Free The Fisherman by John Langan Page A

for no other reason than that I studied it each time I ate there, was a large oil painting that hung above and to the left of the order window as you sat at the counter. This painting was so old, so begrimed with the smoke of a thousand omelets and hamburgers, that only by diligent and careful study could you begin to develop an idea of its subject. The canvas was such a mess of masses of shades and shadows that I half-suspected it was some kind of giant Rorschach Test. Where it hung wasn’t especially well-lit, which didn’t help matters any. You could make out a long, curving, black blotch of something hovering in the middle of the picture over a pale patch, with a wavy white line in the upper right-hand corner. You might think I would’ve looked at the painting, seen that I couldn’t make head or tail of it, and let that be that. But there was something about it, this quality, that I don’t know if I have the words for. The picture fascinated me; I guess because it was so close to showing you what it was, so close to revealing its meaning. Maybe it was a big Rorschach Test. I saw a different scene each time I sat down at the counter. Once, it must have been the first time I stopped at Herman’s, I saw a bird swooping down out of the sky, a crow, maybe. Another time, I thought it might be a bat. Then, since the rest of the diner was done up in fishing memorabilia, I decided the painting must be a fishing scene. Throughout these deliberations, I received absolutely no help from the diner’s staff, who told me they weren’t sure where the painting had come from. Howard had an idea it had been purchased from an inn somewhere in New England—out Mystic way, he seemed to recall—but didn’t know any more than that, except that nobody could tell what the hell it showed. Liz and Caitlin refused to be drawn into discussing it, despite my best efforts.
    That morning, when Dan and I sat down at the counter and ordered our coffees, with no help from anyone else I saw a fish in the black blotch at the painting’s center, something long, serpentine, a pike, say. The fish had been hooked, and was twisting as it fought its fate. The more I looked at the painting as I sat there drinking my coffee, the more sure I was that, at long last and after much cogitation, I had solved its mystery. In my solution, I saw a good omen for the day of fishing ahead. I was seized by the momentary impulse to tell somebody my discovery, share my success, but Dan had just stood to visit the facilities, and the rest of the diner was empty. By the time Dan returned, the impulse had released me.
    As I glanced around the diner, looking for someone to decode the painting to, I noticed the air outside, which had been lightening with the first traces of a weak dawn, dimming; the first drops of rain spattered the windows a moment later. I didn’t groan, but I felt like it. I’ll fish in the rain—Hell, I’d fish in the snow—but that doesn’t mean I especially care to. I suppose a light drizzle isn’t so bad, but the kind of rain that was crackling on the diner’s roof, the hard, driving kind that soaks you through in under a minute and then keeps on going, that is not my idea of fun. Maybe it would turn out to be a passing squall. But by the time Liz set my corned beef hash and scrambled eggs down in front of me, if anything, the rain had strengthened into a wall of water.
    While we were sitting over our breakfasts, Howard emerged from the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee and chat with us. I’d seen him do this from time to time: I’m pretty sure that he owned the diner, and I think this was his version of customer relations. I’d had a brief conversation with him two or three years prior, though I wasn’t sure he remembered. We hadn’t done more than exchange pleasantries about the weather, which was warm and sunny, and how the fish were biting, which they were. After that, he’d nodded whenever he saw me, but I noticed that he