The Life of Hope

by Paul Quarrington

  “Well, it’s not like you can have too much good luck!” countered Esther, and to prove the point she gave Hope’s stone boner an additional thrumming. “Come on!”

  Harvey will do almost anything for someone who is in the position of denying or granting him amorous congress. He went up to the statue and laid his little fingers on it briefly, moving them a few centimeters so that the action qualified technically as a rub.

  “Come on, Paulie,” said Harvey.

  “Why not?” I wondered aloud. In a world full of nuclear weaponry, murder and mayhem, there is no percentage in refusing to rub stone boners. I stepped forward and tried to make myself a little good luck.

  And I think it probable that at that same moment, the phone started to ring back at my little homestead.

  Edgar the axe-murderer seemed delighted to see me. “Hey, Big Guy!” he barked, an unusual salutation, seeing as it came from a fellow who was built like a brick shit-house (the cliche is inadequate; let’s say a brick shit-house that could bench-press its own weight). “How’s it hangin’, Big Guy?” Edgar continued. “You haven’t been around for a while.”

  “I’ve been busy.”

  “Yeah, I bet.” Edgar trained his black eyes on my companions. “Hiya, guys!” he yelped enthusiastically. “What can I do you for?”

  Harvey answered, “I need a Hoper.”

  “Yep, I bet you do. If you’re goin’ after Ol’ Mossback, you sure do need you a Hoper.” Edgar reached below his counter and came up with a lure. “And here’s one of the little beauties right here!”

  “Ah!” went Harvey, with the air of a connoisseur. “The Hoper!”

  “Hey!” said I. “That’s not a Hoper!” This lure was an old-fashioned fishing plug, carved and painted to resemble a small perch.

  “Of course it’s a Hoper,” said Harvey Benson. “I’ve been fishing long enough to know what a Hoper looks like.”

  “Yeah,” agreed Edgar. “It’s a Hoper.”

  “Well, what was that thing that you sold me?” I asked. “The thing that looks like a finger or, more to the point, a penis?”

  “Watch your language, Big Guy!” snapped Edgar. “There’s a lady present!”

  Esther smiled gently.

  “A finger, then,” said I. “It looks like a finger.”

  Edgar aimed one of his own foot-long digits at the lure in Harvey’s hand. “That there is a Hoper.”

  “That is not a Hoper,” I mumbled. I looked at Esther furtively. “Further weirdness,” I whispered.

  “It’s a real shame about Deedee and the lib’ary, eh?” said Edgar. “That really depressed me. I almost started drinking again.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Me, too.”

  “She was smoking in bed,” continued Edgar. “That’s what they say. You’d think she’d know better, wouldn’t ya? One-hundred-and-four years old and still smoking in bed.” Edgar moved his shoulders in what was meant to be a philosophical shrug but looked more like a visual aid for a lecture on plate techtonics. “That’s the way she goes, eh, Big Guy?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Yeah,” repeated Edgar, “that’s the way she goes, all right.”

  “How much for the Hoper?” asked Benson.

  Edgar pursed his lips and decided, “Three forty-two.”

  Harvey produced the money.

  “Is the Hoper an Updike product?” I blurted out, almost before I’d formed the question in my mind.

  Edgar’s eyes darkened. “Nope,” he replied. “I don’t carry the Updike products. ’S how come business is so shitty,” he snarled, adding, to Esther, “excuse my French.”

  “But isn’t Bernie Updike a friend of yours?”

  “Yeah, sure. Big Bernie and Little Bernie, too. But I still don’t carry the line.”

  “Why not?” I asked, astounded at my courage.

  Edgar leaned across the counter menacingly. “Ever watch that show, ‘Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom?’ ”

  I nodded.

  “So you know what the odds are,” Edgar said quietly.

  “Four to one.”

  “And what do you think of those odds?” Edgar’s voice dropped suddenly in volume and was almost a whisper.

  “Pretty fair,” I whispered back.

  Edgar slapped his immense hand on to the countertop with final and irrevocable judgment. “That’s why I don’t carry the Updike line.”

  Then the three of us left Edgar’s place. We went back into the wild kingdom.

  Among the Wildflowers

  Hope, Ontario, 1983

  Wherein our Boy Hooks into Something!

  The next morning the three of us went fishing.

  Of the night before, there’s little I can say. Most of it has vanished into an alcoholic blackout, although little pieces of memory are seared to my brain by the cocaine. I can tell you that I wept a good deal, nonspecifically, and recounted to Esther and Harvey the entire history of my relationship with Elspeth. Actually, I made most of this up. Moreover, I refused to grant freedom to the few truths that I kept locked up somewhere within me like tiny war criminals.

  The three of us drove out to Lookout Lake, stopping here and there along the way so that Esther could examine the roadside vegetation. Esther was, like Harvey, employed at Chiliast U., her field being whatever field likes to examine roadside vegetation. It took us fully an hour to drive the two-plus miles, not that I cared particularly. I was groggy and muzzy-minded because, despite all my time spent bedside, I wasn’t getting any sleep. I was zooming right past sleep into that nether state that’s about as restful as running a marathon.

  Once, we stopped and Esther ran out among the wildflowers. Esther was wearing a T-shirt that pictured and identified Darwin, although Darwin was looking grotesquely bug-eyed and hydrocephalic. Esther’s lower part was crammed into cut-off blue jeans. Harvey stared after her for a long moment and then craned his head toward me in the back seat. “I’m in love, Paulie,” Harvey said.

  I scowled.

  Harvey reached a clenched fist toward me. I slipped an opened palm beneath it. Harvey gentled his grip, and two white pills fell into my hand.

  “What are those?” I asked.

  Benson shrugged, expressive of pharmaceutical fine points beyond my comprehension. “Uppers,” he answered simply.

  This was a little like throwing a stepladder to someone stuck at the bottom of a well, but I eagerly chewed them up.

  Esther came back and presented both of us with wildflowers. As we drove she wove some blossoms into what was left of Harvey’s head of hair.

  It was a beautiful day. God seemed to be taking a vindictive delight in making each day more beautiful than the last. Even Lookout Lake seemed magical that day, not like it usually seemed, which was like Nature’s version of a motel room. The greens were deep, the face of the water jeweled, the rocks all buffed and polished. The three of us jumped out of the car and we each took a deep breath.

  “This is great!” Esther said, dancing to the lake’s edge. “Moss-back!” she called. “Where are you?”

  I pretended that I didn’t hear a little voice exclaim, Oh, boy! Company. After all, I probably didn’t.

  Harvey and I assembled our gear. I did this with reasonable deftness, even gave the illusion of expertise. Harvey watched me with open interest. “Where did you learn all that stuff?”

  I shrugged.

  Esther was dabbling her toes in the water, her long arms held out sideways for balance.

  “Don’t do that!” I bellowed.

  Esther spun around, a hurt expression clouding her lovely face.

  I patted the thin air desperately, asking my companions for quiet and stealth. “We are hunting the mighty Mossback,” I whispered loudly. “The mighty Mossback gets alarmed when he sees toes in the water.”

  Hey, come on, take it easy on her.

  I spun around, ready to bawl out Benson for defending his sweetie-pie, but when I saw Harvey working on his gear I realized he had not spoken.


  “I’m sorry,” I told Esther.

  “That’s cool,” she said, sitting down on a nearby rock.

  Harvey got up and presented Esther with a light-weight spin-cast outfit. He and I were using heavier gear, our Hopers linked to high-test line with wire leaders.

  Harvey then proceeded to give Esther a few pointers on the working of her equipment. She listened politely, nodding occasionally, and then Esther stood up, assumed a fencing stance, and lightly tossed her lure into the middle of the lake.

  Harvey nodded. “Something like that.”

  Esther caught a fish on this first cast, a middle-sized bass that gave us a wonderful display of tail-dancing. Esther laughed gleefully. “Come on, baaay-beee!” she cackled. “Do that thing!”

  Harvey and I were both standing beside her, ready to give pointers on how to land such a troublesome catch. Of course, Esther needed no such help. She gave the fish slack when his antics demanded it, otherwise she kept her line nice and tight. The bass was netted some minutes later. Esther pulled it up, her thumb and forefinger gripping its lower lip. “Three pounds,” she judged. Esther worked out the lure, tossed the fish back into Lookout and then slapped her hands together.

  Harvey and I moved away quietly and began to fish.

  After a while I muttered, “Boy, oh boy. My body temperature is something. I am talking really, really high.”

  “Mine likewise,” agreed Harvey. He dug into his magic satchel and produced a bottle of Scotch.

  Here we go again!

  “Shut up,” I snarled at the water.

  My buddy Jonathon drinks that stuff, too.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Tell it to the marines.”

  “Paulie, who the fuck are you talking to?” Harvey was working his lure with concentration, so this question was shot out of the side of his mouth.

  Fortunately, I was spared answering because Esther gave out with a spirited, “Hey-oh!” and began battling another fish. Harv and I went to stand beside her.

  “This one’s bigger,” Esther informed us. “Feels like a pike.”

  Esther let the fish play itself out, and then she cranked it in. It was indeed a pike, a rather smallish one, and when landed seemed lifeless. Esther plucked out the lure and then gingerly lowered the fish back into the water, her hands supporting its underbelly. “Poor thing’s all tuckered out,” she told us. Esther began to move the creature back and forth, forcing water through the gills. The fish remained stunned for six or seven of these passes. Suddenly life sparked. The pike slapped the water with its tail, wetting all three of us, a defiant gesture that meant “Fuck youse” in no uncertain terms, and then the fish was gone.

  “You guys having any luck?” Esther asked ingenuously.

  Harvey and I went back to our spot, drinking heavily along the way.

  I don’t get it, I don’t get it. It’s not like the human brain is a precision piece of equipment or anything to begin with and, boy, does that stuff ever throw it out of joint!

  “Okay, Mossback!” I shouted. “Pipe down! You just better decide whether you want wild rice or tomato stuffing, because you are going to be our dinner!”

  Get this guy.

  “So, Paul,” said Harv—we both cast—we let our dissimilar Hopers drop deeply, then began the retrieval, “so, are you getting any work done on your second novel?”

  “No, because I’m doing all this research.”

  “Research about Hope and his followers and such like?”

  “Exactly. Research about that.”

  “You don’t think that’s maybe a waste of time?”

  “No.”

  “Paul, maybe you should come back to T.O.”

  “Toronto?”

  “Yeah. It occurs to me that maybe you want to come back to T.O. and move in with me. You could work in my study. I’ve got a word processor and everything. Then at night we could have fun and shit.”

  “What I want to do, Harvard,” I said solemnly, “what I want to do for all my life is to hunt this fish. What I want to do with all my heart is to catch him.”

  I stumbled forward as a furious force attached itself to the end of my line. Bracing myself, I jerked the rod tip backward, setting the hook. For a moment there was calm. The only sound in the air was that of my breathing, already quick and labored. Then the fish on the other end of the line began to move. I let him, trying to judge his size. “He’s big,” I whispered. “Sweet Jesus, he’s big.”

  “I’ll get the net,” said Benson.

  I cautiously brought up my rod tip, seeing what kind of battle I would provoke. The fish made an effort to get away, peeling off a foot or two of line, and then it stopped dead. I cranked my reel, and the fish resisted briefly and seemed to throw in the towel.

  Ugly, ugly, ugly!

  What’s ugly?

  That thing you’ve got on the end of your line.

  It’s not you?

  Well, thank you very much. As if I would behave like that wussy. If—and, mind you, this is extremely unlikely—if I ever chomp down on that whatever-it-is, you are in for the fight of your life.

  I was reeling in freely, the only hindrance being the creature’s weight.

  Both Harvey and Esther were standing beside me. “What is it?” whispered Esther.

  “It’s ugly, that’s all I know.”

  They exchanged glances.

  Harved waded into the water with the net. He lowered his head and searched the water for the fish, and when he saw it he said, “Is it ever.” Benson slipped the net beneath the thing and raised it into our sight.

  “Is it ever!” said Esther.

  It was a ling, a prehistoric fish that hasn’t evolved one iota for the past few thousands of years. A ling looks like a single IQ point made flesh. This one was big, somewhere near ten pounds, and stupid, even for a ling. It had managed to gulp down the Hoper, and the lure’s barbs were imbedded in the thing’s throat. Blood leaked out of its gullet. This ling was a goner, not that the earth would ever notice its passing. I took out my fishing knife and dispassionately sank it into the ling’s brain. As a child, as a boy, perhaps as a younger man, I would not have been able to do such a thing. I hunkered down and watched as the ling, and something else, slowly died.

  Stellar Constellations and Petty Emotions

  Hope, Ontario, 1983

  Wherein our Young Biographer (has he become our Hero? Perhaps not.) puts on a bravura Performance and makes the Acquaintance of Master Hope.

  It was midnight at the homestead, and here’s what was happening. Harvey and Esther were upstairs in their bedroom, causing all of the furniture to rattle and move about. I was full of tequila and cocaine. I was deteriorating. The word had lost its sting. I was deteriorating, and I was even slightly proud of the fact. I considered having a T-shirt made up, the back of which would read DETERIORATING. Maybe I could even have DETERIORATING tattooed somewhere on my being. And on my tombstone, of course, it would be chiseled, STILL DETERIORATING.

  Meanwhile my spirit was packing together its meager belongings. “Fuggit,” my spirit was muttering. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but there’s just no living with this asshole!” I climbed to my feet and stumbled over to the huge picture window. The night was there, looking like a page torn out of a cheap, black-and-white porno magazine. I was holding my bottle of tequila, my spirit was moving out (muttering all the while: “Nope, nope, I can’t hack it, I’ve tried and I’ve tried …”), the stars reminded me of Elspeth, and I only needed one thing to make me completely, and beautifully, miserable. I fired up the record player and put on the “Vocalise.”

  It was hootenanny time. I tilted my head and howled the melody at the moon, back where it came from, and with my hands I conducted, orchestrating the movements of constellations and petty emotions. It was a bravura performance I put on, better than Leonard Bernstein could have done, because Lenny didn’t know or even care about Elspeth and Helmut.

  At the end of the song, my spirit was long gone. (“And on top
of everything else, there’s too much goddam noise.”) I turned away from the picture window, away from the night, and then I started to scream.

  When I say I “started to scream” I mean only that I initiated the physical process of screaming, opening my mouth and sucking in buckets of air, but the scream itself got tangled up in my tear-choked throat.

  All I actually produced was an odd bird-like sound, sort of a cheep. Still, it was enough to alarm Louis Hope. He took three baby-steps backward, but they were too quick, not properly engineered, and Louis fell down. He fell down slowly, crumpling like a dynamited building, and it seemed like many moments later that Louis was finally a mountain of obscenely pale flesh covering my floor.

  I was holding the tequila bottle high in the air, because I’d been using it as a baton, and that’s where it ended up at the end of Rachmaninoff’s “Vocalise.” Louis Hope’s good eye was fixed on the bottle, and the look in that eye was pitiful and terrified.

  “Don’t hit,” whimpered Louis.

  It took me many moments to realize what had taken place. First of all, Louis’s voice was a strange one, and sounded as if it came out through a mouthful of lopsided marbles. Secondly, I have never considered a booze bottle to be an offensive weapon (although God knows I’ve had just cause), but finally I connected the naked giant’s fearful quivering with the tequila in my hand. I lowered it slowly, sneaking a sip from it en route.

  I said, “Hello, Louis.”

  Louis Hope moaned something, very quietly—“Sowwy”—and then he covered his face with grief and shame.

  “You like this music, don’t you, Louis? I do, too. It’s beautiful.”

  Louis parted the fingers of one hand to reveal that his milky wall-eye was aimed at me. “Boo’ful,” he agreed.

  “Don’t be frightened,” I tried to calm him. Then I had a good idea, as unlikely as that sounds, and I asked, “Do you want something to eat?”

  Louis Hope parted the fingers of his other hand so that both eyes were pointed at me, albeit from two very different vantage points. “Eat?” he repeated.

  The way to a 700-pound giant freak’s heart is through his stomach, remember that. I dashed into the kitchen, and when I returned I had most of the refrigerator’s contents cradled in my arms.