Fishing

     The baby wouldn’t stop crying.

     “Why does it do that?” Evelyn asked Mama. “Why doesn’t it ever shut up?”

     “Now, now Evy, don’t talk like that. You know I don’t approve of that kind of language. And by the way, you refer to the baby as he, not it.”

     Evelyn could care less what it was called; all she knew was that it was just one more noise-making annoyance in her life. As if the numerous animal Noisemakers they owned weren’t enough--now the newest, loudest, most irritating one lived inside.

     Evelyn watched as Mama tried to shove the bottle in the baby’s mouth again, but it kept crying. It was one of those uncontrollable, never-ending sobs, more angry than sad.

     Evelyn felt pressure building in her ears and in her brain. She was sure her head would explode if she didn’t get out of the house away from the Noisemaker, and fast.

     Evelyn headed for the kitchen and grabbed her backpack which hung on the wall. She bolted out the back door before Mama even knew she was gone. Not that she ever asked. Mama didn’t care.

     Evelyn walked through the back yard, past the old barn, and followed the semi-worn path through the high grass. The land her family owned extended for acres beyond the farmhouse in every direction. The seven year old girl knew every inch of the property: where the best trees to climb were; where the sweetest strawberries could be picked; where the darkest, most secret hiding places were. One time Mama called the town police because Evelyn had found such a great place to hide that she refused to come out, no matter how many times Mama called her name. That night Papa used his belt on her, explaining that hide-and-seek was not a game for one person.

     After walking for half an hour, Evelyn arrived at her destination: the pond at the very back of their property. She stepped to the water's edge and peered into the murkiness. It smelled bad. Flies swarmed over the surface, which reminded her of seagulls diving into the ocean in search of dinner. She saw that on a television show once.

     Evelyn dropped her backpack on the ground and circled the pond until she found a large fallen branch. She picked it up and returned to the spot where the flies hovered. Slowly, the girl submerged the stick as far as it would go, then started to stir like a witch over a cauldron. The water was opaque, swirling with sediment. It wasn’t long before a tuft of orange and white fur clinging to shredded meat and bone rose to the top.

     It was the feral cat, the Noisemaker that used to hang around the farmhouse--the one that wouldn’t stop mewing.

     Good. It was still here.

@RubyPond