Our January was slightly warmer than usual. At the lake, we parked, unloaded the skiff, and carried it to the launch. There was no ice in the water, fortunately, so we would be able to motor without difficulty. Next, we brought down our tackle and lunch and coffee and climbed in the boat. As the rising sun began to puncture the fog, we pushed away from shore, confident.
Bass don’t hibernate, so they’re a good bet for the die-hard fisherman in the Ohio winter, but they aren’t easy to catch at that time of year. They like the warmest part of the water at the center of the lake. Bass avoid strong currents and look for submerged logs and big rocks for hiding. My dad knew the lake intimately, and he’d developed strategies based on years of experience.
The fog reluctantly gave way to sun, shy at first but coming in full at last, and it warmed us outside and in. Pessimism is hard under such heat. We stopped our boat in a likely spot and paused for a cup of coffee. Even in summer, this was part of our custom. I would not call my father superstitious, but we always followed the same steps—for luck, perhaps. We did not talk, again a custom, but words were not needed. I’d never had a sense that he chose to be uncommunicative. He just needed few words.
We selected a favorite rod and reel, strong line with plenty of the give necessary for bass fishing and hooked minnows to start. In opposite ends of the skiff, we cast to opposite sides. Slowly, I reeled in, dragging the bait through the water at a deliberate leisurely pace. Any bass in the lake would be a bit sluggish and not tempted by a fast-moving meal. After half a dozen casts, I settled into a gentle groove. The quick forward movement of my shoulder felt smooth and natural, a little like throwing a softball overhand.
The scent of the lake in the sun provided its own intoxicant, as pleasant as the warm buzz spreading through one’s midsection after a glass of brandy. Add the quiet, rhythmic slap of lake water against the skiff; the sun shining on the surface so blindingly bright, like a flashbulb reflected in a mirror; and the high and piercing call of the birds, urgent and far off, and I was nearly lulled into peaceful sleep. More than once, I was startled to find myself still casting and reeling in, like some windup toy unattended. In vain, I attempted to focus my mind on the issue of Traveler, but I got nowhere. The lake and the cool beauty of the day easily coaxed me away from any attempt to untangle the snarled line of it.
My dad moved the skiff several times, but we had no better luck. Even if we caught nothing, however, there was no place I would have preferred to be. I was surprised when my dad reeled in, placed his rod in the boat, and reached for the lunch bucket. Had so much time passed already? The sun had settled high in the sky. It wasn’t noon yet but it was close, and the temperature had probably hit the low forties.
He passed me a sandwich and poured me another cup of coffee, still steaming. It felt good to cradle the cup in my hands.
“Dad?”
He looked up. “What’s on your mind, son?”
“Giving Traveler another chance,” I said. “I know I have to. Those were my terms. But I’m still not excited about it.”
“Well,” he said, “he’s out now, like he should be. Better sooner than never, don’t you think?”
I nodded.
“That’s a big secret to keep bottled up. Not too surprising he popped his cork. His timing was lousy, but done’s done.” My dad thought about it for a minute. “He’s got a long row to hoe. He’s on his way, but he still owes everyone an apology for being such an asshole at the officers’ club the other night.”
“He apologized to me already,” I said. “You and Mom will hear from him, too. He’s a little apprehensive of how you might react.”
My dad chuckled. “He deserves to be.”
“I was positive he would never come out and I wouldn’t have to worry about giving him another chance. Now I’m getting cold feet.”
He poured more coffee for himself and warmed his hands against the mug. “It’s your privilege to change your mind,” he said, finally, “but how would you feel if you backed out?”
“I wouldn’t like myself very much,” I said.
“Well, there you go,” my dad said.
I sighed. There I went.
“You’ll do the right thing,” my dad said.
I appreciated his confidence, though I didn’t share it.
*
We weren’t ready to give up the possibility of fresh fish for dinner yet. After lunch, Dad motored the skiff to another likely spot in the lake. Having had no luck with minnows, I decided to try a lure for a while. I was pleased with the nod of satisfaction my dad offered when I selected a red teardrop—the best color if you’re after bass, as he’d taught me. He also selected a lure quite different from mine. I suspect he knew it was not the best option under these conditions, but if the fish were down there, we would give them a choice.
Lunch lowered my resistance even more. Relaxed, my belly full, I felt drowsy, and I cast my line and reeled it in so slowly that the lure hardly moved in the water. But maybe that was the ultimate persuader. A quick nibble, followed by a more urgent tug, yanked me from my reverie. My dad watched to see if I’d hooked one, ready to assist if necessary.
Smallmouth bass are fighters. Part of the satisfaction of landing one is that it puts up such a protest. As soon as I felt the strike, I jerked the rod upward to lodge the hook inside its mouth. If the fish felt sluggish, my action woke it up and set the hook, and the tussle began. I let out line, reeled some of it back, then let out more, intent on tiring it out so that I could bring it in for good. Given its size—perhaps fifteen inches long, and four or five pounds on average—the bass is strong. I have great respect for it, combative until the end.
I reeled in the line and verified I had indeed hooked a fine speckled bass, writhing as if it somehow knew life depended upon shaking loose of the hook, now deeply embedded in its mouth. I shifted the pole to one hand, and my father passed me the net. Carefully (I’d lost more than one fish by being too eager at this stage), I dipped into the water and scooped it up with one deliberate movement.
As a boy, I’d always loathed what came next. The erratic flopping of a trapped fish used to scare me. My father, oblivious, would put the fish out of its misery with a quick strike of the pliers against its head. Then he’d carefully remove the hook, but I couldn’t face the accusing dead eye. Where was the sport? I believed the contest was nothing more than a grossly unequal match between a superior force with all the advantages of technology and intelligence and a dumb creature with only instinct to guide it. But I have grown up since then and gained a great respect for the sporting nature of fishing, not only the art of it but the craft as well.
I stared at the bass entangled in my net, flipping, twisting, gasping, desperate. I knew what needed to be done next, and ordinarily, I had no qualms. But on this warm winter day, having won, I could not follow through.
“Dad,” I said. “I don’t know if—”
He recognized my hesitation. “It’s okay, son.”
I dipped my hands in the water first and then gripped the fish at the gills, carefully digging the hook from its mouth with the pliers. Vigorously, the bass continued its tussle, its tail smacking my arm like a scolding. The hook retrieved, I dropped the fish in the water. It darted off instantly, apparently none the worse for its close call.
“I’m sorry, Dad.”
He put a hand on my shoulder. “No reason to be, Harris.”
Occasionally, we went fishing to catch and release on purpose. Certain times of year, certain locales, and certain types of fish demanded it. We didn’t mind, for we took satisfaction in the competition and the victory. But this was different. I was grateful for his understanding.
We dumped the rest of the minnows too, having no immediate need for them. I hoped my bass would find a couple of them, a reward for the ordeal it had been through. We stowed our gear and puttered back to the launch, loaded the skiff onto the trailer, packed our gear, and headed for home, with Hank Williams accompanying us once again.<
br />
There was summer trout still in the freezer, and my mother thawed it out. We had seafood for dinner anyway, seasoned with salt and dill and lemon, and we savored the meal as much as if it we’d caught it fresh that afternoon. We’d had our fishing excursion, my father and I, and I felt as if I’d been properly reintegrated into the family and the world again.
I decided I needed a day or two alone to regroup and prepare to resume battle in whatever form it might take on Monday, so I chose to leave home early Friday.
“What’s next?” my mom asked me at breakfast.
“I’ll keep you posted,” I said.
The general had met my minimum criteria for moving us forward, and he’d done it with a vengeance. My part came next, giving him the second chance. What form would that take? I had no inkling how we could reach a truce, reestablish equilibrium, engineer the perfect compromise, the cautiously optimistic blueprint for our future together. Given the sudden change of circumstance, I would not be able to continue as his aide, and I was thankful for the extra incentive for him to remove me from the position. If we were meant to be together, we would find a way, even if I had to transfer to another base. If not, I would let him be.
I knew I’d never extricate myself from him entirely. He meant too much to me. Even if we did nothing more than exchange greetings at Christmas, I’d want to keep track of Seamus O’Neill. On the long ride back, I had plenty of time to think, but my state of mind was not the agonizing twist-and-blame it had been before. I no longer felt like a bass hooked and trapped in a net. I felt calm enough to face the general again and to establish some new ground rules. If he made good on the second chance or if he didn’t, I had become stronger, and I could manage. If our journey were fire, I had been tempered.
*
Sitting on the porch of my apartment was a package wrapped neatly in brown paper and clear tape, stamped and postmarked from the base. There was no return address, but I knew from the slanted handwriting who’d sent it and what it contained, and my courage failed. In the kitchen, I set the box on the table and sat down and wept as if all rivers depended on me for sustenance.
Unwrapped, there was my old bear, as I’d requested, none the worse for half a year in the general’s custody except that it was scented unmistakably with the fragrant, bitter mystery of his aftershave. I put the bear back where he belonged, in the center of my bed, and slept with him wrapped tightly against me that night, while some five or six miles away, the general slept alone.
Chapter Thirty-one
On Saturday morning, early, the pager went off. The general hadn’t used it in so long that I’d nearly forgotten about it. I hadn’t even taken it home with me, and for a minute, I could not place its curious buzzing. And buzz it did, urgent, until I located it. He was calling from his house, and, reluctantly, I called back.
“Where are you?” he barked. Not even hello.
“My apartment. I got back from Ohio last night.” Then, defensive: “I’m on leave until Monday.”
“I know,” he said, impatient. “How could I forget? It’s been a hell of a week, but I’m entirely to blame. In case you’re wondering, I can’t manage a damn thing for myself. My whole life is crumbling to pieces. That should make you feel better.”
It didn’t. I said nothing, and he continued. “You going anywhere this morning?”
“Hadn’t planned on it.”
“Stay put. I’m on my way.”
Could I tell him no? He didn’t give me a chance to argue. The phone went dead.
*
Surprisingly, I wasn’t upset or even anxious. For once, I didn’t feel as if I had to rush around throwing clutter into closets, wiping down the bathroom, putting out fresh towels, changing my shirt. I sat calmly on the couch with a fresh cup of coffee, relieved that our first meeting would take place on my home turf instead of his—or worse, the office.
When I answered an urgent knock, I opened the door to a man wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a dark green sweatshirt, and a ball cap. In his arms, he held a beautiful puppy, short-haired, mostly black with some oddly positioned white and gray patches suggesting a mixed heritage. It wore a neon red collar, a little too large, although the size of the puppy’s paws suggested it would grow into the collar with ease. The animal was inquisitive and a little anxious, probably not more than nine or ten weeks old, but already a handful. I guessed it didn’t like to be held. Perhaps it didn’t like the general. Perhaps it realized there was a big world out there and time spent not exploring was time wasted.
I looked beyond the dog to the man holding it, all tallness and bristle, impatience and growl. Even dressed as casually as he was, he would stand out in a crowd. His mustache jutted out aggressively, untamed as always. I could feel the serrated edge of his unshaven jaw just by looking. He bit on the stem of his empty pipe as if he would shear it clean off. And he scowled, bothered by something or everything.
“General O’Neill,” I said.
He winced. Sighed. Adjusted his cargo of puppy. “You have my permission to call me anything but that,” he said.
I crossed my arms and met his gaze.
“Please, Harris?” he said. Then, “Oh, damn it!” as the puppy squirmed in his arms, yapped urgently and licked his nose, struggling to get free. He set it down and it raced into my apartment, toenails clicking as it skidded on the wooden floor of the living room, sniffing out this whole new world.
“He or she?” I said.
“She,” he said. “I told you once—stupidly, I might add—that you needed a woman in your life if you wanted to get anywhere in the Air Force. Well, this here’s the only gal I won’t fight for your attention.”
“What’s her name?”
“Hasn’t got one yet. That’s your department. Think about it. Get acquainted with her. You’ll pick the right one.”
“So is she mine?”
He shook his head and looked at me square. “Nope. Ours.”
I was speechless. He expected as much, I warrant. I watched as the puppy inspected the couch, the easy chair, the rug.
“My landlord doesn’t allow pets,” I said when I found a voice. “There’s no way I could hide a puppy here.”
“She’ll live at my house,” he said. “The backyard’s fenced, remember.”
“You’ve never trained a puppy.”
He nodded. “I reckon that’ll have to be your responsibility, too, since you’ve got the experience. But I’ll help. You can teach me how. You like her? I recollect your fondness for dark and furry stuff.” He placed a hand under his sweatshirt, insinuating. I ignored his not-so-subtle reference, and he labored on. “Visited four different animal shelters to find the right one. I picked up a sack of Puppy Chow, a dish, a couple of rubber chew toys, a leash, even a bed full of cedar chips. Smells wonderful, just like a sawmill.”
I met his blithe confidence with a list of potential problems. “How will you keep her with all the traveling you do? Even when you’re here, you’re at work most of the time, and she’ll be all alone. That’s not good for a puppy. She needs people around her. She’ll chew everything she can sink her teeth into because that’s what puppies do. And you can’t lock her in a cage all day. It’s not fair,” I said. “Besides, once you start the training, you’ve got to work with her every day if you want it to stick. How would you explain to the neighbors why I’m at your house all the time training your dog?”
“Our dog, Harris. Will you quit being so technical?” he said. “We’ll work out the details later, but today we’re going to the park and getting to know each other.” He looked at me, expectant, as if his pronouncement settled the matter. I sighed. I’d never thought he’d bring reinforcements to buttress his position. He knew how I felt about dogs, and I was ready to cave in, but practicality and fairness to the animal made me reluctant.
He continued his sales pitch. “I’ll bring her with me to the office every day. There’s no law against that. We can work with her during lunch. The NAF can use a mascot, and
as long as she’s well-behaved, who’s to complain?”
Particularly if she’s the general’s dog. Maybe it would work out after all, but there were some gigantic “ifs” to traverse before I would even think about taking on such a project. Besides, why was he acting so sure of himself? I followed the puppy as she nosed her way into the kitchen, and the general followed me.
“You’re coming back, aren’t you?” he said.
“Don’t you think people will talk? An openly gay general with an openly gay aide?”
“So, you’ve heard my little news.”
“Your little news has made its way around the world twice by now, I’ll bet.”
“I’d been meaning to come out. Ever since you established the condition, Harris. Honest. The staff meeting wasn’t exactly my forum of choice. But when I heard that son of a bitch Beemis make that crack about you, something snapped inside me. I couldn’t stop myself. But as soon as I said it, I knew it was the right thing to do.”
“I’m proud of you.”
“Does it still count?” he said. “Even if it was an accident, I did what you wanted.”
“Of course it counts,” I said. “I didn’t spell out the circumstances. I just said you had to do it. You’ll have a hard time shutting the closet door again once you’ve broken it down.”
He let out a relieved sign. “Thank you. I was afraid…well, never mind. Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “Now, about your part of the bargain—”
I interrupted. “Has there been any significant fallout?”
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