Fishing with Wussy

It was nearly dark when we got to the cabin. We had to leave the
convertible at the end of the dirt road and hike in the last mile,
the sun winking at us low in the trees. We followed the river,
more or less, though there were times when it veered off to the left
and disappeared. Then after a while we'd hear it again and there it
would be. Wussy – it turned out that his name was Norm – led the
way, carrying the rods and most of the tackle, then me, then my
father, complaining every step. His black shoes got ruined right off,
which pleased Wussy, and the mosquitos ate us. My father wanted
to know who would build a cabin way the hell and gone off in the
woods. It seemed to him that anybody crazy enough to go to all that
trouble might better have gone to a little more and poured a
sidewalk, at least, so you could get to it. Wussy didn't say anything,
but every now and then he'd hold onto a branch and then let go so
that it whistled over the top of my head and caught my father in the
chin with a thwap, after which Wussy would say, 'Careful.'

I was all right for a while, but then the woods began to get dark
and I felt tired and scared. When something we disturbed scurried
off underfoot and into the bushes, I got to thinking about home and
my mother, who had no idea where I was. It occurred to me that if
I let myself get lost, nobody would ever find me, and the more I
thought about it, the closer I stuck to Wussy, ready to duck
whenever he sent a branch whistling over my head.

'I hope you didn't bring me all the way out here to roll me,
Wuss,' my father said. 'I should have mentioned I don't have any
money.'

'I want those shiny black shoes.'

'You would, you black bastard.'

'Nice talk, in front of the kid.' A branch caught my father in the
chops.

'What colour is he, bud?' My father poked me in the back.

I was embarrassed. My mother had told me about Negroes and
that it wasn't nice to accuse them of it. Wussy's skin was the colour of
coffee, at least the way my mother drank it, with cream and sugar.
'I don't know,' I said.

'That's all right,' my father said. 'He's none too sure either.'

And then suddenly we were out of the trees and there was the
cabin, the river gurgling about forty yards down the slope.

Wussy tossed all the gear inside and started a fire in a circle of
rocks a few feet from the porch. When it got going, he brought out
a big iron grate to put over it. With the sun down, it had gotten cool
and the fire felt good. My father fidgeted nearby until Wussy told
him he could collect some dry sticks if he felt like it. 'You could have
brought a pair of long pants and a jacket for him at least,' he said.

'Didn't have a chance,' my father said.

'Look at him, 'Wussy said critically. 'Knees all scraped up . . .'

'How the hell did I know we were going to blaze a trail?' my
father said. 'You cold?'

'No,' I lied.

Wussy snorted. 'I think I saw blankets inside.'

My father dropped his armload of sticks and went to fetch
some. 'Your old man's a rock-head,' Wussy told me confidentially.
'Otherwise, he's all right.'

He didn't seem to need me to agree, so I didn't say anything.
He opened three cans of chilli into a black skillet and set it on top of
the grate. Then he chopped up two yellow onions and added them.
You couldn't see much except the dark woods and the outline of the
cabin. We heard my father banging into things and cursing inside.
After a few minutes the chilli began to form craters which swelled,
then exploded. 'Man-colour,' Wussy said. 'That's what I am.'

My father finally came back with a couple rough blankets. He
draped one over me and threw the other around his own shoulders.

'No thanks,' Wussy said. 'I don't need one.'

'Good,' my father said.

'And you don't need any of this chilli,' Wussy said, winking at
me. 'Me and you will have to eat it all, Sam's kid.'

My father squatted down and inspected the sputtering chilli. 'I
hate like hell to tell you what it looks like.'

It looked all right to me and it smelled better than I knew food
could smell. It was way past my normal dinner time and I was
hungry. Wussy ladled a good big portion on to a plate and handed
it to me. Then he loaded about twice as much on to a plate for
himself.

'What the hell,' my father said.

'What the hell is right,' Wussy said. 'What the hell, eh, Sam's
kid?'

My father got up and went back into the cabin for another
blanket. When he returned, Wussy said no thanks, he was doing
fine, but didn't my father want any chilli? 'You better get going,' he
advised. 'Me and the kid are ready for seconds.'

We weren't, exactly, but when he finished giving my father
some, he ladled more on to my plate and the rest of the skillet on to
his own.

'I bet there's a lot of shallow graves out here in the woods,' my
father speculated, pretending not to notice there was no more chilli
whether he hurried up or not. 'You suppose anybody would miss
you if you didn't come home tomorrow?'

'Women, mostly,' Wussy said. 'I feel pretty safe though.
Mostly I worry about you. Anything happened to me, you'd starve
before you ever located that worthless oil guzzler of yours.'

'Your ass.'

When I couldn't eat any more, I gave the rest of my chilli to my
father, who looked like he was thinking of licking the hot skillet.
'The kid's all right,' Wussy said. 'I don't care who his old man is.'

It was so black out now that we couldn't even see the cabin, just
each other's faces in the dying fire.

Wussy blew the loudest fart I'd ever heard. 'What colour's my
skin?' he said, as if he hadn't done anything at all.

I had been almost asleep, until the fart. 'Man-colour,' I said,
wide awake again.

'There you go,' he said.