Read an Excerpt

What This River Keeps

A Novel

Indiana University Press

The two old men slept on the bank of the dirty flooded river, and from above they would've appeared as dead men—corpses washed ashore and left to rot in the coming sun. The river, swollen and thick in the predawn light, looked capable of carrying bodies along with its load of sticks, spinning logs and bottles. Here and there floated a child's ball, a doll's head. The men were not yet dead, but the morning's heat hadn't arrived to revive them from their jagged sleep. In a small depression in the sand between their prone forms smoke crept from a chunk of wood. Both men lay partially covered by sleeping bags, and they reposed with pieces of clothing knotted under their heads. They slept as men who had spent many nights on riverbanks. They slept on the sand that the river had carried for miles and for centuries and they slept on the earth as if they belonged to it.

Even in his sleep Frank was aware of his spine. He opened his eyes and his back woke up with him, and its pain yawned and grew. Above him was the soft gray light of early morning. His backbone felt as cold and dead as a lead pipe, like rigor mortis had set in and fused the vertebrae together. The pain hadn't been a dream. Waking up to it was like feeling the first cold splashes of rain from a storm that had been thundering just over the ridge for hours—a confirmation.

Clouds of mist hung over the current, a ghost river flowing. Above the woods around them the fog wasn't there, only the pale light of sunrise, but wherever the water ran the mist rose. He lay on his back and studied the sky. It was always strange to be given sight again, after staring into darkness all night long. But now different birds called. He'd been paying so much attention to this particular place it was as if he'd never known another life. Maybe he'd been here, on this riverbank, forever. Maybe he didn't have a wife, a son, a farm? Of course he did. It was time to get up again.

He looked over at Chub. Across the fire—it was still smoldering in the heavy dew—Chub lay stretched out like a side of beef. His mouth hung open and a cloud of gnats suspended over his face. Some were walking across his cheek, and Frank wondered how anyone could sleep through such a distraction. He took a hand out from his sleeping bag, picked up a smooth pebble, and threw it in Chub's direction. It hit his bag with a soft pop. Chub slept on. Frank threw another pebble and this one hit him in his thick neck. Chub's eyes opened slowly and deliberately and a giant hand came up and wiped at the gnats around his eyes and hairy brows.

"You got a pack of pecker gnats swarmin you," Frank said.

Chub said nothing but rolled over and reached for the zipper on his sleeping bag. It had worked down as he slept and was wadded around his midsection. His naked upper body lay on the bare ground, and as he moved sand stuck to his skin. He was a big man. His skin was tanned but wrinkled and hairy. Under his arms the skin was white. He coughed and lifted himself up on his elbow. He coughed again and sucked furiously with his nose and throat, working it up. He spat into the sand next to his bag. Frank saw something pendulous drop.

"What time is it?" Chub asked.

Frank looked at his watch. "Just after five."

"Thought so."

"You look like an angel this morning."

"Shut the hell up."

Chub sat, pulling himself out of the bag. He still wore his brown pants and gray socks. His rubber boots were there and he tugged them on. He took the thin cotton shirt from the ground where he'd slept with his head on it and shook it rapidly. Sand sprung from the fabric. He pulled the shirt on and buttoned it.

Frank watched this with bemused interest. He waited for the pain in his back to subside even though he knew it wouldn't. The sun lit the trees across the river. Christ, the water was high. Thick and brown with runoff. He pulled his legs free of the bag and jerked on his rubber boots. His cane lay there in the sand and small pebbles where he'd left it at two in the morning when he'd gotten into his bag to get some sleep. He picked it up and it was cold and wet from the dew and he brushed the sand from it.

Standing up from this position was the worst. He pushed the bag down out of the way and turned onto his stomach. He could smell himself—the river water and dried sweat. By doing a pushup of sorts he rose to his knees and took his cane upright in front of him. When he got to his feet he stood there, leaning over the cane, and waited for the dizziness to pass. He felt as if he hadn't slept for days. Had there been a time when getting up meant nothing, took nothing? He did not believe it.

Both men took long steaming pisses in the tall ragweed around camp.

When they turned and walked toward it, the river looked different—somehow it had completely changed since they'd lain down. They'd grown to know it in the moonlight. They knew where the snags were because of the sound the water made as it sucked around them. They knew where the hole started and where it stretched into a run. They knew how hard to cast to reach the edge of the submerged tree that had toppled from the far bank sometime this spring. They knew where to expect the catfish.

Now the river ran naked before their eyes, shrouded only in a rising layer of mist already dissipating in the sun. They could see the ripples and the chunks of trees breaking the surface. It wasn't a big river, but one too wide to cast across. The pool in front of them was almost twenty feet deep.

Frank's jon boat swayed in the current, nosed onto the sand where they'd beached it. Their rods stood upright in the rod carriers he'd made from sections of PVC pipe fastened to the back of one of the boat's metal benches. They began to rig their lines for chunks of cutbait. Three-ounce sinkers sliding on the line above 3/0 hooks. Channel catfish would be out this time of morning, feeding in the shallows and in that riffle there.

A dead bluegill floated in the livewell, and Chub pulled it out, placed it on the plywood board, and started cutting with a knife. The fish barely bled. The bluegill had a hole in its back, under the pectoral fin, where one of them had hooked it the night before. Its bones crunched and the scales crackled as the knife reduced the hand-sized fish to pieces of its former self. He bent, swished the knife in the river, wiped the blade on the leg of his pants, once for each side, and dropped it back into the boat. There were still bluegills swimming in the livewell, ones that hadn't been hooked and cast the night before.

He handed two pieces to Frank—not the head, Frank noticed—and they put them on hooks without talking. They made sure the scales of the fish were not covering the points of their hooks. Their rod holders were still sticking up in the sand of the bank and they cast and set their rods back in the holders. Engaged the reel clickers. Their lawn chairs had sunk into the mud of the riverbank and they sat back down in them. They were on one of the few beaches still left dry when the river ran this high. Most of their usual overnight spots were underwater.

The river now met sand about three inches below the stick Frank had stuck upright to mark the water level before he went up the bank to sleep. He examined that—how the river had dropped so much in the last hours. If it rained tomorrow it would rise again. The river rose and fell, rose and fell. It was harder to catch fish as the river dropped and he didn't expect to catch many this morning.

"What time somebody expecting you?" Chub asked.

"I told Ethel I'd be there for lunch. She thinks Ollie'll probably be there."

Frank knew she was wrong even as he said the words. His son would not be there. Chub said nothing. He knew it was false, too. Ollie was a lark and didn't come to eat with his parents on Saturday or any other day anymore. Chub knew all about Ollie, but he didn't bring him up or talk about him to anybody else. He'd been friends with Frank for most of his life and he knew that a man could create a son and then lose control of what the son became. Chub had a son, too.

Chub lived alone now and no one expected him at any time. He'd stay until Frank said it was time to reload the boat and head out. He could stay out two nights in a row and no one would miss him or notice he'd done so. He'd been out many nights in a row and, in fact, no one had noticed.

The channel cats swam out of hiding now that the flatheads were going back to sleep. The smaller catfish felt safe, and even with the falling water, they'd eat for an hour or so. Almost immediately Frank's rod started to bounce and the clicker on the reel made its song as the line spun off the spool. He could stand without his cane for short spells, and he stood and grabbed the pole.

He set the hook by bringing the rod back over his head and fought to turn the fish. It headed downstream and levered its body against the current. Holding the rod tip high, he waited for the fish to tire. He could see where the dancing line entered the river, but the brown water hid the cat.

"Good one?" Chub asked.

"Feels good."

"I thought I'd get one on this head first."

"I know you thought that. I seen you keep it."

The fish ran a few times and circled back upstream. Frank gained line and brought the catfish to the beach in front of them. It splashed in the shallow water and made short bursts. Now he could see flashes of a black tail, a gray side. Four pounds or so.

"Want to keep some for lunch?" Chub asked. He kept most of what he caught. The Indiana DNR told you not to eat fish from this river more than once a month. Chub ate fish several times a week. It hadn't altered his health or appearance. He'd always looked like shit.

Frank got the catfish in hand and it was a good size to clean. Silver and slick-muscled. He popped the hook out and dropped the fish into the livewell. The bluegills, intended for the cave-mouthed flathead catfish they'd been fishing for last night, were too big for the channel to eat. The catfish swam, hit the end of the livewell with a splash, and then returned and thumped into the other side. The bluegills fled to a corner.

Before Frank could cut another piece of bait, Chub had a run and hooked the fish. The midsummer sun came over the trees and bathed them in a glorious burst of heat and light.

The men kept silent on the one thing they were both thinking about—the occurrence that would affect them almost equally, like the sun fizzling out or the sea lifting and washing over the continent. They'd talked about the matter some late at night when it seemed possible to say anything in the moonlight, and they weren't ready to talk about it yet this morning.

They caught three more channel cats and kept all of them. Then the sun grew too hot and they loaded the boat with their sleeping bags and the clothes they'd shed. They poured water over the fire pit, and its still-smoldering stub of wood, sending forth angry clouds of steam. The burnt firewood hissed like a snake uncovered under a flipped log.

Frank reached into the livewell, where the four channel cats swam and bumped against the walls, and began netting out the remaining bluegills. One by one he dropped them into the river. The bluegills hit the water and righted themselves in the current, but they didn't leave. Instead they finned there in the muddy water, near the boat, and tried to get accustomed to their new surroundings. They were lost and many of them would be eaten before the sun set again. They'd been raised in a farm pond, and they weren't prepared for this current or the predators that waited.

When he'd taken everything out of the livewell save the four catfish, Frank closed the lid. Chub pulled the boat parallel to the shore and Frank waded into the river. The water was so cold now, even though he'd gotten used to it yesterday, and his movements were slowed by the current and weight of the water. He sat back over the gunnel and swung his dripping legs aboard. Chub pushed the boat off and climbed in without grace or dignity. The bow dipped under his heft. Frank started the outboard with one pull and turned the bow back upstream. The prop ate sand and gravel for a bit—the sound of metal striking stones—before it slid into deeper water. There the boat settled into the current and the motor dug deep and pushed them upstream toward the waiting truck. A pair of mallards was frightened to see them coming and took off, flying farther upriver. The boat would approach them several times more, causing them to move again and again until they went past the gravel bar where the boat would stop.

Frank knew even before they rounded the first bend that he could probably count the number of times he would camp again on this river. After so many years, it had come down to this: a few times left, some countable number, something finite. He did not speak of it.

Ollie drove to the hardware store in Logjam on Saturday morning because all but one lightbulb in the trailer had burned out. What were the odds of such a thing? Only the light in the hallway still worked. He could see into the bathroom with its glow, but the bedroom and kitchen were secured in darkness. He had to use the TV to illuminate the living room. Coming in late last night, still drunk and tired, he'd pretty much fallen over in every room as he made his way back to bed. He could no longer see what in the hell he was doing.

The bell hanging from the door jangled when he walked in and the air conditioning was already on. He walked across a concrete floor painted red and the entire store smelled pleasantly of metal tools and rubber tires. He felt pretty good this morning. His mouth stunk and he was thirsty, but really he felt pretty good. It was early enough that he could still do something with the day once he got this one errand run. Then he remembered that Coondog wanted him to come over in the afternoon to make final adjustments to the demo car before that night.

A woman stood at the cash register, in the process of ringing up a sale for a customer—an old man with hair standing straight like he'd slept hanging upside down. He was talking about something. The rest of the store was quiet. Ollie nodded hello to the woman and looked at her ass as he walked by. He scanned the aisles to see if any other women were around, so he could change his trajectory through the store and walk by them, maybe smell their perfume. There were none. He had acted in this fashion for so long it'd become ingrained into his habits, like a hungry dog might trot through a roadside park with its nose down, looking for bites of hot dog bun or chunks of cookies. He watched for women in other cars as he drove and swiveled his neck to study them as they worked in their yards. He stared at girls in the grocery store.

He selected a box of generic sixty-watts and carried them to the counter without shopping around for anything else. He didn't have a lot of money on him, and with this one purchase, it was going to be close. This was a four-pack of bulbs and he knew he couldn't buy fewer. He imagined himself going up to her register and asking for one bulb. What the hell. Besides, he didn't intend to make this trip again. He'd get four bulbs and light the bitch up for another year. About three dollars rode in his wallet.

Amazingly, the other guy was still paying, so Ollie got in line behind him. The old dude smelled like he'd been mowing wet grass. The woman at the counter looked familiar but she didn't seem to recognize or even acknowledge Ollie. He thought she owned the store with her husband. Ollie waited while the old man counted out exact change for two bolts and three washers. He kept spilling more coins out of a felt sack that advertised a kind of liquor. Ollie knew the name but had not tasted the whiskey. There stood a rack of keys there—different colors and sizes that could be cut to fit—and the countertop lay covered with glass. Under the glass, business cards were spread out. House builders. Excavation work. He scanned the cards, looking to see if his friend's was there. The old man finally got his receipt and left without saying anything further. The bell on the door jangled when he left.

"Is that all for you," the woman said, reaching for the lightbulbs. She seemed like she wanted to get it over with. She was older than he was, but she still looked pretty good. Her breasts pushed against the red employee vest she wore.

He handed the box to her. "I was looking to see if you had 'CD's Tree Service' here."

The woman looked confused and he pointed at the business cards. She glanced down and then back to the register. She hit the final button.

"Two-oh-eight," she said.

He handed her the three singles. "He's got a tree-trimming business. Cuts down your problem trees and around power lines."

"You got problem trees," she said in a tired voice.

"Nope. Just looking."

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Excerpted from What This River Keeps by Greg Schwipps. Copyright © 2012 Gregory Schwipps. Excerpted by permission of Indiana University Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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