The rip lets go of him far from shore. Matt guesses a quarter mile, not a problem unless you’re half frozen, cramping, and fighting a fish that’s stronger than you are.
But the fish has weakened too, and it rests long enough for Matt to roll over onto his back and begin kicking, the rod in one hand, the tip high. He sees sky, his face just barely out of the water. His ear canals fill.
And his feet churn, propelling him slowly, blessedly east toward shore. He’s done this before, riding out rips while bodysurfing at Victoria and Brooks and St. Ann’s, but always with good swim fins. This is slow going. He closes his eyes and repeats I will do this, trying to slow the words down and let the water bear him toward a clean sand beach. I will do this. Then he tries his secret mantra given to him by one of the Enlighteners on loan to Mystic Arts World from the Vortex of Purity, his very own mantra, a six-syllable sound that will plug him into the universal subconscious like a jumper cable. So, chest heaving, kicking steadily, and feeling the diminished strength of the fish, Matt meditates shoreward. When he opens his eyes he sees blue sky. When he gathers his energy and turns to look where he’s headed, he sees a yellow sandy beach bobbing distantly.
Matt washes up in the whitewater like a clump of kelp.
49
Back in his private Eden, Matt cleans the halibut and cuts it into big steaks. He’s still shivering. His knife is a good one, given to him by his father many years ago, and Matt keeps it as sharp as possible.
In minutes, he’s bagged and packed most of the fish into the two baskets on the Heavy-Duti, two layers of upright steaks, tight as books on a shelf. The last eight go into two plastic bags that he hangs on the handlebars. The skin, skeleton, and head go into the sea. He rinses his knife and himself thoroughly and packs the knife back in his tackle box. Lashes his rod to the rear basket with the bungee.
Very slowly he pushes and pulls the heavy-laden Schwinn over the Moss Point rocks toward Coast Highway. Rests twice. Shivers again. His bare feet hurt. By the time he hits the steps he’s too tired to get the bike up to the sidewalk, but a couple of kids help him.
“Your feet are bleeding, mister.”
“Okay.”
Finally, he’s on PCH, pedaling weakly north for Dodge City and his mother’s freezer, a good four miles away.
He’s expecting Furlong to pull up behind him in Moby Cop, throw him and his bike and fish in, and haul them off to the Youth Leadership Center. Dr. Hamilton would get possession of him and his bike, and Furlong would take his fish and probably tell people he caught it. Again Matt considers the Bat Cave for hiding, but no: Furlong will be looking hard for him at MAW, and there’s not nearly enough refrigerator freezer space for the epic halibut. No, he’d rather fight Furlong for his bike and his fish than let him claim them.
Matt lets himself into his mother’s barn on Roosevelt Lane. Inside he feels the closed-up heat of summer so he opens the windows and leaves the front door wide and the screen door closed. Of course, her refrigerators are all but empty. The halibut steaks fill the entire Grateful Dead Frigidaire freezer and some of the other.
He looks for the dragon balls that his mother alleges to have thrown away and finds not one, not even a foil wrapping. Ashtrays clean. No pot or pills, just the old open pack of Benson & Hedges Julie kept as a reminder of her quitting cold turkey just after Kyle was born. And some Mateus in the newer fridge.
He takes a hot bath in the deep tub, the shivers melting away. Washes and shampoos twice to get the fish slime and blood really off him. Drains and refills the tub, and soaks again. The soles of his feet are crisscrossed with short clean nicks but done bleeding. If Furlong finds him here he’ll be naked, defenseless, and unable to even run.
He hears the front door fly open and slam against the wall, and thinks: I’m busted.
Little voices and laughter.
The feral boys burst into the bathroom and stand around the tub, studying Matt. There are six of them. Dirty faces, swimsuits, and T-shirts. Sneakers and bare feet, a skinny redhead wearing suede moccasins that reach his knees.
“What do you little shitheads want?”
“You’re naked.”
“You should knock first.”
“Sorry, mister. How’s your mom?”
“Great. Dinged up a little from the fall.”
“She’s a stone fox,” says the redhead. “I saw it happen.”
“Liar,” says another. “Me and Jason are the only ones that did. You drank all that acid orange juice and thought you saw it happen.”
“Did see it.”
“Have any food?”
“There are some halibut steaks in the fridge, but you have to cook them.”
“My mom’s a great cook.”
“Mine’s terrible.”
“You can have one big steak each, but that’s all. The rest are mine to live on.”
“Where did you get them?”
“I caught the fish and cut it up.”
“My dad surfs.”
Matt briefly studies each face. They remind him of an old photograph, something black-and-white or sepia, the Old West maybe, or refugees at Ellis Island.
“Are there people in the Living Caves?” he asks the redhead. The Living Caves is local slang for the sandstone caves up near Top of the World. They’re impossible to get to except on foot or a dirt bike. For decades they’ve been a stopover for hobos and vagrants, migrants and drifters, now hitchhikers and hippies.
“Some. The cops can’t get up there without getting seen and everybody has noisemakers and firecrackers and dogs.”
“How many people are there?”
“We can take you there if you want.”
“I know where they are. I need a place to park my van where Furlong won’t find it.”
“We got a garage that’s empty. Mom won’t care. It’s the brown house on Victory with all the surfboards on the porch. Mine’s the red twin-fin.”
“Thank you.”
“We saw your mom’s gun. And the ammo.”
“You idiots,” says Matt. “Did you touch it?”
“We passed it around and put it back. Is it loaded?”
“You’re damned right it’s loaded. Don’t you ever come into this house again. Ever! You promise me right now, all six of you.”
The boys mumble promises, some rolling their eyes, none looking directly at Matt.
“Good. Someone hand me that towel off the door and all of you get out. Don’t say anything about me being here.”
He dries off and puts a clean T-shirt and jeans on. The feral boys have moved on, leaving a refrigerator door ajar, and dusty footprints across the white and purple fleur-de-lis linoleum floor.
He finds the good skillet and cooks up the biggest halibut steak he can find. Blackens the outside and leaves the middle cool and dumps a jar of canned stewed tomatoes onto the plate to go with it. He sends the plastic-wrapped LSD “prize” down the garbage disposal, wondering how long it will take Furlong to track him down. Or just blunder into him. It’s a small town.
He parks the Westfalia in the Victory Walk garage of Hallie Tingly, who says no problem and offers him a hit off her bong as she breastfeeds. Matt averts his eyes and politely declines.
Forty minutes later he walks into the campfire light and dope smoke at the Living Caves. He has surprised the dogs, which now circle him closely. He’s got his sleeping bag, his backpack with sketchbook, charcoals, and a plastic jar of peanuts inside, and a canteen of water slung over a shoulder. Wyatt Earp’s loaded .45 rests at the bottom of the pack like an anchor. He couldn’t leave it there for the boys.