Forgive me Father...

Forgive me Father…


The air is sprinkled with sunlight as the forest trees filter the light. Swells of water pass through the feet of Ernesto as he whips his bamboo fly rod back and forth through the misty stillness. The moment freezes as the artificial fly kisses the surface.

His thoughts are filled with Angelina.

“Adios, my love.” Ernesto said as he placed a warm kiss upon her forehead. Barely conscious, she managed to squeeze his hand to acknowledge his departure.

“I am going fishing and will be back before night.” he said, as her eyes simmered shut. Fifty-seven years of marriage and he is still deeply in love with her. He adjusted his hat and slowly closed the door. He assured her that he would be back before night.

He brushes the beading sweat from his brow as his fly floats down river. It weaves effortlessly through the chutes and eddies and enters a calm pool. Ernesto patiently watches with keen eyes. Below the surface in deep shadows, a trout launches to break the surface of the water. Ernesto sees clearly that it is a brown trout; his line goes taut. Almost spontaneously, he yanks the rod back and sets the hook.

The moment goes silent once again as the brown darts downward. Ernesto gives a tug and the surface breaks again, although this time with a hint of weakness. The world goes silent once again. He starts the click, click, click of the reel; he pulls his catch toward its destiny. The brown thrashes through the water. Ernesto’s constant pull diminishes its every leap.

Ernesto reaches for his net and swirls it around the seemingly lifeless brown. Content with possession, his thoughts turn back to Angelina. How could he have known that second-hand smoke causes lung cancer? Why God? Why?

He maneuvers his arthritic fingers in the brown’s mouth and unhooks the bait. He pinches his thumb and forefinger around the lower jaw and raises the fish firmly above the stream. The body glistens with vibrant colors as the speckles of sunlight reflect off the scales. Ernesto assesses the size as too small. His silver eyebrows give a disappointing approval. Gently, he bends to the stream and places a tender kiss on his catch. Fatherly, he voices to his catch, “Be free amigo! I will catch you later. Now, go be free. Go make baby fishes.” He checks his lure for remnants of blood, as his thoughts drift.

“But, I assure you she will be medicated so she won’t feel any pain,” the young doctor had told him as he put a strong reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“How…How long do you think she has?” Ernesto asked him.

“Do keep in mind I am a medical doctor. Only God can determine her departure. However, due to her condition, and her age, I would estimate four months. Now, four months is only a guess; it could be sooner it could be later.”

Ernesto’s dropped his head into his hands. Tears began streaming down his cheeks. “Only, if I had known sooner. Es toda mi avería-it is all my fault.” He reasoned to himself.

The young doctor eased himself into his chair, sat up and folded his hand in front of him. Soberly, he looked down to gather his thoughts. Then he looked at Ernesto.

“Mr. Martinez,” he said as he took off his glasses and laid them on the desk, “Ernesto.”

Ernesto looked up at the doctor; their eyes met.

“Ernesto, it is not your fault. People die; it is natural. She is in God’s hands right now. All we can do is wait. And, pray she does not have to suffer anymore than she needs to.”

Suffer anymore than she needs to? Where is the doctor now? Where is the doctor when she cries for help at two in the morning? Where is the doctor when she vomits blood? Where is he now? Where?

Ernesto starts his fishing process over again. First starting off with small whips of the rod, and then rising to long graceful, poetic strokes, he places his fly on the surface. He watches it drift along the banks, through jagged rocks and weedy growth, without expectation.

His eyes, swollen and red, glaze over.

“I do.” Ernesto said, as he looked into the soft brown eyes of his bride.

“And do you, Angelina Trujillo, take Ernesto Martinez to be your lawfully wedded husband, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do you part?”

“In sickness and in health…tell death do you part,” echoes in his mind, as the knot in his stomach constricts.

A twitch in the line quickly calls his attention. He sees that the river has swept the fly into a chute and into some underwater branches. He lets out a frustrated sigh, as he begins to creep slowly to his hung-up fly. The lure manages to snap free from its entanglement and slap the surface of the water, cautioning the fish below. Ernesto becomes irritated as his mouth clenches to reveal the ropey tendons of his neck. He quickly reels the line in and splashes to the river’s edge.

Looking up at the darkening sky, Ernesto closes his eyes and deeply inhales the smell of the coming rain. Glancing at his watch, he lets out a long, soulful breath.

Ernesto surveys the landscape upstream with an angler’s wisdom and places his body in motion. The crackle of dried twig snapping beneath his boots breaks the river’s constant drone. Struggling with overgrown brush, moldy trees and mossy rocks, he is relieved to find a narrow pathway. The narrow pathway follows the river’s edge and disappears into darkness. Ernesto sees that there is no option.

The warm red blood Angelina has been coughing up haunts his mind. She had always asked him to smoke outside. The corners of his eyes tightly cringe.

His pace becomes lethargic as he weakens his steps. Stealthy, he approaches a shallow pool, tightly tucked in a corner. He patiently observes the society beneath the surface and unhooks his fly. He whips the rod back and forth with grace and elegance. He shoots a line just upstream of the pool and eagerly waits. The fly weaves throughout the flow of the stream and enters the pool. It glides in slow motion across the reflective surface. Ernesto lets out a breath he had been holding in anticipation.

Angelina’s smooth skin had always had a soft glow, natural and beautiful. Now, life has weathered it. The sickness inside her has weathered it. Now, a soft yellowing covers her decaying body.

A slap of water startles him, as he feels his line tighten. His quick reflexes assess the situation and he shifts his feet onto a firmer foundation. Suddenly, the line goes slack as he begins to reel; it becomes limp and touches the water. Ernesto loses hope, as he begins reeling in his line. He looks up, and sighs. Hope is restored as he feels a faint tension, followed by a sharp tug that stuns him. The reel spins freely as it makes a whirring sound. The thrashing continues with brief moments of silence, as his prey descends.

Upon seeing the beautiful hues that the name “rainbow trout” implies, Ernesto knows that this is a keeper. Glancing down through the tangled web of the netting, he sees a divinely large trout with her gills producing a rhythmic pulse.

He visions Angelina lying on their bed: Angelina lying on her deathbed. Her body is frail and white; she breathes, slow and deep, struggling to get air. The lungs that were once filled with love and happiness on their wedding day are slowly deteriorating.

He unhooks the trout and fetches a nylon stringer: a twisted filament of nylon with a metal needle on one end and a metal circle on the other. He pierces the needle through the gill and through the metal ring to firmly secure his catch.

Dark, angry clouds produce shadows out of the sun’s warming rays; the air smells of moisture. Ernesto notices the silhouettes of the trees are getting longer and longer; soon the sun will rest. He assured her that he would be back before night.

The stringer is now filled with four full-sized trout. Ernesto approaches the bank of the stream, and glances down; he notices one of the fish is still alive.

Out of his vest, he retrieves a small wooden handle, made of hickory. It is the same one his father used, and his grandfather before that. Made from the bottom of an axe handle, cut about twelve inches, it looks like a lop-sided baseball bat; it is an oval and proportionally larger at one end. A strip of leather, weathered with blood, sweat and time, passes through a hole at the narrower end; it is tied in a knot to be used as a handle. Ernesto slips the rugged leather over his hairy knuckles and onto his wrist. It dangles there only for a second until he grasps it with his hand.

Without hesitation, he grabs the flopping trout. His eyes cringe at the thought.

“No era mi avería- It wasn’t my fault,” he had pleaded with his father, as tears raced down his eight-year-old face. If only he hadn’t ridden Blanco that day.

Blanco, his father’s trusted mare, was an established member of the Martinez family. And it was not his fault. It was the thunder that spooked her. It was the thunder and lightning that made Blanco rear-up.

Ernesto squints his eyes until the world becomes black and delivers a menacing blow to the head of the trout. The body of the trout gives a hollow wallop as it deadens the blow. The trout’s body lies still as blood, mixed with scales, splatter the rocks below. The blood droplets swirl about with the splashing water and dilute into the stream. Blood oozes from the reddened gills and the corners of its mouth.

Blanco was lying on her side; she was crippled and fatigued from trying to get up. The pulse of her neck, her black eye darting toward any movement, and the rhythm of her breathing were the only signs of visible life.

He watched as his father loaded his ivory-handled pistol with two brassy rounds, cocked back the hammer, and pointed it at Blanco’s head.

His father’s wisdom knew Blanco would not make it. His father’s wisdom knew.

Ernesto tightly closed his eyes and waited for the horrifying sound. All he heard was the eerie sound of silence.

He felt a sharp, cold poke at his shoulder; he opened his eyes to see his father motioning the gun barrel toward him and then to the horse, toward him and then to the horse.

“Usted le mató. Ahora, lo acaba apagado y lo pone de su miseria- You killed her, now finish her off and put her out of his misery,” his father demanded in militant directness.

“Pero padre, no era mi avería- But father, it was not my fault!” his memory echoes.

Despite the warm tears streaming down his face, his father was relentless.

A twitch from the beaten trout’s tail alarms Ernesto. His eyes darken into small black holes; he grinds his teeth and delivers another blow with the wooden club. The maniacal blow produces a splatter of red droplets that temporarily mark the water’s surface. Ernesto breathes heavily and takes a dry swallow to clear the emotions in his throat.

Taking a deep breath, Ernesto swings the club again, knocking more blood and parts of the fish into the water below, splattering blood onto his face and onto the wiry ends of his mustache. With his eyes filled with terror, he reaches back with white knuckles and veins protruding from the back of his hand. His teeth grit together as he swings the club at the fish. He steps sideways to steady his balance from the devastating blow.

The trout’s head makes an echoing “ka-plunk” as it becomes engulfed into the water below. The current sweeps the bloody head into the murky darkness. A medley of fish parts spray across the air in a motionless scatter, making small bloody ripples in the water. A rumble of thunder shakes the earth and air, with its baritone voice.

With a decapitated trout in one hand and a bloodied club in the other, Ernesto falls to his knees and stares off into the darkness of the trees.

He can feel his body trembling. He can feel blood pulsates through his veins, in strong jolts that he can hear in his ears. Tears well up behind his eyes; he is too terrified to let them stream. The knot in his stomach tightens, as the muscles in his neck and jaw become tense.

Ernesto placed his small hands on the cold steel of the ivory-handled pistol.

With the weight of the gun, and his trembling nerves, he could not hold the barrel steady as he pointed it at Blanco’s mid-forehead.

“¡No era mi avería! -It was not my fault!”

“Mi hijo, ella no lo hará. Está para su propio bueno; ella no lo hará. - My son, she will not make it. It is for her own good, she will not make it.”

His father’s wisdom knew she would not make it.

“Es su responsabilidad a su caballo no la dejó sufrir. Es su responsabilidad no dejó cualquier cosa viva sufrir-It is your responsibility to your horse not to let her suffer. It is your responsibility not to let any living thing suffer.”

His father’s wisdom knew.

He looked at his father and then to the darkening sky. His trembling hands steadied as he closed his eyes; he gritted his teeth, winced, and pulled the trigger, once, twice. “Perdóneme el padre-Forgive me Father...”

A piercing crack of thunder awakens Ernesto. He shakes his head in a moment of disbelief, as his eyes focus on a decapitated trout flaccidly hanging in trembling hands. Blood oozes from the white fleshy meat. His grip lessens on the club and his knuckles return to color as life flows through him. He lets the slimy body of the trout glide out his other hand as the current washes the bloody, headless carcass downstream. Staring down at his open-faced hands covered in blood, he begins washing the residue off. He looks off into the darkness of the trees as he manages to stand up. Momentary flashes of lightning light up the sky. Shaking his hands dry, he can taste a bitter saltiness from a stream of tear, a relentless stream that brews inside him.

He notices darkness prevailing over the light. He had assured Angelina that he would be back before night.

The coolness of the water refreshes Ernesto’s eyes as he wipes his face. His pulse returns to normal. In a methodical ritual his father taught him, he begins breaking down his gear. He places everything exactly as it was that morning --and every morning. He glances down at the three remaining trout hooked on the stringer; with a dirty boot, he kicks them into the murky stream. He allows his body to guide him to the narrow path.

The river’s warble has become a roar with the rain coming down harder and harder. The clouds produce a thunderous roar while intermittent flashes of light brighten the darkening sky. Ernesto quickens his pace, which exaggerates a distinct limp. The stream has become increasingly disturbed with the oncoming storm.

The thunder and lighting reminds him of Angelina’s cough: sometimes dry cackles and other times a phlegmy, bloody heave. He only wished he had quit smoking sooner. If only he had known.

A moment of reassurance comes to him as he sees the yellow of his 1957 Ford. His hands are cold and miserable. As he approaches the truck, he can hear the pitter-patter of rain on the heavy metal roof. With urgency, he drops his fishing gear beside the truck and opens the tackle box.

He retrieves a small plastic bag. Among the contents of this plastic bag are his keys, as well as his fishing license, various pills, $23.00 in cash, a gold chain with a crucifix, his wedding ring and a weathered photograph Angelina.

He opens the truck and puts in his fishing gear. He lifts himself up into the driver’s side and places the key in the ignition. He breathes a sigh of relief as he spills the contents of the plastic bag on the passenger’s side.

The picture of Angelina he holds in his trembling hands. It is a black and white photo of her just before they were married. It is ripped in one corner and yellowed with age. It is fading with each day. He graciously places it on the seat beside him. He takes his wedding ring, studies it, and slips it onto his finger. He drapes the golden chain around his neck and lifts the crucifix to his mouth; his eyes close as he places a kiss on the figure.

He stares straight ahead as he takes a sip of his coffee; it is cold and sweet. He places the mug down and bends forward to retrieve a small wooden cigar box from underneath his seat. He lets out a slight sigh of pain, as he bends forward. Carefully, he opens the box and unravels a soft purple cloth in which it is wrapped. He greets it like one would greet an old friend.

Ernesto accepts his aching, arthritic fingers as he loads two brassy shells into the revolving cylinder of the ivory-handled pistol.

His wisdom knows what to do. His wisdom knows.

He holds his breath for a second as he observes himself in the rear-view mirror. In the faltering light, he can see that his eyes are darkened and he observes a strong and steady pulse in his temple and neck. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly. His hands are steady and sure.

It was not his fault- No era mi avería; he knows what has to be done. He knows what to do.

He opens his eyes, which are now blackened. He snaps the revolving cylinder into place with a snap of his wrist. Ernesto closes his eyes and looks to the top of the roof. He voices in a silent whisper, “Perdóneme el padre-Forgive me Father...”

He lays the ivory-handle pistol on the seat beside him, next to the girl in the photograph. His eyes water, as the stream inside him starts to flow.

He turns the key to start the engine. The reliable old truck sputters and begins its baneful hum. Ernesto puts the truck in gear and heads down the narrow road, the road that will lead him to his beloved wife, Angelina.

He assured her he would be back before night.

-30-