R J Hembree - Writers' Village University

44
glanced at her hands. The shiny tips of her scars were silverfish hiding from the
light.
They came to an old restaurant at the corner of Common Street and River
Road. The sign hanging out front read, “Stocker’s Inn.” Olive drapes in the windows
pressed heavily against the glass panes. On the porch, a pair of rocking chairs sat
empty. A yellow dog napped on the welcome mat, blocking the way to the front
door. “Isn’t this where your brother sold his catfish?”
“I didn’t mean to do it.”
He glanced at her, seeing that her eyes flowed like the river, calm on the
surface with a hint of turbulence running throughout her dove-colored irises. She
buried her hands between her thighs as he turned off River Road and left the
Delaware behind them.
Bill drove past Wally’s Plaza, which was a strip mall with a laundry, pizza
shop, and dollar store. Rachel sat up straighter as they approached a steep hill
topped with a wooden bridge. He slowed and edged the jeep past two fishermen
who stood against the railing. They’d pushed their tackle boxes aside and out of
the way of traffic. The tips of their poles pointed out over the milky waters of the
canal.
“Catfish,” Bill said.
They stopped at the traffic light where Common met Main. He peered across
the intersection at the pharmacy on the corner. The roof sagged, the gutter facing
the street hung slightly askew from the eaves, but the sign on the door said,
“OPEN.” Along the side of the building two ducks, one, a speckled fledgling,
huddled together as though chilled.
Annie’s head appeared between the two front seats. The earphones swung
from her neck. She stared at the corner store. “I bet people die after getting
medicine there.” Turning to look at Bill, she said, “Can we feed the ducks?”
“Ask your mother.”
“Like, that’s an answer.” Annie retreated back into the rear of the jeep.
The light turned green. He drove through the intersection, past the
pharmacy. A flimsy hedge lined the road, a poor barrier to stem the water that lay
beyond it. His wife’s shoulders curled forward
“I didn’t want to feed the stupid ducks, anyway,” Annie said.
Bill saw his wife’s lips part as if she were about to speak, but they arrived at
the entrance to the churchyard, and her focus shifted from Annie to the small red
sign, “United Methodist Church.” He forced himself not to look at his wife as he
made a right turn into the gravel parking lot. Cruising past a copse of young willow
trees, he pulled up to a log placed there to keep a vehicle from rolling into the
pond. Bill turned the ignition key with a snap. The engine stopped.
No matter how many times Bill saw it, the pitch-black water still took him by
surprise. The water at the center of the pond shone like a newly mopped floor, but