Story: Curly's Monster

1950's Florida, two boys, a surrogate father, and a big fish

Dear Reader,
I didn’t get this story completed in time for Father’s Day, but it is in fact a gift for my dad. It’s not a remembrance of his childhood because I wasn’t there, so we’ll call it a willful hallucination on my part based on the snippets of stories he’s told me over the years about growing up on an orange grove in Orlando, Florida. None of these events ever happened to these people in this order, and yet all of them are true.

I love my dad for so many reasons, but perhaps the most important one is that he had to learn to be a great father out of an abundance of love and sheer determination, because his own father didn’t give him much to work with.

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Uncle Jack was not my uncle. But he was more of a father to me than my father ever was. Every warm memory of my childhood, hiding in the orange groves, fishing for shiners on Lake Hiawassee, or skiing behind a boat had Jack at the wheel.

I was thirteen before I realized Uncle Jack was an employee of my father’s. He didn’t behave like the other workers in the grove who lowered their eyes, stopped their wisecracking, and silenced their laughter any time my father piloted his Cadillac slowly through the grassy lanes of the grove, low-hanging fruit bouncing against the hood and bursting against the chrome grill leaving a mess of sticky juice pulp and seeds. It’s not that Pop wasn’t funny, he was. But his jokes were always at the expense of someone else.

That morning in September when I was eleven, Jack was sitting on a crate outside the open doors of the packing house. The curl of smoke from his cigarette mingled with the steam from his tin coffee cup as he held both in his right hand while he studied a folded newspaper in his left. My pulse quickened when I saw him, and I could barely contain my excitement at the army-green pile of camping gear assembled neatly against the wall beside him.

When he heard the Cadillac, he looked up, squinting beneath the brim of his hat, and raised the newspaper in greeting before he stood and dropped it into the chair. I glanced over at my father who took a sip from his coffee cup which, by the smell, I knew was only half filled with coffee. The other half was Four Roses bourbon. A shaft of sunlight cut through a break in the trees, filling the front seat of the convertible with citrus light and causing him to wince.

“You listen to Jack now, understand?” he said.

“Yes, Pop,” I said.

“Your Mom will never let me hear the end of it if you kids do something stupid.”

“Yes sir.”

“And don’t forget you’re responsible for your brother.”

“Yes, Pop.”

I had the door open before he even brought the car to a stop.

“Morning, Jack. Keepin’ your powder dry?”

“You know I do, Mr. Willie.”

Pop got out of the car and the two men shook hands.

“Who’s out this morning?” Pop asked, nodding toward the expanse of trees beyond the packing house.

“Shim, Jerome, and Davey so far.”

“No sign of Skeeter?”

“Not yet, but it’s still early.”

“I should have left his lousy ass in jail the whole weekend. Maybe he would have learned something, or at least sobered up.”

It was common for Pop to post bail for the workers. It was the tax he paid for cheap labor, mostly black men with little education, but strong forearms and easy smiles.

“He’ll turn up,” Jack said before turning to me. “You boys fired up to catch some fish?”

“Heck yeah!” I said.

Curly just nodded shyly, squinting up at Jack. He was only eight. Three years younger than me. I didn’t want him to come, and I begged Pop to just let me go. I was tired of his silent shadow. But Pop wouldn’t have it. He wanted both his sons to be the capable outdoorsman he was not.

“Well, why don’t you start loading up the truck,” Jack nodded in the direction of the battered Chevy pickup with the fading logo of our orchard painted on the door. It was parked on the other side of the packing house.

When we pulled away and bumped out of the grove along the rutted dirt lane, I remember looking back to see Pop framed in the darkened doorway of the packing house. He didn’t wave, only took another sip from his cup before turning to disappear into the building.

Jack had picked out a spot for us to camp on a small lake I never learned the name of but it was a thirty-minute ride east. He claimed there was bass in that lake the size of bowling pins. On the way, we stopped at Pullman’s where I ate a couple of warm boiled eggs with a glass of orange juice at the narrow Formica counter. I ordered a donut for Curly because I knew he liked them but wouldn’t ask. Outside, Jack leaned against the truck and ate a bacon sandwich he had brought from home, occasionally taking a sip of coffee from his thermos. Pearl was working behind the counter. I knew her name because Pop always lingered, forearms resting on the counter to coax peals of giddy laughter from her while Curly and I ate at a booth by the window. Jack was cordial with her when he came inside and left two bills on the counter before we left despite her disapproving scowl and clipped speech.

Unlike today with Disney and the movie studios, Starbucks, and the rest, Orlando was a quaint town back then, with a few buildings surrounded by groves and a gentle wilderness broken up only by lakes and creeks. Within a couple of miles, the neighborhoods gave way to trees. The narrow gravel road soon turned to dirt and Jack rolled his window down. I rolled mine down too and hung my arm out the window. It was still early so the air was cool and fine feeling. The Four Aces song “Tell Me Why,” was playing on the radio, or at least that’s how I like to remember it. I had a feeling of freedom. I unclenched my jaw, and an easy smile played on my lips. Sitting between us, Curly was content too, not that anyone else could tell. But I could.

We had been fishing many times with Jack, but this was maybe the third or fourth time I’d been camping with him, and it was Curly’s first. Mom had never let him come because he was too young, but she was away visiting her sister that weekend, so she didn’t get a say.

“You boys gonna love this spot. Yes sir.” Jack said as he piloted a slow right turn with the heel of one of his large, calloused hands.

I turned and studied his profile. He had a strong jaw and deep-set eyes. His resting face was that of a serious, even troubled man, but when he smiled all that changed. For a man who had every right to be at war with himself, he had confidence and ease as he navigated through the world. I knew he was different from the other black men who worked for Pop. For one thing, Jack didn’t look like them. He was light-skinned, and his dark, curly hair was smoothed into slick waves beneath his hat. I might never have known his race had Mom not referred to him once with a word I will never repeat.

The woods were thick and the road more of a suggestion. We had to stop once and wait while a ten-foot gator ambled across the road. Me and Curly leaned forward and peered over the dash, not breathing until it disappeared into the underbrush and Jack put his foot on the gas.

“We close to the water now,” he said. When he saw the terror on our faces, he added. “You leave them gators alone, they leave you alone. And if they don’t, I gotta shotgun that’ll get they attention.”

A few minutes later, the trees gave way to a grassy field open to the blue sky which reflected on the mirror of still water giving the illusion that there was no horizon. He eased the truck forward, carving a path through the tall grass, and parked about thirty or forty yards away from the water. When I stepped down from the passenger side, the grass was just above my knees.

“We’ll set up camp right down there. See where it levels out? Should be an old fire ring down there. Why don’t you go see if you can find it.”

Jack began unloading equipment from the bed of the truck. Curly and I searched for a while and eventually stumbled upon a ring of charred stones with blackened ribs and nubs of burnt logs inside it. Jack strode over swinging a small sling blade with one hand. The grass fell before him like the parting of the Red Sea.

“Think you boys can handle clearing us a place here?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” I said.

I tried to wield the thing like I’d seen him do with such ease, but most of my swings just bent the grass.

“What you wanna do is raise it up higher and bring it down quick and low,” he said, standing behind me and guiding my hand. “Maybe try both hands, like you’re swinging a golf club. Scoot back, son, less you wanna haircut,” he said motioning to Curly.

After my third attempt, I got the satisfaction of leaving a swath that looked like the crewcuts Pop took us to get at the barber every few weeks.

“That’ll do. You wanna clear out all this around the fire ring and down to the water. Give your brother a chance too.”

When I felt an angry blister forming on my thumb and half the area was clear, I handed the tool over to Curly. He studied the wooden handle like it was a weapon from some alien civilization. He found a grip and tried a tentative swing that barely moved the grass. Then he furrowed his brow and poked the tip of his tongue out and swung again. A thick swath of grass disappeared, and he smiled. He kept going like he was possessed. I had to step back for fear of losing a limb.

I helped Jack stake out the large tent. He rigged up a tarp by tying it off to some stakes in the side panel of the truck bed. In its shade, he set up three canvas camp chairs. Curly came up, dragging the sling blade behind him. We sat in the chairs and Jack passed each of us a cold bottle of Nehi Orange from the ice chest he left in the front of the truck bed.

“Well, this sure is fine, ain’t it?” he said after taking a long sip.

“Where are we going to fish?” I asked.

“Most anywhere you like. I reckon we’ll try all over before we leave. Whatcha think Curly? You think they’s a big ol’ bass in there with your name on it?”

Curly nodded with his whole body and while he didn’t show his teeth, I don’t think I’d seen a bigger smile on his face. In his enthusiasm, some of his soda spilled on his pants. That’s when I noticed his hand.

“What did you do? Lemme see your hand,” I said.

He held out his hand. There were three open blisters and the one on the webbing between his thumb and index finger was bleeding. Jack made a sound, sucking air through his teeth.

“Damn boy, why you not stop before you hurt yourself?”

He rose, went to the pick-up, and came back with a small first-aid kit. He crouched in front of my little brother, and I watched as he expertly cleaned the wounds with alcohol, applied some gauze, and then wrapped Curly’s small hand with some medical tape with the neatness and precision of an army medic. I knew both he and Pop had fought in the same great war. I imagined them side by side storming across the front line. In truth, my dad had worked behind a typewriter and Jack would have been fighting the war on two fronts because it wasn’t just the Germans who would have seen him as an enemy.

“Good?” he asked, looking up into Curly’s face.

Curly nodded and smiled.

“Alright, let’s go see ‘bout them fish,” he said.

We fished most of the day, breaking only for an hour to sit beneath the tarp and have a lunch of cold pickles and Vienna sausages out of a can when the sun was most punishing. We caught so many brims and shiners which we threw back but the large bass were elusive. Jack said it was too hot for them and they preferred to lounge in the cool depths out in the middle of the lake. I said I wished we had a canoe to paddle out there, but Jack said that was cheating.

Just as the sun dipped behind the trees, Jack said it would be our last cast of the day. We baited our hooks, Jack having to split the last worm so both me and Curly would have something to put in the water. To our surprise, after a day of snags and tangles, Curly reared back and cast his line nearly twenty yards out into the water, his cork making a satisfying plunk that sent concentric ripples of pink and tangerine reflected clouds over the surface of the lake.

A second later the cork disappeared, and Curly jumped, almost dropping his rod and reel.

“Whatcha got Curl, a monster?” Jack asked as he reached out to test the tension on the rod. “Aw, I think it’s just a lil fella. Bring him on in and we can throw ‘em back.”

Curly reeled quickly, the small fish, barely more than the weight of the cork at the end of the line. When he had pulled it in close enough to the shore for us to see its silver sides struggling beneath the surface, it disappeared, and Curly’s rod was jerked down so hard it nearly pulled him into the reeds. Jack dropped his pole and grabbed Curly, steadying him. Together they tugged, inch by inch tiring the huge fish out as they pulled it closer to the bank. When it breached the surface, its glossy, muscled flank caused my breath to catch and my mouth to go dry. It was a dark Leviathan. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was a shark. I will never forget the look on my little brother’s face. It was a mixture of abject terror, determination, and pure joy I had never seen before and would never see again.

On the grass, beneath the sole of Jack’s boot, it was just a fish, but easily the biggest one I’d ever seen. It was an eighteen-inch, largemouth bass.

“Curl, you the only boy I ever seen catch a fish with another live fish. Some kinda auspicious thing that is. We gonna eat good tonight.”

Later we both squirmed as Jack gutted and cleaned the fish before sawing the head off with the serrated edge of his hunting knife. He pitched the mess out into the lake and in the twilight stillness I prayed I wouldn’t see the shadowy thrash of a gator going after it otherwise I wouldn’t sleep all night.

Jack started the fire, nursing a little lick of flame from some twigs and a wad of Spanish moss into a blaze that hungrily chewed through the small planks of the broken-down orange crates he had brought along for this purpose. I loved the crackling sound of the fire as it consumed the wood, occasionally popping like a firecracker as it burned through a knot. Curly sat in his chair with his knees pulled up to his chin watching as Jack prepared dinner. When the floured and salted filets of the fish hit the hot lard in the cast iron skillet it made the most satisfying sizzle and soon the smell made me think I might like fish after all. After a moment, Jack rose and turned them with a fork. Seeing the golden crust of the cooked side, I knew I would eat as much as I was allowed.

Even Curly, a notoriously picky eater, ate the fish with a level of concentrated delight he gave few things. Jack couldn’t stop smiling. He joked that we would be ruined from ever eating anything but monster fish cooked over an open fire and that if we ate anymore, we’d most likely grow tails overnight.

After dinner, while Jack was down at the water scouring out the pan, we heard an engine and saw the throw of headlights bouncing over the dark banks of the lake. Above the noise of the truck, we heard strains of music, shouting, and laughter. A moment later, we were blinded by headlights. The truck shuttered to a stop and it was suddenly quiet except for the tick of its engine and some hushed voices followed by the creak of one of the doors swinging open.

“Howdy boys, y’all having yourselves a little campout?”

It was a man’s voice. We couldn’t see him because of the headlights, but I thought he sounded young. The other door opened and closed and then we saw the silhouettes of two young men, their bodies partially blocking the throw of the headlights.

“That’s a nice little fire you got going. We ain’t mean to scare y’all. Just saw the fire and thought we’d come say hi.”

“Darell, they just kids. Let’s go. We can find another spot,” the other, higher voice said.

I really wanted Jack to come back. What the hell was he doing? He must have heard the truck or at least seen the lights.

“What’s a matter? Y’all can’t talk?” the first man said.

He was bigger and wearing a baseball hat. He took a long drink from the can he was holding and then pitched into the bed of the truck. I rose up out of the chair, trying to look tall.

“Yeah, we can talk. We’re just camping here for the night,” I said.

“Well, y’all know this is private property, right? This here’s Frank’s daddy’s land.”

Finally, I heard Jack somewhere behind us doing something in the truck. A moment later he appeared beside us. He held the dripping wet skillet in his right hand which was trembling almost imperceptibly. I wondered if it was the weight of the skillet or if he was scared like me but I couldn’t imagine such a thing.

“Howdy fellas, I’m Jack and this here’s Thomas and Curly. We didn’t think we was trespassing. That’s a state road up there and this lake here’s owned by the county as I recall.”

There was a long silence. The two silhouetted men looked at each other.

“Are you telling me I don’t know the boundary of my own land?” the smaller one asked, his voice escalating in pitch and volume.

“Well, not exactly, I’m just stating what I thought was true. But if I’m mistaken, we just pack up and put out this fire and be on our way.”

“Now don’t be like that. I ain’t said y’all gotta leave. I just wanted to see who was camping out here. What’d you say your name was?” the smaller man said, taking a few steps closer to us.

“Name’s Jack Hunt.”

The man squinted and leaned forward, swaying just slightly as he peered first at me and Curly then up at Jack, and then back to us. He laughed and it sounded like a dry, wheezy cough as he turned to his friend.

“Ain’t no way he’s daddy to them boys and if he is, it’s a goddamn sin,” he said.

“What you talkin’ ‘bout?” the big one said, stepping around him to get a better look. “Shit, he’s a damn spook, ain’t he?”

Curly shot up out of his chair with such force, it fell backward. His eyes were wide, and his face was bright red. His fists were clenched tight at his sides and a keening sound was rising up from somewhere deep in his throat. I reached out and grabbed hold of his arm, but he shook me loose. The two men had already turned and were about to get back into the truck.

“He’s not a spook!” Curly screamed, his tiny voice raw and strange. “He’s our uncle!”

I’m not sure what scared me more, the sound of my brother’s voice which I hadn’t heard in almost two years, or the sound of the huge skillet slipping out of Jack’s hand and landing on one of the rocks from the fire ring. The big man on the driver’s side turned, leaving the door ajar, and walked back around to the front of the truck.

“Boy, if that spook’s really your uncle, there’s sumpin’ your mama ain’t telling you.”

Curly’s little frame was vibrating with emotion and his face was wet with tears. I tried again to grab him, but he slipped away and ran around the fire to confront the man.

“You can’t call him that. It’s a bad word. Jack’s a good man, he’s Pop’s best friend.”

“It’s alright Curl,” Jack said. “Let these men be on their way.”

The man leaned forward, hands on his knees to be eye level with Curly.

“You sure look like a white boy, but maybe you part spook too,” he said.

He palmed my brother’s head in his large hand and roughly tousled his curls before shoving him backward.

“Y’all best be gone by tomorrow,” he shouted over his shoulder before slamming the door closed behind him and cranking the engine.

The truck was gone as quick as it came and it was once again just the sawing of katydids, the crackle of the fire, and the three of us gathered in the throw of its flickering light. Jack stood Curly’s chair upright and my brother retreated into it, knees drawn up to his chin. He was crying quietly. My gut was a churning roil of emotion and I tasted bile in the back of my throat. Jack bent and picked up the skillet, stepped over to the truck, and put it neatly back in the locker among his other gear.

“Why’d you let them talk about you like that?” I asked, struggling to keep my voice even.

“What you think I could say to those men, Thomas? You old enough to see how things lay.”

I didn’t have an answer, so I held my tongue.

“Besides, I think Curl done said enough for all of us.”

He sat down heavily in the chair beside Curly, picked up a stick, and stoked the fire. He pulled a tobacco pouch and papers from the front pocket of his shirt and carefully rolled a cigarette. He put it to his lips and lit it with the end of the stick he had been using as a poker. He took a long draw and exhaled and his smoke was indistinguishable from that of the fire warming our faces.

“Boy, you picked one hell of a time to find your voice again.”

It was true. I had prayed for Curly to talk again for so long and the minute he started that night, all I wanted him to do was shut up. My anger ebbed out of me, and I realized I’d been clenching my fist so tightly that my nails had cut little crescent moons into my palms. I relaxed them and something let go inside me too. I began to sob, and I tried to hide it, turning my face away from the fire. I don’t know why I was crying but it took me over and I couldn’t stop. Jack said nothing. He just smoked and stared into the fire.

Looking back, I think I was crying for what I realized never could be. Curly would never be okay. Pop would never be okay. Jack would never be seen or treated like the man he actually was. My mom would never joke with me and embarrass me with kisses the way my friends’ moms did with them. That night, I think I finally saw the world for what it was, not what I hoped it would be.

I don’t remember sleeping much at all, but I must have because I woke up in the dark to the sound of zippers and latches and Curly burrowed into my side. We had everything packed into the back of the truck before the idea of morning ever came into the sky. There was a fingernail of moon hanging low over the lake as we pulled away.

The drive back took so long like we were driving through tar. Jack didn’t turn on the radio and no one spoke. Curly leaned on me and I leaned against the window, the cold pane of glass numbing my brain. I wanted to say something, to say anything to break the silence, but I couldn’t find any words. I wanted to ask Jack if he was mad at us, at me but I didn’t.

He dropped us in front of our house on Lakeview Drive. Pop’s Caddy was parked halfway up the driveway with its left tires at the end of a muddy rut in the lawn. I shouldered open the door of the old truck and stepped down. Curly wouldn’t let go of my hand so I waved to Jack with the other.

“Ya’ll be good now. Tell your daddy all about that monster you caught.”

Then he was gone.

Jack never took us on another camping trip. On the one or two other fishing trips I recall after that, we never caught anything equal to Curly’s monster.

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