"bait" broken water

">

">

">

">

">

">

">

">

bait

from broken water

bait

My brother Toby thinks he's been abducted by aliens. Twice. It's embarrassing, really, the way he's been carrying on for the past year, joining Abductors Anonymous, his pilgrimage to Roswell, taping The X Files every Sunday and watching it again and again all week long. Of course, I'm the only one he talks this nonsense to besides other abductees. Lucky me. I've tried calmly to tell him there is no such thing as an alien life-force, tried to explain to him that Roswell is not a government cover-up, tried to convince him that all the TV shows about extraterrestrials are just greedy people feeding off the fears of the masses about the end of the millennium. But he doesn't listen to reason. He just brushes me off and tells me that when the aliens finally do make their presence known to the world, and bring peace and goodwill to mankind, I'll be left behind when they take the believers to a better place. Call me crazy, but I would rather sit right here on good old Earth than be carried off to some strange world against my will.

The vent over my head blows thin, cool air through the room as I wait for Toby in the art deco lobby of WebGraphics. Toby's office is on the fifteenth floor of the TCBY building, the tallest building in Little Rock. Someone once told me that casinos pump oxygen through the air vents to keep the gamblers awake and alert. I don't know about that, but I wouldn't doubt that Mr. Hanson, the owner of WebGraphics, does the same thing, keeping his twentysomething web page designers full of oxygen to make him more money.

I shift on the lime green chair, the skin on the back of my thighs sticking to the vinyl. It's a warm day for December, so warm that I'm wearing my faded cut-offs and black Converse. There's something about wearing summer clothes in the dead of winter, as if you're defying nature, somehow. I'm sure this warm weather won't stay for long. Hell, it'll probably be freezing by tomorrow. But for right now I want to enjoy the warm sunshine while it lasts.

Beatrice, Toby's secretary, peers over her spectacles at me, then looks back down at her Good Housekeeping. Beatrice must be pushing seventy. I know she doesn't like me. Ever since Toby started working here two years ago, I've made surprise visits like this to take him out in the sunshine. He spends entirely too much time chained to his computer, and sometimes weeks go by when the only daylight he sees is through his office window. I don't have a problem with Toby being a hard worker. Hell, I bartend five nights a week at the White Water Tavern. Everybody has to make a buck. What I have a problem with is his being twenty-five and working sixty or seventy hours a week. He's my little brother, and he needs to have fun sometimes.

Behind Beatrice's desk, the door to Toby's office slowly opens. He sticks his head out just far enough for the light to catch his gleaming scalp. Toby shaves his head every morning and then rubs baby oil over the smooth skin. Says hair just gets in the way of thinking, cuts off oxygen to the brain. I have no idea what he is talking about, as I have shoulder-length hair and think just fine. But, then again, Toby seems to be getting plenty of oxygen here at the office. Maybe if he got out of here long enough he would see that hair would help protect him from the oxygen, keep him from going crazy with thinking. Too much thinking can't be good for anyone.

Toby's deep brown eyes land on mine, and he brings his finger up to touch his lips. Beatrice is still staring at her magazine, so Toby inches the door open, stoops down, and then places something on the faux tile floor. At first I can't see what it is, but then I hear a faint clicking noise and a small wind-up alien wearing red tennis shoes comes walking across the floor. It has deep black sockets for eyes, long, thin arms with bulbous hands at the ends, and a protruding belly button. I try not to laugh out loud as the alien marches up to Beatrice, its smooth, white head bouncing up and down, up and down. Toby stands back up as Beatrice looks sideways at the alien, pushes her spectacles up her nose, and then goes back to her magazine. As the alien runs head-on into Beatrice's desk leg, Toby steps out of the door and his whole face breaks into a smile. There's nothing quite like Toby's smile.

"Hey, Ellie, what's up? You've come to rescue me from this hellhole, save me from the evil Beatrice?"

Toby is wearing his favorite Darth Vader T-shirt, black jeans, and combat boots. His shirt reminds me of the days we would ride our bikes to Breckenridge Theater and crouch down in the overstuffed seats so that we could watch Star Wars over and over again. Toby was always fascinated with Darth, the epitome of the dark side, and when it was revealed that Darth was Luke Skywalker's father in The Empire Strikes Back, Toby cried for two days. I don't know why he was so surprised. I saw it coming all along. I guess Toby just wanted to believe that Darth was totally evil, and there was no way a Jedi could turn out so bad.

I stand up from the vinyl chair. "You got it, brother. I'm here to take you away. The sun is shining, it's above seventy degrees, and Murray Park awaits us. Get your Frisbee and let's get out of here."

Toby reaches inside his office door and pulls out his black Frisbee. As he walks past Beatrice and stoops down to pick up the alien, he says, "If Mr. Hanson asks, I'll be back late this afternoon. You have yourself a nice afternoon, Beatrice. I'll see you around four." Beatrice never even looks up.

I turn to head out of the lobby, suddenly irritated with Toby because he thinks he has to come back at all. I know Toby, and I know that he can afford to take an afternoon off. Hell, last year he made forty-thousand dollars. That's more than I make in two years. But I know it's not the money that Toby cares about. He lives in a small apartment, drives a beat-up '72 Landcruiser, and still wears his favorite T-shirts from high school. I even suspect he gives a lot of his money away to research on extraterrestrial life. No, it's some strange drive that keeps Toby working so hard all the time, as if he has to prove to everyone that he really is worth something.

God, I've got to get out of here. This oxygen is getting to me. As I reach for the door, I hear the faint clicking noise behind me. I turn around just in time to see Toby running up behind me as the alien marches its way across Beatrice's desk.

* * *

Murray Park is a chunk of land that sits on the edge of the Arkansas River, just downstream from Murray Lock and Dam. For some reason, the city planners decided to cut down most of the trees and put in a huge parking lot and pavilions and call this place a park. I have to admit, with all the open space it's a great place to throw a Frisbee, but the river is so murky you can't even see your hand under the surface, and the current is so bad that two people died last summer when they fell in. On a sunny Saturday in the summer there may be a hundred or so people here, barbecuing, playing hacky sac, or just lying around on blankets. But today there is only a tattooed couple in an El Camino and an old man picking up cans. Toby and I sit beside each other on a cement picnic table, a couple of yards from the swirling river.

Toby is tying a red bandanna on his head to keep his scalp from getting sunburned. It's strange to see Toby from this angle, with his hands behind his neck, his eyes closed. For some reason he looks like Dad right now, wrinkles around his eyes from squeezing them closed with concentration, his lips thin and flat in a straight line. I've never seen him like this. He's always looked young to me, the ten-year-old who would tag along with me and my friends to the strip-mall arcade on Saturday morning. I look away from Toby and to the river as he finishes tying the knot.

"Hey Ellie," he says, "know what I heard?"

I turn back to him, relieved that he is back to looking like the Toby I know. "I have no idea. What can possibly top the 'fact' that Linda Tripp is a man?"

Toby smiles, his eyes lighting up around the edges. "Okay, okay, that one was a little questionable. Not that it's not true. Just that the validity of the charge is a little shaky. I did get that from 'www.IhateTripp.com,' so there may be some bias going on. But what I heard about the catfish in the river is true, because I heard it from a guy who has seen it first-hand."

I look down to the table and pick up the Frisbee. Suddenly I don't want to hear any more of this story. Toby is so naive and gullible sometimes. He thinks just because someone tells you something that it has to be true. It's usually fun to listen to Toby's stories. But today I don't want to hear how he believes someone's tall tale.

"Why don't we throw the Frisbee?" I ask as I stand up from the table. If I can stop this conversation now, then maybe there won't be any more stories for the rest of the afternoon. But Toby isn't giving up that easily.

"There are catfish in this river as big as a Volkswagen Bug. Bigger than 250 pounds. So big that this guy John who was a diver on the construction crew for the I-430 bridge said that when they dove down to lay the concrete, they thought they ran into some kind of underwater monster. He said they couldn't even keep a crew, those damn fish were so big. Could swallow a man in one bite. Like that guy Jonah and the whale."

I take the Frisbee and throw it as far as I can to my right, the black disc floating through the air and landing on the lifeless grass. "That story about Jonah is just that: a story," I say as I turn back to him. "You're not supposed to believe it happened."

Toby stares at the river like I'm not even here. "I just I wish I could see one of those catfish myself. I would jump down his throat and tickle his tonsils until he spit me right back here on the shore."

I step in front of him, but he won't look at me. Then I grab his elbow. His eyes meet mine.

"There's no obese man-eating catfish dwelling in this river or any river," I say, my voice thick like mud. "It's all a joke. A joke on you. You're just crazy enough to believe it."

Toby looks away from me and to the river. I can see anger spreading upward from his neck to his ears like thin, red paint. I haven't seen him like this since Dad told us he was leaving Mom the day Toby graduated from high school.

Suddenly my hand drops from his elbow. I am such an idiot. I wish I hadn't unloaded on him. I am practically the only friend he has. He hasn't talked to Dad since last Christmas, and he avoids Mom like the plague. The only people he communicates with on a regular basis are fellow abductees in chat rooms. The other guys at the office never invite him to lunch, and Beatrice acts like he doesn't exist.

Toby takes two steps toward the river and then whirls back around to me. The way his eyes are glaring at me he could have just as well slapped me in the face. I feel the sting in both my cheeks as I try to stay calm, try not to hurt Toby's feelings any more than I already have. My mind races, trying to find the words that will make this all seem better.

Toby's mouth opens once and then closes back into a thin line. The anger has now consumed his face and is bleeding into his red bandanna. I swear I can see his heart pounding under Darth's helmet.

He reaches up and pulls off the bandanna, and runs it across his forehead. Then the strangest thing happens. The color in Toby's face just drains away, as if someone pulled the plug. His eyes never leave mine. He puts the bandanna into his jeans pocket and shrugs. "Maybe I am crazy. Or maybe I just want to believe. At least I believe in something. You don't believe in anything, Ellie. Not even yourself."

Toby turns and walks to the river. I have no idea what to say. Okay, it's true that I don't believe in most things. As a matter of fact, I can't think of one thing right now that I do believe in that I can't prove to be true. But that's normal, isn't it? Don't most people have to have proof of things before they spend their time and energy on them?

I watch as Toby sits down on the riverbank, pulls off his boots and socks, and submerges his feet in the ice-cold water. As I walk over to pick up the Frisbee, I'm struck with how strange it is that Toby and I have turned out so different. We played with the same toys, ate the same food, and learned the same lessons, yet we try to live in the world in different ways. Toby is right-- he believes in everything; I believe in nothing. I don't know who's worse off.

The Frisbee is smooth in my hands as I pick it up, the black plastic warm from the afternoon sun. As I walk toward Toby, I see a stick poking out of the ground. It comes easily out of the dirt as I pull it up. Right before I get to Toby, I stop, bend down, and pull the laces out of one of my tennis shoes. Then I tie one end of my shoelace onto the end of the stick.

I sit down on the riverbank, my shoulder grazing Toby's. He turns to look at me. I can see his smile out of the corner of my eye as I hold the stick out over the river, but I don't turn to him. I keep my eyes on the water.

After a moment Toby turns back to the water, but I know that that smile is still there. I can feel it mingling with mine in the reflection. There is silence between us as I lower the stick toward the water. The shoelace skims the surface, the murky brown water rippling in circles spreading outward.