The Sound of the Whippoorwill

I didn't know Jim very well before that fateful summer some fifty years ago. I got to know his mother, Rita, more than I cared to in the turbulent weeks that followed, but that was against my choosing. And maybe it all ended quite literally for them – Jim and Rita – but it never ended for me. And I don't know which of us got it worse.

—

The date was August 8th, and I remember thinking 8/8 is infinity/infinity if you turn it sideways. We played a double-header that morning against the Cardinals and won them both. Jim pitched the first game and I the second. Technically Jim was the better pitcher. At 16, he could throw 85 mile an hour strikes all day long with an occasional 90. We won every game Jim pitched no contest, and the college scouts had caught on. Jim didn't pay them much mind, as baseball was third place behind cows and bass fishing. And for me too – fishing was by far the most important activity in my life. More on that in a minute.

Unlike Jim, I couldn't pitch with blazing speed or pinpoint accuracy. I was a different kind of pitcher, but effective nonetheless. My growth spurt would come in following years, but at the time, it was my curve that kept me on the mound. I didn't have much control of where the ball wound up, but that worked to my advantage. Get a reputation for being a wild man, hit a few batters, and soon they'll be scared shitless to step in the box.

The games of 8/8 went as expected, and as soon as we finished shaking hands with the losers, Jim and I communicated with a nod and four fingers our afternoon plans. We would convene at the lone oak tree by the Logjam at 4pm.

Being the only male left on the family farm, Jim had duties to fulfill before he could slip away. Rita, a known alcoholic, left Jim to care for the livestock and crops, and her consumption habits made it impossible to pay hired help. Jim's life was morning work, baseball practice, then evening work. On the weekends, he won baseball games during the day, worked, and then at night we partied in the field with cheap beer and secondhand cigarettes. In between those times we fished, and that happened every chance we got.

I had no such constraints, for my life was one of relative ease and few responsibilities. My parents were both healthy, and my father ran the local bank, which set us comfortably in the upper echelon of town society. Me and Jim lived on different sides of Little Flint Creek, but it was truly two separate worlds.

Most everyone knew what Jim's mom was about and assumed he wasn't much different. There were no consequences to his behavior, so he didn't hide his drinking or smoking or cussing. My parents heard the rumors, and thus, forbade me from befriending him. And for the most part it stuck. That is, until we joined the baseball team and started wiping out the competition together. My parents softened a bit to Jim's charismatic charm and Southern manners. They let me hang out with him, but only in the official context of baseball and fishing.

That afternoon, when waiting for Jim to finish his bushhogging, I arranged my tackle box and camouflage backpack. It was packed tight with gear, and most importantly, a few half-smoked Marlboros tucked inside a secret pocket.

"Make sure to bring water and snacks in case you get hungry," my mom said. Fearful she would search me and find the goods, I quickly grabbed the waters and granola she offered and stuffed them in the pack. "What's the matter with you?" she asked, sensing my avoidance.

"Nothin'," I said flippantly. "Just ready to get going. Jim's probably there waiting."

"Well." She pulled me close and kissed my forehead. "You boys be safe out there, and watch for snakes."

"We will," I said, pulling away.

"William Henry Johnson, are you hiding something?"

"Nope." I was moving out the door and stepping onto my bike.

"Are you meeting girls?"

I laughed. Her thinking it was girls and not illicit substances was heartwarming and cute, and I remembered in the moment that I loved her.

"Not even close," I said, then shoved off. Peddling off towards adventure, I yelled over my shoulder, "Who needs girls when you've got largemouth bass?"

—

Jim wasn't there when I got to the oak tree, so I pulled one of the Marlboros and lit up. Laying beneath the outstretched limbs of God's perfect shade, I slid my hat down, puffed on the cigarette, and enjoyed the sounds of nature. The hot, humid air scorched the grasses, and they gave off that sweet earthly smell they do. The creek was not 100 feet away, but in those moments I was content in knowing that soon we'd be hauling in dark, mean, lunker bass one after another. Thinking these pleasant thoughts I dozed off, and then, after a time, was woke by a firm kick from Jim's boot.

"Howdy," he said. I looked up to see his tall, lanky figure towering over me. His straw hat was blocking the sun and a piece of grass extended from his front teeth. "Enjoy your smoke?" he said, laughing. The butt was still hanging from my lips with an inch of ash holding onto it.

"Shit," I said, feeling agitated after being wrenched from my nap. "You get your hay cut?"

"Nah. Tractor wouldn't start." He shrugged. "Gotta wait 'til Uncle Charlie can come down and fix her."

Hearing that saddened me – me knowing my dad could easily write a check and make all their problems disappear, and always feeling a little guilty about it.

"Anyways," Jim said, grinning. "Ready to slay some basses?"

"Hell yeah, brother."

He helped me up, and we started toward the creek.

"I was thinking," Jim said as we neared the first of the neverending logjams. "What if we head south and see how far we can get? Maybe hit some unfished waters."

Having fished twice that week already, finding new waters sounded like an adventure as well as a solid fishing plan.

"Hell, we go far enough, we might fish somewhere no one's ever seen."

"That's what I figured. But first…." Jim loosed the silver Rapala from his spinning rod tip, cast it far across the creek, and stopped it perfectly at the last moment. As soon as it hit the water, the line jumped and he set the hook. "Yep, thought so."

—

The Logjam, as we called our section of Little Flint Creek, has more downed and strewn logs per mile than any water body on the planet. Maybe that isn't scientifically accurate, but I would challenge you to prove it wrong.

Most days we fished the same stretch of water, starting either north or south from the lone oak tree and then continuing slowly along, fishing our favorite logs and brushpiles until the sun set and we had to head back. Like so many Alabama creeks, the fish were plenty and were more than eager to take our lures. We could keep accurate counts up to about 40 fish each day, but anything more than that got fuzzy. As far as we knew, we were the only people who fished the Logjam, for we had never seen another soul.

Jim's challenge to embark for waters unknown gave us both renewed energy and purpose, and we set out downstream with zeal. Most holes we skipped entirely, or, to fulfill our anxious curiosities, would hit them with a single cast. Jim, in his cool, effortless way, would hook, fight, and land a fish while still keeping stride, pausing only long enough to unhook it and toss it back. After a mile of thick woods and numerous creek crossings, we arrived in lands neither of us could identify with certainty. Jim nodded, and we silently agreed this was the beginning of unknown wilderness.

"How about a smoke?" Jim asked, then removed a can of Copenhagen from his back pocket. "Stole this from Coach Grisham today." He winked. "Trade you a dip for a cig."

"Sure yeah." I checked my wristwatch. "One hour 'til sunset," I said, digging for the stash. I pulled the two best Marlboros, lit them, and handed one to Jim. We both inhaled deeply and blew out thick clouds of blue smoke.

Beyond the next creek bend I could see how the trees thinned out, and there appeared an opening past it.

"You fishing this section?" I asked, nodding to the creek.

"Figured I'd give it a try."

"Alright, well I'm going to walk a bit and see what's past the clearing."

Jim squinted, then shaded his eyes against the setting sun. "Mind if I walk with you? Might be nice to fish something besides a logjam."

Once more we set off downstream, and after a dozen log crossings, reached the end of the woods. Before us was a flat plain among rolling hills with grazing cattle and country miles of stretched fence. At the far end, surrounded by fruit trees and farm equipment, was an aging brick ranch house placed picturesquely beneath the hills.

"Holy hell, look at that!" Jim said, scanning the field. I looked, but wasn't sure exactly what I would see. "You bring your binoculars?"

"Hell no. This pack is heavy enough without that lead ass weight. What is it?"

Jim grabbed my shoulder, shifted me, and pointed towards a large black bull. Even though he wasn't trying to, Jim's grip on my shoulder hurt. There was so much power in that simple movement that I felt myself a bit startled.

"See that big ass bull with the broken horn?"

"Yeah, I see it."

Jim removed the can of Copenhagen from his pocket and removed a pinch.

"That's Grisham's bull."

He handed me the can. I felt a rush of anxiety, as I'd been sick the few times I'd tried dip. But, not wanting to look weak, I took a pinch. The finely cut tobacco minced my soft inner lip meat, and the rush went to my head. I felt dizzy, like I was falling. Then I was falling, and was suddenly on the ground. Jim was laughing. Crickets were chirping, bugs were buzzing, frogs ribbiting. The sounds of nature were overwhelming, and I felt myself getting ill. I tried to stand but stumbled over instead.

"Why don't you just take a break there, little sister," Jim said. "Wouldn't want you busting that soft ass of yours."

I looked at him and nodded, then settled into a crease along the creekbank. Jim spit a stream of tobacco juice towards a dragonfly that had lit upon a limb. Then, like a cat who'd spotted prey, Jim's demeanor shifted and he morphed into hunting mode. He held a finger to his lips, gesturing me to hush, then crouched low and crawled behind a grass patch. He'd spied something in the water – most likely a big bass – because what else would he be so serious about? My stomach growled, and Jim gave me the evil eye. I shrugged exaggeratedly and silently mouthed, "What the hell?" He again put a finger to his lips then pointed to the creek, spread his hands wide, and mimed a huge bass jumping from the water. Then, back to business, Jim checked the knot on his Rapala and tested the drag on his reel. He was ready.

Jim hit the deck and Army crawled to a log spread across the creek at the bottom end of a nice, deep pool. The current here was much quicker and stronger than sections closer to home. Hanging low above him was a sprawling tree limb. Jim's eyes ran back and forth, up and down, determining his play. Must be one hell of a momma hawg for him to be doing bass math, I thought.

Having completed his calculations, Jim propped on one knee, carefully brought the rod back, and shot the lure forward with conviction. There was a huge swirl, and Jim set the hook... then an absolute battle royale ensued. I sat up and watched as Jim fought the enormous momma bass. He stood and gained leverage, though his tiny rod was thoroughly outmatched. The bass jumped clear from the water, and I swear she was a state record. I gasped and swallowed the tobacco, and vaguely registered there would be hell to pay.

Jim did the best he could with subpar gear and fought valiantly against the angry beast. Carefully, he stepped onto the downed log for a better angle. Just then the momma bass found inspiration, blazed across the pool, and with one last, time-freezing action, jumped and twisted like a ballerina, shook her head, and flung the pathetic, useless lure away. I still remember that moment frame-by-frame vividly in my memory, as well as the look on Jim's face. Neither of us said a word as he reeled up the slack line and tried with a few rips of the rod to free the Rapala from the tree branch it had gotten hung in.

"Sure wish I'd brung a snack," he finally said, and I saw a tear forming at the edge of his eye.

Just then the dip festering in my stomach hit, and I felt it bubbling like a volcano. Hurriedly, I dumped out the pack and found the toiled paper and a granola bar.

"Jim!" I yelled, my voice panicky from the pressure on my sphincter. He was stretched out reaching for the Rapala, which was taunting him from above the deep, fast-moving pool. Glumly, he shook his head at my offering.

"Naw, I didn't want a snack. Don't know why I said that really." He took another precarious step and reached as far as his arms would stretch. "Just going to… grab this… Rapala," he said, straining. "Then we can… head on back."

"Alright," I said, and started moving off for some privacy. "I gotta do some business."

I went around the first bend, but could still see Jim when I looked back, so kept on moving until I was clearly out of sight. I found a spot where two logs made a natural seat, sat across them, and did my business. Somewhere back off in a hollow I heard the sad, lonesome cry of the whippoorwill – a sound that always reminds me of home and the tragedy happening at that very moment.

Once finished, I stood and straightened my Levi's, cinched my belt tight, and made my way back to the pool where I'd last seen Jim. I rounded the corner, fully expecting Jim to be there waiting, but that wasn't the case. Initially I thought maybe he was playing a trick. That whippoorwill was still screaming and the insect chorus blaring, so that when I called out Jim's name, I really had to give it a strong yell. But there was no reply.

"Jim!" I yelled out again, this time louder. "Hey Jim! Come on now, quit funnin'." Frantic, running side to side, back and forth, up and downstream. No Jim. I yelled out time and time again until my throat was hurting. Pretty soon the dim pastels of sunset faded to blackness. I searched for probably an hour, and even waded the creek poking and feeling for his body. Then I remembered one time he told me he never learned to swim. I knew then that something was wrong and that I needed help.

I ran back as fast as I could manage to the oak tree, my cheap plastic flashlight sporadically lighting the path, but it was closing on midnight when I arrived. Both my parents and Jim's mom were there, as well as the town police. Frantic, I told the story as best I could, but then everything after is a haze of lights and search dogs and Jim's mom screaming hopelessly into the void.

—

The police searched all night and into the next day. Then it became a week, then two weeks, then a month. I, more than anyone, just couldn't believe how Jim could be there one minute fighting the state record bass and then totally gone and disappeared the next.

Rita took his absence particularly hard, and since the police didn't have a body, they couldn't declare him officially dead. She hit the bottle mercilessly, and without Jim around, the farm quickly fell apart. The equipment and cattle were sold at auction and the fertile land leased. The town folk pitched in and raised money and the churches brought food, but Rita turned mean and would get to cussing and hollering, and pretty soon started firing warning shots. My father expected me to keep up with my weekly visits, but she adopted a guard dog, and even I had to quit going. Then, that winter, alcohol gave way to hard drugs, and on Christmas day Rita breathed her last.

—

It's now August 8th some fifty years later, and I'm here in their old farmhouse writing my story. I discovered my father had been paying their bills after Jim's disappearance, so Rita's brother, Charles, sold it to us for not much of anything after her death. Then, as these things work out, the farm came to me after my own father passed.

In all my praying and questioning, never have I received an answer to what happened or why. Perhaps it was being so close to tragedy at that age, but I have never since been able to grasp anything in this existence as truth. But I guess if there is anything close to it – truth – it would be the smell of scorched afternoon grasses, the satisfaction of landing a hefty largemouth bass, or the ever so sweet and chilling song of the whippoorwill.