JAWS (Complete)

Chapter 21

*Memories* (P2)

"Come on, hand me the lure."

Porco-with Marcel, it's always Porco, the only person who's ever been allowed to call him that-reaches into the tackle box, knowing almost without looking where everything is. Erwin has always been fastidious with his tools and tackle, and everything is neatly labeled and in its right place. He finds the lure he knows Marcel likes, and hands it over.

"Thanks."

Porco frowns as Marcel's fingers brush against his; they're in the middle of the lake, with the sun beating down around them, reflecting off the still water and bouncing back in their faces, and yet Marcel's fingers are cool across his palm as he takes the lure, and strangely insubstantial, almost like a whisper of mist. He looks up, trying to see his brother's face, but the glare off the water is too much, and Marcel's head looks like it's trapped in a corona of light, his face too bright to see.

So Porco focuses on his brother's hands, and the deft, natural way he threads the lure onto the fishing line, and it's okay again. The weird unease leaves him, and he looks for his own rod.

It isn't in the boat.

"Hey, where's my stuff?"

"Somewhere else." Marcel casts, the reel whispering as it plays out the line, and Porco realizes that his brother is wearing a sand-colored camouflage jacket. That brings all the dread, all the unease, right back into his chest, and Porco starts looking frantically around the bass boat, suddenly desperate to find his rod and reel.

"We have to go back and get it!"

"Nah." Marcel's hook lands in the water, and he starts slowly, leisurely reeling it back in, sending bright little V shapes across the water that hurt Porco's eyes to watch. "There's no time."

"What are you talking about?" Porco shades his eyes, looking at the lake's shoreline, trying to spot Erwin's truck, but the shoreline is weirdly blurred, everything running together like paint, and he can't find Erwin's truck. "You're just fishing, we've got plenty of time."

Marcel chuckles, quiet and deep in his chest, and Porco whips back around. He can feel panic mounting in his throat, tasting like steel and hard candies gone rank and spoiled, and he starts to move forward, wanting to shake Marcel and make him stop acting so weird. As soon as he moves, the boat rocks, tipping and turning far more than Porco's movement should have caused, and he sits back down. He can't remember a time when he didn't know how to swim, can't remember a time when he wasn't intimately familiar with this lake and all its waves and holes and swampy bottom, but he's suddenly afraid of that dark, opaque water and what might be hiding underneath. "Marcel!"

"Porco." Marcel's voice is mellow and even, a tone Porco recognizes from childhood-it's the voice Marcel always used when Porco was riled up and angry about something, the voice that, outside of Erwin's, was frequently the only thing that could get him to calm down. Even now, in this bizarre, shifting world, the voice works, and Porco sits still, focusing all his attention on his brother.

"What?"

"Porco." Marcel repeats his name again, and from the shoreline, Sarge starts barking. It's a sound just as intimately familiar as his brother's voice, but Porco ignores the dog for now, leaning forward and hanging on Marcel's every word.