by Colin Kersey
“Yeah.” I stooped to pet Patsy and got my face licked in return. “Thanks, Valerie. I think I’ll turn in and get some rest.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to bring you something to eat?”
“Thanks, but I’m tired.”
“Take care, brown bear,” she said.
When I did not reply, she added, “Just remember, it wasn’t your fault.”
As I made my way to the cabin, a swirl in the water caught my attention. I glimpsed a huge tail fin as it curled and then disappeared beneath the nubilous black water. At least one thing had gone right this day. No one had caught Moses.
I entered the tiny cabin, desperately needing a shower to remove the stink of the fish and aspirin to relieve the pounding behind my left eye. I saw the Speed Grafic camera sitting on the small desk and walked over to pick it up. I held it in my hands, examining its fragile, outmoded technology for maybe a minute. Then I slammed it into the desk, smashing the bellows. The glass lens fell onto the floor, and I crushed it beneath my boot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As it turned out, the toddler had not drowned, but his close call had generated profound changes to the trout farm operations and, most of all, to my future.
“We dodged a bullet yesterday,” Virgil announced at breakfast the next day.
Valerie stopped pouring coffee and sat down as every face turned to focus on Virgil at the head of the table. Patsy was laying down by Valerie’s chair, but sat up at attention as if understanding the importance of what was about to be said.
“I just got off the phone with the father,” Virgil said. “The boy’s okay.”
A collective sigh rose from everyone and the canaries twittered excitedly from the other room.
“Woke up at the hospital and asked for ice cream.” Virgil nodded. “I told him I’d pay for the hospital and ambulance.”
“That’s wonderful, Daddy,” Vonda said.
“I wouldn’t call it ‘wonderful,’” he said. “If that boy would have died, our business here could be over. Likely as not, they’d sue us for everything I’ve got, including the farm.”
“Wouldn’t the insurance cover it?” Vonda asked.
“Unless they found a loophole like negligence or some other hard-to-define term.” Virgil stirred the coffee in his Cadillac mug. “And they’d make darn sure we never got coverage again.
“My point is we can’t have any more accidents like this. I have already been on the phone with the Skagit County Health and Safety Inspector. They’ll have a team up later this week to do a thorough inspection and could shut us down for good if they don’t think we can prevent children from drowning.”
He paused to ensure he had everyone’s full attention. “Here’s what we’re going to do to see that doesn’t happen. First, we’re going to drain Ponds One and Two.”
“Wow,” Valerie said as she slumped in her chair like someone had let the air out of her. Patsy laid her head in her lap.
“All the fish from Pond Two will be transferred to the big pond. I will try to get a buyer for the fingerlings in Pond One. Gray is going to build us a sign, since he’s good at it, with a warning, ‘No lifeguard on duty. Call 911 in case of emergency.’ Then we’re going to hang a life ring and nylon rope attached to a signpost.”
“When are we supposed to do all this?” Stu asked.
“We’re closed down for the week, so we’ve got plenty of time.”
“Guess we won’t be needing those bootleg signs,” Stu said.
My face grew warm. My marketing expertise had nearly caused a toddler’s death. And now, the farm’s livelihood would be curtailed in ways none of us yet understood.
“We’ll look to start up again a week from today, after the inspection team has cleared us,” Virgil said.
“Daddy?” Everyone turned to look at Vonda.
“Stu and I were talking last night about how it might be a good time to sell the place,” she said.
In the stunned silence, I recalled Virgil’s recent proposition regarding a permanent position on the farm. The offer and my future suddenly seemed as fleeting as the morning mist.
“I ran some numbers on our sales versus expenses for the last two years,” Stu said. “If it wasn’t for the business write-offs, we couldn’t afford the taxes on this place.”
“Don’t listen to them!” Valerie said.
“Who said anything about selling?” Virgil said, his voice rising. “Besides, who’d want it? Especially after word about this accident gets out?”
“I might know someone,” Stu said.
There it was—revealed at last—the mystery of the roll of blueprints in the locked closet and what Stu had no doubt been planning long before my arrival. I had to hand it to him for waiting patiently until the perfect moment to present his plan.
“To do what exactly?” Virgil asked.
“To develop the land,” Stu replied. “Forty acres would be room for a lot of nice homes.”
Valerie’s face was flushed and her hand trembled as she set down her fork. “Momma said this place would belong to me and Vonda someday.”
“This someone got a name?” Virgil asked. He stared hard at Stu.
“Name’s Bob Halonen,” Stu said. “You might have seen his name on home-for-sale signs around the valley. Bob said when we were ready to sell, he might be interested in developing the place. Put in a cul-de-sac and surround it with big, fancy homes.”
Valerie wiped tears from her reddened cheeks and made a snuffling sound. Always sensitive to her master’s emotions, Patsy licked her other hand.
“Now, Val,” Vonda said. “There’s nothing wrong with having the money instead of dealing with the responsibility of keeping up a place like this. Think of all the places you could go, things you could buy.”
“What’s Gray going to do if you sell the place?”
“He’s a smart guy,” Stu said. “He’ll find another job. Besides, he’s just a hired hand.”
Stu’s words twisted in my stomach. Days earlier, Virgil had invited me to become part of the family and help run the place. Now, less than three days later, I was back to being a “hired hand.” Once more, I could hear the universe chuckling at my misplaced optimism.
Valerie slammed her good hand on the table. “I don’t want the money. I vote for keeping it just the way it is.”
“Just keep on losing money until we’re bankrupt, is that what you want?” Stu asked.
“That’s enough!” Virgil said, his neck wattle inflamed. “It’s my damn farm and I’ll sell it if I want, when I want. Until such day arrives, we got a nice little business going here that we need to attend to.”
As everyone stood to leave, I began carrying plates to the kitchen where Valerie was running hot water, tears streaming down her red cheeks. “It will be okay,” I lied.
When we were finished cleaning up and I was about to leave, she stopped me. “Don’t worry, Gray. If they want to sell this place, they’re going to have to do it over my dead body.”
I drove back along the route where I had posted the bootleg signs with Vonda the morning before and wished she and her bottle of apricot brandy were riding along with me. Her banter and the alcohol might have helped me forget the image of the towheaded boy, whose carefree frolicsomeness had nearly cost him his life. It served as a grim reminder of that other Saturday and how quickly events can change for the worse. Once again, I had rolled snake eyes. And now I had another worry—that I might need to find another place to hide very soon.
***
The odd-looking truck halted within a few feet of the water’s edge and the engine died. A moment later the door to the cab was flung open and the driver dropped to the ground. He was a middle-aged black man, whose hair and beard were already thick with the hoarfrost of age, his broad shoulders beginning to stoop. He looked up from his clipboard as I approached. “You Van de Zilver?”
“Sorry. I’m just the maintenance man.”
“Figured as much,”
he said. “You don’t look like a ‘Van’ something or other. No offense.” He smiled.
“Pretty place you got here,” he said, his eyes taking it in. Even on a windy, overcast day, the farm was an island of rustic splendor girded by the blue-cragged North Cascades. The air was sweet with the scent of new mown grass.
“Saw something on the television news the other night about that little boy nearly drowning in the newspaper. Shame. Something like that probably will not help business. What is the mortgage payment on a place this size? Got to be thirty, forty thousand at least, am I right?”
For a moment, I thought Nathan might be a covert real estate salesman searching for listings. “Couldn’t tell you. I just work here.”
As if he understood what I was thinking, Nathan quickly apologized. “Hey, I’m sorry. I did not mean anything by my question. You and me, we’re working stiffs, right? I got two kids in college and a third in high school. Lucky if I can make the rent payment each month.”
Thus reassured, I offered my hand. “I’m Gray.”
“Nathan,” the other man said.
“Like a cup of coffee, Nathan?”
“When we get done here, I’ll take you up on that.” He withdrew gloves from a rear pocket and began pulling them on over large, heavily veined hands.
I looked over at the truck where a stubby tank squatted on the back of a flatbed. Slender cylinders ran along either side.
“Those are compressed oxygen canisters and the refrigeration units,” Nathan said, following my eyes. “Rainbows are fussy critters. You have to maintain a cool, consistent temperature to keep their respiration and metabolism down. I am about to fire up the generator, so we do not end up with any dead fish. You can give me a hand hooking up the chute for pumping the trout from your pond into the truck. Then we’ll load up your fingerlings and I’ll haul them away. Give me a minute to take care of business. Got a few things to sign.”
Nathan busied himself about the truck. An engine coughed once as it started up, then chugged away quietly. A robin called to its mate with a full-throated warble.
I helped Nathan twist the sections of aluminum piping together to form a lightweight, but sturdy tube that reached from the truck to beyond the water’s edge. “Hold onto the chute with both hands so it doesn’t move around,” Nathan said. “You might want to support it with your knee. It will be heavy once the water and fish start flowing through it. I’ll turn on the pump.”
Nathan returned just as water and fish began rushing through the pipe and into the truck.
“They’re beautiful.”
“That they are,” Nathan said. “Beautiful, but doomed eventually, as are we all, humans and fish alike.”
Later, as we walked toward the barn for a cup of coffee, I posed a question that suddenly popped into my mind. “Say that you wanted to move a single fish. How would you go about doing it?”
Nathan squinted at me. “What size fish are we talking about?”
“Pretty big.”
“How big is ‘pretty big’? Twelve, fifteen inches?”
“Bigger.” I spread my hands over two feet apart.
“Hooiee!” Nathan looked at me like I had lost my mind. “Like a salmon?”
“Yeah. Like a salmon.”
“First of all, I wouldn’t do it. It is illegal to haul a live salmon or other game fish unless you have the proper license. The state would throw your ass in jail and fine you. Might even take your vehicle away.” We walked in silence for a little ways.
“But if I did,” he resumed thoughtfully, “I guess I would get me a big old plastic garbage can with a lid that seals, then fill it up with water and add some ice. Then I’d get me some sodium amytal.”
“What’s that?”
“Barbiturate. Slows down the fish’s metabolism, prevents too much waste from being excreted and fouling up the oxygen supply. Also mellows the fish out. Happy fish travel better, same as people.”
We reached the barn and the door to Stu’s office where the coffee was. I paused before going in. “How much of this stuff would I need?”
“’Bout a half grain per gallon should do the trick. I believe I just might have some in the truck.”
“Listen, Nathan.” I put a hand on his arm. “I don’t want to cause any trouble for you.”
“No trouble.” He looked at me with a sad smile. “I do believe we’re all just sinners here.”
***
Mid-morning the next day, I spotted Valerie working on the roses. Earlier I had seen her feeding the rabbits. I stopped the Bull and joined her. Patsy got up from where she lay and waggled toward me to get her ears scratched.
“Seems like I owe you another ‘thank you.’”
“What for?” Valerie cocked her head sideways in that familiar way she had of listening.
“The other day when you worried about what I was going to do if your father sold the farm.” I watched the fingers of her left-hand slide delicately over the canes, determining the best location to prune. “You didn’t need to that. Stu’s right. I’m just a ‘hired hand.’”
“Don’t be stupid, Gray. You are like family. Except nicer.” Valerie snipped with her shears and a tall stalk fell to the ground. “I can’t believe Daddy would sell the farm. He promised Momma he would always keep it in the family. She called it ‘an heirloom.’”
During the past few days, whenever I thought about what I would do, or where I would go if the job at the trout farm ended soon, I was forced to punt. Finding another place as remote as this with free room and board and no tax forms filed with the IRS would take a good deal of research, not to mention luck. Nor did I have enough money saved to live longer than a few weeks without working. Without ID, signing up for unemployment was impossible. Joining the growing hordes of homeless people that overwhelmed every city, large or small, with their bags of belongings, shopping carts, and chronic health issues was not high on my list of preferences. As tenuous as my current meager circumstances were, the bottom still looked a long way down.
Valerie selected another stalk and clipped it. “What I can’t figure out is, if taxes on this place are so high, how come Daddy never said anything before?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to worry his daughters.” I switched the subject. “How can you do that without wearing gloves?”
“I can’t wear gloves and feel what I’m doing,” she said. “Momma taught me how. You have to start by cupping the flower. When it is no longer full, the petals no longer moist and shiny, it is time to go. Then I work my way down carefully, avoiding the hard thorns, and snip just above the first foliage.” She demonstrated.
“You try.” She handed me the pruning shears. “Close your eyes and allow yourself to feel. Just be careful you don’t cut off your finger by mistake.”
I planned to cheat by picking out what I thought was a gangly, thorn-free shoot before closing my eyes, but it proved to be a poor choice. “Damn!” I jerked my hand back. Deep red blood welled up from the tip of my thumb which throbbed painfully.
“Give me your hand,” Valerie commanded.
“What for?”
“Just do it.”
She gripped my hand tightly, running her fingers over mine until she found the blood. “Hold still.” With her other hand, she reached out, found a rose cane and tightened her hand around it.
I saw what she was going to do but was too late to stop her. She winced. When she opened her hand, a large thorn protruded from her palm.
“Jesus, Valerie. What are you doing?”
She removed the thorn with her teeth. Blood welled up into the creases of her palm. She squeezed my thumb and held it tight. “There. Now we’re blood brothers just like Native Americans.”
“That had to hurt,” I said.
She frowned, her eyes at half-mast. “Momma said nothing worthwhile comes without pain.”
“That may be true for pregnancy and assembling Ikea furniture, but I fail to see her logic. I am pretty sure Native Americans have retired an
y blood brother ceremonies, if they ever had them, especially since the advent of HIV. What other crazy, dangerous things did your mother teach you?”
Valerie resumed her precise pruning. “She taught me everything I know. She took me to concerts, movies and plays. She even took me to the Nutcracker ballet. The usher let me lay my cheek against the side of the stage, so I could feel the leaps of the dancers while I listened to the music and the squeak of their ballet shoes.”
She sighed. For a moment, I almost expected her to cry.
“She was always dragging Vonda and me around exploring, until Vonda decided she didn’t want to go anymore. Momma was like a scout leader, travel guide, and mom all rolled into one. I remember going to an antique store when I was just five or six. She placed my hands on all these strange, old, musty-smelling things. I can still feel the velvety texture of a tasseled lamp shade. In the scarred wood of an old, rickety cupboard, Momma said you could feel the stories of the families that once owned it. When she died, I lost not only my mother, but my best friend and teacher.”
“She sounds like the world’s greatest mom.”
“Except for one thing,” she said, her voice suddenly brittle. “She left me with THEM.”
“Don’t your dad or Vonda ever offer to take you anywhere?”
“Nope.”
“Then what would you say to doing some exploring with me?”
“Explore where?”
“I was thinking of a picnic at the Skagit River.”
For a moment, her face glowed, before immediately darkening again. A frown weighed down her heavy brows. “I don’t know.”
“Why? What are you afraid of?”
“Don’t know what I’ll find. Afraid of making a mistake, of being hurt. Or looking foolish. I probably look foolish right now.” She brushed the hair out of her face. “Vonda’s always picking on me, informing me that something’s not right about my appearance. If it isn’t my hair, it’s my skin, or my clothes. It’s always something.”