The Life of Hope

by Paul Quarrington

  Mr. Opdycke methodically placed his feet one in front of the other and cocked his legs. He held the rod with both hands, spaced some two feet apart on the long butt. Mr. Opdycke pulled the rod backward until it pointed at the Indian (Whitecrow was standing behind Opdycke, watching him studiously) and then Mr. Opdycke twisted his trunk around sharply.

  His lure, the “Spoon”, traveled some twenty-five feet out into the lake and landed with a splash.

  Opdycke was obviously pleased with himself. “It beats pouching,” he said to the Indian. Opdycke cranked the handle of his reel two or three times and then stumbled forward. The end of his pole bent over double and trembled.

  “Aha!” bellowed Mr. Opdycke, delighted. “I knew it would work!”

  “How did you know that?” asked the Indian gently.

  Opdycke was too busy turning the winch to worry about what the Indian said. Opdycke knew he had to land the fish as quickly as possible, before any of the knots in his line gave way. The fish had other notions. It kept racing away, stripping line off the reel. Opdycke soon grew quite annoyed with the fish’s antics.

  “Give up!” Opdycke screamed. “You are my supper! It’s no good trying to get away!” Opdycke was sweating profusely, the perspiration trickling into his eyes and stinging. Mr. Opdycke finally elected to abandon the reel, because the fish was taking line from it faster than he could crank it back. He handed his rod to a startled Jonathon Whitecrow and then rushed forward, taking the line into his hands. Mr. Opdycke hauled away, and after a minute or two (the fish showed no sign of tiring, even seemed to get stronger near the end of the battle, breaking the surface of the water and trying to throw the hook out of its mouth) Mr. Opdycke landed the animal. Remarkably, it was a rather small fish, not much more than a pound. Opdycke studied it with some curiosity. “It’s one of those bass,” he said to the Indian. Mr. Opdycke was disappointed with his catch, a nuisance fish that wasn’t much good for eating. “But what’s it doing away up north here?”

  Jonathon Whitecrow bent over the fish and plucked the Spoon out of its mouth. The fish flipped eagerly over the rocks and back into Loo Kow. “People bring them,” the Indian finally answered Opdycke. “People on trains sometimes have two or three in a bucket, and they throw them from the train when they cross water. They are a strong fish, and strong willed, and they live in whichever waters they are tossed into. Personally,” said Whitcrow, “I am quite fond of them.”

  “They eat the good fishes, like the trout,” said Mr. Opdycke, voicing the most frequent complaint against the rogue bass.

  “When one is a fish,” said Jonathon, “it’s a dog-eat-dog world.”

  “At any rate,” said Mr. Opdycke, “the Spoon worked well.”

  “Yes,” agreed Whitecrow. “The fish didn’t stand a chance.”

  Again Opdycke got the impression that he was being teased. There’s more than one way to kill an Indian, he reflected. For example, there were any number of suitably murderous rocks lying about. Would anyone miss the redskin? Mr. Opdycke rather doubted it.

  Opdycke noticed that whenever he thought of these evil deeds the Indian would begin to smile, almost grin. This was, of course, pure coincidence, but it unnerved Mr. Opdycke somewhat.

  Opdycke picked up his gear and retrieved his line. He assumed his stance, brought the pole around behind his back, and with a grunt and a twist tossed the Spoon back into the water. This time the lure attracted nothing, but on the next try Opdycke had a fish. Again Opdycke was irritated by the fish’s dogged resistance. By the time the fish was on the shore Mr. Opdycke had exhausted his repertoire of cusswords.

  “Oh,” said Jonathon Whitecrow, “my ears are burning.”

  It was a bass. Mr. Opdycke suspected it was the same bass. Opdycke ripped the Spoon out of the thing’s mouth and then placed the heel of his boot on its head. Mr. Opdycke pressed down violently. The fish continued to flip about, and seemed no closer to death for the flatness of its skull.

  “What did you do that for?” asked the Indian.

  “I do as I please,” returned the other. “Certainly I amn’t accountable to no redskin.”

  The Indian shrugged, as if explaining to his gods that none of this mattered in any real way. “You aren’t accountable to me,” Jonathon nodded, “but I think the fish deserves an explanation.”

  “Oh, you are humorous,” snarled Mr. Opdycke.

  The fish died eventually. Opdycke tossed it into the bushes. Jonathon Whitecrow disappeared, and Mr. Opdycke, bored, took apart his gear and set off for the Fourieristic Phalanstery.

  At least the experiment with the Spoon had been a success. Mr. Opdycke knew that he had stumbled upon something very valuable; the lures were easy to make—even a ham-handed lout like George Quinton could manage it if need be—and they could be sold for a pretty profit. Opdycke chuckled aloud, finding the irony humorous. He was about to make the Perfectionists wealthy, and his inspiration had been …

  Mr. Opdycke stopped chuckling, and wished he had some booze. Without some mare’s piss Opdycke had no choice but to remember the rowboat out on Moony Lake. Hepzibah had been nattering on, about this, that and the other thing: “this” being Opdycke’s (or was it Osborne then? Oswal?) drinking, “that” being his philandering and “the other thing” being the fact that he had embezzled no less than seventeen thousand dollars from his employer. Hepzibah, a God-fearing woman—a God-feared-shiteless woman, Opdycke (Ottaway?) used to say to his drinking companions—was saying that he would have to make amends if he held any hope for his immortal soul. Then, in an instant, there was a dagger-hilt protruding from Hepzibah’s left breast. “That answers that,” Opdycke (Olson?) said aloud, adding a childish and whimsical sigh.

  It was no trouble getting away with the deed. He weighted her body with stones (even though it was hard to believe it didn’t weigh enough already) and was just about to toss it overboard when he thought that, in the unlikely event that Hepzibah’s body were discovered, it would be best not to have his personal and monogrammed knife sticking out of her bub. Accordingly, Opdycke (Odell?) extracted it and, bending over the side of the rowboat, dropped the knife into the water. Opdycke (Ogilvy!) watched it descend, the blade catching light and sparkling. He was surprised to see two enormous fish rise to meet the knife, attracted by the play of sunlight on the metal.

  Presages of Doom

  Upper Canada, 1863

  Regarding the downfall of Hope, we know the following: that its origins lie in his being somewhat uninterested in the singular activities of his followers.

  It was obvious to everyone (especially to Martha) that Polyphilia Drinkwater Davies enjoyed a unique relationship with Joseph Benton Hope. Certainly no other person, male or female, would dare tiptoe up behind the great Spiritual Leader in order to tickle him. And while Hope insisted that he be familiarly addressed as Joseph, no Perfectionist could do it—Reverend, Sir, and Father were the most common appellations—except for Polyphilia. Polly called him Joseph, shortening it easily to Joe, elongating it affectionately to Joe-Joe and sometimes transforming it playfully to Joe-Joe Bones.

  Polyphilia also got away with a lot that the others would have been sternly reprimanded for. Not only did she disdain household chores (no one had really expected the pink-nippled nymph to pick up a broom, at any rate), Polly neglected her child-rearing duties. Considering how many of the tykes she was half-responsible for (Gregory Opdycke, Jameson De-la-Noy, Rebecca and Daris Skinner, and the little Louisa, of uncertain siring) this nonperformance quite rankled the other Perfectionists. Not to mention the very strange behavior of Ephraim D. Davies, who not only constantly bellowed Biblical presages of doom, but had recently begun to devour newts, frogs and toads in abundance—the lad needed strong maternal guidance.

  Fortunately, more and more adults were coming to the Phalanstery. The crippled girl, the one with the special boot, had come recently, a woman now, still dour, dark, and flat-chested. Her name was Daisy Cumbridge. From Illinois came Thomas and Elna Cragi
n, bringing with them their young friend Erastus Hamilton. Other new Perfectionists included Margaret Comstick, Trevor Ward Beecham and Juliana Gom.

  Everyone in the Phalanstery was first alarmed and then resentful when Polyphilia Drinkwater Davies announced her intention of going back to Boston to visit her crack-minded father, Theophilius. The general feeling was that this was, if not an out-and-out betrayal, at least an insult to the teachings of Joseph Benton Hope. Blood relationships, Hope had long maintained, were of no interest to the Almighty, blood being but an earthly convenience for the corporeal transportation of the Holy Spirit. In addition, Theophilius’s philosophy, or philosophies, had recently undergone a change that was bizarre even by Theophilian standards. Now Theophilius was a Spiritualist (a word he coined himself) and claimed to have communion with invisible and unsubstantial beings. What this communion amounted to—and this was recorded in countless newspaper and magazine articles—was an awful lot of noise and racket. Quite often Theophilius would hold Spirit Concerts where, in a dimly lit room, trumpets would toot themselves, drums would beat themselves and tambourines would jingle as they flew through the air. Several prominent Americans, a Professor of Medicine and a Massachusetts Supreme Court Judge among them, had pronounced these Spirit Concerts genuine.

  So Polly, one evening in the huge dining room, announced her intention of going to Boston.

  J. B. Hope, peppering a pork chop, shrugged.

  “There’s work to do!” bellowed Martha, quite alarming Isaiah, who sat on her lap. Isaiah alone was allowed to sit at the adult table, mostly because he would be beaten savagely by Sam and Lem McDiarmid if he tried to eat with the children. “We can’t go prancing off every time we feel like it!” Martha continued in a loud fashion, loud enough to start Isaiah bawling. “That’s the whole notion of a Fourieristic Phalanstery!”

  Polly shot Martha Q. Hope a black look. “I didn’t ask you.”

  Abigal Skinner said, “But it’s true. Abram’s crops are almost grown …”

  “Well, I wouldn’t be much use to you there, would I?” giggled Polyphilia. Every time she said the word “I” her breasts quivered three times. (Polly stayed naked long into the evenings and long into the seasons of the year, clothing herself, it seemed, only for the advent of Upper Canada’s cruel winter.)

  Mr. Opdycke sat up with interest. “Boston? I’ve got business I could do in Boston!”

  “Business?” repeated Joseph Hope. “What manner of business?”

  “Well,” Opdycke looked around the table. “We need machines.”

  Adam De-la-Noy laughed out loud. “Machines?”

  “Yes, machines,” declared Mr. Opdycke savagely. “A punch, a woodlathe …”

  Abram Skinner folded the skin of his forehead with consternation. “But …” He took his long, work-worn fingers and pulled at his brow furiously, trying to smooth it out. “That is all work that can be done by hand!”

  “Can be,” said Opdycke. “But with machines it could be done much quicker …”

  “Leaving us more time,” finished J. B. Hope, “for our spiritual exercise. But surely we cannot afford machines?”

  The other Perfectionists exchanged glances. Eventually Cairine McDiarmid answered. “We cahn, y’know. We’re rich.”

  Polyphilia’s pink body had reddened with indignation. “Joe,” she snapped, “may I or may I not go to Boston?”

  “How do you mean, rich?” asked Hope, ignoring her.

  “People buy the fishing equipment,” answered Mary De-la-Noy. “The Spoon is all the rage among the local anglers.”

  Joseph Benton Hope frowned, looked at his immense table of followers cruelly. “It is good to remember,” he said, “that the manufacturing of fishing gear is an expedience that serves us. We do not serve it. Our only obligation is to the Almighty.”

  “Exactly,” said Mr. Opdycke. “So let us acquire machines. All the menial, time-consuming labor is done for us.”

  “Do people really enjoy fishing with those Spoons?” demanded Hope.

  “Oh, yes!” replied George Quinton, who thought that his master would be delighted. “They purchase them by the bushel-full!”

  “Don’t they find them a trifle … facile? It seems to me that the fish attack out of brute instinct, and that getting them on the Spoon requires no guile or artfulness.”

  Mr. Opdycke shrugged. “I reckon that’s why people like them.”

  Joseph Hope shook his head wistfully. “Whatever is the world coming to?”

  “Joe-Joe Bones,” said Polyphilia sternly, setting her breasts gloriously aquiver.

  “By all means,” acquiesced Hope. “Go to Boston. And give my best to your father when you get there.”

  “Um,” started Opdycke.

  Hope was resigned. “Yes, Opdycke. Let us have machines.”

  Polly came back a Spirit Rapper. That is, Polyphilia discovered an affinity for these disembodied spirits and found that they were drawn to her. Polyphilia would sit in the middle of a room, and invisible beings would begin knocking at the walls—quietly, almost inaudibly, but loudly enough for anyone else in the room to hear.

  Mr. Opdycke came back with machines. Also, while he was away, Opdycke applied for patents on the two-part ferruled fishing pole, the crank-winch reel, the spoon and several other of the Perfectionist innovations. He also registered a company name, “OPDYCKE SPORT FISHING GEAR AND TACKLE OF THE AMERICAS.”

  It seems probable that many years later (possibly even as the axe came down) Joseph Benton Hope regretted his decision to let Polly and Opdycke visit Boston.

  Burned With the Beauty of Living

  Hope, Ontario, 1983

  Wherein our Biographer Pursues an End.

  On this particular day I was fishing, teary-eyed and miserable. I was wielding my baitcasting rod with tremendous force, driving the Hoper far out into the middle of Lookout Lake. I was having no luck, even though I’d drastically lowered my body temperature with tequila and was butt-naked. Rachmaninoff’s “Vocalise” filled the air, whistled by yours truly, even though that was what was making me teary-eyed and miserable. That’s the kind of mood I was in.

  I was certainly in no mood to see people, but that didn’t stop Professor Harvey Benson from waddling down to the water’s edge. He stood beside me and watched the surface of the lake for a long moment. “Any luck?” he asked finally.

  “Gregory Opdycke says, and I quote page thirty-seven of Fishing for Ol’ Mossback, that one must be willing to ‘sacrifice’ everything if one wishes to ‘hunt’ the Mighty Fish. That’s what I’ve done, Harvard. I’ve reduced my life. I’m happy.”

  “That’s good.”

  With a tremendous grunt I threw the Hoper. I watched it fly, and as it neared the water I gently stopped the line with the tip of my thumb. The Hoper tumbled quietly into the lake. I let it sink, quoting page sixteen for Harvey’s benefit. “ ‘Mossback lives, we must “presume”, at the “bottom” of Lookout.’ ”

  “Paulie,” said Harv, “I think you’d better put on your pants.”

  “But don’t you remember, Harvey? Ol’ Mossback can hear the rustle of material.”

  “The thing is, you’re embarrassing Esther.”

  “Esther?”

  “Up in my car.”

  Harvey and I both turned around. The red Fiat sat some forty feet away, parked on the shoulder. A woman sitting in the passenger’s seat waved at us. Benson waved back. I shrugged and turned around once more.

  “Paul,” said Professor Benson sternly, “Esther is coming down here. Now, this is the woman I love. I plan to marry this woman, and I don’t want her to think that I’ve got friends who wander around with no clothes on.”

  “Tell her I’m a nudist.” I shot the Hoper badly, and the lure kerplunked not far from the shoreline, landing in a bed of weeds.

  “Here she comes, Paulie. Could you please just put on your underwear?”

  “Oh, all right.” I reluctantly put down my rod and stepped over to where my clothes
lay in a pile. The tequila bottle was nestled snugly on top, so I picked it up and had a long snort. Then I put on my jeans and T-shirt. Finally I turned around and allowed Harvey to introduce me to this Esther.

  I remembered Harvey telling me that Jonathon Whitecrow had once had a Vision in which Harvey would meet a “very beautiful young chickie-poo.”

  “Wise-ass old Indian asshole,” I snarled when I looked upon Esther.

  Esther was a very exotic creature, her features and skin coloring indicating some peculiar mixture of bloods. Her nose was long, her lips were large, the eyes slightly Oriental, all of it crowned with an amazing amount of fire-red hair. Esther was heavily freckled, the little spots merging to form a rich, coppery tone. She was a tall woman, this Esther, taller than me and towering over Harvey. Harvey’s head was just about level with her breasts, and I knew that for him it had been love at first sight.

  “Hey, I’m sorry if you were embarrassed,” I said. “It’s a well-known fact that fish can hear the rustle of material, therefore, ‘the dedicated Mossback hunter quote, divests, unquote, himself of extraneous apparel’.”

  “That’s cool,” said Esther. “On a day like this, I wouldn’t mind wandering around naked myself.”

  “Yeah, only we’re not going to stick around,” Harvey said, his voice sitting in a panicky upper register.

  “I’m gonna catch Mossback’s ass.” I grabbed my rod and raised it above my head. “Go ahead and take off your clothes, Esther. We’ll be here for a while.”