"Did you know," Tim replies, because he's been gathering facts of his own to carry back to his grandfather, "that one of an owl's ear holes is higher than the other? That makes it so an owl can tell the height of a mouse by the sound it makes."
Granddad holds up a thumb to make an "all right" sign. They grin at each other.
A great blue heron standing near the shore thrusts its elegantly long beak into the water and comes up with a flapping fish. "Good work there, Blue," Granddad calls softly. Then they both turn back to study their lines as though concentration can help the minnows in their work below.
Tim reels in his line, checks his minnow—still active, still good—and drops it in again. A couple of minutes later, Granddad does the same.
There are other topics Tim wants to talk about, though, topics that have nothing to do with animals. For instance, why did Granddad quit his practice? He had been the best veterinarian in three counties. Everybody said that. The farmers used to call him from miles around to come care for their animals. People drove long distances to bring their pets to the clinic, too.
No one knew why, in the midst of prepping for surgery one day, Granddad had walked out of the clinic, gone home, marched in the front door and, without saying a word to anyone, sat down and started to read the newspaper. When Grandma asked him what he was doing home at that time of day, he'd said, "I'm reading the newspaper. Can't you see?" And he's never given any more of an explanation than that. As far as Tim knows, no one has ever dared to ask again. Not even his grandmother.
Tim studies the point where his line disappears into the water, gazes so intently that the shimmer of light on the surface begins to dazzle his eyes. He speaks without looking away or even blinking. "Why did you quit?" he asks. "Being a veterinarian, I mean."
The silence in the raft stretches like a taut rubber band. And stretches and stretches. Just when Tim is sure something must snap, Granddad says, "Do you know how you can tell the age of a bear at a glance?"
Tim sighs. He knows. He doesn't mind being told something that he's heard before, but for a moment there, he had actually thought he was going to get an answer to his question. He puts a finger beneath his line and gives it a tug, though they aren't really set up for jigging. "No," he says. "How can you tell?"
"By the size of the ears." Granddad is triumphant the way he always is when he thinks he's come up with a fact Tim doesn't know. "Even after a bear is grown, its skull keeps growing. But the ears stay the same. So when you look at an old bear, the ears seem smaller than they are on a young one. They aren't really, of course. They're just small in comparison to the head."
Tim nods. He wishes he had another piece of information to offer in exchange, but he doesn't. He's going to have to go to the library when he gets back to Minneapolis. They've got dozens of books about animals there. But then he remembers—he's not going back to Minneapolis. Well, he'll see if the Sheldon library has anything new.
"A bear's penis keeps growing, too," Granddad says. "It's made of bone, and the older he gets, the bigger it is."
Tim can feel the blood rush to his face. He's never heard his grandfather talk dirty. But then maybe to a veterinarian talk about an animal's penis isn't dirty. Granddad has never said such a thing to him before, though.
Having nothing to contribute to the conversation about bears' penises, Tim searches for another topic. He is almost surprised at what comes tumbling out. "Tell me about my father."
"Your father?" Granddad repeats, almost as though he doesn't know who Tim is talking about. His gaze is steady on his line.
Tim can't help but feel impatient. "You know. Your son, Franklin. Tell me about him."
"Ah ... Franklin." Granddad's voice is so filled with love that Tim could almost warm his hands at it. "What do you want to know?"
Why did he go away? Tim thinks, but remembering his grandfather's studied lack of response to his other "why" question, he chooses safer ground instead, "Did he like to fish? You said you used to bring him out here to Silver Lake."
Granddad reels his lure in, picks a tangle of lake weed off the minnow, and casts again to a slightly different spot. Just when Tim is certain he isn't going to answer this question either, he says, "I used to bring Franklin here sometimes. I don't know that he ever liked fishing all that much, though."
"He didn't like it?" How could anyone not like going fishing? Especially with Granddad!
"It required too much sitting for his taste. Now, if I could have given him a spear, sent him into the lake after the fish, I think he would have liked that just fine." Granddad smiles, but the smile seems sad.
Fishing with his grandfather has always been Tim's favorite thing in all the world to do. The thought that his father didn't like it seems to put a thousand miles of distance between them. How could he not have liked just being out here on the silken water with Leo Palmer, whether he cared about fishing or not?
For several moments Granddad says nothing more. Then, as though Tim has asked another question, he adds, "Franklin always wanted me to take him hunting instead. I should have done it, I suppose."
Hunting. Another thousand-mile distance. Many of Tim's friends in Sheldon hunt with their fathers. They come back boasting of their kills, of the blood and guts they saw. Jeff Kowalski even invited Tim to come along once, but Tim made up an excuse. The truth is he didn't want to go. He wouldn't mind getting a chance to shoot a gun. That would be fun. But he could never shoot at anything alive.
It took a long time before he'd been able to take a fish off a hook, cut off the head and scrape the silvery scales and gut it without almost turning inside out himself. Granddad says he's got a tender stomach. Mom says he's got a tender heart. Whichever part of him is tender, the idea of looking into a deer's liquid eyes and pulling a trigger, of killing frightened little rabbits or the geese that fly overhead, calling in those lonely voices, has never appealed to him one little bit.
But his father liked hunting, actually wanted to go. Would a man who liked hunting, who didn't want to sit still to fish, have liked him?
The tip of Granddad's pole trembles, then tugs toward the water. Once. Twice. They both go still, watching the pole intently. And then the tip draws down again and stays arched toward the water. Granddad flashes a triumphant look in Tim's direction and begins reeling in.
"You've got a good one!" Tim whispers the exclamation, though noise probably couldn't disrupt anything now, and begins immediately to reel his own line in to get it out of the way. He discards his minnow, which is beginning to look the worse for wear, secures the hook in one of the eyes of the pole, and locks the reel.
"The net," Granddad says.
Tim lays his pole down and looks around.
No net. Granddad forgot to put the net into the raft. He forgot as much as Granddad did, though Granddad has always taken care of such details before. What a stupid thing to do, to go out fishing without a net!
Granddad is reeling in steadily, and Tim looks around, trying to see something else that can help land the fish. There is nothing.
His grandfather has his catch close to the raft now, and his pole is bent almost double. The fish is swimming hard, this way and that. Swimming for its life. Tim can see the dark back, the spiny dorsal fin. It's a walleye, all right. A big one. Ten pounds. Maybe more. It's been a long time since they've seen a walleye this big.
"Old Marble Eyes," Granddad cries. "It's Old Marbles Eyes. Bring me that net!"
"Sorry," Tim says, moving toward his grandfather, his hands empty. "We forgot." He leans over the side for a better look. He can see the long greenish back. A prize fish for sure. The kind to stuff and mount and hang on the wall. If Grandma were the kind to allow stuffed fish to be hung on her walls. "We didn't bring the net."
"What?" Granddad's voice is sharp.
"I'm sorry," Tim repeats. He doesn't add, as he might, I'm sorry you forgot to put it in the raft.
"Dammit, boy. Can't you do anything right?"
The words expl
ode from Granddad's mouth, and Tim's head jerks up. His grandfather has never spoken to him this way before. Rarely even been angry with him. Certainly never sworn at him. Not in all his life.
"Everything," his grandfather is saying. "I have to do everything myself." His eyes are icy blue, fierce.
"It's not..." Tim starts, but he can't finish. It's not my fault is what he means to say. You're the one who's supposed to be in charge. But he looks at the dark color staining his grandfather's face, at the anger setting his mouth in deep parentheses, and he doesn't dare say it.
Granddad drops his pole and takes the line in his hand instead, moving in closer to the big walleye. "Not only can you not sit still long enough to catch a fish, but you can't manage to take any responsibility, either. Never known how. Never will." He spits the words as, with a single, strong pull, he lifts the walleye out of the water. The magnificent specimen rises straight up along the side of the raft. Tim sees what is going to happen. He sees and might have cried out a warning, but he does not.
The walleye hasn't swallowed the hook. The minnow is still there, a flash of silver in the big fish's mouth. And once Old Marble Eyes is half out of the water, he spits it. Just lets the minnow go and drops back into the lake. Slips into the water like someone sliding into bed. Without a farewell glance. Without even a splash.
For several long seconds, Tim's grandfather stares at the surface of the water. Stares at the ripple widening and widening. And then slowly he turns to face Tim again. Tim sees, as though from a great distance, that his grandfather's face is twisted with rage. "You're useless," he cries. "I don't know why I bother to bring you here. You're absolutely useless!" And he jerks the empty line out of the water.
Before Tim can gather any kind of response, he hears a new sound. One he has never heard before. Not out here in the raft, anyway. Nonetheless, he knows instantly what it is. He would have recognized that sound in his dreams.
A hissing. A fizzing. A sharp release of air. And he looks to see what has happened. When Old Marble Eyes spit the minnow, the minnow must have come free of the hook, too. Now the bare hook is caught in the side of the raft, puncturing the top chamber. The largest tube. The one that gives the raft its shape, its lift above the water. And around the penetrating hook, the air rushes out in a savage whisper.
See? the hissing air says. See? You're absolutely useless, Timothy Palmer!
EIGHT
Disaster!
Tim's grandfather kneels, studying the slowly collapsing side of the raft. He seems calm, almost mesmerized by the disaster overtaking them.
"Granddad!" Tim cries, lifting the dripping anchor out of the water and dropping it to the floor of the raft. "You've got to do something."
His grandfather reaches out to touch the deflating chamber, but he says nothing, does nothing.
"Row!" Tim shouts, rising to his knees.
For a moment, Granddad's attention shifts to the oars, and Tim thinks he is going to pick them up and begin to use them, but he doesn't. He only stares at them, then at Tim, his mouth half open.
"Please," Tim pleads.
But Granddad buries his face in his hands.
Tim looks down at the dark water lapping hungrily at the side of the raft. His eyes measure the distance to shore. Then he takes in the curled lump that is his grandfather. Exasperated—disgusted, really—he crawls past him until he is in a position to reach the oars himself. He gives his grandfather a light push. "Change places with me," he commands.
His grandfather doesn't budge.
Tim reaches past him for one of the oars, then the other. As he works, he can feel the heat climbing his neck, tingling his scalp. Useless, is he? He'll just see who's useless! If anyone around here is useless, it's his grandfather. Tim can't even row properly with him in the way.
He lifts a foot and gives his grandfather another push, a real shove this time, and Granddad topples onto his side, his knees still drawn up, his face still buried. Lying there, he reminds Tim of the pictures he's seen of a fetus, as if he's pretending to be a baby that's not even born. At least he isn't obstructing the oars so much now, and Tim can begin to row. They have another problem, though. Granddad's head now rests on the deflating top chamber, pushing it down so lake water runs into the raft in a steady stream.
Is he ever this bad around Grandma? If he is, no wonder she sounds so cross all the time.
"Granddad, you've got to move!" Tim shouts.
"You're letting water into the raft. You've got to get up and go sit in the back."
To his surprise and relief, his grandfather gathers himself enough to do as he is told. He crawls to the back of the raft and sits there, hugging his knees to his chest. With his head no longer pressing down the collapsing side, the water stops pouring in, but there is nothing to do about what has already collected in the bottom of the raft. It sloshes back and forth, wetting Tim's sneakers, the seat of his jeans. Granddad is getting soaked, too. In fact, he is wetter than Tim, because until he moved he'd been lying in the water that was pouring in. For so early in the fall, the lake is surprisingly cold.
Tim pulls as hard as he can on the oars. One dips deeper than the other, turning the raft in the water without moving them toward the shore. Tim positions himself more carefully and pulls on the oars again. This time the raft moves, just barely. He can't remember ever being so angry, especially with his grandfather. He can hardly remember a time when he has been angry with his grandfather at all.
Useless. Of all the unfair accusations! Hasn't he always been Granddad's best helper? Hasn't Granddad told him he is?
Tim digs at the water again. The deflated fabric of the top chamber has flattened to the point that it is hanging into the water. The air, instead of escaping with a hiss, sends up a silent stream of bubbles. As the top chamber sinks farther, water trickles over the collapsing side into the bottom of the boat with each pull of the oars.
"I'm sorry," Granddad moans. His face is buried against his knees, and his words comes out muffled.
"What?" Tim barks. He heard, but he wants to hear it again. The man ought to be sorry, that's for sure.
Granddad lifts his head and looks directly at Tim. "I'm sorry, Franklin," he says.
The hairs along Tim's arms rise. Franklin! As though Tim's father has suddenly appeared, as though he is sitting right there in the middle of the raft, in the deepening puddle which occupies the space between Tim and his grandfather.
Why does Granddad think he needs to apologize to Franklin, anyway? Doesn't he remember that Franklin is the one who went away? Years and years ago he walked out. By his own choice. Even though Tim left, too, that was different. He hadn't wanted to go. His mother and Paul had made him.
Besides, he's here now, isn't he? Listening to those old, old stories, sitting perfectly still to fish—getting yelled at. Taking over in a disaster.
Tim pulls hard on the oars, but this time the raft bumps against something and wallows there, water sloshing back and forth in the channels of the raft's floor. Have they reached the shore already? He looks over his shoulder.
No shore. That is still a good hundred feet away. What they have come up against is a stand of wild rice. The water between them and the shore is clogged with the long grass, the stems too thick to row through. If they were in a canoe, they could slip between the tall plants, but the raft is too wide to fit.
He looks both directions along the stand of rice. It seems to go on forever without a break. He can't tell how far. They've never come to shore here before, because if they did, they'd be on the opposite side of the lake from where they always camp. He'd like to try rowing back across the way they came, but he doesn't dare. What is left of the raft won't sink, but it's certainly not going to keep them dry. By the time the air is completely out of the top chamber, it's going to be pretty hard to maneuver, too.
He turns the raft and begins moving along the edge of the wild rice bed. Already the rowing is getting hard. The water they are taking on increases the weight of
the boat, and his shoulders and arms ache. There is no point in expecting any kind of help, though. His grandfather is sitting there, staring at him as if he doesn't know who he is. Which is, undoubtedly, the truth.
"I'm sorry," Granddad says again. "I didn't mean..." His voice trails off, leaving whatever he didn't mean dangling in the air.
He's talking to Franklin still. Tim knows that now. He must have thought Tim was Franklin when he yelled at him earlier, too. Well, who cares if he wants to sit in a puddle of cold water, talking to someone who isn't even there? Who hasn't been there for years.
Who cares about anything at all?
His grandfather shivers, a shudder so violent Tim almost expects to hear his bones rattle.
Tim keeps rowing. He can see what looks like an opening in the tall grass just a little farther down the shore. Wide enough, it seems, to bring the crippled raft to shore. The air in the boat is so diminished now that it buckles with each stroke, and with each stroke more cold water gushes in.
Granddad's teeth are clattering like castanets. "Sophie," he moans. "I want Sophie."
"You'd better not wish for Grandma," Tim warns through clenched teeth. "She's going to be mad at you. Plenty mad at you by now. Just like me."
But his grandfather doesn't seem to hear. He just whimpers again, "Sophie!"
NINE
No Choice
By the time Tim noses the collapsing raft up to the shore, he is shivering, too, though the spasms that set his teeth chattering seem to come from a deeper cold than the one in the air. How dare his grandfather say such things to him ... and then turn around and pretend he's here with Franklin? How dare he sit there doing nothing and leave Tim to save the situation?
And what are they going to do now? They are on wrong side of the lake.
An Early Winter Page 5