The Anything Box

'Can't trust her, huh?' The chair rocked madly a moment, then slowed again.
'I can too!' flared Crae.
'Then what's the kick?' The old man spat toward the porch railing. 'Way Isee it, it takes a certain amount of co-operation from a woman before she cango far wrong. If you can trust your wife, whatcha got to worry about?'
'Nothing,' muttered Crae. 'I know I've got nothing to worry about. But,'his hand clenched on his knee, 'if only I could be sure! I know there's nological reason for the way I feel. I know she wouldn't look at anyone else.But I can't feel it! All the knowing in the world doesn't do any good if youcan't feel it.'
'That's a hunk of truth if I ever heard one,' wheezed the old man, leaningacross his fat belly and poking a stubby finger at Crae. 'Like getting turnedaround in directions. You can say 'That's East' all you want to, but if itdon't feel like East then the sun goes on coming up in the North.'
There was a brief pause and Crae lifted his face to the cool pine-heavybreeze that hummed through the trees, wondering again why he was spreadinghis own private lacerations out for this gross, wheezing, not-too-clean oldstranger.
'Them there psy-chiatrists—some say they can help fellers like you.'
Crae shook his head, 'I've been going to a counselor for three months. Ithought I had it licked. I was sure—' Crae's voice trailed off as heremembered why he had finally consented to go to a counselor.
'Bring a child into an atmosphere like this?' Ellena's voice was anagonized whisper, 'How can we Crae, how can we? Anger and fear and mistrust.Never—not until—'
And his bitter rejoinder. 'It's you and your slutting eyes that make 'thisatmosphere.' If I don't watch out you'll be bringing me someone else's child—'
And then his head was ringing from the lightning quick blow to his face,before she turned, blazing-eyed and bitter, away from him.
'No go, huh?' The old shoulders shrugged and the old man wiped one handacross his stubby chin.
'No go, damn me, and our vacation is ruined before it begins.''
'Too bad. Where you going? Big Lake?'
'No. South Fork of East Branch. Heard they've opened the closed part of thestream. Should be good fishing.'
'South Fork?' The chair agitated wildly, then slowed. 'Funny coincidence,that.'
'Coincidence?' Crae glanced up.
'Yeah. I mean you, feeling like you do, going fishing on South Fork.'
'What's my feelings got to do with it?' asked Crae, doubly sorry now thathe had betrayed himself to the old feller. What good had it done? Nothingcould help—ever —but still he sat.
'Well, son, there's quite a story about South Fork. Dunno when it started.Might be nothing to it.' The faded eyes peered sharply through the glasses at
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him. 'Then again, there might.'
'What's the deal?' Crae's voice was absent and his eyes were on the His and
Hers signs. 'I've been coming up here for five years now and I never heard any
special story.'
'Seems there's a fish,' said the old man. 'A kinda special kinda fish. Not
many see him and he ain't been seen nowhere around this part of the country
'ceptin on South Fork. Nobody's ever caught him, not to land anyway.'
'Oh, one of those. Patriarch of the creek. Wily eluder of bait. Stuff like
that?'
'Oh, not exactly.' The rocking chair accelerated and slowed. 'This here one
is something special.'
'I'll hear about it later, Pop.' Crae stood up. Ellena was coming back down
the path, outwardly serene and cool again. But she went in the side door into
the store and Crae sat down slowly.
'They say it's a little longer than a man and maybe a man's reach around.'
The old man went on as though not interrupted.
'Pretty big—' Crae muttered absently, then snapped alert. 'Hey! What are
you trying to pull? A fish that size couldn't get in South Fork, let alone
live there. Bet there aren't ten places from Baldy to Sheep's Crossing as deep
as five feet even at flood stage. What kind of line you trying to hand me?'
'Told you it was kinda special.' The old man creased his eyes with a
gap-toothed grin. 'This here fish don't live in the creek. He don't even swim
in it. Just happens to rub his top fin along it once in a while. And not just
this part of the country, neither. Heard about him all over the world, likely.
This here fish is a Grunder—swims through dirt and rocks like they was water.
Water feels to him like air. Air is a lot of nothing to him. Told a feller
about him once. He told me might be this here Grunder's from a nother
dy-mention.' The old man worked his discolored lips silently for a moment 'He
said it like it was supposed to explain something. Don't make sense to me.'
Crae relaxed and laced his fingers around one knee. Oh, well, if it was
that kind of story—might as well enjoy it.
'Anyway,' went on the old man, 'like I said, this here Grunder's a special
fish. Magic, us old-timers would call it. Dunno what you empty,
don't-believe-nothing-without-touch-it-taste-it-hear-it-proof younguns would
call it. But here's where it hits you, young feller.' The old finger was
jabbing at Crae again. 'This here Grunder is a sure cure for jealousy. All you
gotta do is catch him, rub him three times the wrong way and you'll never
doubt your love again.'
Crae laughed bitterly, stung by fear that he was being ridiculed. 'Easy to
say and hard to prove, Pop. Who could catch a magic fish as big as that on
trout lines? Pretty smart, fixing it so no one can prove you're a ring-tailed
liar.'
'Laugh, son,' grunted the old man, 'while you can. But who said anything
about a trout line? Special fish, special tackle. They say the Grunder won't
even rise nowhere without special bait.' The old man leaned forward, his
breath sounding as though it came through a fine meshed screen. 'Better
listen, son. Laugh if you wanta, but listen good. Could be one of these fine
days you'll wanta cast a line for the Grunder. Can't ever sometimes tell.'
The tight sickness inside Crae gave a throb and he licked dry lips.
'There's a pome,' the old man went on, leaning back in his chair, patting
the front of his duty checked shirt as he gasped for breath. 'Old as the
Grunder most likely. Tells you what kinda tackle.'
'Make your line from her linen fair.
Take your hook from her silken hair.
A broken heart must be your share
For the Grunder.'
The lines sang in Crae's mind, burning their way into his skeptical brain.'What bait?' he asked, trying to keep his voice light and facetious. 'Must
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