Songs of the Humpback Whale Read online

She smiles so I can see all her teeth-neat and white and even, like the small rows on Silver Queen corn. “He’s delightful,” Jane says, poking a finger at the tail. As soon as she touches the fish it thrashes in her direction.

  “Delightful,” I repeat. “I’ve heard them called ‘huge,’ or even ‘feisty,’ but I can’t say as I’ve ever heard a fisherman talk about a ‘delightful’ catch.” As I talk I run my free hand down the slippery body of the fish. I can’t touch it too much because then it’ll smell like human when I release it back into the water. I edge the hook back out of its hatched jaw.

  “Watch this,” I say, and holding the fish over the water, I release it. It floats for a second near the surface of the lake, and then with a mighty whip of its tail it dives so deep we lost track of its movements.

  “I like the way you set it free,” Jane says. “How come you do that?”

  I shrug. “I’d rather catch it again for sport than fry up such a tiny fillet. I only keep the fish if I know I’m going to eat it.”

  I hold the rod out to her again, but she shakes her head. “You try,” Jane says.

  So I do, pulling up in rapid succession a sunfish, two small-mouth bass and another large-mouth. I hold each one up into the sun, glorifying the catch, and pointing out to Jane the differences between each. It’s only when I cut the last bass free that I realize Jane’s not really listening. She’s holding her right hand with her left, cradling it in her palm, and squeezing her forefinger. “I’m sorry,” she says when she sees I’m looking at her. “I’ve just got a splinter, that’s all.”

  I take her hand and after holding the cool fish I’m surprised at the heat of her skin. It’s a deep splinter, fairly far below the surface of her skin. “I can try to get it out now,” I say. “You don’t want it to get infected.”

  She looks up at me, grateful. “You’ve got a needle in there?” she asks, nodding towards the tackle box.

  “I’ve got clean hooks. That’ll do.”

  I take a brand new hook out of its flimsy plastic wrapper and bend it so that it is straight, like a little arrow. I don’t want to hurt her too much, but the point of a hook is constructed to grab onto whatever flesh it catches, so that a fish can’t free itself. Jane closes her eyes and turns away, offering her hand. I scrape at the surface of her skin with this needle. When blood comes, I dip her hand into the water to clean it.

  “Is it over yet?”

  “Almost,” I lie. I haven’t even come close to the splinter. I dig and dig through the layers of her skin, looking up from time to time to see her wince. Finally I nudge the silver of wood up, and then using the hook, I push it to an upright position. “Easy now,” I whisper, and then I bring my teeth to her forefinger, pulling out the splinter. Holding her hand under the water, I tell her she can look now.

  “Do I want to?” Jane says.

  Her upper lip is quivering, which makes me feel awful. “I’m sorry it hurt, but at least it’s out.” She nods bravely, looking just like a little kid. “I guess you never wanted to be a doctor.”

  Jane shakes her head. She pulls her hand out of the water and looks critically at her finger, assessing the damage. When the pit of skin begins to fill with blood, she closes her eyes. I watch her take her finger and stick it in her mouth, sucking the wound dry. I should have done that, I think. I would have liked to have done that.

  53 OLIVER

  It takes several seconds to hone in on my faculties of perception. I have never in my life blacked out; I have never in my life awakened in strange environs and not been able to account for my whereabouts. And then, blinking at the fringed curtain of that waitress Mica’s apartment, the whole grisly situation starts to come back to me.

  Mica herself is sitting cross-legged on the floor, several feet away. At least I remember her name. “Hello,” she says shyly, holding out the chain she is making from gum wrappers. “You’ve given me some scare.”

  I sit up and to my surprise discover I am wearing nothing but my boxers. I gasp, and pull a woolly brown afghan over myself. “Did anything . . . ?”

  “Happen?” Mica says, smiling. “No. You’ve been entirely faithful to the long-suffering Jane. At least for the time you’ve been here.”

  “You know about Jane.” I wonder what I’ve told her.

  “She’s all you talked about before you passed out for three whole days. I took off your clothes because it’s a hundred degrees outside, and I didn’t want you to get sunstroke while you were catching up on your beauty sleep.” She pushes the gum wrapper chain at me, and, since I know of nothing else to do with it, I hang it around my neck.

  “I’ve got to get to her,” I say, trying to stand. But unfortunately I change positions too quickly, and the room starts to spiral. Mica is quickly at my side, pulling my arm around her neck for support.

  “Easy,” she says. “We’ve got to get some food into you.”

  However, Mica is not one for cooking. She picks up a photo album and hands it to me. Inside are take-out menus for everything: pizza, Thai, Chinese, barbequed chicken, health food. “I don’t know,” I say. “You pick.”

  Mica studies these. “I think Thai is definitely out, since you’ve been off solid food for three days. My guess is some hummus and a tofu dip from ‘Lettuce Eat.’ ”

  “Sounds wonderful.” I prop myself onto my elbows when I feel my body can take the strain. “Mica,” I ask, “where have you been sleeping?” If memory does not serve me wrong, this is a onebedroom apartment with very little extra space.

  “Next to you on the futon,” she says noncommittally. “Don’t worry, Oliver. You’re not my type.”

  “I’m not?”

  “You’re too-I don’t know- preppy for me. I like guys a little more BoHo.”

  “Of course. How stupid of me.”

  Mica calls the vegetarian restaurant. “Fifteen minutes.”

  It strikes me that I am indeed starving. I hold my hand to my stomach. “I wonder,” I say, “you don’t know of any apple orchards around here?”

  Mica rolls her eyes. “Oliver, you’re in the heart of Boston. The closest I come to an orchard is Quincy Market.”

  “This place is in Stow. Or Maynard. Somewhere like that.”

  “Out west. With every other apple orchard in Massachusetts. You’re welcome to call information.”

  So I roll onto my stomach and reach for the phone. “Yes,” I say when a rhythmic voice answers, “in Stow. I’m looking for Joley Lipton.” The woman informs me she has no one there by that name. Nor in Maynard, nor in Bolton.

  “Didn’t you say he’s working for someone?” Mica says, and I nod. She’s paring her toenails with a brass clipper. “What makes you think he would he have his own phone listing?”

  “It was a stab in the dark, all right?”

  She holds her foot out in front of her. “Oh. This is rude, isn’t it? I’m sorry. I suppose for all practical purposes you’re a stranger. It’s just that with you passed out, I’ve been doing all kinds of things with you in the room. Changing, calisthenics, what have you.”

  Changing?

  “If it were me,” she says, “although it’s not-I’d drive out to Stow and ask if anyone’s heard of him. I mean, Stow isn’t Boston. He’s liable to have run into a mom-and-pop grocery store or a neighborhood barber, or whatever things they have out in the boonies.”

  “Oh, Mica.” She’s hit on it. I have no choice but to canvass that section of Massachusetts and hope for the best. I grab her hand, which is nearby, and kiss it.

  “Who says chivalry’s dead?” she says. Then the doorbell rings, and she’s up to collect the tofu.

  It all starts coming back to me: how I hadn’t slept since Iowa; how I believed Jane was near me all the time; how much I wanted to tell her. With renewed energy I jump from the futon and collect my clothes, strewn orgiastically around the tiny bedroom. I turn on the television with the remote, automatically set for the midday news. I pull on my trousers and zap through the stations until I find an anchor-person with a soothing voice. “Well, Chet,” she says, as Mica reapproaches with a vegetable cornucopia, “efforts continue to free the humpback whale tangled in fishing nets off the coast of Gloucester.”

  “What?” I whisper, sinking to my knees. Mica rus