Fires. Essays, Poems, Stories

pointing it across at Mr. Harrold.
    "Who wants to know?" He held the rod straight ahead, tight up under his arm and with his other hand he pulled down his hat "You little bastards are from that trailer camp up the river, aren't you?'
    "You think you know a lot, don't your the boy said, looking around him at the others, nodding at them. He raised up one foot and set it down slowly, then the other. In a moment, he raised the rifle to his shoulder and pulled back the hammer.
    The barrel was pointed at Mr. Harrold's stomach, or else a little lower down. The water swirled and foamed around his boots. He opened and closed his mouth. But he was not able to move his tongue. He looked down into the clear water at the rocks and the little spaces of sand. He wondered what it would be like if his boots tipped water and he went down, rolling like a chunk
    "What's the matter with you?" he asked the boy. The ice water came up through his legs then and poured into his chest.
    The boy didn't say anything. He just stood there. All of them just stood there looking at him.
    "Don't shoot," Mr. Harrold said.
    The boy held the gun on him for another minute, then he lowered it. "Scared, wasn't you?"
    Mr. Harrold nodded his head dreamily. He felt as if he wanted to yawn. He kept opening and closing his mouth.
    One of the boys pried loose a rock from the edge of the water and threw it. Mr. Harrold turned his back and the rock hit the water two feet away from him. The others began throwing. He stood there looking at the shore, hearing the rocks splash around him.
    "You didn't want to fish here anyway, did you?" the boy said. "I could've got you, but I didn't. You see that deer, you remember how lucky you was."
    Mr. Harrold stood there a minute longer. Then he looked over his shoulder. One of the boys gave him the finger, and the rest of them grinned. Then they moved together back into the trees. He watched them go. He turned and worked his way back to the shore and dropped down against the log. After a few minutes he got up and started the walk back to the cabin.
    The snow had held back all morning and now, just as he was in sight of the clearing, light flakes began falling. His rod was back there somewhere. Maybe he'd left it when he stopped that one time after he turned his ankle. He could remember laying the rod on the snow as he tried to undo his boot, but he didn't recall picking it up. Anyway, it didn't matter to him now. It was a good rod and one that he'd paid over ninety dollars for one summer five or six years ago. But even if it were nice tomorrow, he wouldn't go back for it. Tomorrow? He had to be back home and at work tomorrow. A jay cried from a nearby tree, and another answered from across the clearing by his cabin. He was tired and walking slowly by now, trying to keep weight off his foot.
    He came out of the trees and stopped. Lights were on down at the lodge. Even the lights in the parking area were on. There were still many hours of daylight left, but they had turned on all the lights down there. This seemed mysterious and impenetrable to him. Had something happened? He shook his head. Then he went up the steps to his cabin. He stopped on the porch. He didn't want to go inside. But he understood he had to open the door and enter the room. He didn't know if he could do that. He thought for a minute of just getting into his car and driving away. He looked
    once more down the hill at the lights. Then he grasped the door knob and opened the door to his cabin.
    Someone, Mrs. Maye, he supposed, had built a little fire in the stove. Still, he looked around cautiously. It was quiet, except for the sizzling of the fire. He sat down on the bed and began to work off his boots. Then he sat there in his stocking feet, thinking of the river and of the large fish that must even now be moving upriver in that heart-stopping cold water. He shook his head, got up, and held his hands a few inches from the stove, opening and closing his fingers until they tingled. He let the warmth gradually come back into his body. He began to think of home, of getting back there before dark.
    HARRY'S DEATH
    Mazatlan, Mexico—three months later
    Everything has changed since Harry's death. Being down here, for instance. Who'd have thought it, only three short months ago, that I'd be down here in Mexico and poor Harry dead and buried? Harry! Dead and buried—but not forgotten.
    I couldn't go to work that day when I got the news. I was just too torn up. Jack