his car disappeared onto the road, she walked in a daze back to the bucket of fish. The three Alex had caught were mostly still, except for the slow, regular movements of their gills flexing in and out. They seemed resigned to their fate. Her fish, however, still thrashed about absurdly with delusions of escape. He threw himself against the walls of the bucket and his companions, splashing water out onto the dirt where the camping chairs had been just minutes before.

“Give it up,” she said to the fish. She had a brief, morbid fantasy of what it would be like to pour out the bucket on the ground and watch the fish flounder around. How long would they struggle and flop around before realizing there was no hope, that they could not survive outside their environment? Instead, she grabbed the handle, straining a little at the awkward, watery weight of the bucket, and staggered to the edge of the lake. “At least you have a place to go,” she told the fish as she returned them to the water. “At least there's somewhere you can breathe.”