A pickup slips over the ice, rear tires spinning, turning
a circle, then another, a series of donuts in a mechanical dance
that causes the three boys to swear and laugh, spilling beer
onto their laps and the seats that already stink of cigarettes
and sweat. Their dads and uncles sit in hastily erected shacks,
hovels spread across the lake, humped over like the dirt
at the entrance to gopher dens. Men fish in the half-light
of heaters, drinking schnapps and whiskey, readying themselves
for the rod to bow, hovering over an augured hole
as if it were a nest in need of guarding. When at last
the line jerks down into the dream of a northern pike,
they fumble with the reel, hearts racing ahead of an ending
they imagine will be told at the bar on a Saturday in June,
glasses of beer sweating, hands spread wide in a lie
to suggest the size of that fish whose head sprang
from the slush-filled abyss, only to escape their grip
into the black depths of late December. Air snakes
through the truck’s cab, windows rolled down
so these bored boys can scream at the stars
salted across the sky. Most of the men have gone
to eat supper, to watch the Lions lose one more game
on TV. The smell of propane lingers, stirred with the beer
the boys burp as they smoke cigars and cough.
They’ve parked the truck at Ralph’s shanty,
and the older brother spits into a plastic jug, snuff
stuffed under his lower lip, as he tells stories
about a buck he killed in October and a girl he dated
from the next town over with a mouth as soft as velvet.
There are always cracks in the ice, but trying to decide
which seam is harmless and which leads to the bottom
is a matter of luck. They’ve grown accustomed to the lake’s
groaning, having heard its teeth chatter since they were children:
sun melting into the horizon, everything refreezing
in a slick swatch of darkness. Toward the south end
of the lake, springs thin the ice, but the boys believe
the cold insures their passage. On the way back
a wheel breaks through, front end dipping, the entire truck
tipping, then plunging forward like a duck, tail feathers
pointed at the moon. Every year some drown,
and even more trucks sink. But tonight,
with the windows open, each boy places a foot
on the seat and leaps to safety, rolling onto their sides,
praying the ice-shelf will hold. The sound of the truck
being sucked beneath the surface is smothered
by their happy hollering. None of them thinking
about the cost when Szymanski’s Towing
sends a diver down with a cable and hook,
or how their moms will cry as their dads berate
such stupidity, which of course is inherited.
For now they can only hoot at their own good fortune.
The cold stars warmer with their escape, sparkling
like the fake diamonds they give their girlfriends
on their six-month anniversary, and the moon
offering just enough light to help them to shore
and to the county road they’ll walk
all the way back to town.