He sets down the fishing gear and takes her hand. “You are most lovely, Emma. I’m dazzled to meet you.”
The old hound!
“You had a birthday, didn’t you?” I ask him.
“Number ninety-three,” he reports proudly.
“Incredible,” Emma says.
“Not really. I planned it this way. All those years, writing all those hundreds of obituaries—well, pretty lady, I paid attention. I learned a few tricks.”
Emma is taken with the old guy, as I knew she would be. After arranging his clutter of fishing tackle, he methodically rigs a bait and casts it over the rail.
“Sunscreen.” He cocks his head our way. “Both of you should be basting in the stuff. Forty years from now you’ll thank me.”
Ike’s rod begins to bend, and he gallantly passes it to Emma. She cranks up a nice snapper, which he guts and tosses on ice.
“Fish is the healthiest food in the world. Cemeteries are full of people who didn’t eat enough fish.”
“Ike,” says Emma, “please tell Jack why he should come back to the newspaper.”
He wipes the blade of his fillet knife on a leg of his trousers. “Number one, you’re not cut out for a regular job.”
No argument there.
“Number two, you still get a bang out of the news.” His crooked fingers are working a large sharp hook into a bloodless chunk of mullet. “And number three, you can make things happen, writing for a paper,” he says. “Make a difference in the world. That’s a damn fact.”
Emma lightly claps her hands. “Well done!”
What the opossum man says is true.” But if I came back,” I say, “I wouldn’t be writing obituaries.”
“That’s all right. It was a helluva piece you did about that wild young gal killing off her husband,” says Ike. “It wouldn’t surprise me if you got an award. I’m serious, Jack.”
He rears back with the rod and arcs the fresh bait toward the water. The heavy lead sinker makes a faraway plop. Emma motions that it’s time for us to go. Now that she’s a deputy editor, she cannot miss the one o’clock meeting. Some things haven’t changed at the Union-Register.
“Ike, it was an honor meeting you.”
“The honor was mine. Come angle with me anytime.” He flashes his handsome store-bought teeth. Then, turning to me: “When will I see your byline again, Jack Tagger?”
“Sooner or later.” I shake his hand, mullet slime and all. “You’re a piece of work, Ike.”
He leans close and drops his voice. “When’s the last time you had a checkup? I mean the works.”
“Last year.” With Emma’s support, I’ve been able to break myself of those compulsive monthly treks to Dr. Susan.
“Next time you go, be sure and have ’em check the plumbing,” Ike advises. “They stick a camera up your ass, but it’s no worse than your average divorce.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Live a long time, Jack. Remember, it’s all diet and attitude.”
Emma and I are halfway down the pier when we hear a hoarse cry. Ike has hooked up to a huge tarpon, which is exploding in silvery somersaults across the water. I can see the old man slammed fast against the wooden rail, struggling to keep a grip on the U-bent spinning rod. A few of the other anglers are gathering to watch, but no one seems to be helping. Wispy Ike is easily outweighed by the thrashing hulk on the end of his line. This isn’t my sport, but I remember enough from fishing with my mother to know what might happen if the drag on the old man’s reel freezes.
“It looks like he’s in trouble,” Emma says.
I’m already running.
And I’m already thinking, God forgive me, of his obituary. Undoubtedly Hemingway would be invoked. Then some dim acquaintance of the opossum man would be quoted as saying he died doing what he loved best, which is what—gagging on seawater?
Still, being dragged off a pier by a magnificent fish wouldn’t be the silliest way to die, not by far. It’s not nearly as pointless, for instance, as getting shitfaced drunk and tumbling out of a tree while attempting to romance a raccoon.