The Injured Fish

One summer, when I was twenty, my dad invited me to go fishing with him and his friends up in North Mississippi. Charlie Deaton was one of the greatest sportsmen the good lord ever had the grace to send down to Mississippi. Every so often, somebody will say, “Boyd, you write about these guys, Deaton and Taylor and Wingate. Are they even real, or did you make them up?”

They’re pretty real. I can show you where they’re buried. I can introduce you to their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. More than that, I can take you around Millsaps and show you where their names are on a good many of the bronze plaques there.

Deaton was kind of a sinner. I am, too. He saw the hand of the lord in the fish and fowl, the trees and swamps of Mississippi, and he devoted his life to preserving them. There are lakes and forests named after him. Do you know how good of a sportsman you have to be for somebody to name a forest after you?

Teaching me to be a better fisherman, Deaton said, “You pull this bait across the top of the water. Jerk the rod this way and then that way. The bait has a joint in its tail that moves back and forth, making the other fish think it’s injured and drawing them to it.”

I tried it once, then twice. Noticing the back-and-forth tail action, Deaton was talking about; I said, “I see how this works now. I bet it does draw in the other fish. Doesn’t she go to Millsaps?”

Daddy laughed. Rowan laughed. Deaton really laughed, but Robert Wingate said he’d throw me off the boat if I didn’t quit. Being a blood relative, he always expected me to do better. It never worked out that way.

I have a sort of second sense when it comes to injured fish. It’s like ringing the dinner bell. Helping someone who is hurt makes you feel useful, and feeling useful makes you feel powerful. I’ve always known it was as much about feeling like I had a purpose as any sort of Christian charity. A man can busy himself helping himself, or he can busy himself helping others. If he doesn’t do either, then he’s just going to die from petrification.

I went to couples therapy once. The counselor asked, “What attracted you to your wife?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Have you seen her?”

I can write letters that will make you cry and change your life. Face-to-face, though, I’m pretty much useless, particularly when it comes to talking to another man about some woman in my life.

Nearly every man I ever knew who went through couples therapy said he felt like the counselor and his wife were joining forces against him. I’m willing to admit that men are pretty much just jerks, but there ought to be a better way to do this.

There was a guy in town that had the reputation for being fair with the husbands, but he also had a reputation for cheating on his wife, which ended badly in a very public way. I’m pretty stupid, but I’m not stupid enough to suggest going to that guy. I was in enough trouble as it was.

Truth be told, my wife was the most beautiful woman I had ever known. She still is. I call girls like that “ravens.” Brown eyes, brown hair, a wide smile. I’m pretty much defenseless. On top of that, she had the most beautiful alto voice, and her father quickly became one of my best friends.

She had just enough tragic life wounds to keep me interested and keep me occupied for several years, and I was only too glad to do it. She was worth it. Eventually, though, it became clear that, for her, that’s all there was to it.

She thought my interests were either terribly boring or terribly silly. I refused to raise my voice or throw things when I was angry, but I would keep calling her or saying her name until she stopped raising her voice and throwing things, which only made her more angry.

It started to feel like a heavy weight on my chest. I quit going out. I would resist going to work. My little import company was doing pretty well, but once the wind was out of my sails, it started sinking faster and faster.

Eventually, the marriage counselor said we should get a divorce. I asked if that meant I still had to pay him full price. Nobody thought that was funny.

Sometimes, I still see wounded fish skipping across the water. I think about what Deaton told me. There comes a point where a man has to turn his creative and protective instincts in on himself. I was never very good at it, and I paid a price.

Even knowing how everything ends, I can’t think of anything I’d change, though. I’d rather be the guy who only tends to wounded fish than be the guy who only tends to himself.