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Chum

Kent Robinson

    Tonight the cops are questioning Mrs. Poole. From out on the lake I can see, with the unaided eye, their car parked in her cobblestone driveway, the tan right side of the vehicle sporting the sheriff’s yellow emblem on the front passenger’s door.
    Talking to Mrs. Poole will be fruitless: She’s eighty-seven years old, hard of hearing, and almost completely out of touch.
    Yesterday morning the police called upon Harold and Nancy Brillstein. They own the mustard-colored cottage a quarter of a mile north of ours. Harold told the authorities, quite correctly, that he and his wife had been in Florida for the past two months. They’d just gotten back on Tuesday. Since Glenn had been missing for a week, the Brillsteins hardly qualified as suspects in the marina owner’s disappearance, nor could they offer any helpful information leading to his whereabouts.
    A tug on my line draws my attention away from Mrs. Poole’s place and back out onto the water. My bobber has completely disappeared beneath the surface, replaced by wavy ringlets growing ever wider as they ripple outward. I give a slight yank on the rod and then begin turning the handle of the Zebco reel. I’ve hooked a big fish — more than likely a perch, judging by the struggle it’s putting up. Any experienced fisherman knows that the perch in these waters are heartier fighters than the bass. Plus I’ve learned that, in this particular fishing hole, the chum I’ve been using lately seems to attract perch more than any other kind of fish. The chum gives off a foul odor once it’s been out of the freezer for a while, but the perch seem to go wild for it.
    After the cops were done with the Brillsteins, they came to see me. Angelica was in town shopping at the time. There were lots of mundane questions, to which I gave lots of mundane answers: Mr. Landers, do you know Glenn Sechrist? Yes, he owns Sechrist’s Marina. So the two of you have done business? Yes. I bought my fishing boat from him three years ago. Are you friends? Occasionally Glenn and I go fishing together. Then we go to his place or mine and play cards with our wives. Have you talked to him lately? About a week ago he called me to say he’d completed some repair work on my boat motor.
    Mundane stuff like that.
    The perch gets away before I can reel him all the way in. Sometimes that happens. With a feeling of disappointment I bring in my line, baiting the hook with more ruddy-colored chum. I roll the meat into a marble-size ball and stick it on the end of the hook. A little blood oozes out of it. The blood is probably what makes it stink.
    During the course of their interview, the cops told me Glenn had come up missing. They suspected foul play, as even his wife hadn’t heard from him. His last known location was at the marina, where he often worked late, alone.
    Thinking about Glenn as I cast my line out again, I fix my gaze on the bobber, which appears as a pointed black silhouette against the setting sun beyond it. I know Glenn didn’t love his wife, Ellen, as much as she thought he did. He told me as much during one of our excursions out onto the lake. On that particular evening he’d given off a vibe like he wanted to tell me more, but he had stopped short.
    I’m not saying Glenn ran off with another woman. But it’s not as if he absolutely couldn’t have either. Lots of husbands don’t love their wives the way they should. The reverse can be equally true.
    I place the handle end of my rod down on the deck of the flat-bottom boat and pop open a fresh Budweiser, taking a deep swig. Spring has arrived unusually hot this year in southern Indiana, and the beer feels good coursing down my parched throat. Next I raise my Bushnell Powerview Binoculars from the seat beside me and aim them up at our cottage. The white siding glistens with a false wetness in the ebbing sunshine. Angelica is alone. She’s wearing her cherry red bikini — my personal favorite — as she sits in a chair beneath a tree, reading one of her women’s magazines. Her long, shapely legs are crossed, accentuating the definition in her raised calf and along the outer stretch of her opposing thigh. Her big, firm breasts threaten to spill out of her top.
    How could a man not love a woman who looked that damn good? She is statuesque, to say the least.
    Resting my eyes, I check my bobber and gulp down some more beer. A ski boat traveling at high speed in the medium distance sends feeble waves in my direction, causing my bobber to rock gently. This is a motion very distinct from those that let you know you’ve got a nibble from a hungry fish.
    I go back to the binoculars, training the lenses on Angelica. I see attendance has increased: The athletic teenage boy who, along with his sister and parents, occupies the cottage right beside ours is standing near Angelica, talking to her with his muscular arms crossed over his bare chest. I’m sure the egotistical bastard thinks she is impressed. And perhaps she is. Doesn’t the damn kid have homework to do or something? But as I myself thought moments ago, how could a man — even an almost-man — not love a woman who looked as good as my wife? The kid would probably go home and beat off after getting such an up-close eyeful of Angelica.
    The memory of witnessing another man holding Angelica six months ago still burns hot in my brain. I don’t know if they made love that night, but judging by the passionate way they kissed, I don’t doubt it. I saw them together last fall, shortly after I went fishing a final time before the winter freeze. I phoned Glenn before venturing out that evening, but he declined to join me, saying he was busy with “other things.”
    That was one way to put it, I suppose.
    I’d been fishing for more than an hour that night when I decided to grab my binoculars and aim them up at our cottage. I’d caught Angelica and Glenn embracing each other, kissing, exploring with their hands... There’d still been enough daylight for me to spy on them through the living room’s big picture window. Glenn departed minutes later out of our cottage’s side door, but it was possible he’d already been there long enough to have sex with my wife in one of the back bedrooms.
    The end of my pole jerks, and I see the bobber has disappeared. I yank back, and the forceful tugs of an energetic fish on the hook are unmistakable. Carefully I reel him in, keeping the line tighter than the last time so I don’t lose him. When I get him up to the boat, I scoop him in with a net. He’s easily twelve inches; he’ll make a great meal. That’s another thing about perch that a lot of people don’t know: They’re tastier than bass.
    Pulling the hook from the mouth of the perch, I raise the metal fish sack, which is dangling from a rope over the side of the boat, and toss my new catch in with the other four perch and two bluegill. In doing so, my elbow bangs against the Mercury motor that powers my boat, and I wince in pain, rubbing the injured spot.
    Scowling at the motor, I am at least pleased with how well it’s been running since Glenn fixed it a week ago. The problem was apparently a loose wire meant to feed electricity to the propeller. I remember Glenn calling me at about 9:30 p.m. to tell me he was done with the motor and that I could pick it up anytime. So I hopped in my car a few minutes later and drove over to his marina to load the thing up. The sooner I had it to go fishing, the better. As usual at that late hour, Glenn was laboring solo in the marina workshop.
    When I returned home, I checked in with Angelica, just to let her know I’d arrived and that I’d be unloading the motor and some other items from my vehicle, in case she heard me making any noise. She was preoccupied with drinking beer, gobbling down Cheez-Its, and watching Survivor.
    My latest catch has eaten the chum, so I roll the last piece of meat into a bloody ball and stick it on the end of the hook. I’m irritated at running out of bait. Swigging some Bud, I silently reprimand myself for not bringing along more of the chum. After all, I’ve got plenty of it stored in small, white cartons in the shed out behind our cottage.
    Angelica never goes into the cramped, dilapidated shed; the dampness makes her sneeze, and there’s nothing inside that interests her. The shed is built into raised earth, above which is our carport. Cement steps next to the shed lead from cottage level up to the carport. The shed boasts a sink with running water, and it’s where I keep tools, assorted junk that I should throw away but never do, and chum in a locked freezer. I keep the shed doors padlocked, too, mainly because of all the drills, saws, and knives inside. No sense tempting kids to come in and steal sharp instruments with which to do devilment. Undoubtedly I’d be the one who’d get sued if they were arrested.
    I train the binoculars on the place where my wife was sitting moments ago. No one is there now, including the teenager. Natural light is fading fast, and the big front window reveals only blackness. What is Angelica doing inside our cottage, in total darkness? Or is there illumination in back, coming from the spare bedroom? It’s hard to tell. My gaze drifts to next door, where the teenager’s family lives. Plenty of lights are on there, although I detect no activity.
    I put the binoculars down and finish my last beer. Since it’s getting more and more difficult to see even into the near distance, I decide to drop my line right over the side of the boat so I can keep tabs on my bobber. The silver weight sends the bait sinking into the murky water.
    Goodbye, old chum, I think.

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