The Hauntings of Hood Canal

Very Likely, the Fisherman Acts Dumb

Guys who think to excess are naturally going to keep arranging facts, because facts get slippery when not lined up. While Jubal Jim napped on the truck seat, the fisherman drove through that October Wednesday and tried to remember everything:

Fact: Petey was the hell and gone off someplace running a hustle.

Fact: If still alive, Chantrell George was in Seattle sponging three hots and a flop from Union Gospel Mission, or maybe the Baptists.

Fact: As a pair, Bertha and the cop were history.

Fact: The cop tried to solve the car-in-the-Canal problem, and not the murder of the pervert; so Sugar Bear’s name must have come up as one among many.

Fact: The monster wasn’t killing people… the fisherman paused. At China Bay he thought he had it solved.

The understanding came to him; the monster tried to save people, but was massive. The fisherman reflected on the tragedy of good intentions combined with lack of finesse. He thought that, scary or not, he and the monster had a date.

But, since the monster wasn’t trying to kill people, but save them. What? Send a message? The monster didn’t squish cars without drivers. The monster didn’t bother the living, like, for instance, the police divers.

Which meant it wasn’t the monster who twisted the road.

Fact: The dead guy came out of the Canal, but the bartender at China Bay said something made him do it; and that was going to ask for full-time thinking in the very near future.

Fact: A pool tournament would happen on Saturday, and rich guys at the housing project were going to run a number. Depend on it.

Fact: Sugar Bear was a question mark. What had Sugar Bear told the cop?

Fact: It would start raining like Mister Noah any day now, because this was the Pacific Northwest and getting on toward the end of October.

Fact: Another car, a working Pontiac, had gone in, but without driver and unsquished. Easily recovered. The fisherman wouldn’t make the mistake of calling suspicion a fact, but he suspected the fine hand of Petey lay behind that little number.

Conclusion? He figured he couldn’t get any good conclusion until he found out where Sugar Bear stood with the cop. Assuming things were not too bad, the whole business might turn out okay; the fisherman paused. The troubles would go away if the dead guy quit coming out of the Canal.

As the fisherman approached Sugar Bear’s place Jubal Jim sat up on the truck seat, wiggled along his spine, gave a happy woof. When the fisherman pulled alongside Sugar Bear’s shop Jubal Jim danced, then bailed the minute the door opened. He headed for the house and Annie. The fisherman looked the place over.

House and grounds looked extra tidy. The woodpile no longer sprawled helter-skelter. Orange light from the forge glowed through clean shop windows, accenting the gray and silver day. When the fisherman stepped from his truck he heard Sugar Bear singing a show tune in his flat, obnoxious tenor. The fisherman figured things must be okay because Sugar Bear sounded normal. Once inside the shop the fisherman felt slight alarm. No working place, nowhere, except maybe a fishing boat, ought to be this well ordered. The place was not only swept, and tools arranged. There were decorations. The smell of fried steel mixed with the odor of cedar branches; most perfumy in the nose of a workingman.

“You’re looking well.” The fisherman took a stool and watched Sugar Bear hammer and shape steel rod. It looked like a new handle for a roto-tiller.

“I’ll be along in a minute,” Sugar Bear told him. “Annie wants to see you. I got to keep the heat up, here, or start the job all over.” Sugar Bear’s fur shone washed and curly, almost fluffy.

When the fisherman entered the kitchen he saw that bunny curtains had been exchanged for something green which reminded him of trees. Jubal Jim sat beside Annie. The two looked like the dreams of Mormons, of hearth and home and family. When he looked closer, Annie seemed better, not so drawn. Or, maybe not.

“I planned to talk to the cop,” Annie said even before greeting. “But the cop came to us.” She poured coffee for the fisherman, sat across the table from him, and even in mild distress could not help being beautiful. Much of the elven look had disappeared. Her face seemed a little fuller, and her dark eyes were as alive as a gypsy. Her hair was braided, but not pinned up. The fisherman felt a pang of loss, then reminded himself that Annie also sometimes scared him silly.

“He came to hassle Sugar Bear. He did. A little. Turned out, he was hassled. Now we’ll never know what he thinks.”

“Do I want to hear this?” The fisherman imagined that Annie had caused a coven of bears, or an attack by Greek-speaking lizards.

“He came down with a case of damp socks,” Annie murmured. “It started small and stayed that way which was a real break.” She looked toward the shop. “Sugar Bear is still a suspect. You have to guess that’s true.”

“The shop is slicked up.”

“He’s convincing himself everything is normal. He’s working so hard he’s about persuaded.”

“At least he’s working.”

“I got a problem.” For the first time, maybe ever, Annie looked at the fisherman with real trust. “That coldness still shows up like an attack. When it happens he heads for the Canal, and it mostly happens nights. He wants me to stay out of it. Is that right?”

The fisherman reflected on the problems of being young. “Up to a point. Maybe there comes a time when you step in.”

“He’s got a temper.”

“Always has,” the fisherman agreed, “but you don’t need to fear.”

“I know it. You know it. The birds in the trees know it. What scares me is he’ll get mad and walk into something he can’t handle.” Annie looked in the direction of the Canal. “Something darker than night,” she whispered. “Why here? Why us? What is it?”

The fisherman reflected. The bartender at China Bay had asked the same question. The bartender had spoke of accumulations, of the fall of civilizations, of creative ugliness. “Something awful old,” the fisherman guessed, “but new to us.” He told of his conversation at China Bay. “…it has something to do with cheapness, with phoniness… or maybe those things are only the wrappings.” He knew he stumbled badly. “What does it mean?”

“It means I don’t understand you.” Annie flopped Jubal Jim’s ears, looked toward the shop. “Sugar Bear’s finished his job.”

“He’s no longer getting sick?”

“It’s confusing.” Annie watched Sugar Bear step rather too lightly toward the house. “The minute he fought back, things changed. Whatever’s out there is big but cowardly.”

“A comfort.”

“Cowards sneak. I’m afraid he’ll get sandbagged.”

If he had the least smidgen of hope left about Annie, the fisherman gave it up when Sugar Bear entered the house. The two looked at each other in a way that seemed like they’d been together for years and years. He touched Annie’s shoulder, she reached to touch his hand, and Jubal Jim thumped his tail. Beyond the windows sun slanted through silver mist, and the fisherman thought things were getting a little too sentimental. Then he figured things looked that way only because he was standing on the outside lookin’ in.

“Maybe you’re off the hook,” he told Sugar Bear. “The cop doesn’t think of a single murder. He’s thinking of all the murders under the heading of one murderer.” The fisherman told about cop-conversation at Beer and Bait. “The cop figures somebody forces cars into the Canal. The dead guy is one of many.”

“He came here to hassle,” Sugar Bear said. “Now I understand. He talked about road stuff.”

“Something ugly is still trying to jump you?”

“There’s this,” Sugar Bear said, “I still feel the wrong of what I did, but the guy does me a favor. When he attacks us, he’s attacking Annie. That means I don’t have to feel guilty if I smash him. Which,” he added, “I’m gonna do as sure as breakfast happens.”

“What are you seeing? You could get jumped from behind.” The fisherman watched Annie and saw her approval.

“I get to the dunk site,” Sugar Bear said, “and the thing stands in the water. It’s looking more and more like the dead guy. It’s dark and nasty-smelling, but getting less smelly. I say, ‘Try something you sonovabitch’ and it backs down. It oozes back into the water.”

“What happens on the night it doesn’t back down?”

“I got a nice chunk of rebar,” Sugar Bear said. “Better than a ballbat. It bops and slices at the same time.” His voice held very un-Sugar Bear tones. His face, normally sweet behind a mop of fur, hardened. He looked like a guy who should be getting knee-walking drunk at Rough and Randy.

Jubal Jim gave a low whine. Unusual, because Jubal Jim is a barker, a growler, a woofer. He pointed his nose toward the Canal, and he moved away from Sugar Bear. Annie reached toward him, touched his shoulder, and Jubal Jim relaxed.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Sugar Bear said, and his voice was still harsh. “Answer me this. What choice does a guy have. You got to fight back.”

“Bad stuff makes it stronger,” Annie said. “When you fight back that makes it stronger.” Her voice was subdued. She did not want a disagreement with her man.

“I don’t doubt it,” Sugar Bear said. “But where’s the choice?”

“Let Annie give it a shot,” the fisherman suggested.

“I started this,” Sugar Bear told him. “I’ll finish it. Annie ain’t to be involved.”

“She already is. At least listen to her.” The fisherman had a sneaky notion he was about to do something stupid. He was also afraid for Annie.

“I can listen,” Sugar Bear said, “but I ain’t magical.”

“Tell you what,” the fisherman said, while knowing he closed in on maximum stupidity, “Let me try it. Tonight I’ll go, and we’ll see if it acts any different.” He realized he talked stupid because he wanted Annie to love him, even if it was only sisterly. He also felt, in a way, like some kind of mythical champion… a dragon slayer… or a golden-haired knight… and told himself that a youth misspent reading comic books must be dictating his actions; and Lord help those who love literature.

When the fisherman departed, Jubal Jim followed. Jubal Jim couldn’t stand to be around Sugar Bear.