"Dang," Carla muttered as dishwater slopped against her belly. Can you be resigned to something and still hate it? At least it was bed time and she could shed this slimey sweatshirt without donning another one to feed the ever-growing laundry monster.
Heading for the bedroom, she nudged her snoozing husband. "You'll sleep better in bed," she said softly, suspecting he wouldn't hear her above the buzz of the television. She ran over the checklist in her mind. Kids asleep, one un-bathed. Remind him to shower in the morning. Phone calls for the Parks Committee still un-called, but it was too late for that now. "Dang," She hadn't walked the dog.
This late at night, the only sound on the dark, narrow lane was the jingling of Godzilla's dog tags. He skipped and hopped, sniffed and peed, eagerly patrolling. Carla could barely see him at the end of the leash, it was so dark tonight. No moon. The darkness made the smells of the neighborhood more noticeable: some spicey shrub from the vacant woods, the sickly sweet of the crazy lady's accumulating trash heap, acrid juniper from the lawyer's well-tended landscape. Carla shook her head, she was too easily carried away by sentiment this time of night. She smirked at herself, recalling the time she had stood with tears in her eyes because a crescent moon was glowing through wispy clouds and there was no one there to share it with except the oblivious Godzilla.
But tonight there was no moon; and no street lamps; just dark houses and woods and Godzilla on patrol -- until she heard the approach of another dog, maybe two dogs. Big dogs from the sound of the bustling shuffle. She couldn't make out the dogs or the person walking them, so she stopped. It was no good trying to pass another dog on the street with Godzilla. He was always ornery and aggressive, picking fights with every four-legged beast.
She stood at the approach of a crossroad, waiting to see which way the other dogs would turn. The sounds of their approach stopped and for a moment there was no jingling, no shuffling and no light. Then a voice Carla didn't recognize, a deep, rumbling voice, said one word. "Carla." It wasn't a question and she didn't reply. In fact, she didn't do anything. At some point, the man passed by and she realized it was Juanita's husband, Fred from across the street, and their two golden retrievers.
Later on, lying in bed she started to run through the mental checklist one more time. She couldn't focus. Halfway through, she lost the train of thought. The only thing her mind held onto was how one word had sounded, spoken in the dark.
"Carla."
"Ham or bacon with your eggs, Jimbo?"
"No eggs. Just coffee. What the hell is 'Birdsong's Salvage?'"
"No idea. Whadday mean, 'no eggs?' You cheatin' on me at the cafe?"
"Never on you, darlin'. Gloria made meatloaf last night, two of em."
"Here ya go. So? Everybody knows Glo's meatloaf is heaven."
"Yeah, but if you eat two of 'em, there's hell to pay the next day."
"Ahh. So what's with Birdsong's whatsit?"
"Salvage. On Randall's truck. I just saw it in the parking lot and he painted 'Birdsong's Salvage' on the door. By hand, by the looks of it. With a magic marker maybe."
"Randall's no artist, huh?"
"Not likely. If this salvage thing doesn't work out, he better stick to puttin' out fires and saving babies."
"Oh! I know what it is. He just told us. You know how they use telephone poles at the marina to keep their wake breaker in place? The spring floods dislodged a bunch of em and Randall got the marina to give him 50 bucks for every one he can find. Scuba boy."
"In that mud pie? He must be hard up for money."
"Could be. I guess puttin' out fires is more for glory than money."
"Heh. C'mere, darlin, I'll put out your fire."
"Sure thing. As soon as you get me Glo's meatloaf recipe."
"She'd probably give it to you herself if you'd keep me busy so she could get her quiltin' done by Christmas."
"Har har. You sure about those eggs?"
----------------------------
The truck swung into the empty gravel parking lot and Randall climbed out. Pulling equipment from the pickup's bed, his mind doggedly chewed on last night's conversation with Carla. There she was, just back from walking the dog, shucking for bed and, what the hell? A tattoo. Pretty much right there on her crotch, where her leg meets her belly and... damn. It looked like a bug. He probably shouldn't have said so. Judging from her reaction, he definitely shouldn't have said so. But it did, dammit. It looked like a bug. Right there.
He hauled off his shirt and pulled on the tight wet suit jacket. For him, she had said. Not damn likely, since they hadn't had sex since he couldn't even remember when. At least _he_ hadn't. And it wasn't like there was anything wrong with him, that's for damn sure. So where's this tattoo thing coming from?
He got out the old tank, the one with the reserve, so he wouldn't have to use the complicated, floppy legged new regulator with its extra mouthpiece and air gauge and what all. So where's this tattoo business coming from then? Turning on the air, the hiss of the regulator helped him focus.
As he dropped into the murky brown lake, he felt clear minded for the first time in a long while. Things get real simple when you can only see two feet from your nose and all you can hear is the hiss of your own breath. An oil drum, rusted and ragged edged. A couple of two by fours, part of some old boathouse gangplank. He plucked a fishing lure from the rotten timber, careful to avoid the rusted barbs. It's kind of nice looking at these old lures, funky nostalgic things, but he hated the lines usually attached. That invisible catgut line, Trilene really, snagging stuff. And you never know how strong it might be. He pulled the long knife from the sheath on his calf and clipped the loops of line so that none reached more than a foot or so, then left it.
Five, he figured. He had located and marked five of the dozen poles he was seeking. He knew it was five because he still had two inflatable markers attached to his belt. And he was running out of air. It was getting so that he actually had to suck a little to draw on it. Sure, sure. A tattoo for him. What the hell?
He marked the sixth pole but now he really had to go. He was almost unable to suck the last breath and though he was only 15 feet down, he still had to swim to the surface and from there to the bank, and would just as soon not mess with the reserve on the tank. He headed straight up. Not wise, not recommended, to rise like that in an open lake, but you do what you do.
What? He was caught. Reaching down, he snagged the meat of his palm on a barb. Just under the surface there was enough light for him to see, as he bent double, a trot line trailing down to the lake bed; trailing from a tangle around his leg and the knife sheathed there. The heavy line was dotted with big, rusted fishing hooks, unbaited and long abandoned. He yanked on the knife handle but it was held fast and to top it off, his yanking had pricked his leg with an unseen hook. Frustrated, he reached for the lever handle on the side of the tank strapped to his back. He pulled it downward. No deal. He yanked again, angry this time. Still no deal, but when his hand rebounded, he discovered he could push the lever up. This is bad. The reserve was already open. And he was out of air. That meant, no reserve.
He hung there and looked upward. Just three feet under the surface. Too far to reach and no one to see, even if he could signal. This is bad. This is not good. Still hanging, he got up the nerve to suck on the regulator, afraid to know how it would respond. Sure enough. There was no sucking any more air. Swallowing hard. He reached down, calmly, calmly moving hooks out of the way. Slowly, deliberately moving invisible threads that into his skin when he pulled them tight. Pulling as hard as he could pull.
Backing out of the parking lot, he cussed at having had to leave the knife and sheath attached to that damnable trotline. It was a new knife. And now it was down on the lake bed with the beer cans and rotting sneakers. He would have to remember to pick that up when he came back next week to tag the rest of those poles.
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