HAZARDS OF BAT GUANO

by

Jeff May

     After a long drive over winding roads deep into the Missouri Ozarks, Jon lounged back on the musty, all consuming couch, hoping to relax, but only unfurling a fly-line into the crystal clear waters of the Castor River and pulling in fish would allow him to truly unwind from the rigors of work, the city, and dating. Even though the sound of Carla showering just one thin cabin wall away excited him, it didn’t exactly feel like a date, especially since Pete, her ubiquitous friend, would be arriving soon.
     Jon leaned over the small coffee table and started lining up his favorite lures, yellow red-eyed "poppers." Carla plopped down on the couch, wearing only her bathrobe, and pushed the poppers aside, unrolling her cave map. "Here’s how you get in," she said, pointing and running her long delicate finger over the map. "You can walk to . . . right . . . here! Then you have to crawl." As she leaned forward, her robe fell open, enough for him to see all the way to the nipples of her small breasts. She stared at him, her big brown eyes dilated, alluring in the dim cabin light. "I really hope you like it."
     Jon tried to peek at her breasts and lift the corner of the cave map while scooping his poppers, but most of them fell onto the wood floor. He smiled at her, and said, "Excuse me," then leaned over to retrieve them where dusts balls wafted across the floor and Carla’s long legs stretched out under the table, robe high on her thigh. Carefully avoiding the sharp barbed hooks, he swept his poppers into his cupped hands, then tried to sit back on the couch and bumped his head on the coffee table.
     "What do you think?" she said.
     For an instant he thought she might be referring to her long legs, but she was still gazing at her map. "I’m sure I’ll love it," he responded, trying to count his poppers but, distracted by the looseness of her robe, he stuffed them into a pocket of his well-worn fly-fishing vest.
     Outside in the dark, tires rumbled across gravel, and he heard a car door opening and shutting, then the slap of the screen door.
     "That must be Pete," Carla said, standing, pulling the robe tight.
     Jon forced himself off the couch and braced for Pete, remembering each of the three times he’d convinced Carla to meet him for a drink -- Pete mysteriously showing up with a wad of money, stylishly dressed, buying them all drinks, and never failing to ask Jon a question about worming a hook.
     Pete entered the cabin’s yellow light wearing tight blue jeans around his skinny legs, and a goose down coat ballooning around him like expanding dough, ridiculous in the warm weather. Carla hugged him, squeezing the air from the coat with a whoosh. Jon shook his sweaty hand, stared him in the eye, and said, "Hi."
     "Hello," Pete responded nasally, then pulled a tissue from his coat and wiped his nose, leaving a piece stuck to his thin upper lip.
     "You okay?" Carla asked.
     "I believe so," he sighed, the tissue rising, "maybe I’m allergic to something."
     "Hold still," Carla said, removing the tissue, then helped him take off his coat, revealing a brown shirt and a striped tie, loosened, but still around his neck after three hours of driving.
     "I’m sure I’ll be just fine," Pete said, then the three of them stood awkwardly looking at each other. "So, Jon," Pete finally asked, "I know it’s a gap in my education, but perhaps you could find time tomorrow to show me exactly how you get that worm on the hook." He stood breathing through his mouth, as if waiting for the bait.
     Jon clenched his teeth, thinking about shoving a worm up Pete’s nose. Instead, he said, "Right," and turned away, scanning the room. A counter separated the narrow kitchen, and there was the one small bedroom and bathroom with shower. He didn’t mind sleeping on the couch as long as Pete wasn’t sleeping in the bed, with Carla. While eyeing the couch, he asked, "So what’s the plan here?"
     Carla picked up the cave map, rolled it tight, and explained, "We get up early and canoe to Dickham’s Landing then come back here for lunch. In the afternoon, we go spelunking." She tucked the map under her arm and started toward her room. At her door, she stopped and said, "I’ve already rented the canoes and everything, so you guys better not stay up too late."
     Jon dove head first over the back of the couch, landing on the soft cushions, hearing the distinct twang of a broken spring as dust puffed into the air and lingered like smoke. Coughing, he looked for Pete but saw only the screen door propped open. He waited, listening to a whirring sound like a blender outside, then set his fly-fishing vest on the couch, marking his territory. He was going for his small backpack when the doorway filled with a plastic, floral-patterned, double air mattress. He heard Pete calling, "Can you give me some help?"
     "What’s up?"
     "I don’t want to just push it through. It might catch on something."
     Jon surveyed the situation. A nail had worked its way out of the doorframe and stood poised to puncture the mattress. He pulled the mattress away from the nail. "Okay," he said, "Now if you just fold it a little more, you can probably fit it through."
     "Are you sure?"
     "Of course I’m sure." Jon looked around the door frame for other nails, but saw none and was about ready to yell for him to push when the center of the air mattress bulged, plaid flower expanding against his face. Once the mattress cleared the nail, he let go and the whole thing unfolded with surprising force, catching him off balance. He fell backward onto the hard floor with the mattress and Pete landing on top of him. He felt Pete’s knees and elbows pressing hard onto his chest. Jon yelled, "Get off!" He felt Pete roll onto the floor.
     Pete was brushing off his clothes. "Sorry," he said, and gathered his blankets, sheets, and a large gym bag. Jon returned to the couch, and watched, expecting him to set up his air mattress between the couch and the small kitchen counter where there was plenty of room. But Pete positioned it between the couch and Carla’s room, blocking her door. Not that Jon had considered slipping into her room late at night, at least not the first night. He sat up and leaned over the back of the couch. "Isn’t it kind of tight there?"
     "Not at all," Pete responded, nearly falling as he made his bed, tucking the sheets under the plastic, and spreading out his blankets, getting it just right. Then he tiptoed around his makeshift bed, carrying a small tote bag, and went to the kitchen sink where he brushed his teeth and gargled with mint-flavored mouthwash. Jon wondered if the beer he’d been drinking on the way down had turned stale on his breath. He cupped his hand and breathed into his own nose. Then he searched his pack for his own toothbrush and found nothing but fly-fishing gear. He heard Pete spit into the sink, then watched him stop at the light switch and say, "I’m exhausted. Do you mind if I turn this off?"
     Jon asked him to wait, then went out to his car, dug around in his glove compartment and found an old toothbrush. He couldn’t remember why he had it, but nonetheless congratulated himself for being prepared. He opened the trunk and found a blanket that smelled like gasoline.
     The cabin felt empty with Pete lying quiet, and no sound coming from Carla’s room. He ran water over his brush, moistening leftover chunks of toothpaste, and brushed his teeth, swishing the metallic tasting water around in his mouth and spitting. Then he flipped the light switch off and settled in on his couch, broken spring stabbing him in the back. He shifted around so that it was at his feet. Ridding himself of the spring somehow made the smell tolerable. There was a moment when he almost felt like he could fall asleep when he heard Pete roll over on his floral air mattress, making a creaking sound. Jon spent a long time trying to decide if it sounded more like fingernails on a chalkboard or a Styrofoam cooler squeaking in the back seat of a car. Then it occurred to him that Pete seemed awfully prepared for this.
     "Hey Pete!"
     "Huh? What?"
     "Did Carla tell you this place had beds?"
     "No . . . She didn’t have to."
     "Why not?"
     "I’ve been here before," Pete said. "Now can we get some sleep?"
     Jon pulled his blanket up under his chin and thought about Carla’s casual reference to Pete as her "friend," and not someone she took to a secluded cabin in the Ozarks. That was a level of involvement far exceeding dinners in the city. How long did she really know him, and what happened last time he was here, and were there other people? "Hey Pete." No answer, a shift on the squeaky mattress, and then snoring.
     Jon struggled on the uncomfortable couch, trying to think of something soothing. He felt cool air wafting in the window, and thought he could hear the steady melody of water rippling over rocks and swirling into deep pools, the river just a short distance from the cabin. He imagined sunlight glistening on the river, Carla next to him in the clear water, watching excitedly as he pulled in a fish, then his arms around her waist, teaching her how to cast. Then he thought about Pete, Carla swimming to him, kissing, tongues probing.
     Rolling over, he fell onto the floor with a thump, then pushed the coffee table away, and stood. "Damn," he muttered, and peered over the back of the couch, Pete with his head buried into his pillow, and Carla’s door slightly ajar. Wouldn’t hurt to just look in on her, he thought, just a peek. He looked for a way around the mattress. He made it to the wall where there was a narrow path. He hesitated, but he’d come this far and didn’t want to stop, so he took a step, inching, back against the wall, and suddenly felt stabbing pain shooting up his leg. One of his poppers was imbedded in his big toe. He tried to pull it out but lost his balance and toppled over onto Pete. The mattress snapped and groaned. Pete sat upright and yelled, "What the hell?"
     Jon grunted, holding his foot, rolling on the noisy mattress, "My friggin’ toe!"
     Carla flipped on the lights and stood in her doorway. "What happened?"
     Pete was kneeling with his sheet pulled around his waist and Jon was on his back, holding his foot and staring at the red-eyed popper. The barb had gone in just beneath the first layer of skin -- tearing as he backed it out. A thin line of blood ran down the side of his foot. He rolled off the mattress and hopped to the kitchen, then stuck his foot in the sink and ran water over it.
     "What were you doing, anyway?" Carla asked.
     "I’d like to know that also," Pete agreed.
     Jon looked at Carla and decided to take the offensive. "So, he’s been here before with you?"
     Carla shrugged, "Yeah, so what?" Then she added, "Pete came down with a few other friends, and he wasn’t feeling well so he spent the whole time in the cabin, reading and sleeping. This time should be different, right Pete?"
     Pete smiled at her. "I’m looking forward to it."
     Jon examined his wound. "You have any band-aides?" he asked.
     Carla handed him some antibiotic cream and band-aides, while Pete settled back on his mattress. Jon waited for Carla to give him some sympathy, patch him up, give him a kiss and tuck him back into bed. Maybe a foot massage.
     "You okay?" she asked.
     "I guess so," he responded.
     "Good," she said, "I don’t want you to miss my cave." She skipped back to her room.
     Jon lay on his musty couch in the dark, toe throbbing, and stared at the ceiling until sometime before dawn when he passed out.
     Waking to the sound of Pete blowing his nose and the smell of burnt scrambled eggs, Jon rolled off the couch, limping in his underwear to the bathroom.
     "Hurry up," Carla called from the kitchen where she and Pete were dressed and ready.
     Jon pulled on his clothes and sat next to Pete who used his toast to shovel in the last of his eggs. "Mmm, that was good." Then he and Carla set their plates in the sink.
     "Don’t be too long," Carla said as they went out the door.
     Jon drank lukewarm coffee and ate blackened scrambled eggs with cold toast. He grabbed his fishing gear, and followed them out, ready to try a few casts before they left, but the canoe was packed and ready, and the two of them stood, waiting, paddles in hand.
     "Let’s go," Carla said. "We have to make Dickham’s Landing by noon."
     Jon asked, "So what happens if we don’t make Dick’em’s?"
     Carla stared at him in a way that made him feel like a grade-school student, then responded, "Our pick up is at noon. If they leave without us, we’d have to wait. We wouldn’t get back to the cabin for another two hours, then we wouldn’t have enough time to go caving."
     Carla sat in the bow and Pete sat in the middle, hands gripping the gunwales. Jon, at the stern, tucked his fly rod along the right side ready to cast, and pushed the canoe into the current, which was much faster than he anticipated. He slipped, grabbed the side of the canoe and nearly tipped it over as he climbed in. The current swept them into the narrow channel and rammed them into the opposite bank, sticker bushes scraping against the aluminum. Jon back-paddled, steered downstream, and hit a slightly submerged rock, the canoe tilting, water rushing up to the edge while Carla screamed, "Lean!"
     Jon jumped out, thinking the water shallow, but sank up to his chest, hanging onto the side of the canoe as it swung around in the current and slid free from the rock, floating backwards, rushing downstream, underneath a branch -- Pete and Carla ducking -- then delivering them into a slow swirling pool with a long gravel bar, Jon swimming them to shore.
     While Jon and Carla pulled the canoe onto the gravel bar, Pete remained sitting, hands gripping the gunwales. Once firmly grounded, he exhaled, and said, "That was fun."
     Carla smiled at him, and said, "Wasn’t it," then looked at Jon and asked, "Would you like me to take the stern?"
     Jon looked at her and thought about accepting, letting her paddle so he could fish without worrying about steering. But he didn’t want to lose credibility. "No. It’s just a little faster than I thought." Along the opposite shore, he saw a ripple expanding outward, the mark of a bluegill or a bass feeding on the surface. He reached for his rod.
     "Well," Carla said, "we’d better get going."
     With Pete still glued in the canoe, they shoved off. Jon looked ahead at the next bend and figured he had enough time to get off a cast, pulling out line and whipping it over Pete’s head. The line floated behind them as the current sucked them quickly into the rapids. This time Jon guided them through without a problem, rounding the bend into a gorgeous blue-green pool where the surface was mottled with dozens of ripples from fish sucking bugs from the surface. He grabbed his rod and tried to cast all in one motion but the line bunched up at the tip and hung there like a ball of tangled Christmas lights.
     "What a beautiful river," Carla marveled.
     "Yes," Pete agreed, "this is wonderful."
     Jon sat untangling his line, and almost got it, when they hit fast water again. Once through, they could see high white bluffs rising out of the lush green woods and the water slowed for a long stretch of river. He eased the popper from the fly line and was free, untangled, ready to cast into the glorious water and hook a big fish, feel the rod tip come alive. Except, Carla said excitedly, "What’s that?"
     "What?"
     "There, paddle over there. Quick." Jon paddled to a heavily wooded bank at the base of a bluff. "Come on, you guys, let’s go look." She took the bow rope and tied it around a root, then hopped out with her small waterproof bag.
     Pete stood, the canoe wobbling.
     "Be careful!" Jon hollered, and Carla took Pete’s hand while he stepped onto the slippery bank.
     "You coming?" she asked, pulling a flashlight from the bag. "I saw an opening. We might just discover something. You never know."
     Jon looked at her, then at the water, overhanging trees, thinking it would be a difficult cast. But he could handle it. "I’ll be along in a minute." They disappeared into the brush, up the slope toward the bluff, and Jon felt his heart beating fast as he saw a swirl just under the trees. Had to be a bass, a big one, he thought, and tried a low roll-cast, the popper flying too high and hooking into a branch. "Damn," he muttered, and gently pulled back, but ended up setting the barbed hook into the bark. He leaned away and pulled from a different angle, then leaned forward with his arm in the water and tried pulling down, this time more firmly. No luck, so he yanked hard and snapped the line. The popper fell into the water and was immediately sucked under. He started rigging on a new popper, and just about had it ready when Carla and Pete returned.
     "Where were you?" Carla asked.
     "Right here."
     "I know that, but why didn’t you come with us?"
     "I got hung up."
     She shoved them off, and Jon paddled away from the trees, still with enough time to cast before the next rapid. He eased the fly line into the water, floating alongside the canoe, the line whipping through the air, the popper trailing, ready to catapult and lay precisely on top of the waiting bass. But Jon heard a thump, and the line fell like a deflating balloon, and he heard Pete yell, "Ow! What the hell?"
     Jon turned and found his red-eyed popper hooked into Pete’s head.
     "Get it out!" he screamed.
     Carla hovered close, and Jon set his rod down and tried to calm everyone. "It’s all right, don’t worry, no big deal." He looked up and saw them approaching the next rapids.
     "Get . . . it . . .out," Pete said.
     Carla looked apprehensively at Jon. "You ever have this happen before?"
     "Sure. All the time."
     Pete grunted loudly.
     "All right, hold still, don’t get excited."
     Jon parted Pete’s hair around the popper, and found the hook imbedded just beneath the skin. He searched around in the front pocket of his fly fishing vest and found his pocketknife.
     "What are you doing?" Carla asked.
     "Well, the barb is ah . . . sort of . . . in the scalp."
     "What?" Pete yelled.
     "Hold still. You don’t want me to just yank it out, do you?"
     Holding the knife like a scalpel, he leaned forward and the canoe hit the rapids, scraping bottom, Jon lurching, almost stabbing Pete in the head. Carla paddled from the bow, keeping them straight as Jon carefully cut a thin layer of Pete’s scalp and the hook pulled free as they floated into another pool. Pete rubbed his wound and checked for blood. Only a tiny spot on his fingers. He stared at Jon and said, "You moron."
     Jon shrugged, and said, "What? It was an accident."
     "Right?"
     "Hey, I’m sorry, okay."
     "Come on," Carla said, "at this rate we’ll never get to Dickham’s."
     Jon paddled gloomily through the silky water, past emerald green eddies full of bluegill and bass.
     Dickham’s Landing turned out to be nothing more than a slab of concrete, a low water bridge, the river flowing through two big storm pipes. Carla explained that Dickham was an Ozark settler, miner, and famous cave explorer of the 1800's who used to run a system of rope pulleys to help cross the river during high water.
     "Incredible," Pete said.
     "Yeah," Jon said, "A real tourist attraction."
     An old bus pulling a rack full of canoes arrived and ferried them back to the cabin, Jon holding his fly rod rattling against the window with dust wafting in, as they bounced and wound their way on the gravel roads.
     Carla urged them inside right away. She pulled tattered curtains over the windows, bright sunlight seeping in around the edges, then she lit a candle and set out bowls on the kitchen counter as Pete and Jon took their places. She poured them all a big glass of Chablis and ladled out steaming scoops of chili, then sprinkled on cheese.
     Jon gulped Chablis and ate, wondering how it would go with the chilidog he ate for lunch yesterday. He watched Carla, her unruly black hair, energetic eyes, and tried to smile appreciatively. She smiled and he felt encouraged, then she glanced at Pete, reached under the counter and pulled up a carbide lamp.
     "Have you ever seen one of these?" she asked.
     "No," Pete said, "Fascinating."
     Carla explained, "The combination of carbide and water produces a fermentation that is ignited here." She pointed to the flint switch. Jon ate more Chili and wondered what was going to ferment elsewhere. "The refractor is illuminated and it throws out this huge wall of bright white light." But she was the only one with a carbide lamp. Jon and Pete would have to use flashlights. "One time, just for fun, I found my way out using nothing but a candle."
     They all stared reverently at the candle.
     "Well, Pete said. "I don’t mind admitting that I’m a little nervous."
     "You’ll love it," Carla responded, touching Pete’s arm.
     They hiked up the hill behind the cabin, Jon sweating in the hot afternoon, the path to the cave narrow, slippery with mud, and the lush green leaves from the underbrush depositing tics on his legs. He could feel them crawling and he stopped, picking them off quickly and flicking them back into the woods. Up ahead, he heard Carla tell Pete to watch out for ticks.
     The entrance to the cave loomed black against gray-blue limestone spotted with lichen. The cave exhaled inviting cool air, and Carla lit her carbide lamp. Jon gripped his flashlight and followed her, marching into the blackness. At the first turn, Jon looked back at the entrance, a bright splotch of daylight, then shone his weak flashlight beam ahead, dim on the rock walls. Pete shuffled along so close to Carla that he looked as if he were glued to her arm, the high intensity lamp illuminating the twisted rock in front. Jon felt his shoes sticking and popping in the mud with each step. The cave narrowed and the ceiling slanted down. "Isn’t this great!" Carla said, hunching over, her lamp shining on tubes of rock, like straws, dripping water from the low ceiling.
     "Ow," Pete said.
     Jon couldn’t see what happened as his flashlight was becoming so dim that it was almost worthless, especially in comparison to her white light that left total blackness behind it. The cave began to constrict even further and Jon felt as if he were being swallowed by snake.
     "Okay," Carla said, "we’ll have to crawl now for about ten feet." She got on her hands and knees and crawled into the hole, taking all the light with her, leaving Jon shining his weak flashlight beam at the back of Pete’s head. Carla called from the tunnel, something that sounded like "wonderful," but hard to tell, and Pete fell to his hands and knees and inched through the tunnel.
     Once through, Jon pushed past him and stood gawking at a huge cavern divided by white light and blackness from the carbide lamp. High above, water dropped from rock nubs, sprinkling into a crystalline pool. Stalactites, pulling their substance from the ceiling almost touched their counterparts on the sloping cavern floor. Carla explained that it took thousands of years for them to form from the slow dripping of the water.
     "That’s a long wait for consummation," Jon said.
     "Hey," Pete said, "The air is really fresh in here. My nose isn’t clogged at all."
     "Look!" Carla said.
     "What?"
     "Do you see that?" Carla slid her feet along like she was ice-skating. "Look along there," she said. "See those mounds?" She knelt beside a small grayish-white pile that looked like wet ash.
     "What is it?" Pete asked.
     "It was very valuable in the 1880's. Dickham used to mine it."
     "So," Jon said, "what exactly is it?"
     Carla hesitated, then said, "Bat guano . . . fertilizer, they got 700 dollars a ton at peak demand."
     "Guano?" Jon leaned close to the pile, and sniffed.
     "Lots of guano miners got a horrible lung disease from breathing in spores."
     He backed away quickly, bumped into Pete, slipped, and fell forward up to his elbows in bat guano. "Great," Jon said, pulling his hands out, the guano sticking to his skin. "Now what?" His hands started to tingle as he imagined billions of tiny spores coating his lungs every time he itched his nose.
     "Just wipe your hands in the mud, for now," Carla said calmly.
     "What about the spores?"
     "You’d have to breathe in guano dust for years."
     Jon cleared his throat and spit.
     "You really shouldn’t spit in caves," she said, "You might upset the delicate ecosystem."
     "Where are the bats?" Pete asked, staring up at the cavern ceiling, drops of water falling like pearls. "I mean, they wouldn’t try to attack us or anything? To protect their cave."
     Carla chuckled, and took his hand, holding it close. "Bat’s don’t want to harm people."
     Jon felt his stomach cramp, chili and cheese bubbling into his throat, bad heartburn.
     "That’s what I thought," Pete said, "I actually read up on them before I drove down last night."
     "You did?"
     "Yes, fascinating stuff about how they use sonar and change direction at the last instant."
     "That’s right," Carla said, excitedly, "If you’re afraid, and move, they might accidentally crash into you and . . . Well, it’s almost your fault if that happens."
     Jon squinted his eyes against the white carbide lamplight and saw the black outline of Carla’s head nearly touching Pete. He felt the fermentation roiling lower in his stomach, pressure building, then suddenly snapping steadily into the cavern for a long time like firecrackers, followed by a smell he didn’t think was all that unnatural.
     "Ugh," Carla said, "Couldn’t you have waited until we were out?"
     "Yeah," Pete agreed, coughing, then taking her hand as the two of them slid back toward the tunnel.
     Jon followed them, his flashlight batteries failing, and he scraped his head on Pete’s shoe, and was ready to say something when he heard Carla whisper, "Pete, come up here with me, come on." The light was shining down the tunnel and she pulled on his arms until he was lying on his side, his head lying in the space between her breasts. "Look Pete," she said, "See. He’s harmless."
     "Fantastic," Pete exclaimed.
     "What?" Jon said, but they didn’t respond. "Ah, can I have a look?"
     "Huh," Carla said. "Sure, come through on your back. We’ll wait on the other side."
     Jon pushed along the tunnel on his back, rocks gouging him, and shined his failing light up onto a small furry ball, a bat, not all that interesting. He rolled over and crawled as fast as he could to see what Carla and Pete were doing. Once he got out of the tunnel, however, he couldn’t tell a thing. Pete had turned off his flashlight, so they were concealed in the blackness behind the bright carbide light.
     "Hey," Jon yelled, "Wait up." He slid and stumbled. "That was something. I’d never seen bat guano. Amazing." They made another turn and had to crouch down to avoid hitting their heads.
     Pete stumbled and Jon cut in front of him so that he was now right behind Carla, while Pete trailed in the dark.
     "Wait," Pete said, fumbling with his flashlight.
     Carla turned around. "Are you okay back there?"
     "Now I am." Pete’s flashlight batteries were strong and he shone it in Jon’s face, blinding him, and pushed past him next to Carla again.
     They followed the curving cave wall and Jon could see a gray diffuse light ahead, and then the outline of Carla’s slender body against the cave opening, the light much dimmer than when they entered the cave.
     Back at the cabin, with the evening rapidly descending, Jon quietly rigged his fly rod while watching Pete and Carla dance around the tiny kitchen, preparing dinner. He tied on a black and white spider, and waded upriver, hoping there was still time for that big fish.
     Wisps of dark blue clouds sliced through an orange full moon rising as Jon waded through watercress draped with moss. Something swooped by his head, and he ducked, a small black dot flying erratically. Had to be a bat, he thought, then looked up along the ridge and saw hundreds of black dots zipping in and out of the trees near the cave. He waded further upriver.
     Finally, he lifted his glorious fly rod into the dusk, rolling out the line behind him, and cast, the tension of the cave flowing out the end of the line, the release familiar, relaxing, his fake spider landing gently on the water, a delectable morsel. He swept his fly line through the air effortlessly, smoothly, the cast itself so satisfying that he almost forgot about catching a fish. But if he could catch at least one, he could show Carla just how beautiful fish were, how colorful they were compared to the grayish-brown fur of a bat, a creature that lived in darkness all the time and was more likely to be compared with vampires than anything else. So he cast, just one or two casts might do it, might land him that redeeming fish. As the line stretched out straight and beautiful in front of him, he felt a tug. The fish must’ve leapt high into the air to get it. And he jerked the line expertly to set the hook, but it came back at him in a jumbled mess. He started the tedious chore of untangling, pulling it through his hand and working out the kinks, anxious to cast again. Expecting to find a glob of moss around the spider, he ran his hand down to the end of the line. But the "moss" felt strange, furry, and he heard a high-pitched squeak and felt skin and sharp bone slapping at his hand. He dropped it, falling backward into the current, the water at night chilling. He struggled to his feet, grabbed his fly rod, and held the line up against the moon. The barbed hook of the spider was firmly imbedded in the furry body of a bat, hanging upside down, wings pressed stiffly against its side.
     Jon stared at the bat, shook the line to see if it moved. Nothing. He looked back toward the cabin. He could just snap the line and toss the bat into the black swirling eddy, and face Pete’s inevitable questions, Catch anything? Why not worms? Or he could go back with the dead bat, hypothesize about how and why it got hooked, maybe with one last effort show Carla how multi-talented he was, much more than just a fly-fishing fanatic. A gamble, he knew, but judging from the way things had gone in the cave, he didn’t have much to lose.
     He waded back, careful not to dip the bat into the current. He sloshed into the cabin with his wet shoes, and caught Pete and Carla sitting very close on the couch, wine glasses empty. "Hey," he yelled, "Look at this!" He held it up.
     Carla screamed, "Oh my God! What did you do?"
     "I . . ." He wasn’t prepared for the accusation, and felt suddenly hot.
     "Take that hook out! Now!"
     Jon looked at it. "I didn’t do it. The bat did."
     "Get it out!"
     "Really, it was fascinating. I-"
     Pete put his arm around Carla, and asked, "Is it dead?"
     "Yes," Carla responded, "They’re very sensitive creatures."
     Jon shrugged, "It’s not like an endangered species . . . is it?"
     Pete suggested, "Maybe we should give it a proper burial." Then he asked, "Can you break the line?"
     "Be glad to. Take my spider too. I have more." Jon snapped the line and handed over the dead bat. Pete pulled Carla close and lead her outside. Jon tried to follow, but the screen door slapped shut in his face. He called through the screen. "Hey, sorry, it must have thought my spider was real." They didn’t respond, so he went outside and saw Pete using a spoon to dig a small hole on the side of the cabin.
     Carla looked at Jon, and shook her head pathetically.
     "I didn’t mean to kill it," he said. "I was trying to fish. Come on, it’s just a bat."
     "To you maybe."
     Inside, after Jon changed into dry clothes, and Carla was showering, he leaned on the kitchen counter, next to Pete. "So, you’ve known her a long time, right?"
     Pete eyed him suspiciously. "A while."
     "You two have been going out together. You got worried when she met me, and now everything’s okay."
     Pete didn’t respond, nor did he need to. His silence was all Jon needed. Now all he had to do was figure out how to get through the night; he hoped Pete and Carla wouldn’t make a lot of noise romping around in her bed. Maybe he could borrow Pete’s air mattress, sleep outside, under the stars. Then, in the morning, while Pete and Carla talked bats, he could finally cast into the clear water of the Castor River and catch his fish.