Swim
Away
Gilda
Griffith Brown
Holding
her fishing pole against her left shoulder, the old woman laboriously
made her way along the edge of the woods. The path had changed
little in a decade, except to grow up snaky. Walking along with
a stiff, slow gait, she thought it hadn’t seemed that long
since her last time fishing. She may have looked as if she was
praying with her snow-colored head bent low, but she was on the
lookout for a water moccasin or, worse yet, some old copperhead
“bad boy.”
Though it was early, her feet and ankles were already swollen,
and she was out of breath. Stopping for a moment to rest, she
thought she heard a rustling sound in the weeds. Raising her head
to listen for a moment, she smiled. “It’s just a little
old jack rabbit, Ella,” she scolded herself for her scary
imaginings. “He has to move around a bit, too.”
“Right
so, I reckon he does.”
Before continuing on her way, she shifted the canvas bag that
hung from her right shoulder in order to ease the pain caused
by the thin, cutting straps.
Remembering her last trip along here, she laughed and reminded
herself that she had almost run like some young girl. “Ten
years makes a lot of difference toward the end of things,”
she said.
“It
does that, all right. Age catches up with a person before they
know it,” she replied.
Ella Honeywood had been talking to herself for some time. She
thought nothing of a two-way conversation, though some would have
thought her a crazy old woman. She had come to believe that more
old men and old women did it than would be willing to say. Loneliness,
more than anything, was the reason, and there was a world full
of lonely, old people, she reckoned. “Everyone has to say
something sometime,” had been her answer to her daughter,
Margo, when she caught her doing it a while back. At the time,
it got away with Ella, but she didn’t pay it any mind now.
Her conversations with herself had become a habit that she was
content to live with since she had been guilty of worse habits
in her lifetime. Besides, she thought, why shouldn’t she?
After all, she knew herself pretty well after all these years.
She
passed the old bent oak tree, older than anyone living, she thought,
older than me. She had played under it as a small child while
her Mama and Daddy worked the field. That was only for a short
time because she was soon enough put to work beside them. Muttering
to herself that it had been a long time ago, she stepped up her
pace. Her memories weren’t just of them, but they were also
of the hot Mississippi sun and the endless days that it had beat
upon them. A tireless ball of Southland fire, it penetrated their
entire being, including their good sense. Her mama, when explaining
its effect, had often said that after a few hours, the mind could
only think of the next weed or cotton boll.
Ella
blinked her eyes, blue eyes that looked out from a face that was
now pale from inside living. “Don’t go and start crying
like some baby or ninny,” she confronted herself. She could
think of no quick-witted retort to make in reply. She only knew
that she would not hesitate to step into some kind of time machine
and go back there, if she could.
Topping
a small rise, Ella swayed and staggered to a stop so that she
could get her first look at the pond and its weed-covered bank.
Her eyes widened to see it in the clearing. It was as weed and
brier free as when she had last seen it!
Nearing
the bank, she saw a figure wearing a pink hat sitting across the
water from her. The face looked shiny black in the morning sunlight,
but Ella couldn’t see to make out much else.
She
eased her creaky, 'crying out' bones down to the ground while
hoping at the same time that she’d be able to get back up
when the time came. Stretching out on her back, she closed her
eyes. The tiredness seemed to roll over her with a flattening
effect, but before she went to sleep, she heard herself say, “Get
up old woman! That person over there may be a killer.”
“I
don’t care!” she answered herself, before slipping away
into oblivion.
The
harsh-sounding caw of a crow flying overhead startled Ella into
wakefulness. Looking up at the early September sky, she remained
supine and listened for a moment before realizing her whereabouts
and remembering the presence across the way. She sat up fast,
too fast. Her dizzy gaze could just make out the pink hat that
was still across the pond, so she stayed seated there for a spell
before pushing herself slowly to her feet.
Taking
the jar of worms from her bag, she baited her hook before swinging
her line out into the water. She looked across the water, but
the pink hat didn’t seem to even notice her. “I guess
that person is responsible for the clearing off around my pond,”
Ella observed out loud, before announcing, “I wouldn’t
notice me either if I were poaching my fish!”
“Shut
up, old woman! Why shouldn’t someone else enjoy fishing for
bass in your old pond? You sure haven’t been making much
use of it.”
“Well,
at least they could have asked!”
“Just
be thankful that this person is not a killer. While you’re
about it, you can also be thankful that he or she cleared the
weeds and briers away so that you could drag your old self up
to the bank and fish one more time before you die!”
“I
guess that’s right,” Ella shrugged as she ended the
dialogue.
The
only bad thing about arguing with yourself was that you couldn’t
ever win an argument. She smiled at the thought.
Rested
from her nap, she was now more able to enjoy the sights and sounds
of life going on all around. Everything was still green, though
there would soon be a touch of orange and brown as autumn began
its yearly visit. The earth’s “golden days” was
how she had always thought of the fall.
Sounds
were all around her. She began to name a few in her head: the
occasional soft ripple of water, cricket chirps, and a mockingbird
song. She could even still hear that old rude crow from time to
time.
“You’ve
got a nibble on your line, Ella!”
“Oops!
So I have.”
“The
cork float has gone under! You’ve got one!”
“Be
quiet! I’ve got things under control.”
Minutes
later, Ella looked at the little fish that she had just removed
from her line. “That old breakfast worm could have cost you
big, fishy boy,” she informed her catch before throwing him
back into the pond. “Swim away little fish, I don’t
eat minor leaguers. I’m looking for a big fish!”
Glancing
around, Ella noticed that the pink hat seemed to be getting nearer
all the time. Before long, she got a good look at its wearer.
She was a black woman, maybe ten years her junior with thin wiry
arms and a gentle face that was worn from living. Ella stared
at her for a full minute while she stared right back. They spoke
not a word before turning again, each to their own fishing pursuit.
Ten
minutes later, with not a lot of yards separating the women, Ella’s
cork went under again. It was a fight from the beginning, and
she soon realized that she had hooked no average-sized fish. She
wasn’t sure that she even had the strength to bring it in,
but she was too stubborn to give up the fight.
Moments
later, surprised and happy that she had been able to bring the
big bass in without him breaking her pole, she soon realized that
he had been in the pond for some time to have grown so big.
As
she began to remove the hook from his mouth, Ella heard talking
and turned her head to see that her fishing neighbor had moved
even closer. She was smiling widely and gazing at the big Bass.
“Do
you see that fish she caught?” she asked herself.
“Yeah,
I see it, all right. You’d better get busy, old Lucy, and
catch you one,” she answered her own question.
With
wide knowing eyes, Ella looked at her friend and then back at
the big old Bass that had fought so hard for its survival. “I’d
be willing to bet that you’d talk to yourself, too, if you
could,” she told the fish, before dropping him back into
the water.
As
Ella watched his dark form swim away and make a lightning dive
from sight, she laughed aloud with pure joy. “Swim away,
old fish,” said Ella. “We’re all kindred spirits
here.”
“Are
you crazy, old woman?” She asked herself.
“Of
course, I am. Why do you even ask?”
“She
sure is,” chimed in a puzzled and surprised Lucy.
***
GILDA
GRIFFITH BROWN lives in Canton, Mississippi, and has published
a story at USA Deep South.
©
Gilda Griffith Brown