"The Murder Of Fish"
Posted by
Dimon
The life of an artist
is a collage of dysfunctional relations
littered with over-worked observations
such as this.
SMMathew is a thoughtful man.
His father, Robert, is a thoughtful man,
and his son Jeremy, a thoughtful boy.
Like his father, Mathew is one of those unlikely individuals
who knows exactly what makes him tick: writing, especially about
current events. His articles and editorials are widely published
on both coasts, and he imagines that there are times
when important people whisper his name to each other in important
rooms with closed doors. Robert would often label him (with an elbow
to his ribs) a pornographer, which pleased Mathew to no end. That was in the autumn years, before Robert retreated for good. Mathew relaxes in his Italian leather chair, drinking Puerto Rican
rum, smoking English Ovals, watches THE WORLD NEWS TONIGHT on
his Japanese television, and thinks his father would probably call
him
a slut. His son stands in the doorway of Mathew's study waiting to be
noticed.
Mathew doesn't.
"uh-hum" Jeremy croaks, praying to be welcomed, and at the same time
scared silly that he might be. Hoping for a hug, Jeremy watches his
fathers eyes turn to him with a familiar glazed expression that
promises
only a tussle.
Mathews thoughts are disrupted by his son's quiet intrusion. "Hello
Jeremy, what's on your mind?" He knows his child's intentions, and
wonders...
"I have a gift for you, daddy."
...if the items were borrowed, bought, or stolen this time. Jeremy
is the best ten-year-old he can think of, even considering his
penchant for petty thievery and Mathew remembers his childhood,
concluding it must be inherited.
Robert hung his cloak of self import on an angler's hook. The family
owned a small cabin on the banks of Lake Tannycomo in the Ozark
mountains that Robert labored for years in the back-breaking field of
concrete finishing to afford. He adored the small get-away, and spent
as much time there as he could, mostly alone. Growing up, Mathew
could not know from what his father was escaping, but held over him
no blame for the sudden weekend departures that would set leagues
between them. Having vacationed at the cabin a few times, he knew
much of the area and the beauty it offered.
Mathew respected his father above all things, and on the occasions
Robert was home, would approach him with gifts of line, sinkers, even
lures if he could scrounge them. He rarely asked to accompany his
father, however, because he dreaded the forced silence of the boat.
Robert would seem an odd, removed stranger to him during these
outings, as if he were possessed by some half-aware being from
another plane who could not talk, nor hear, nor speak with sounds
less than shrieks of joy at the murder of fish.
"It's a new pen...I thought you might like it." Jeremy stammers,
taking soft, uncertain steps to his father's side. "See?"
"Its a beaut, boy." Mathew rubs Jeremy's head. "Wanna watch some
news with me? I'm supposed to be working, but if you want..."
Jeremy's eyes blink, then shift back and forth in terror. "Um, not
really...I, uh, just wanted to give this to you. Bye dad.."
"Thanks" Mathew hears himself say, suddenly bound by thoughts of
his father. Where is he, who is he with, and what is he doing. The
types of thoughts that beg for answers. "I should call the old man..."
Jeremy listens to his father's laughter from the stairs, smiles,
and wonders if he will leave his study to come to dinner tonight, or
tomorrow night. He puts on his shoes to go for a run. Jeremy loves
running; loves the way the air feels in his lungs, in his heart, in
his mind. He loves the feeling of floating above it all, and thinks
that is the way Mathew must feel when writing. Jeremy respects his
father very much.
SM
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