The Fly Caster Who Tried To Make Peace With the World

by Randy Kadish

  Chapter 14

  A month later I went back to Roscoe. The leaves had bloomed, and the Catskill Mountains looked the way I remembered.

  I visited Billy in his shop. He finished wrapping bamboo strips.

  “Ian, do you feel like fishing some of the best dry-fly water on the Beaverkill?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  “I don’t want one.”

  Billy smiled. “The tail of Barnhart’s.” He put on his waders.

  “So you’re poaching?”

  “There ain’t any river keeper there. We’ll wade in from Hendrickson’s.”

  Did I want to risk getting arrested and really disappointing my father? “I’ll pass.”

  “C’mon, Ian. For some of us locals, poaching is like going to church.”

  “I don’t go to church.”

  “Don’t you want to be a great caster?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothin’.” He opened his fly box and examined his flies.

  I said, “So that’s why you want me to poach: to teach me a lesson?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Without the words.”

  “Are you gettin’ fancy on me?”

  “I believe in following the law. If that makes me a coward, so be it.”

  Billy nodded. “Suit yourself.” He marched past me and out of his shop.

  Standing by myself, suddenly feeling lonely, I wondered if I had said something wrong. No, I decided.

  Sure my friendship with Billy was over, I walked to the Antrim and was welcomed by the other bus boys and by law-abiding anglers.

  The next afternoon I fished Ferdon’s with Ray. Billy walked down to the bank. Surprised, I didn’t wave to him. He waded into the river, then toward me.

  “Any takes, Ian?”

  Should I be his friend again? I wondered. Without looking at him, I said, “One.”

  “Ian, I’m sorry for what I said yesterday.” He held out his hand.

  I looked into his eyes. They seemed droopy, as if oozing pain.

  Yes, I still want to be his friend. I shook his hand and asked, “Any luck last night?”

  He grinned. “No. I guess the Law was against me.”

   

  A few days later, I read in the New York Times the details of the Selective Service Act of 1917. Because all men twenty-one years old had to register for the draft, I was spared, for a while at least. I wouldn’t be twenty-one until August. Maybe by then the military would have enough volunteers and recruits, or even better, the war would miraculously end.

  But did a miracle seem possible?

  France’s Chemin des Dames Offensive turned into a repetition of all the previous offensives: thousands and thousands of boys mowed down like soulless blades of grass. Terrified I too would be mowed, I stopped reading newspapers and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to put the war out of my mind.

  Now before I go on, I should tell you that one evening my father said, “Ian, maybe something good came out of your fishing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your broken ankle. There’s a chance the army won’t take you. I guess some accidents turn out for the best.”

  “I thought you love reading about war.”

  “I’ve always been interested in how wars and history go together, like blood and life. But what’s going on in Europe isn’t even war. It’s slaughter. And you’re right: Since we were supposed to be neutral, I don’t see why our passenger ships should have transported weapons.”

  I felt vindicated.

   

  On Friday I rode the railroad to Roscoe. Billy waited at the station.

  Surprised, I asked, “What are you doing here?”

  “You usually take this train up. Ian, next week I got to register for the draft. I want to enlist. My mother is real upset. She started cryin’ and sayin’ that without me she’d have nothin’. What about you? Are you thinkin’ of enlistin’?”

  “Have you been reading about the slaughter on the Western Front?”

  “Not really.”

  “Well let me tell you.” Using words, I painted pictures of the slaughter, then said, “Think of what will happen to your mother if you get killed. And what will happen to your dream of becoming a great rod builder? Think of all those young men who would have become great artists and writers, but who are instead rotting like meat in shallow, muddy graves because some general tried to make a name for himself and wouldn’t call off his suicidal attack.”

  “When your time is up, it’s up.”

  “Billy, how can you possibly believe that?”

  “I’ve always believed things happen for a reason.”

  “What’s the reason five million soldiers are dead?”

  Billy looked into my eyes, sadly, I thought. He said, “I’m an American.”

  “You’re a person with hopes and dreams. And so am I!”

  He looked down and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

  I said, “I’ll tell you what. If you don’t enlist, if you instead take your chances with the draft lottery, I’ll practice like crazy and compete in the fly-casting tournament, and maybe, just maybe, you’ll build a name for yourself.”

  “You don’t got to do that for me.”

  “You’re my friend.”

  “Let me think about it. Where you fishin’ tomorrow?”

  “Hendrickson’s.”

  He turned. Hunched over, he walked away, and for a split second I saw Izzy walking down the casting dock. Suddenly something told me Billy would see the light and accept my offer.

  The next day he didn’t come to Hendrickson’s. Surprised, I blamed myself for not painting vivid-enough pictures of the slaughter on the Western Front.

  How would I ever become a great writer?

   

  A week later, I set a table in the Antrim’s dining room and looked up. Billy stood on the other side of the table, holding his tournament-casting rod.

  I said, “So, I guess we have a deal.”

  He handed me the fly rod.

   

  I telephoned the Sportsman’s Show and asked for their tournament rules. A few days later I got them in the mail. They stated that, once I stepped onto the casting platform, I would have five minutes to make three casts. Only my longest cast would count. I would have to use my own line, but it couldn’t have a diameter wider than 0.062 of an inch. My leader could be up to 12-feet long.

  I went to a fly shop and bought three lines with different diameters. Day after day I went to Central Park. First, I experimented by casting each line until I determined I cast farthest when I used the line with a diameter of 0.056 of an inch. Second, I determined that on my first back cast, I could cast up to 46 feet of line off the lawn and still have a tight loop. I marked my line at 46 feet. Third, I determined that, before I made my presentation cast, I should back cast about 56 feet of line, then shoot another five feet. Finally, I experimented by casting different-length leaders. When I used a 12, or even a 9-foot leader, the fly wouldn’t turn over; and so for weeks I experimented with every part of my cast, but the fly still didn’t turn over. Frustrated, I thought of using a 7-foot leader. But something—was it a voice?—told me not to give up.

  The something was right. One day, I set up my rod and accidentally pulled five feet less line off the reel than I wanted to. As my first presentation cast unrolled, the line flew through the guides, then pulled against the reel. The tension on the line was like a gentle brake. The fly turned over. The leader landed in a straight line.

  I cast 120 feet!

  Because of my new discovery, maybe, just maybe, I would win the tournament!

  During the next few weeks, I often saw myself making a winning-tournament cast and seeing spectators applause and cheer; but as days flowed past me, the vision in my mind changed. I saw myself standing on the casting platform, freezing up and making a fool of myself.

  July 15 and the fly-casting
tournament became soiled with dread.

   

  July, 7: I couldn’t stop the days. Again and again I reminded myself my real goal was to save Billy from getting killed or maimed.

  Yes, I told myself. I made the right decision. Making a fool of myself is worth saving a friend’s life. But should I invite Billy to stay over my house on the weekend of the tournament? Then he will see I lived in a small mansion and maybe come to resent me. And then my father will see I had a working-class, dirty-nailed friend. Besides, I don’t want my father to know I’m competing in a fly-casting tournament.

  Billy told me he would meet me in Penn Station on the day of the tournament.

  I answered, “Fine.”

 

  The night before the tournament: I lay in bed. The room seemed to spin, faster and faster. I felt sea sick. I turned on the light and stared at it. But the room still spun.

  Is it too late to back out? I wondered. But I made a deal with Billy. If I could borrow his courage as if borrowing money, I’d gladly pay double interest.

  The room slowed. But I couldn’t sleep. I glanced at the clock every few minutes. Time moved so slowly I wondered if Einstein was right. If so, could time stop dead still and spare me from competing?

  The minute hand crept on.

  I jumped out of bed. Pretending I held Billy’s fly rod, I got into my casting stance and, visualizing all my casting techniques, practiced for about a half-hour.

  In bed, I closed my eyes and thought of the boys on the Western Front and told myself that, unlike them, I wasn’t going to climb out of a trench and face streaking machine-gun bullets or exploding bombs. No matter how poorly I cast, I would live to see the next day. ...

  The sun shined through the shaded window. It was six o’clock. I had slept for three hours.

   

  Six hours later, I wished I sat in a baseball-field dugout instead of on the wood floor of Madison Square Garden, surrounded by thousands and thousands of people. Some of the people stood around the casting platform. Others sat in the oval-shaped stands. I was in the middle of a line of fly casters. Izzy and Mr. La Branche weren’t part of the line. The casters who were stared straight ahead like mustached or bearded, fearless zombies. But they were grown-up men. I wasn’t. Feeling out of my league, I scanned the crowd for Izzy and Billy. The arena spun slowly, in my head.

  Don’t look at the crowd! I told myself. Pretend there are only fifty spectators, as there were at my college baseball games.

  Jim Frazer, the first caster, stepped up to the casting platform. My arm shook. I clutched it. My leg shook. I pushed it down. My arm again shook. I decided to let it. I felt balloon-headed, as if I were about to float up. Unable to feel my legs, I tried to wiggle my toes. I succeeded, thankfully.

  Frazer cast 106 feet.

  One by one, other casters were called to the platform, like gladiators called to the field of the Roman Coliseum. One by one the gladiators cast.

  Jim Mullen, a big man with a shaved head, cast 116 feet.

  “Ian Mac Bride!”

  I stood up. A million eyes seem to be staring at me, I thought. I don’t have time to count. Looking down, I walked toward the end of the casting platform. My feet floated on the floor. My heart beat hard. Deeply, I tried to breathe, but the air was like the invisible smoke in the hallway of 97 Orchard Street.

  Will I suffocate before I make my first cast?

  Sucking in air, I climbed three or four steps, onto what looked like a huge, green Christian cross.

  This might be what if feels like to fight to the death. At least I’m not being thrown to the lions.

  A tournament official grabbed my leader and pulled my line to the end of the platform. I reeled in line up to my 108-foot mark. I put the rod down, retrieved line and piled it on the floor until my 46-foot mark reached the rod tip. I picked up the rod, put my left foot about four inches behind the white line, bent my knees and got into my casting stance.

  Pretend I’m casting in Central Park, I told myself. Just look straight ahead. I’ve done this hundreds and hundreds of times before. Think of what the soldiers on the Western Front are facing. Go!

  I cast the rod up and back. A wide loop unrolled. I cast forward. My arm felt heavy, my elbow rusty. Where was an injection of oil when I needed it? Why was my body deaf to my mind? Another wide loop unrolled. My cast was weak. Don’t shoot line, I told myself. I cast back. A tighter loop unrolled. Wait for the shape of a candy cane. I cast forward. The loop tightened but not into a wedge. I shot line. Feeling it slide between my thumb and forefinger, I counted: one, two, three. I pressed the sliding line and lowered the rod tip a few inches. Keeping my elbow in place, I cast back. Another tight loop. Good. I cast forward, faster and faster. I hit the nail, abruptly stopping the rod. I let go of the line and raised the rod butt.

  But I forgot to lower the rod tip at the end of my back cast.

  The fly didn’t turn over.

  “One hundred two feet!” a tournament official yelled.

  Damn! I thought. Next time don’t forget to lower the rod tip!

  I retrieved line and again got into my stance. My heart beat even harder. Was it a dam about to burst? If so, would rushing fear drench my muscles and make them move like lead? The arena spun slowly. I stared straight down the long, green platform. Like a roulette wheel, the arena slowed into dead-still, finally. But no matter where the ball landed, I wanted to run. I looked down the long fly rod as if I looked down a rifle. I saw Billy in his shop.

  No! I won’t run.

  I cast up and back, then forward. My body still felt heavy. My loop didn’t tighten.

  I cast back. A tight loop. Good. I cast forward. Another tight loop. I shot line, counted, then cast back. Slowly I lowered the rod tip. I cast forward, faster and faster. I hammered the nail.

  Damn! I didn’t fully turn my hips.

  Again the fly didn’t turn over.

  “Ninety-nine feet!”

  Why can’t I relax? Why won’t my body listen? One more cast left. Make it count!

  I closed my eyes and sucked in air.

  “Do it, Ian!” someone yelled out. It had to be Billy.

  Remember, I told myself. Fully rotate. Raise the butt. Relax. Let my body do the work, as my father told me. Didn’t I strike out Brett? I can do this!

  I cast up and back. My body felt lighter, looser. It was listening to me, finally! A tight loop. Good! Cast forward. Stop rod. A tight wedge. Great! Shoot line. Count. Lower rod tip, slightly. Wait for the line to almost unroll. Cast rod back. Watch the loop unroll. Lower rod tip No! Too damn early I started my forward cast!

  I cast 108 feet.

  Why didn’t I wait for the loop to take the shape of a candy cane? Just another second more and I would’ve cast 120 feet. Damn me! I blew it. Well at least it’s all over. At least Billy won’t be going to war.

  Shamefully looking down, I walked off the platform and back to my seat. My heart still beat hard and fast.

  The next competitor cast 117 feet and won the tournament. Billy walked out of the crowd and looked right at me.

  “Billy, I’m sorry. I let you down.”

  “You did the best you could.”

  “No. I was hitting one hundred twenty feet in practice.”

  “There’s always next year.”

  Next year seemed like an eternity away. “Billy, when you stood up to the river keeper were you scared?”

  He grinned. “What do you think, Ian?”

  “Please, this is not the time for talking in circles.”

  “Yes, I was scared.”

  “Well, I was scared as hell up there.”

  “Maybe that’s what got you, not bein’ scared but then worryin’ about it and makin’ it all worse.”

  “I never thought of that.”

  “I knew a prizefighter once. He told me he was always scared before he entered the ring. I guess I should’ve told you that before.”

  I looked at Billy’s dirty pants and fingerna
ils. “Billy, why don’t you stay in my house tonight? We can go to Central Park and fish the Harlem Meer.”

  “Ian, look at me. I’m dressed like a farmer.”

  “I am looking at you. This is New York. No one will care, especially if we go down to the Lower East Side. It’s a whole other world down there.”

  “City crowds feel like they’re gonna swallow me up.” He smiled. “They scare me.”

  “Give them a chance.”

  “Maybe next time. I don’t want my mother worryin’ about me. You comin’ up next weekend?”

  “Sure.”

  “Good. I have something to show you.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a surprise.”

  We walked to Penn Station. Inside, I said, “You can’t tell me this building isn’t beautiful.”

  He looked up at the ceiling, at the arched windows and passageways and at the big columns. He nodded. “It’s one heck of a beautiful fly rod. Ian, in my book you did great.”

  He turned abruptly, walked away and seemed to melt into the crowd of people. I went back in time, back into Central Park. I watched Izzy walk into the woods and disappear.

  But I’ll see Billy again, I told myself.

  I walked outside, into the big shadow covering 34th Street like overhanging trees. The air was dry and cool. I headed east. Though I carried a fly rod, no one seemed to notice me.

  Yes, I thought, this long street looks like a river. The heads of people walking the sidewalks are the riffles, the heads of the people crossing the intersection in different directions are the swirling eddies. In a few hours the sun will set, the riffles and the eddies will go home, and the face of the street, like the face of the Beaverkill, will change. As my last back cast unrolled, why didn’t I wait another second? Maybe if I had the courage to stand up to Brett, I would have waited. Damn me! But if time is relative, can I go backwards and again cast in the tournament? No. Time, in spite of what Einstein says, is so strong subzero temperature can’t freeze it, and fire can’t burn it. Yet time has no shape or weight. So maybe in my mind, at least, I can erase time and the tournament and also my mother’s passing. Haven’t I tried but always failed? Why did my mother have to die? Why did boys have to assassinate the Archduke? Why?...

   

  The next weekend I got off the O & W train and walked to Billy’s house. I knocked on the garage door. He didn’t answer. I knocked on the front door. No one answered. I walked to the Antrim Lodge. Jim, one of the other bus boys, sat on the porch.

  “Did you hear the news about your friend, Billy?”

  “No.”

  “He was killed.”

  “Killed?”

  “Yeah. He was leaving Ferdon’s when someone bashed his head with a rock.”

  “Can’t be!”

  “I’m sorry, Ian. It can.”

  I went numb. Something told me to walk to the police station and tell them about the incident with the river keeper. Though I could barely feel my legs, I walked out of the Antrim Lodge. The police were interested in my story and told me they would talk to the river keeper.

  They did, I heard, but for whatever reason, they let him go.

  The next day I visited Billy’s mother. She cried and told me what a good boy Billy was. More than anything I wanted to tell her Billy’s death was my fault and to apologize to her; but unable to, I just sat there and listened and waited for an opportunity to leave.

  During the next four or five weeks, I often walked to the police station and asked about Billy’s murder, but always I got the same answer: there were no leads or suspects.

  Finally, I demanded, “Look harder!”

  “Don’t tell us how to do our job.”

  “When it comes to my friend, I will!”

   

   

  Book 3: The Wide World