The Fly Caster Who Tried To Make Peace With the World

by Randy Kadish

  Chapter 19

  “Finally” was five months later.

  I woke up as soon as sunlight sifted through our window shades. Quickly, I dressed, walked downstairs and onto the porch. I sat in my rocking chair. Small clouds were scattered in the sky. Each cloud was shaped differently and looked like a broken yoke, but the more I looked at the clouds, the more they looked like big islands on a map.

  Were clouds nature’s daily way of varying the face of the sky and making it more beautiful?

  The cool air was still as ice, perfect for football. Sarah, I and other parents were blessed with a beautiful homecoming day. The rising sun sat on the top of the mountain and looked like a bull’s eye in a shooting gallery. The autumn leaves blended into a red, gold and orange frameless mosaic.

  I laughed. Was I ever going to grow out of using unlikely comparisons to describe some of the things I saw?

  Sarah stepped outside.

  I held her hand. “Sarah, I only wish other parents could feel the joy we’re feeling today. It’s so unfair that, while we feel joy, others feel such grief.”

  “I know, but I’ve given my whole nursing life to others. Today, this day, I’m giving to myself. I feel so happy to have two sons.”

  Yes, I thought, there’s nothing wrong with Sarah feeling that way, even though my feelings, because of all the dead boys, are mixed with joy and sorrow.

  My father telephoned. “The jury started deliberating yesterday afternoon. I’ll drive up as soon as they reach a verdict. You just can’t predict how long a jury will take.”

  “Everett will understand.”

  “Wait till he sees what I bought him.”

  “I hope it’s not golf clubs.”

  “Don’t worry. I have Ross for a golf partner.”

  I looked at my watch. Everett’s train arrived in two hours and twenty-five minutes.

  Sarah and I drove to the train station and joined the smiling, flag-waving families crowding the platform. Though I couldn’t see it, joy pulsed through the air like the melodies my mother once played. The high school band tuned their instruments. I put my arm around Sarah and kissed her.

  Everett was twelve minutes away.

  I stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down the tracks. In the distance, the tracks seemed to meet, even though I knew they didn’t. I remembered the day my mother and I stood on the platform of the El and waited for the train to take us to Grand Street.

  If I hadn’t seen the fly rod in the Orchard Street apartment, I wondered, would I be on this platform? I’m so grateful my mother and I went to the Lower East Side.

  The band played “Over There.” Two tiny lights, the eyes of the train, appeared way down the tracks. Sarah cried.

  Again, I kissed her. “I’m so glad I met you. I love you and always will.”

  “I love you too. I’m so glad you broke your ankle and came to the hospital.”

  The sunlight felt warm and comforting. The train lights grew bigger and bigger, finally into life-size. The train rumbled into the station and screeched to a stop.

  Yes, I told myself. This is one of the happiest days of my life.

  We loudly cheered.

  Jim Gragg, a star football player, was the first soldier to step off the train. Suntanned, he wore his dress-up army uniform and carried his big duffle bag over his shoulder. His parents ran up to him and hugged him. A short line of soldiers followed Jim. Bill Cline’s arm was in a sling. Joe Stewart walked with crutches.

  The line of soldiers changed into a line of civilians.

  “Where’s Everett?” Sarah asked frantically.

  “Maybe he’s just letting everyone else off first—look there he is!”

  Everett stepped off the train. He carried his army jacket over his arm.

  I yelled, “Everett!”

  Sarah and I ran up to him. Sarah hugged and kissed him.  

  “Everett, it’s so good to see you,” Sarah said. “We love you so much.”

  I said, “We’re so proud of you.”

  Everett didn’t smile. “Where’s Ross?”

  “Now that Ross is a journalist, he’s in the middle of an assignment. He’ll be here Saturday. Grandpa is waiting for a jury to finish deliberating.”

  “He’ll work to his dying day,” Everett said.

  As we drove home, Everett stared out the window.

  “Wow,” he said. “Everything looks so different over here, like something out of a fairy tale. Nothing is bombed out.”

  A silence, long, then suddenly eerie.

  I wanted to break it. “I’m sure you’ll have a lot of war stories to tell us and grandpa.”

  “I’m not much of a storyteller,” Everett said, still staring out the window.

  I said, “I should have understood you might not want to talk about the war.”

  Everett didn’t answer.

  Is something wrong? I wondered. War does change people, some for the rest of their lives. In time, I’m sure Everett will be himself again, especially once he starts fishing.

  I said, “The Beaverkill is waiting for you.”

  “I’m sure even the rivers will look different. At least they won’t be stained with blood.”

  We drove into our driveway.

  I said, “I’ll light the barbecue.”

  “I can’t wait to see my room again,” Everett said.

  We got out of the car. Without waiting for us, Everett marched inside.

  I looked at Sarah. “He doesn’t seem all that happy to be home.”

  “He probably doesn’t believe he finally is. I’ll get the chicken ready.”

  I set up the barbecue, lit and fanned the coals, then I went inside and asked, “Where’s Everett?”

  “Still in his room.”

  I walked toward the stairs. Sarah ran up behind me and grabbed my hand.

  “Maybe Everett just wants to be alone.”

  “You mean he’d rather see his room than see us?”

  “I think we should leave him alone for a while.”

  “Something isn’t right.”

  “Give him time. He’ll be down when he’s ready.”

  I walked outside. The coals burned brightly. Sarah brought out the marinated chicken. I put them on the grill. They sizzled. Flames jumped up from the coals like hooked trout.

  I said, “We should tell Everett that dinner is almost ready, don’t you think?”

  “I’ll go inside and yell up to him.”

  A few minutes later, Everett walked outside.

  I asked, “Did you take out your fly rod?”

  “No. I just tried to take a nap but couldn’t fall asleep. The house, my room, they look so small.”

  “Are you hungry?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “Do you have any beer?”

  “I’ll get you one,” Sarah said.

  I asked, “Do you feel like fishing tomorrow?”

  “I guess.”

  “You guess. I figured you couldn’t wait to fish what has become the most famous trout stream in America: the Beaverkill. Whoever thought so much fly-fishing history would happen right here? So much good history. That’s the theme of my new article. I’ll show it to you later.”

  Everett stared into space.

  Is he lost somewhere in his mind? I wondered.

  I said, “I’m sure you still have that delicate casting touch.”

  “How’s Ross’s casting?”

  “So-so. You wouldn’t believe how far he can drive a golf ball.”

  “He was always a gifted athlete. If it wasn’t for the injury, who knows how far he would have gone?”

  “At least the injury kept him out of the war.”

  “Yes, it did.”

  Sarah brought out potato salad, cole slaw and a bottle of beer.

  I asked, “When did you start drinking beer?”

  “In Europe. The French were always giving us beer, candy and cigarettes.”
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  “I hope you didn’t start smoking.”

  “I didn’t, except for a cigar now and then.”

  “Einstein likes cigars. Would you like a glass?”

  “No.” Everett drank from the bottle. “Is Ray still around?”

  “Yeah, but his arthritis is so bad he can’t tie on his own flies. It’s so sad the way he always has to ask for help.”

  “Is he still fishing only wets?”

  “He’s as stubborn as ever. The dry-fly revolution passed him by.”

  Another silence. Everett stared at the top of the mountain.

  I said, “So it looks like Ross is on the way to becoming the big-shot writer I once wanted to be.”

  “He sent me some of his articles. To tell you the truth, I like your descriptions better.”

  “I guess Ross is limited by the demands of his editors.”

  “How far are you casting these days?”

  “I still haven’t gone back to long-distance casting.”

  Everett finished his beer, quickly I thought.

  “Would you like another one?” Sarah asked.

  “I’ll get it.” Everett went inside.

  “Sarah, I’m telling you, something isn’t right.”

  “Give him some time.” Sarah set the table. Everett walked back out.

  I took the chicken off the grill and served it. “I’ll make my mother’s famous French toast tomorrow for breakfast. When was the last time you had French toast?”

  “Not in France.” Everett grinned, finally. “So who didn’t make it back from the war?”

  I told him the boys who were killed.

  “Damn. They were such nice guys. Why did they deserve to die? Their poor parents.” Everett finished half his beer, then tasted the chicken.

  I asked, “So how’s the chicken?”

  “Fantastic. Dad, Mom, I want you to know it’s great to be home.”

  I smiled. “We’re a family again.”

  “We were always a family. Almost every hour I was over there I thought of you.” Everett finished most of his beer. “Do you mind if I get another one?”

  I said, “I’m sure you’ve earned it.”

  Everett went inside again.

  I looked at Sarah. “He never drank before.”

  “He was never a wartime soldier before.”

  We finished dinner. Everett said, “I’m really tired. Do you mind if I go upstairs? I guess I’m still on European time.”

  “No, your mother and I will clean up.”

  Everett left. That night he didn’t come back down.

  I told Sarah, “I guess he fell asleep.”

  The next morning I woke up before the sun came up. I lay in bed recalling the time Everett was about twelve and hooked a big brown that was so strong it twice pulled the rod out of Everett’s hand. Two anglers watched and laughed, but Everett didn’t give up. In the end, he landed the fish. The anglers applauded.

  I went downstairs and opened the refrigerator. No eggs. Surprised, I wondered what happened to them. A spatula was in the sink. I looked in the garbage. The empty egg box was on top.

  What did Everett do with twelve eggs? I wondered. No one could eat that many.

  I went up to Everett’s room. His fly rod and waders weren’t there.

  He couldn’t wait to fish.

  And neither could I. I put on my waders, boots and fly-fishing vest, took my fly rod and went outside.

  A police car moved down the street, slowly—strangely, I thought. The car turned into our driveway. I was surprised. Jim Marks, a policeman, got out of the car, carrying a fly rod, Everett’s fly rod.

  Jim Marks shook his head, then looked down.

  My body chilled.

  Jim Marks stepped toward me, then stopped. “We’re, we’re not sure what happened. We found an empty pint bottle of whiskey in his pocket. We think he got drunk, went fishing in the Junction Pool and, and ...” Jim Marks closed his eyes. 

  “And what!?”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “We tried to save him, but it was too late.”

  “Where’s he now?”

  “In the hospital. Strange thing is that there’s scrambled eggs in the pool and a frying pan on the bank. I need you to make an identification.”