And I suppose the mythical aspects of being drowned by a silvery beast of the sea might appeal to a fellow who spent most of his life writing about the mostly ordinary deaths of others. Still, I can’t stand back and watch it happen. Ike’s had a grand ninety-three years, but I don’t believe he’s done. I don’t believe he’s ready to check out.
So I push my way through the gawkers to find the old man doubled over the rail. Of course he won’t do the sensible thing and let go of the damn fishing rod; neither would my mother, in the same preposterous fix. The tarpon has run out all of Ike’s line, so he has stubbornly wrapped the last loop in the fist of his right hand, which is seeping blood. Meanwhile he teeters like a human seesaw on the weathered railing, his head and shoulders extended above the water and his spindly legs waving in the air.
My view is of the bait-encrusted soles of his deck shoes. I feel a hand in the small of my back, pushing me forward. It’s Emma.
Grabbing Ike by the belt loops, I haul him back onto the pier. In the distance the tarpon jumps once more, shaking its bucket-sized mouth. The line goes slack in the old man’s doll-like fingers.
“I’ll be damned,” he says breathlessly. “That was something!”
The other anglers clap amusedly, murmuring among themselves as they drift away. Emma, the would-be nurse, is inspecting the bloody slice on Ike’s wrinkled palm.
He’s laughing so hard, his button-sized eyes are brimming. “Can you imagine the headline?” he says. “Can you, Jack?”
The End