Becker's Pond

A student and professor find their relationship tested during a routine search for turtles.

We left the interstate an hour ago. We bumped across a mixture of dirt, gravel, and concrete roads since. Old growth forest flanked us on both sides. The rare structure that we passed was either vintage from the colonial era or recently repurposed by the forest.

Professor Wilson drove. The student, I deferred to him. His beard was white with a shape between a portly naval captain’s and a wandering ascetic’s; he balded elsewhere. Born in 1952, he looked good for a man past the retirement age. Through frequent hikes, he kept in shape and avoided the engrossed stomach of more stagnant professors. We wore water-proof boots. I wore pants and he wore jeans. He wore a Woodstock t-shirt; he did attend the original. He bought tickets to the fiftieth anniversary event this August. I wore a Super Mario 64 t-shirt.

This would by my first trip to Becker’s Pond, named for Professor John Becker, a noted cheloniologist, World War II veteran, and mentor to Professor Wilson. In his honor, a lavish naming ceremony was held in 1989. The county brought multiple grills, invited multiple veterans’ organizations, and strung a banner in Becker’s honor. According to Professor Wilson, John brought his service portrait from World War II and even found an old army friend, something that brought Professor Becker to tears. It was the only time that Professor Wilson saw the stalwart, military-disciplined man cry.

Most striking of the photos was the youth of everyone. Professor Wilson had no beard nor wrinkles. His chest was inflated with vigor and muscle. His hair was long and brown. On some polaroids, Professor Becker had written of Professor Wilson as ‘Robbie,’ and not even as Robert. Professor Becker was grizzled, in his seventies, but walked without a cane. Another showed him with sagging skin and a wrinkled face juxtaposed against sharp angles of his service portrait. Youthful and strong when he blew up a panzer, the man holding the portrait would be dead in three years.

Professor Wilson’s jeep had a CD player, USB slots, and Bluetooth connectivity. Professor Wilson ignored all three and had a cassette player loaded with “real music.” Boston’s song, ‘A Man I’ll Never Be’ beat through the cab. The most proper way to hear Boston was through cassette, so Professor Wilson assured me.

“What do you think of the music?” Professor Wilson asked, “do you accept it?”

“It’s good but not entirely my type of music. I can enjoy rock, yes, sure, but I am not too fond of the genre.”

“Shame, let me tell you this, Nick, but when I was your age, rock was all the rage. Everyone listened to it, enjoyed it, the works. That is, except for all our professors and deans did not accept it, but we kept an armistice about it.”

“And what type of armistice was that?”

“You’d understand, we kept the rock to a certain volume and the university would not throw a fit about it,” he said while lifting a finger for my attention, “though mind you, we were ready to launch a fit of our own if they moved against rock.”

“Well, I’m glad that I am not prone to overthrow the chancellor.”

“You can thank my generation. We stood up to the administration so you would enjoy certain rights and privileges. You see, that is where the real fight for human rights took place during the sixties and seventies, if you think you can trust my word on the matter.”

I said nothing in reply and listened to ‘A Man I’ll Never Be.’ The song started slow and somber, submerged with undertones of submission and failure. Throughout, the singer faced a contrast between the ideal and the stark reality of being a lesser man than imagined.

“Yes, this song always drove Professor Becker mad,” Professor Wilson said.

“Your mentor from college?” I asked.

“And I became his research partner, don’t think I remained that low. Yes, though, I started as a student of his in a biology seminar. See, he was the one who convinced me to become a zoology major in the first place.”

“And why did he dislike this song so much?”

“See, Nick, but Professor Becker was somewhat of a hardass. Pardon my French, but he was truthfully one of them. He served in World War II and thought everyone needed enough discipline and they could do anything.”

            “He disagreed with the message?”

            “He was never one for failure. Professor Becker, I should use his first name; he’s named John. He thought it quite silly that the singer mopped about his problems more than anything else.”

            “John sounds fun.”

            “There was a part of Professor Becker like that,” Professor Wilson said, “the hardass who never thought failure as an option. He could give very good pep talks when he wanted to though, a holdover from his army days.”

            “May I ask a personal question?”

            “Ask away, Nick.”

            “Did you like John?”

            “That is a personal question.”

            A downed tree barred us from driving any farther. We unloaded our gear in silence. My bag contained tape measures, scale, and water sampling kit. Professor Wilson’s held camera equipment and multiple scientific journals. Attached to his camouflage backpack were clearing tools and first-aid kit. Mine had an assortment of agreed upon snacks along with water bottles. I slung my laptop bag around my shoulder, ready to plug in research data. He grabbed the cassette player and marched to Becker’s Pond.

            It was not quite a lake, but too big to be a pond. The pond laid in a glade slashed into the mixed-growth forest. Its shores were a mix of gravel, grass, and inaccessible reed banks. Beyond the shores was a ring of grass that grew up to the forest. A trail cut two paths through the forest and circled around the pond.

            “Look here, there’s a memorial stone to Professor Becker,” Professor Wilson said.

            I came over and examined the stone. Damaged and lichen worn as it was, the details difficult to make out, it was possible to determine Professor Becker’s name, rank of Master Sergeant, World War II, and the panzer he blew up in Belgium.

            “But a damn shame how beaten it is,” he said, “nevertheless, it is a testament to his legacy even to have this dedication among the turtles he loved. For unlike many others, he has this record.”

            We set up on a gravel shore. Each stone was dug into the sand and dirt mixture like the pieces of a mosaic. In the final inch before the water, a zone of moist dirt marked the evaporation of yesterday’s shore. Lapping on it was crystal clear water, which gave us a clear view of a flat desert of a pondfloor. Nothing but mud, no plants, extended from shore-to-shore. Where the pond flooded the gravel shore, insects darted between clumps of grass. Algae grew on the rocks identical to the ones at our feet. After the cacti of grass, a uniform flatness levelled the pond. Long-drowned sticks marked the floor like longhorn skulls. Infrequent bursts of gas echoed tumbleweeds.

            Pristine, minus the basking tire dug into the pond’s mud. The pond held only native New England turtles, a perfect control sample of a healthy pond ecosystem. Introduced English sparrows landed by the shore, took a drink, and then flew off. I was no botanist and couldn’t tell if any plants were foreign.

            “Ready?” Professor Wilson asked.

            “It is all part of the routine. It’s actually soothing to be this very deep in nature,” I said.

            “I am glad one of us is relaxed.”

            “And you’re not? Everything okay?”

            “Yes, yes, by every mean,” he looked at my bag, “and do you have the journals, or do I have them?”

            “You’ve got them.”

            “I do? Very good then.”

            “Yeah, I’ve only got the snacks and water bottles in my bag.”

            “And you find today to be soothing?”

            “Of course, even if it consumes my regular Saturday. It’s either this or Twitch streaming and that’s not going to make any fame.”

            “What is Twitch?”

            “Something dumb, don’t pay attention. I like our work, but I want it to matter more and to be prestigious. Why shouldn’t we honor a skilled cheloniologist just as much as the Jones Brothers? Hyperbole, yeah, maybe but let’s talk of Nick the turtle guy like Nick Jones.”

            “The Jones Brothers?”

            “A pop band from my generation, they got back together recently. My point still stands, I think there ought to be more prestige associated with our role than we currently get,” I said, “not like it causes me to lose sleep.”

            “Does it seriously?”

            “Of course not, I’m not that vain.”

            “I am glad that you do struggle as well with restless nights.”

            A bit odd that he should imply he struggled with restless nights.

            “We do important work, that much is certain. I say we should have more praise, but,” he extended his arms upward, “not all of us can be as strong as Professor Becker nor can we achieve his level of fame.”

            We set our bags down. He pulled out the graphed scientific notebooks. He kept two journals to record the exact same observations. Insurance as he justified it. He passed my notebook. Mine was brand new in contrast to his beaten-down, water-damaged books. Though in comparison to his oldest records and Professor Becker’s, his two notebooks were as young as the first grass after a forest fire. He then gently lifted one such notebook out and settled it on the gravel.

            “Are you ready?” I asked.

            “Do you think we will find Jack Kennedy the snapper today?” He asked, “I know it is unlikely, but I have a strange feeling about it.”

            “Kennedy hasn’t been seen in these waters since 1992.”

            “He’s still out here. The Senator wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye. I know him far too well.”

            “Sure.”

            “You must think I’m a crazy man, Nick. I feel something special about today, I actually brought the old journal from 1992,” he held the old journal up, “from when Professor Becker and I last observed that monster. Besides, there are the legends still out there, legends that speak of him.”

            “A lot of snapping turtles in this pond could massacre a duck or scare off swans. It’s pretty clear in the records.”

            “Perhaps you are right. It’s something in my guts though, I just have a good feeling about this, completely inexplicable but it feels good. He has this great forest of moss like he’s the curator of a great forest.”

            His office had a picture taken in 1992 of Jack Kennedy.

            “Professor Becker would be proud if I find Jack. He was a scientist certainly, but he enjoyed the thrill of finding larger and larger turtles. Why, he would beam from heaven to see how large Jack Kennedy became.”

            I set up a website that catalogued our turtles for public consumption. It was one of the few times that Professor Wilson gave me first billing for our work. All other times, he dominated the headlines.

            “As will I. It will be an accomplishment for our platoon, I always tried to make him see we were in a platoon together of turtle scientists.”

            “I must imagine that worked.”

            Professor Wilson opened his mouth then said nothing.

Dank air whiffed from the pond and filled our noses. The birds hidden in trees gave us an orchestra from soprano to baritone. We watched pond turtles swimming to start their day. Occasional ripples alerted us to when a turtle submerged. We watched birds hop by the shores to take a quick drink. Or to enjoy a short little dip into the water. A robin stood at the shore with what seemed to be ample caterpillars in its beak. He waded frequently to cool his feet, walked back to the shore, and then ran back in not too unlike a kid encountering the sea for the first time. Or like a kid struggling with water in a Nintendo 64 game.

            Bushes dipped into the pond not too dissimilar from a mangrove swamp. Many fishes peeked between the bushes. They darted when a painted turtle bobbed along the surface five feet from the shore. He barely swam and went with the flow. He peeked at us, perhaps a little curious about our intentions or even our shape.

            We eyed the turtle to dare him to come closer for study. A bold one that he was, the little guy raced up. Once he came in just close enough, I rushed into the water. He dove but was not fast enough to escape. His claws scrapped against my hand before they tucked into his shell. I turned him around to peer into his eyes. He was handsome with yellow, red, and orange painted strips.

            Professor Wilson played peek-a-boo with him. I placed him on a scale. Professor Wilson grabbed a tape measure and took measurements. I flipped the turtle and confirmed his sex. A peek through our notes confirmed that this was a new painted turtle. I dubbed him Vincent van Gogh.

            I placed Vincent into the pond. I expected him to dart forward to the depths of the pond. He fled to a bush’s shadows growing above the pond. It seemed too early for a turtle to need to cool off. As he turned, a flurry of mud kicked in the water. Mixed in was a rising red color and fish scales. Followed shortly by a moss-greened carapace of a large snapping turtle.

            “After him!”

            We ran into the pond. The snapper shallowed his fish and watched us fearlessly. Professor Wilson grabbed the rear and lifted the massive snapper at arm’s length so the turtle could not bite him. Claws on webbed feet struggled to find flesh to slash. The snapper’s neck frailed and his beak snapped the air. Muscular tail with its sharp ridges thrashed. We settled him onto the scale, and I recorded his weight. I grabbed the tape measure and took his measurements. Professor Wilson consulted photographs, and notes.

            “Any idea who this is?” I asked.

            “It’s not Jack Kennedy. It is a Dan Quayle.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s only Pat Buchanan.”

            I looked at his notebook and photograph. Pat Buchanan was a frequent face who first appeared in spring of 1992. Margined around Pat was a note about his tameness, something I disagreed with. Professor Wilson wrote his weight of thirty-seven pounds followed by his carapace length of fourteen inches. Pat hissed. I looked him in the eye and realized one eye was unusually blue.

            “Professor Wilson, look, I think Pat is blind in one eye!”

            “What! How!”

            I pointed to the blue, cataracted eye.

            Professor Wilson waved his hand before Pat’s blue eye. He did not react. When Professor Wilson tried the right, Pat thrashed to the side.

            “You were taking a risk there,” I said.

            “I trust Pat. You wouldn’t bite me, no you wouldn’t,” he looked up from Pat, “but do you know what this means, Nick?”

            “Did it say he was blind in previous notes?”

            “No, this is the first time that we observe blindness.”

            “He must have suffered a battle wound.”

            “This is a large, male snapper. Virile as he is, he could only lose to an equally matched rival, or,” smile creeping on his face, Professor Wilson said, “or someone stronger.”

            “Kennedy? Pat could have also killed Jack,” I said, “it explains his wounded eye and the disappearance of Jack. If Jack was alive since recently.”

            “No, you’re wrong, Nick. Jack is too big to fall.”

            “Lee Harvey Oswald?”

            “There is a difference between,” he looked at Pat, “between Camelot and Jack.”

            “Professor Wilson,” I said, “you lived through the sixties.”

            “He is still out there, Nick. I will prove it to John.”

We opened the scale and Pat trudged back into the pond. Once back in the water, he swam along the bottom and scrapped up a thick sludge of mud. The mud settled; Pat was nowhere to be seen. Fish swam back into place as if Pat never swam in.

“But he is no Jack Kennedy,” Professor Wilson said, “he is the largest of the Dan Quayles now the eponymous turtle passed.”

            “And why did John name the smaller snappers Dan Quayle?”

            “John? Yes, Professor Becker,” Professor Wilson said, “I must say that I am not much of a political man, pardon my foggy memory. It was 1988 and Professor Becker fundamentally enjoyed vice presidential candidate Bentsen’s characterization of Dan Quayle as no Jack Kennedy. So, when we came up after the debates, we found Jack Kennedy for the first time and saw how much he dwarfed the other snapping turtles. By comparison, these once ten-inch snappers were no Jack Kennedy, hence Dan Quayles.”

            “How big was Jack?”

            “We found him because he was stalking a duck. He was massive, fifteen inches and maybe forty-five pounds then. He must be bigger today. He is bigger today, mark my words.”

            I nodded.

            “Professor Becker took Jack’s stats, laughed, and called all the smaller snapping turtles Dan Quayles. Bear in mind, Professor Becker had been a Republican since 1981 and he voted Democrat then solely because of Senator Bentsen’s quip.”

            “And you?”

            “I am not as much of a political man,” Professor Wilson said, “we discovered Pat Buchanan in 1992. See, Professor Becker was worried about the state of America’s morals and feared Bill Clinton would destroy families and so he voted for Pat Buchanan, naming a particularly large snapping turtle after him seemed fitting.”

            Bubbles breached, popped, and then nothing. Sadly, an all too common observation in biology. Maybe no organism produced them. Air bubbles could be nothing more than pressurized oxygen surfacing. In an old pond like this, undisturbed since its ice age birth, the pondfloor was drenched in decaying matter.

            “Now, now, enough about 1992. Care for any of my music?” Professor Wilson asked.      “You know we’ve got a generation gap.”

            “But you’re never revolted by rock unlike Professor Becker.”

            “Play some Boston then, do they have anything on the calm side?”

            He walked to the cassette player, rewound, and a song began. Calm rock was an oxymoron. The initial guitar rift cut the air, but the lyrics had a rhythmic softness. It peaked into, “People living in competition.” Then it came to a slower, “All I want is to have my peace of mind.”

            I smirked for Professor Wilson to see. The song he picked, a ballad against climbing infinite company leaders had a hold over today. As we examined painted turtles, I felt a pang of envy for their lives. They tanned daily, every spring and summer. Come winter and they’d spend months asleep. Even back in 2000 on summer vacation, my parents never let me sleep in past ten. Not as if I ever wanted to; summer meant plenty of time to play video games or build Lego. A five-year-old Millennial boy asked for little more.

            Enough about my boyhood, I had a good future lined up. I had a scientific skill set and had the chance to see my name in journals and to make a difference in the world. Professor Wilson and I had a close relationship; he called me the son he never had before. What conferences he went to, he took me along. His colleagues recognized me; some knew me as a coauthor on his papers. One even called me his turtle hatchling. All that remained was to rise up in this world.

            We took temperature observations and sampled water. The air was a heartwarming seventy-five degrees. The sun dolloped more energy, heat and spirit, over the land. The soft wind moderated the air further and cooled us to somewhere in the high sixties.

            ‘Peace of Mind’ ended.

            “Now listen to this,” I pulled up music on my cellphone.

            “We’re not going to listen to some of your music, right?”

            “Hey, you picked the music for the ride from the science building.”

            “Pardon, but I’ve got real music.”

            “Equality, I get to play one song.”

            “Yes, but I am the professor,” he said, “and I feel entitled to make some of the command decisions of the day.”

            “Just one song, Master Sergeant.”

            “I’ll let you get away with this sole song.”

            “Thank you, Professor.”

            “You’re welcome, Nick.”

            I opened my music menu and selected ‘Jolly Roger Bay’ from Super Mario 64. I had no words to describe the song apart from nostalgic. To separate the music from Mario’s adventure was a hopeless endeavor. True blue water shimmered that held endless mysteries again from new turtles or eels. Every ripple could birth something to tell people about: parents, friends, and kindergarten crushes.

The music brought me to a simpler time where I never had to care for grades, grants, and the mortality of research deadlines. When I woke up and played my Nintendo 64 until my parents took me to a fun diversion or served me peanut butter-jelly sandwiches prepped gourmet, sans crust.

            “So, this, little instrumental of yours, what does it mean?” Professor Wilson asked.

            “It’s from my childhood, from a video game called ‘Super Mario 64.’ I don’t know, the song just fit today. This is from the water level of the game and whenever I hear this music, I think of exploring and being a happy-go-lucky kid again.”

            “Did you do other things growing up?”

            “Of course, I went to the zoo as a child, that was always a favorite of mine. My cousins thought me weird for enjoying the reptile houses more than the lions but it’s not like they’re getting a graduate degree in herpetology. I’m doing quite better actually, if I say so myself.”

            “Or what about when you grew up? When you were say, in high school?”

            “I volunteered with a local trail maintenance group. Once a month we would go out to a trail and clean it up. I took multiple AP classes, took SATs and ACTs, and spent hours studying. It wasn’t always fun but it was worth it.”

            “Did you do anything for fun? What about time with friends?” He asked, “or was it just hard work and duty?”

            “We’d hang out from time-to-time. For my college applications, I did a lot of things, but I tried to make them as fun as possible. I interned at the aquarium’s pond exhibits and spent a good deal of time with the reptiles and it paid off considering I’m a grad student now.”

            “No, of course not, you are very right, Nick. Now, I have another question for you. What brought you to herpetology? Or at the very least to become such an assiduous and dedicated scientist?”

            “It all started with wanting to find 120 power stars and confirming if Luigi was real.”       

            “Pardon?”

            “It’s a reference to something that’s unimportant right now. What matters is that my mom and dad rewarded my hard work with video games. Possibly not the best way to make me a better person but it built a work ethic for high school and onto college. College was the natural next step forward in my life.”

            “I must say you have a stellar constitution to not only have had a plan but also the drive and discipline to see through your plans.”

            “Thank you, Professor Wilson.”

            “If only you could have met Professor Becker. He would have liked you. He enjoys discipline in people, and he’d like to see how dedicated you are.”

            “Is that a ringing endorsement of Professor Becker?”

            “I do in fact only have admiration for Professor Becker. Even if he struggled to express some of his feelings toward me,” Professor Wilson said, “or to accept everything I did. Enough about that negativity, today is a time for calmness as you said.”

            Infrequent bloops, krsplashes, and slips caught our attention. We often only found ripples or a burst of mud. Bloops indicated surfacing. Shoreline ripples and krsplashes meant turtles slipping in for a dip. We looked every time, just in case it revealed a turtle.

            “But what about you Professor? What did you do growing up?”

            “I had a lot of free time. Nor did I have to do all the things you did for college. I did not plan to go to college.”

            “Then why did you go? I assumed since you’re a professor, you went straight out of high school.”

            “I certainly did. I graduated high school in 1969 and then went to college. See though, 1969 and the Vietnam War was being fought.”

            “I understand in that case.”

            “You do?” Professor Wilson asked, “because Professor Becker never did. See, he looks down on the young men in his seminars that should have been serving, even me.”

            I noted that Professor Wilson used present tense verbs for a man dead since 1992.

            “But he didn’t know what war was like.”

            “Yeah, the public didn’t know everything about the Vietnam War. I think.”

            “Bentsen served. John Kennedy served, that’s what he said. Professor Becker served and he believed Quayle avoided service.”

            “I wouldn’t know.”

            “I had an opposition to the military anyways. It’s too bossy, too commanding. All those officers flaunting authority, seems too fascistic for me.”

            “Don’t like people who flaunt authority?”

            “No, not at all.”

            “I can understand opposition to the Vietnam War. Not like I was alive then.”

            “Would you have served?”

            “I couldn’t say.”

            “But would you? Say you were.”

            “I could see myself doing my part, even if I dislike it.”

            “Now, spare me the details, Nick,” he said, “enough about that conflict. I don’t want to talk about it. No one wants to talk about it. What were we talking about?”

            “How you grew up?”

            “Yes, in the beautiful post-war suburbs, gleaming with newness. I biked with my neighborhood friends, traded baseball cards, and enjoyed boyhood games. Let me tell, it was a child’s paradise and almost a world without adults, without overbearing adults. The adults we encountered only had kind words to give or wisdom to share or sweets to give,” he said with a smile.

            “Is that a turtle?” I asked.

            “Where?”

            I pointed at a stream of ripples.

            “Yes, yes, very much so! After him!”

            We charged. The small painted turtle dove and disappeared. In our motion, we dug up decayed leaves, mud, and air bubbles. Professor Wilson and I examined the muck and found nothing.

            I walked out of the water and Professor Wilson followed. We were drenched but more upset the turtle got away. Adding insult to injury, we kicked up a load of muck that obscured our vision of what else might be out there. Though I sounded more like Professor Wilson who believed Jack Kennedy to be everywhere.

            “Now no one can accuse us of not doing any research,” Professor Wilson said, “that is the great tragedy of our work, is it not? We shall not go down in the hallowed halls of American history.”

            “Maybe we don’t need to go down those halls. I can sleep easily as the kid who,” I rose my shirt, “still has a Super Mario 64 shirt. So long as I have a job to pay the bills and have a good time.”

            “I cannot accept that,” he said, “never. I can never accept that. We never shall see our names carved in reflective stone. Nothing and that is exactly what I fear.”

            “Any particular one in your mind?”

            “No, none at all.”

            “I see.”

            “That is the problem, isn’t it? We cannot even name the solemn stone. Upon what solemn stone shall I appear on?”

            “Professor Wilson, are you okay?” I walked closer to him.

            He pushed back, “you must think I’m crazy, don’t you? It’s okay, I am only an old man isolated from history.”

            “Not at all, Professor Wilson.”

            “You believe in me, Nick?

“You were the one who brought me as far as I have come with research.”

            “Thank you, Nick, it means a lot to me. It is always helpful to have a helpful ear, a compassionate ear. I am thankful that you accept me, accept me as I am.”

            “I owe you a lot, Professor Wilson.”

            “Thank you.”

            I bowed my head.

            “It’s almost noon, care for an early lunch?”

            I nodded, noting the sudden shift, “did we bring any disinfectants?”

            “Why do you ask?”

            “We’ve been handling turtles associated with salmonella.”

            “You are right about that health concern, Nick. You’ll be surprised to know that we do not have any disinfectants.”

            “You know, Professor Wilson, I’m not actually that surprised.”

            “You’re not?” He asked with concern on his face, “you’ll still look up�"”

            “Yes, of course,” I said, “this entire trip was been marred by poor funding from the university. If we get salmonella, I will not blame Vincent van Gogh, no I’ll blame the university.”

            “Yes, yes,” his face lighting up, “that makes perfect sense actually. The university has a duty to ensure its employees enjoy good health and well that includes packing disinfectants.”

            “And besides, I survived the nineties.”

            “True, very much so.”

            I pulled out our lunches. The day warmed up, but enough water evaporated from the pond to keep us in an energizing rather than a boiling inferno. Rare clouds drifted overhead. The wind tugged a melody across the water and through the plants. Around us was a thick wave of green grass dotted with wildflowers. If I knew which ones to pick, I would find the edible ones and garnish my sandwich with them. A daydream, with warmth enough to put me to sleep.

            Rustling broke from the forest. I was leaning on the ground but pushed up enough from the ground to see a father and son emerge from the path. They acknowledged our presence.

            “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the father said.

            “Top of the morning to you,” Professor Wilson said, “enjoying the weather?”

            “You have no idea.”

            “Long days at work?”

            “And too many of them, it’s liberating to be out here in the forest and enjoying nature.”

            The kid was silent and looked to be twelve at most.

            “Take a deep breath, Reggie, enjoy the moment,” the father said.

            The kid rolled his eyes.

            “Hey, what’s so wrong with spending time your pops? All these things to see, stuff to do,” he elbowed his son.

            “There are multiple turtles in this pond,” I said, “care to examine them?”

            “There are? Reggie, you loved turtles growing up.”

            The kid shrugged.

            “We are zoologists, cheloniologists actually. Professor Wilson and I have been studying turtles here all day. So far we’ve found painted turtles and snapping turtles.”

            “Snappers are the really big ones,” the father stretched out his arms, “right? Those giant guys with tough jaws?”

            “Huge,” I said, “some could sever a finger if they want to.”

            “Especially Jack Kennedy,” Professor Wilson said.

            “Who?” The father asked.

            “Jack Kennedy, the king of this pond, the Godzilla of this pond and its annexing lands. Some act as if he is a legend now, but I know, I’ve seen him.”

            “Well, how about that? How big is the guy?”

            “See, we haven’t actually seen him since 1992.”

            “1992? I was a kid still in the army.”

            “You served?” I asked, “thank you for your service.”

            “Yeah, sure thing about that.”

            I noted some discomfort on the father’s face.

            “Indeed, your service must have been great,” Professor Wilson said.

            “Yeah, hey you guys study turtles? Care to say anything you’ve seen today?” The father asked.

            “The largest snapper we found today was a male around fifteen inches and thirty-seven pounds.”

            “A big b*****d then.”

            “And he really did look grumpy. Not just with us yanking him from the pond,” Professor Wilson said, “please don’t get the idea that we are hurting the turtles. No, this guy always looks to be upset.”

            The father elbowed his son, “sounds like we found you as a snapping turtle.”

            “Oh sure.”

            “But I can barely yank you from your bedroom.”

            He shrugged.

            “What do you do for fun?” I asked.

            The kid shrugged.

            “A bit too much YouTube, a bit too many videos there,” the father said.

            I dabbed for the kid.

            “Like no one dabs anymore,” he said.

            “Sorry, I don’t know how to Fortnite dance. I wasn’t even a Minecraft kid. I grew up on the Nintendo 64.”

            “What’s a Nintendo 64?”

            “You’re too young to even know that. I am getting way too old,” I said.

            The father laughed, “why, we had Gameboys during Desert Storm. Young man, you’ve showed me the history I must teach him.”

            I laughed.

            “You served in Kuwait?” Professor Wilson asked.

            “It’s more service in Iraq if anything. It was a quick war. Quick for some people certainly, I didn’t enjoy it.”

            “Your service was good?”

            “What do you mean, buddy?” The father stepped back, “you look old enough to have served in Vietnam. And did you hear what I said, buddy?”

            “No, no, no,” Professor Wilson shook his head, “you’re wrong. Actually, you are right, I am old enough to have had the ability to serve.”

            “And you didn’t. It’s okay. Service wasn’t worth that.”

            “Wasn’t worth it? Are you sure about that?”

            “I know it wasn’t worth it. What difference does it make?”

            “Hey, Professor Wilson,” I said pointing to non-existing ripples, “what do you see over there? Is it a turtle?”

            “Nick, not now, I’m busy,” he focused on the father, “I want to know if you enjoyed the fanfare. There must have been so much glory in the parades, the tickertape even. I remember the streets then.”

            “The fanfare? That’s what you see from the war?”

            “The defeat of Saddam Hussein’s forces of course. There were parades everywhere, all over the country. Do you forget them?”

            “Buddy,” the father said, “forget it. Reggie, come on, we’re getting out of here.”

            On cue, the two marched back to the trial. They disrupted none of our equipment and disappeared amongst the green. Professor Wilson’s eyes remained locked on the spot where the father stood.

            I approached.

            His eyes returned to the pond.

            “What were you thinking, Professor?”

            “I thought since there was so much fanfare when we won the war he wouldn’t mind.”

            “He did though.”

            “Well Professor Becker never shied from his service.”

            “He isn’t Professor Becker.”

            “But the war’s honor, its glories, I�"”

            “Professor Wilson.”

            “I want to get one final word in.”

            “I don’t think politics would be good for a trip out here today.”

            “He talked of World War II for the honor, not the glory. He did the honorable thing by his country even if the war was not glory-filled. Not as it if it stopped him basking in the prestige.”

            “Who?”

            “Professor Becker, always.”

            I looked in the pond. A Dan Quayle-sized snapper approached the shore. He stayed far enough from shore to not warrant chasing. His nose breached the surface and he bubbled out hisses. This bobbing attracted a large painted turtle. She dove just below the surface and made direct eye-contact with the snapper. The sight of a nine-inch snapper did not concern her. Seven inches long, she felt no threats.

            Professor Wilson watched the snapper.

            “Do you think those turtles will swim in any closer?” I asked.

            “There’s a song I need to listen to right now.”

            Another sudden shift.

            Professor Wilson walked over to the cassette player and fast-forwarded through multiple tracks. He paused to hear where he was. In the midst of an instrumental, he rewound to the ending of another song. Once it concluded, a chorus of “Ah look at all the lonely people” started. It repeated and then shifted to “Eleanor Rigby, picks up the rice.” With refrains of lonely people, a Father McKenzie writing unheard sermons, and the death of an Eleanor Rigby, it was song he played after bad news.

            Something new rose from the water. It resembled a tanned rock, a rock that was not present a minute ago. A triangular shape with two sides cutting the water with a sharp, nearly ninety-degree angle broke the surface. Two other bumps were more rounded, organic rather than stone. A bit below and a tan tip became a brown. For just one second, the brown disappeared behind a different color. No rock, it was the head of a snapping turtle. From my position, it was clear that this was a massive one.

            “Look at that monster!” I said pointing to the snapper.

            “Oh, grab me! After him, after that monster!”

I waded into the water; Professor Wilson stayed on shore. My motion surprised him, and he turned out of the shallows. His head resembled a cannon, thick enough to grab my entire hand if he wanted. His speed was far more like that of a cannonball. Despite the dragging algae, his massive bulk, and enormous carapace, he pushed and pulled the pondfloor like a dolphin. The mud obscured him somewhat, being so large though and I could track him.

Now the snapper watched with his entire body submerged. I did not want to pursue; doing so meant triggering a snapping landmine. He dwarfed Pat Buchanan from earlier. I now retreated, walking backwards to measure the snapper’s intentions. He eyed me and did not pursue.

            “Nick, everything okay? I have a great interest in the turtle and would love to see him up close,” Professor Wilson said from shore, “you wouldn’t want to disappoint me by failing to bring him ashore, would you?”

            I shook my head.

            “Thank you, Nick.”

            If he wanted the turtle so badly, Professor Wilson should join me in this glooping mud. Each step of mine was a struggle between boot and muck. I thought the snapper was either laughing or saw me as a challenger. To that, I would accept his challenge. I returned to the shore. A clump of grass rose from the water. I wrapped a finger around one blade and shook it. That got his attention. The cannonball approached. Silent as a stealth bomber, he stalked back to the shallows. Forest of a shell breached the surface. Eyes, nose, beak stayed submerged.

            Something told me to retreat. Chelydra serpentina could strike just as fast as a rocket. A monster of this size could shatter bone and rip fingers off. As he approached, he switched to a crawl. Eyes tracked my motion. Neck extended and rose to just below the surface. Giant jaws stayed closed �" for now.

            Adrenaline and I snapped around him. He recoiled and assumed a defensive posture. I snuck to his backside and heaved him from the water. Water and pond muck rolled off his shell to reveal the algae canopy thicker than the surrounding forests.

            Heart raced, half from exertion and half from excitement. Buried in too was a hint of fear of this monster’s power. His shell sloped in a gentle incline, an oxymoron for such a giant. His claws were brutal, sharp and frailing. Beak large enough to tear human flesh and break to bone, if not cut it. His neck was thick and sagged with the bulk of strong muscle. Limbs, tail, and neck bulged with thick tea-red scales.

            “Nick,” Professor Wilson’s voice trembled, “bring him ashore. Bring him ashore right now!”

            “Yes, I was about to do.”

            “Nick, I need to consult my notes. Keep a good eye on him. I do not believe that is any dragon, please understand the delay.”

            “Professor Wilson?”

            “Do as I say! I’m in charge!”

            I brought the massive snapper to the scale. Massive as he was, he could not climb out of the plastic tray. Its walls were too high and its materials unbreakable to his gnarled claws and massive beak. Part of his tail curved and flowed out of the container. He hissed and rocked the container, but I did not want to steady it. One false move too close and he could sever a finger.

            I crouched and examined his eyes. They were the one break with the armored scales on his face. They were large and sharp. His black pupils radiated like dripping ink across ancient yellow parchment.

            Professor Wilson ignored our notebooks and reached for the beaten 1992 notebook. It contained his notes from then, correction, Professor Becker’s final notes. He furiously flipped through to the end. Attached on one page was a photographed tan-colored male snapping turtle.

            “A little help?” I asked, “do we have anything to cover his eyes to calm him down?”

            “Oh, grab me! That is no monster, that is Jack Kennedy!”

            “Is it?”

            “He is more massive than I remember. I can feel Professor Becker looking down on me from heaven for finding Jack again.”

            “Let me grab photos.”

            “Many, take many, take as many as you want. Please get me in some of these. Get me in many of them; I need to be pictured with Jack to show everyone. It’s been twenty-seven years and he’s still alive. This is madness, this is great!”

            “Then come here and watch him for me! I’ll grab the camera.”

            “Please, absolutely.”

            We traded positions. I grabbed the camera. I took a photo from the top, around his body from flank to flank and then his tail. Professor Wilson with a boyish smile sat next to his head. I took the first picture.

            “More, more, Nick, I need all the evidence possible of Jack.”

            I took more.

            “My goodness, I am so glad to see him again. You don’t understand, Nick.”

            “Could I get a picture with him?”

            “Do you want one?”

            “Of course, I found him.”

            “I found him? Yes, give me the camera, I will take the pictures for you.”

            I gave him the camera and we traded positions.

            “Nick.”

            “Yes, Professor Wilson?”

            “I found him,” he said.

            “What?”

            “Jack Kennedy, I found him. That’s what we’ll say back at the university. I can’t wait to tell everyone.”

            “But I found him.”

            “Yes, but there is a special relation that Jack and I share, isn’t that right?” He said looking the turtle in the eye.

            “Yeah, professor, about this.”

            “No, no, I understand your career interests. Any research published will give you second billing after mine.”

            “But you already promised me that.”

            “I did? Did I?”

            “Exactly as you spelt out in your email about it.”

            “Nick, you must understand how important Jack Kennedy means to me. How much it means to Professor Becker.”

            “You’re speaking of him in the present tense, again.”

            “It’s about your relationship. Yes, that’s exactly it.”

            “And with whom?”

            “See, that is a very important measure of our relationship. We served for so long here. Across forests and through trails uncleared in years, it was a case of danger all around, Nick. I beg that you understand me, accept me.”

            I thought him to be increasingly unhinged.

            “Professor Becker wants me to have this special relationship to Jack. Do you understand?”

            “No, Professor Wilson, I know you had a special relationship to him, but John’s been dead since before I was born. I hate to be blunt�"”

            “Nick, it transcends his death. It must be hard for you to understand, not having my wisdom quite just yet.”

            “It has nothing to do with that.”

            “But it does,” he said, “but if you say so. Just remember and always remember, Nick, how valuable my connections can be. All I want is for you to accept me.”

            “What are you saying, Professor Wilson?”

            “You are a smart student, Nick. You are a sharp young man. Connect the dots.”

            “I am missing some of them, Professor Wilson. Is a turtle worth this?”

            “Jack Kennedy means so much to me. That picture on my office’s wall, it comes from Professor Becker. He takes the best photos of wildlife, Jack Kennedy included.”

            “Is it worth it?”

            “Yes, and I have every intention to make sure that everyone else knows it. You wouldn’t want to dissent from the narrative, Nick. Would you? You wouldn’t want to break my spirits like that, would you?”

            I said nothing.

            “Nick, you must know how important this is.”

            How serious was he about his connections? Did Professor Wilson need to serve as a steppingstone anymore with my name already published?

            “Nick, please just accept me. That’s all I want.”

            I didn’t want to risk it.

            “Nick, you must accept me. You must accept me; it means a lot.”

            “I’ll accept the lie.”

            “It’s not a lie.”

            “Then what is it?”

            “We can go with it. You can call it that; I will call it something else.”

            “Then what, Professor Wilson?”

            “You know very well I’m talking about.”

            I returned to the scale and recorded Jack’s weight and measured his carapace.

            “Thank you, Nick.”

            I said nothing.

Reviews

[Samuel Dickens]

I finish this with a sore neck and tired eyes. So much to say. In the beginning, I feared it would be a dry read. Gladly, I was wrong. And humor? I surely didn't expect that, but found myself grinning like a fool at the turtles with politician's names. Being retired military, (Navy) I found much interest in the dialogue about serving/not serving, etc. Don't know what Wilson was about with his prodding of the father concerning his Gulf War experience. A tense scene, it became for me. Many of my peers joined the Army nat'l guard back in the sixties in order to avoid going to Vietnam. Then comes the Gulf War and they get sent to Iraq. I'm way off subject here, but you made me think about that ordeal. There had never been a monument in my little hometown to us Vietnam vets, but then they built one for the Gulf War vets. Pissed me off, it did. Sorry about the rant. Back to your excellent story--I'm not sure what was going on at the end with Wilson's desire to be "accepted" by Nick.
A couple of errors here--"this entire trip was been marred by..." and--" spending time your pops? ".

Note: I wrote this yesterday, right as the site went down for maintenance, and couldn't post it at that time.