All over. I should be so lucky.
I lie flat and cogitate about Virgil Whitman. Solar smile. Naked hair. Floating voice. It almost makes me want to go back to school tomorrow. I drift until a raven circles over me and squawks irritably. I look at my watch. My dad is going to kill me.
My dad lifts his head to look at me as I walk in. He’s with a customer so he gives me a quick glare, which I pretend not to see.
I say, “Hi, Dad.”
He furrows his brow slightly and ignores me. This is how it goes. People come from all over the world just to fish with my dad and have the pleasure of his company, but he only speaks Nod and Gesture to me.
I recognize the fisherman my dad is talking to from last fall. I remember chatting him up when he bought his licenses; he sells townhouses in Utah. Has a daughter about my age that won’t fish. Bob Andrews or Anderson. He triple sneezes as I come closer. He did that last year. His name rhymes with “achews.” I walk up and say, “Welcome back, Mr. Andrews.”
He looks at Dad. I love it when people give that look to my dad. “It’s good to be back, dear. How are you?”
“Well, I started school today.”
“That’s a shame,” says Mr. Andrews.
I shed my ghastly day like a bad shirt. In the shop I’m just me. No freak show explosions. “How’s your daughter Melinda doing?”
Mr. Andrews winks at Dad. “Impressive . . . Wish my daughter paid that much attention to what I said.” He turns to me. “She just started her senior year. Total nutcase. Wants to be an astronaut.”
“Way cool,” I say.
“I guess,” Mr. Andrews says. “But I’d just as soon she was a doctor or lawyer or something that involved staying on this planet.”
“Don’t let her be a lawyer then,” Dad says.
“Yeah, lawyers definitely live in their own little world,” I say.
Mr. Andrews smiles at Dad. “Got a law degree in the closet, Samuel?”
“Back with the mothballs,” says Dad.
“Is that right? Before you got religion, huh?”
“Yep,” says Dad. “Now I’m a Born Again Fisherman.”
Mr. Andrew fingers the small salmon fly in his hand. “Hey, what’s the difference between a dead cat on the road and a dead lawyer on the road?” Mr. Andrews isn’t looking at Dad when he says this. I freeze a little but it hits me slower than my dad. “A dead cat has skid marks around it.” He looks up for the laugh but he doesn’t get one.
I try to smile a little and distract Mr. Andrews from my dad’s face. I say, “Does your daughter like yoga? We have new yoga pants in the back.”
Mr. Andrews looks confused. Maybe he thinks we don’t have a sense of humor about Dad being a lawyer. He has no way of knowing my mother was an attorney, too. He probably doesn’t even know she’s dead, let alone that they had to pull her out of her car with a crowbar. “Yoga? No. I don’t think so.”
“They’re really comfortable,” I say. “You can even sleep in them.”
Mr. Andrews tips his head at Dad and frowns. “No offense, Samuel. I just thought . . .”
Dad doesn’t say anything.
The phone rings and Dad says he’ll take it in the back room. I sell Mr. Andrews some yoga pants for his astronaut daughter and tell him not to worry, my dad’s just tired.
No skid marks. It’s a dead mom joke. It’s the start of a whole new brand of sick humor.
When Ruben comes in to help me close I tell him about Mr. Andrews’ bad joke. Ruben smiles and then frowns. He always does that. He says, “Make him something good for dinner and he’ll be fine tomorrow.”
I like Ruben. His accent makes his words float a little before they land. Some of our clients are jerks and don’t respect him as much because he’s from Mexico. Like he doesn’t know how to catch American trout if he wasn’t raised on American cheeseburgers or something. If Dad gets wind that somebody’s mouthed off about Ruben, that’s the last time my dad will take that person fishing.
I say, “I’ll close up if you want to go home.”
Ruben says, “I’m in no hurry. You go home and make a salad for your Dad. He needs more roughage.”
“He always looks that way,” I say.
“He’s lucky to have you,” says Ruben. “Go home and remind him.”
“That would take one amazing salad,” I say. I feel bad because I know Ruben misses his two boys and his wife. I also feel bad because he’s leaving soon, with all the other guides. Then, just like every year, it will just be me and Dad in the store. At least I can talk to the customers.
I walk home fast and hope that there is something edible in the fridge I can make for my dad. It’s been a long day for both of us. I know he won’t eat, but at least if I cook something we can both pick at our food and pretend that we are fine. We’re good at that.
KJ’s Super Deluxe Recipe for Roughage1 2
A big thing of Romaine lettuce, or whatever
1 tomato—if they have them at the store
4 carrots—carved with dad’s hunting knife so they curl
2 peppers from my jalapeño plant
Elk strips, fried with those little onions and butter
Ranch dressing
4
BLACK AND WHITE AND READ ALL OVER
MRS. BABY CALLS the roll every day, even though there are only nine kids in the class. I think with so many of her own kids, she can’t remember who we are unless she can read our names at the start of class.
Virgil comes in and sits behind me. He looks at me as he passes, raises his eyebrows and says, “Hey.”
A week into the semester and I am still a loaded geek gun around this guy. After avoiding saying a word to him all day yesterday, I have a spasm of congeniality. I spin around and say, “We have a lot of classes together.”
“I noticed that,” says Virgil. “I mean, I noticed you. You’re pretty.”
I’m pretty? You can’t just say that to a girl in casual conversation. Is he from Minnesota or the moon? I’m so surprised I go blank.
“Do you want to see the pictures I brought?” He digs out an envelope, and Dennis and Sondra swoop over.
“More vermin babies?” says Kenner.
“Hush, Cro-Magnon,” says Sondra.
Mrs. Baby says, “Virgil, would you like to share something with the class or can I finish calling the roll?”
“Sorry for the interruption, Mrs. Brady,” he says.
I think Mrs. Baby wants to adopt him.
Mrs. B. directs us to an ancient table in the back of the room to read our ideas for the first issue. “Let’s go, team! Remember our motto: ‘Fair, fun, and friendly.’”
I’m not sure where Mrs. Baby learned about journalism, but I don’t think it was in college.
Addison reads a groundbreaking article she’s written about “Fabulous Fall Fashion Trends.” Kenner hands in the football team’s schedule. The JV stoners, Bret and Stewie, read two fart jokes. Clint, the varsity stoner, shows pictures he took of his friends jumping off a cliff into a river. All blurry, “’cause he was freakin’ wasted.” Dennis has a two-page story about a new D&D video game. Sondra reads her exposé on the evils of pet stores, which turns out to be interesting in a depressing sort of way. I read something I wrote at eleven P.M. last night about whirling disease in western fisheries, mostly because my dad has enough articles about it to pad a mattress.
Virgil, on the other hand, has an entire portfolio of wildlife photographs. He’s photographed badgers eating, elk jumping, and sandhill cranes in flight. But mostly he has wolves. Wolves hunting, wolves licking each other, wolves with pups, and wolves with Virgil’s mom holding them.
“How did you get these shots?” I say.
“Maybe he’s a wolf whisperer,” says Dennis.
“Oh, look at that,” says Sondra. “You got that little one smiling at your mom.” Sondra needs a pet.
“Look again, Bambi,” says Kenner. “It’s baring its teeth.”
“Really?” says
Addison, scooting closer to Kenner.
When they kidnapped the wolves from Canada and put them in the park a few years ago, some forest rangers came in their uniforms to our school. They told us all about the Endangered Species Act, and how wolves used to live here and then they were all killed and how that messed with the balance of things so the government brought the wolves back. Then they showed us a movie about how wolves don’t really kill people, and our teachers put on their happy faces and had us make wolf packs out of macaroni.
But outside of school I heard people talking about how wolves would slaughter the cattle and sheep, wipe out the elk, wreck the park—all so bureaucrats in Washington could impress people that don’t live here. Everyone talked about how the program was being instigated by “outsiders.”
One night, over burnt spaghetti, I asked my dad if the wolves were going to wreck Yellowstone and eat all the cattle. My dad told me that was the rancher’s job, and he thought we’d be in business a long time.
“On the other hand,” he said with a deep frown, “I’m not a rancher. Those guys have got their hands full.”
“Those are some impressive photographs, Virgil,” says Mrs. B. “You capture the wild nature of the animals well.”
Virgil half smiles. “Actually, a lot of these pictures are canned.”
“Canned?” said Mrs. Brady.
“My mom helped me set them up, at the university lab.” Virgil looks embarrassed by this information, but I don’t know why. All he did was take the picture.
“Those wolves are captive?” says Sondra.
Kenner says, “If that wolf was wild, it would have ripped his mom’s head off.”
“Wolves are the greatest, most noble predator in the American West. They should not be used as lab rats,” says Sondra. “Your mother should be ashamed of herself.”
“That’s enough, Sondra,” says Mrs. Baby.
“Yeah. It’s for research, right?” says Dennis passionately. I think he’s actually trying to protect someone besides himself. It’s kind of cute.
Sondra scowls at all of us.
“I hate wolves,” says Stewie. “They kill all the elk so there’s nothin’ left to hunt.”
“You couldn’t shoot an elk if it fell on you,” says Bret.
Stewie shoves Bret. “Screw you, man.”
Kenner says, “Wolves kill more than elk. They’re butchers.” Sondra chirps up, “What do you call what your family does? Babysitting?”
Kenner focuses in for the kill. “Honest work. Which is more than I can say for your money-mooching family.”
Sondra nearly shouts, “You get more government welfare to run that death ranch than my mother ever dreamed of. You’re nothing but a bunch of greedy flesh-gouging—”
Mrs. Baby suddenly seems to realize her “team” is in trouble. She stands up fast so her belly shoots out like a canopy from her body. “That’s enough,” she says. She straightens her dress over her protruding stomach. “Now, I know that there are strong feelings on this subject. But let’s not get rude.”
Virgil puts his pictures away. I can only imagine what he thinks of our little class now. I wish I wasn’t from Redneck, USA. I want to say something . . . redemptive. I want to be from a smart small town. A sanctuary of intelligence augmented with real-life proficiency. Plus I want Virgil to like me.
“Mrs. Brady,” I say. “I have an idea.”
“Yes,” says Mrs. Baby, clearly ready to have someone else in charge of this moment.
“Maybe Virgil could do a thing for the paper. You know, about the wolves. Since everybody has so many ideas about what wolves are like, maybe he could take pictures of them when his mom studies them and then one of us could write about the pictures and do updates about what’s happening with the wolves. You know, like a column. Then everybody could decide for themselves.”
I’m totally making this up.
“That’s a very interesting idea, KJ. What do you think, Virgil?” says Mrs. Baby. “Would you like to do some pictures of the wolves here? They’re a little harder to get to smile.”
I look at Virgil and I realize he is looking at me, not Mrs. Baby. He quietly says, “If KJ will write the column.”
Kenner groans, “Oh, like KJ will be fair . . .”
Mrs. Baby glares at Kenner and then at me. Mrs. Baby never glares. Her idea of discipline is one less cookie. She says with a huff, “For heaven’s sake. KJ, doesn’t your dad shoot animals?”
“He’s a guide.”
“Does he kill things?”
“He hunts.”
“So you’ll be fair, won’t you? Tell both sides of the story?”
“I guess so,” I say. I’m not following her logic, but I’m not going to mess with an angry pregnant woman.
“Well, there you go, Kenner.” She claps her hands together. “I think Virgil and KJ will be a great team. Kind of a random look at what’s happening with the wolves since they put them back in the park and how people feel about it. What should we call it, class?’”
“‘The Wonder of Wolves,’” says Sondra.
Kenner says, “If KJ’s doing it, maybe it should be ‘Trips with Wolves.’”
The class laughs, even Mrs. Baby.
“No. No,” says Mrs. Baby, swallowing a chubby chuckle. “What about something like ‘Wolf Notes’? That sounds nice and neutral.” If Mrs. Baby looked any more pleased with this idea she’d go into premature labor. “I’ll want something for next week. We’ll put you on the front page.”
“Sure,” says Virgil.
Virgil? Front page? I suddenly feel violently conspicuous. The class is looking at me. Virgil is looking at me. This is bad because when I get embarrassed my neck turns red and starts to itch.
“Are you feeling all right, KJ?” says Mrs. Baby. “Your neck is turning red.”
I keep my chin down and look away from Virgil. “I think I’m dehydrated,” I say.
“De-hy-drated?” says Clint. “You look like you have a giant hickey.”
I stand up to go outside and accidentally fling my pencil off the desk with my hand. It rolls under Virgil’s chair. I lean over and say, “I dropped my writing utensil.”
Stewie and Bret burst out laughing. Bret says, “Writing utensil? Nice one, KJ.”
Kenner says, “I need a u-ten-sil.”
Addison shoves his shoulder, but she is laughing, too.
Dennis says, “Is that really a hickey?”
Everyone is vomiting laughter. I’m hilarious.
Virgil hands me my pencil. He doesn’t say anything. It’s eerie.
Clint says, “Do you remember in fourth grade when she said she had to urinate and then she peed her pants anyway?”
“So totally gross.”
“Now . . .” says Mrs. Baby.
“In Driver’s Ed . . . last year . . . I thought Mr. Moonie was going to drop a brick when she dented the test car.”
“Omigosh, how about when she hurled at . . .”
I walk out of the room and close the door behind me as the class finishes reliving my greatest hits.
5
JUST GOOD TO GET OUT
I LIKE THE WEEKEND, even if it means work, because it doesn’t mean school. I clean the store, prep trip supplies, and stand around trying to sell gear. I also get to play Sherpa a fair bit. And all that is fine, but what I really love is to row.
I don’t usually get to row because I’m not a guide. Fishing guides must be masters at mixing pointers with stories and keeping their clients entertained in between success with gullible fish. They pull out knots in people’s lines and suggest flies and philosophies of presentation. “Try that little riffle, Hank, it’s a dandy. Watch your drag, now.”
I just like to row. But if I row I take up a seat, so if it’s more than one client we usually have to take the four-man (-person) inflatable raft. And most people like the wooden drift boat. Honestly they just look better.
So mostly I store-sit on fall weekends. But every so often, every blue
moon or red dawn or whatever, I’m allowed to row. And although I am an abysmal fisherman and rotten storyteller, I can row. Dad likes to say I’m hell on oars.
Along with all the other inconsistencies of my life, even though I am uncoordinated and scrawny, I’m also freaky strong for my size. Last year Dad bought a rowing machine so he could use it during the winter. He didn’t use it more than twice, but I did. By spring, I could do fifteen pull-ups from the tree in my backyard. Dad could only do four.
He got so excited he took me out on the Madison River the next day. We put in at the McAtee Bridge and by the time we hit Ennis Bridge he said I was worthy to row anything in the shop. That was one of the best days I can remember.
The only problem is that most men don’t like having a five-foot-four Pop-Tart row like a sailor while they do their manly fishing, so Dad usually saves me for women’s groups, who think I’m the best thing since the sports bra.
This morning Dad is guiding a couple of female lunatics from Colorado, and I’m up. He says he wants me to row because his shoulder is bothering him, but we both know he wants me on board for protection. Last year these two got drunk before lunch. My dad said he thought for sure at least one of them would fall out of the boat, but they just kept catching fish. When they came back into the shop, one of the women kept putting her arm around my dad like they were great buddies. I’m guessing they tip well or my dad wouldn’t put up with this twice.
Dad’s recovered from the Mr. Andrew’s joke fiasco and seems like he’s almost in a good mood today. On the way over I say, “If they pinch your rear end I’m tipping them out of the boat.”
He looks at me and actually smiles. “I’m more worried about them throwing up in my boat.”
“I don’t see why people come on the raft to get drunk when they’ve paid to have you show them how to fish.”
Silence. I am a connoisseur of silence and its various connotations. In this case, I interpret Dad’s silence as friendly because my dad is:
1. not scowling, rolling his eyes, or clenching anything on his face.
Kristen Chandler Page 3