B0085DOTDS EBOK

by Ivan Doig

  I would have settled for that cast for the whole day, content to let the morsel of chicken gut sit on the bottom of the lake or wherever it had ended up. But something that felt like it wanted to start a tug-of-war had other ideas.

  “I’ve got a bite!” I hollered, although I had much more than that, my pole curving as the fish nearly pulled me in the water. I dug my feet in as best I could on the slippery dam bank and gripped the pole for dear life while trying not to lose my head. Supposedly the greatest allure of fishing is the thrill of the fish putting up a fight. I say it’s tricky work, attempting to levitate an extremely reluctant living object out of the water on the end of a thin line and a long stick.

  “Hang on to him!” Pop grew excited now, puttting aside his pole to scramble over and coach me. “Don’t horse him, just keep your line tight and reel in slow and walk him out, that’s the way.”

  It took what seemed an unearthly amount of time, with the stubborn fish thrashing and twisting and turning but gradually drawing closer to shore. We were of the drag-’em-out school, not bothering with fanciness like a net, so in the end I tottered backward up the bank, towing the glistening trout out onto solid ground, and Pop pounced on it before it could flop back in the water.

  It was a beauty, royally speckled with the colors of the rainbow that gave the species its name. And it was king-size, a foot and a half long if it was an inch. Pop looked even more proud of it, and me, than I was myself. The two of us stood gazing down at my whopper of a catch, thinking the exact same thing. He was the one who spoke it.

  “Too bad you couldn’t have saved that for the derby.”

  This was my chance. Now if ever.

  “I was going to bring that up. The derby coming and all.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “I think I better not fish this year, don’t you? I mean, it wouldn’t look good if I won and I’m your son, see what I mean? What if there’s another rainbow like this one, its mate or something, and I caught it, too, now that I know how?”

  The unlikelihood of another leviathan trout yielding itself up to me aside, the rest was pretty much unarguable. He started to say something, but I sneaked in ahead, “Then everybody would want to know what my bait was, and they’d find out about chicken guts.”

  The hint of amusement in his eyes telling me he knew what I was up to, he finally gave a resigned shrug. “Okay, you win. This year you can be assistant to the Derby Day committee chairman, how’s that grab you?”

  Right where I most wanted to be grabbed, heart and soul.

  “That’s that, then,” he said, giving me and my prize catch another glinting look. “I better get to catching fish if I’m not going to be disgraced by my own kid.”

  While he went back to baiting up and casting, I was excused to clean my champion trout, conscientiously tossing its guts into the gushing spillway so as not to litter the bank, and covering it with moss out of the lake to keep it cool in our creel. Rather than stretch my luck and fish some more, I found a relatively dry spot to sit and watch Pop at it.

  How peaceful everything seemed, and how fleeting. Fishing is supposed to clear the head and put a person at one with nature and all that. I can’t really say I felt any divine inspiration, but this excursion did give me a pocket of time alone with my father, without other people complicating the scene. It came to me more as a whisper of suggestion than the fundamental adage that it is—if this is not biblical, I shall always believe it should be—that all of us need someone who loves us enough to forgive us despite the history. Watching the figure who fathered me, now with gray at his temples and a certain stiffness in his casting arm, I no longer cared about his quirks and questionable habits, about whatever happened in the Packard and the Blue Eagle and any other of his circumstances out of range of my knowing. I had to hope that he could forgive in turn my tardiness in what I was about to do.

  “Pop?” I raised my voice just above the lapping of the water. “Can I tell you something, just between you and me and Pat and Mike and Mustard?”

  “I guess so, if it won’t cause blisters and blindness.” Still smiling over my catch, he glanced around at me. “What’s on your mind now, kiddo?”

  I drew the biggest breath I could, and let out the words along with it.

  “You maybe ought to watch her a little closer. France, I mean.”

  “What for?” He remained mainly interested in casting his line out far enough to impress the fish. “Seems to me she’s doing okay on her own behind the bar. But if you’ve heard her messing up on drinks, I suppose I better give her a refresher on—”

  “It’s not that.”

  “So? What is it then?”

  “She’s maybe a pack rat.”

  “Say that again?”

  “See, she has a, uh, kind of a jail record from taking something that didn’t belong to her,” I rushed on, “she told Zoe and me so, but we figured it would be better if she told you herself, so you wouldn’t think we, that is me, was squealing on her, but she hasn’t, has she, so—”

  “A kind of a jail record?” he exploded, although it wasn’t clear if it was at her or at me as the bearer of the news. “Rusty, are you sure she wasn’t pulling your leg?” he demanded, his brow drawn down in the severest way as he studied me.

  “I don’t think so, Pop. Why would she kid about a year and a half in juvie?”

  By now he was reeling in furiously, the chicken gut bait skipping across the surface of the water. “Cripes, they must have thrown the book at her if that’s true. What’d she ‘take’?”

  “A car. When she was fourteen.”

  I saw him wince hard. Pole in hand, fishing abandoned, he stalked over by me and sat down heavily.

  “Okay, let’s think about this.” He started trying to parse through the matter. He was welcome to it, after all the brain-bending I’d done on it. “Let’s say that’s the straight scoop and she served her time. It ought to have taught her a lesson, right? Scared her straight, if nothing else.” Making every effort to be fair to her, he countered the juvie record. “I’ve been keeping a real close eye on the cash register, just to be on the safe side, and I’m pretty sure she’s not taking from the till.” He tapped his forehead. “I’d know.”

  “Maybe not there, but—”

  “Not there? Then where? Come on, spill it.”

  I reminded him of the eagle jigger he couldn’t find no matter where he looked behind the bar, and then days later, there it magically was, and related the similar tale of my silver dollar that went missing and showed up again.

  He could hardly believe it about France’s personal version of shoplifting, on us. “What the hell would she bother with little things like that for?” he said in bewilderment. “And why bring them back?” Then something like a sudden headache seemed to come to him.

  “This maybe explains something,” he began slowly. Reaching in his shirt pocket, he pulled out a cigarette lighter, a shiny ACE IN THE HOLE one. “Couple of days ago, I was certain as anything I had left this on my nightstand. Just, you know, in case,” he tossed off, as if that had nothing to do with smoking in bed. “But when I remembered while we were opening up the joint and went back for it, damned if I could find the thing. Then the other night when I turned in, I reached over to the nightstand for a book off the pile and the lighter was right there, sort of tucked behind the stack. It really threw me, how I could have overlooked it the first time. Made me wonder if I was ready for the funny farm.”

  I doubted that a mental institution was in prospect for him or me, either, although I would not have bet against incarceration of some sort for my ersatz cousin, if recent behavior was any indication. I felt a whoosh of relief that I hadn’t been accusing her of behavior imperceptible to anyone else. Now I stayed quiet to let him try to sort matters out. “What’s she doing, playing some crazy game with us? Damn it, she�
�s a grown-up, she better act like one.” Firm as a father could be, he drew a conclusion: “I’ll tell her to cut out the nonsense and—”

  I couldn’t let it end there. “Pop, there’s something else she’s doing.”

  He looked at me with extreme reluctance. “What’s the something else?”

  Haltingly, I told him the story of Canada Dan’s ten-spot. “And I saw Velma Simms count her change two or three times that last time she was in.”

  By the time I was done, he was squinting so hard, it looked like it hurt. “That puts a whole different light on it.” His voice sounded hollow, barely hearable over the gushing spillway. “Shortchanging any customers is a death warrant for a joint, that’s rule number one.” Taking out the lighter again and fumbling a little, he lit a cigarette as for once I watched sympathetically. As the first puff of smoke settled, he wondered aloud, “Why do you suppose somebody—I’m not naming names, understand—didn’t tell me any of this before now?”

  “Maybe they,” I guiltily took the little cover that was offered, “wanted to give her a chance. See if her conscience might start kicking her in the wazoo.”

  “I suppose that’s it. Can’t blame them too much for good intentions, I guess.”

  He smoked in silence for a while.

  “That still leaves us with what to do about her,” he finally broached. “I hate to have to can her, the way things have been going. We’re right back in a fix about the joint, if I do. And there’s no getting round it, she’s my—our own flesh and blood.” He looked sick about the situation. “Then there’s Delano, he couldn’t fall any harder for her if you hit him with a club.”

  He ground out his cigarette in the damp soil. I could tell he was casting around for some other answer than firing France, and slowly he brought out: “Tell you what, we’re gonna have to put up with her until I get done with the derby. Howie’s too old to cut the mustard anymore, full time, so I don’t see any damn choice but leave her behind the bar for now.” Frowning again as if it hurt, he concluded, “But then she’s gonna have to turn honest or hit the trail.”

  —

  “I TOLD.”

  “Whoo. Was your dad mad?”

  “More like sad.” Rapidly I filled Zoe in on what had transpired at the reservoir. Our conversation was hushed, even though the saloon was not yet open, and so neither was the vent. Looking like a man trying to juggle hot potatoes, Pop had gone on to derby business at the community hall as soon as we got back from fishing, and France was out front, setting up the bar as usual, if she hadn’t lapsed into stealing ashtrays or some such.

  “Poor Del,” Zoe mourned. “He’s in for a real snotty surprise when he finds out about her, isn’t he.”

  No doubt I was touchy about the matter, but Del seemed to be drawing more sympathy over the disclosure about France than was I, directly related to the juvie veteran and presumed pack rat. The elements were not helping my peevish mood, the day having deteriorated practically by the minute ever since Pop and I left the reservoir, with dark clouds rolling in over the mountains behind the Packard, as if racing us to town. Now rain was pouring down yet again and thunder was rumbling like beer kegs rolling off the delivery truck. More thirty-year weather.

  “Yeah, but,” I started, “isn’t it a whole lot better for him to find out now than—”

  Unexpectedly the door from the barroom flew open, making us both jump.

  It was the piano girl herself, France barreling into the back room and, from the look of it, not simply to replenish something behind the bar.

  “Hi, you two, think the rain will hurt the rhubarb?” she wisecracked, and to our surprise, started racing directly up the stairs to us. “Not if it comes in cans, huh? Guess what, forgot my bow tie. Tom will bug me about it if he catches me not wearing it. Gonna borrow that slicker to run back to the house for it.” She meant, Zoe and I realized in a single convulsive gulp, the one hanging over the vent.

  Panicked, I leaped up, nearly bumping France backward at the head of the stairs. “Huh-uh, that’s Pop’s. He gets really, really upset if anybody uses it but him. Come on, I’ll get you a better one down here.” I pattered past her to the hanging haberdashery below.

  She gave me an odd look, and then one to Zoe, sitting there by the raincoat with a theatrical expression that implied if it were up to her, she would waft the forbidden garment onto France’s shoulders like a royal cape. “Some people have funny habits,” sighed Zoe in universal regret.

  “Yeah, the dumb bow tie is in that category, too,” France said, reluctantly turning to trot down the stairs to where I was flourishing some sheepherder’s yellow slicker. “Don’t let the joint float away before I get back,” she left us with, and dashed out into the downpour.

  “That was close,” Zoe said.

  “What isn’t, with her,” I said.

  —

  AS IF PROXY HAD some sixth sense about showing up when no one was looking for her, the very morning of the fishing derby she came wheeling into the driveway, casual as you please. Our soup spoons poised to dig into breakfast, Pop and I heard the definitive crunch of the red Cadillac on the gravel. France wasn’t even out of the bathroom yet.

  “What is this,” he burst out, already beset with assignment sheets and voluminous other derby busywork spread around him, “some crazy phase of the moon?”

  Swearing under his breath—considerably beyond mentioning the Nazarene—as he scooped together the paperwork and reared up from the table, he got hold of himself enough to instruct me to pour breakfast back in the pan and then fetch France for the awaited confrontation.

  “We’re gonna get her straightened out right here and now, or know why not,” he vowed as he marched out to conscript Proxy for that duty.

  All too aware of my part in bringing this about, I mounted the stairs with my heart thumping at every step and knocked on the bathroom door.

  “Hold on to your irrigation hose, can’t you,” the occupant responded laconically, “I’ll be a couple more minutes.”

  “It’s not that. Pop told me to tell you your mom is here.”

  Something clattered in the bathroom. “Proxy?” came the muffled question, as though she might have some other mother. “Now? She sure knows how to spoil a good time.”

  Back downstairs, where Pop was waiting stiffly—I could tell he was bottling up everything until France arrived on the scene—and Proxy was lounging around the living room as if she owned the place, I met once more with that unsettling gaze, as if she were sizing me up. After a moment, she cracked a smile. “Hey there, Russ. The big day, huh?” Turning back to Pop, she kidded: “Jeez, chairman of the whole fishing shebang. You’ve come up in the world, Tom. If you don’t watch out, you’ll be mayor next.”

  “I have enough headaches already,” he said shortly. Anything further was cut off by rapid steps on the stairs and France making her appearance.

  “Hi, Ma,” she came in talking fast, “come to see if all fishermen are liars or only liars fish?” When I say making her appearance, this day she really had worked on how she looked. She must have cleaned out the Toggery of its most exotic items, a vividly striped red, white, and blue blouse and a fringed buckskin vest that went with her leather bracelet, plus crisp new blue jeans. Topping it all off, her black hair, with a fresh sheen to it, had been teased nicely into a kind of crown effect. In a word, she was an eyeful, and the three of us stared as if making sure it was her, the old Francine.

  “Look at you,” Proxy eventually said, guardedly. “Bartender clothes have changed since my day.”

  France glanced in nervous appeal at Pop, and he came through with, “She’s not behind the bar today. The joint’s always closed for the derby.”

  “Civic, huh?” Proxy adjusted to the situation. “So much the better.” She gave France a sort of maternal wink, if those two things do not cancel e
ach other out. “It’ll give us a chance to catch up with each other. I don’t know about you, but I’m not much for hook, line, and sinker. What do you say we go into Great Falls, ladies’ day out?”

  Now France really showed the jitters. “Sorry, no can do. I didn’t know you’d blaze in here like this. See, I’m going to the derby with”—she managed a twisty shrug and toss of her head that ended up pointing out the window, toward the Gab Lab parked beneath the bower of Igdrasil—“well, Del.”

  I swear Proxy took in the van and the Packard beyond it, shined up for the day’s event, in a single lightning glance.

  “It’s like that, is it?” Her tone said she remembered all too well how such things were. “I thought Carrot Top is supposed to be chasing down voices out on the coast by now.”

  “He got a grant,” I helpfully provided.

  “He’s after sheepherders,” Pop supplied simultaneously.

  “He’ll be here for a while yet,” France imparted at the same time.

  Proxy scrutinized the trio of us, the crimp between her eyes saying more than she did for a few seconds. “Oh-kay, the young folks will have their fun,” she conceded. If there is such a thing as a warning smile, she gave France one now. “Just don’t let having a good time get in the way of what counts, all right?” With that, she briskly gathered herself. “Well, I guess I might as well hit the road, busy as everybody is around here.”

  “Don’t rush off.” Pop’s tone erased the look of relief on France. He looked regretfully at Proxy. “We have something to talk over.” Here it came. I was divided between anticipation and apprehension.

  Pop wasted no words: “Things have been going missing.”

  Mother and daughter went rigid in the same instant. You could have heard a false eyelash drop in the silence before Proxy at last sighed, “What things?”

  “Little things that disappear and then, surprise, surprise, show up again,” Pop said pointedly. “Wouldn’t you say that’s what happens, Francine?”