OLD MAN RIVER
by Jim Bishop
He ran through the narrow streets of the Island, winding through
backlots, between houses, trying to shake them. Three of them
he made it, maybe more—blunt, senseless faces. Like grown renditions
of his childhood bullies, or random goons given purpose by their
assignment—to chase him down and hurt him badly. Maybe to finish him.
He ran without destination, only to lose them. He found himself
on Front Street, headed toward the hill that sloped down to the bridge.
Without turning, he could feel their pursuit some distance behind him,
clumsy and relentless like barrels caroming down a grade. He passed
Bill Russel's at the top of the hill and caught the thick emanations of
fried food and beer. He overrode the impulse to dodge in and seek
protection. He didn’t know who he would find at the bar; maybe he
doubted their power to protect him. He charged down the hill toward
the railroad tracks that intersected the road at the base of the hill.
On each side of the tracks by the road were scruffy patches of weed and
burdock and beyond that a steep bank that sloped down to the river.
He crossed the tracks, slashing through the wild growth in a few strides,
and came up sharply at the lip of the bank. He paused momentarily before
plunging over the edge, half-sliding down the slope, grabbing at the rough
weeds and saplings to slow his descent, and landing, stunned, on the narrow
ribbon of shore bordering the river. With no place left to run.
As if an electrical plug had been yanked from its outlet, the sounds of
the streets he had just run through and the barrage of his own interior clatter
cut away. He heard only his own labored breathing and the pounding of his
heart. And beneath it, the slow immensity of the Penobscot, dividing and slipping around the
Island, on its way to the sea. He homed in on the river sound and
brought the river itself into focus. And then he saw her—his mother—standing
thigh-deep in the river only a few yards from the shore, fully clothed and peaceful, looking
toward him as if she had been waiting his arrival.
My mother stands in the river, calm, free now
of the dog-eat-dog of the world. She sees me stumble
down the bank, a cornered deer, the pack in full cry
at my heels. She stoops, with one hand scoops
the water, sends an arc of fine spray toward me,
touching my face like prayer.
The air, everything about, goes still. The dogs too,
stilled, lower themselves to the shore. Playing their parts
in this benediction—not of the word’s, of my words’
making.
There is a sign in the river, a simple sign made of weathered
wood. It protrudes from the water’s surface as if its stakes
had been driven into the riverbed long ago. On the sign are
three words: “Old Man River.” My mother, standing calmly
in the water, turns and points to the sign. “This is one way,”
she says. “There is another.”