Kent Leatham

D. S. Butterworth

Over and Out

When the boys saw the way the funeral people had put his smashed face back together they nearly forgot about the fishhook and the 12 pound test.

But at the graveyard Billy went up to the coffin, reached down beside the strap, and patted the wood as if to say, It’s all right buddy, we’ll hang out as soon as this is over. Maybe tomorrow. He felt the hidden spool still there, and twitched it loose.

The rest of them were blind to it. Rob’s mom and dad, his carp-faced Aunt Adrian, his shriveled up grandmothers. The funeral home guys too. All but Rob’s cousin Jane. Jane saw it, the shimmering monofilament as slick as a strand from a web worm. And when she did, she balked as if it was a fuse lighting out for dynamite, but she averted her eyes when she saw Billy and Dave watching her. She was catching on to being looked at because she was developing faster than the other girls. Maybe the pallbearers ignored it because they thought it was something official.

That night it took them over an hour to ride their bikes to the cemetery, and Billy had a hell of a time getting over the wall. The batteries in Dave’s flashlight died, so all they had was Billy’s.

It took a while to find the line in the dark, but finally they did.

They took turns tugging on it. They discussed what 12 pounds of pressure might be like and decided it was about half the weight of one of their bikes—Dave’s three speed Raleigh rather than Billy’s heavier Schwinn, or what it took to pull the crank cord on Billy’s uncle’s little 3-½ horsepower Evinrude.

Then they re-entered the familiar discussion about what test meant. If the people in the factory tested it and it didn’t break, was it weaker after the test? If they tested other line and then extrapolated from it, then this line wasn’t really tested, except by analogy. They didn’t use these words, but they covered the same ground. What was the point of it all if the line just broke?

After they both started getting cold and Billy’s teeth were chattering Dave took the thing from his pocket. The hole was already poked in the bottom—it was a tin measuring cup from his mom’s kitchen. They thought the occasion warranted more than something made out of paper. He took the end of the monofilament and threaded it through the hole while Billy held the flashlight. He tied a knot and pulled the line taut. Then he gave the cup to Billy.

“Okay,” said Billy, speaking into the cup. “Here’s what’s going on. It’s night out and cold. There are trees. Maples maybe. Or oaks. We rode our bikes and it took forever to get here. There are clouds but you can see a bunch of stars. We don’t know their names.”

He turned to Dave. “Is there anything else?”

“Tell him about Molly kissing Kevin.”

“Oh yeah. It happened at recess. You should have seen it. It was gross. Dave doesn’t think so. Oh yeah. We’ll come back during the day and tell you what it’s like then. Dave’s dad is getting a Mustang.”

Dave took the cup. “We hope the hook didn’t hurt. We figured your finger was an okay place.” He looked around.

“You didn’t look so good in the coffin. Let us know what it’s like on the other side when you can.”

Dave looked at Billy and Billy shrugged.

“I guess that’s it.”

Billy took the cup and pulled it taut. For a moment he felt the world thrum against it.

“Okay. Over and out, I guess. All’s quiet on earth.”