Dead Down East

by Carl Schmidt

  Dead Down East

  Dead Down East

  Prologue

  Midpoint

  Prologue

  Apologies and compliments are two remarkably effective devices for disarming adversaries in life and hecklers in bars. If you consider the socially adept people you know, you’ll see that they use these two conversational tools frequently and with ease. I remember the first time it fully dawned on me how valuable they could be.

  Angele and I had been dating for a couple of weeks. Our next planned event was scheduled for Saturday night. So I was a bit surprised when she arrived unexpectedly at my place on Tuesday evening. I guess she decided that there was something that couldn’t wait until the weekend. The moment she walked through the front door, I began to suspect what that “something” was. She had a gleam in her eyes that seared me from the inside of my nimble imagination right down to my insteps. I surmised that she was either ovulating, or she had a sudden urge for a tour of the Thorpe habitat. I began to mentally review the floor plan of the house. “Now, where is my bedroom?” I thought. “I know it was here this morning.”

  Angele relieved me of that particular anxiety by leading me right to it. She emits some kind of bedroom-seeking sonar through her vocal chords. The sound is extraordinary. I’ll try to describe it.

  For starters, it resembles a deep hum. Angele’s voice is naturally low and earthy. If she were a singer, she’d be a contralto. But this hum is very low-pitched, even below her normal register. I guess you could call it a sustained breathy murmur. Around here, it came to be known as the “Fugue for Two Bassoons in B Flat Minor,” or simply “The Fugue.” Whatever The Fugue is, it’s capable of finding the path of least resistance to the bedroom, and it also makes standard foreplay obsolete. The Fugue serves as a perfect bridge from what we call “everyday life” to what I call the “Island of the Floating Spirits,” which is my own personal euphemism for the afterglow when that rush of endorphins makes its way into the cerebral-spinal fluid.

  On that particular Tuesday evening, with a mutual anticipation of the “Island of the Floating Spirits,” The Fugue got us down the hallway, through the bedroom door, and onto my king sized bed. That’s when Angele spotted a lacy bra lying about ten feet from the foot of the bed. It was wedged along the side of the dresser, propped up against the baseboard.

  “What is that?” she growled. The Fugue had suddenly stopped playing. In its place was her three-word question in a totally different register.

  Instantly, I tried to recall the two devices that disarm adversaries and extract us from dicey social situations: apologies and compliments.

  Unfortunately, I was a little rattled and couldn’t think of either one, so I opted for the more standard male approach: lying.

  “That must be my sister’s bra,” I suggested weakly. “She dropped in from Boston yesterday on her way to Québec. She spent the night, and I let her use my bedroom. She can be forgetful at times, and she’s not very tidy. She left before dawn this morning. I guess she didn’t see it in the dark on her way out.”

  “Do you think I’m some kind of daft, Franco-Grecian bimbo?” Angele asked.

  I couldn’t get a full reading on what lurked beneath the surface of that rhetorical question, but I did catch the drift.

  “From what you’ve told me about yourself so far,” she continued, “I suspect you are an only child, and judging from your current performance, I’d say you’re not very accomplished at thinking on your feet…or, in this case, ruminating on top of your bed with half your clothes scattered on the floor behind you.”

  She certainly has a way with the English language.

  I was scrambling to apply the pair of devices known to be effective for resolving social conflict. I also wished I had used them before inventing a sibling. Granted, I was not yet adept with these social skills, but I should have tried harder. My options were limited at this stage anyway, so I decided to give them both a whirl. I began with an apology.

  “Angele, I’m really very sorry. You’re totally right. I just suddenly went brain dead. I am an only child. What was I thinking?”

  Before she had a chance to answer my rhetorical question, I climbed back on the horse and answered it myself with part two of the social-mending equation, a compliment.

  “What I was thinking was, ‘You are so beautiful!’ And that’s really all I was thinking. It’s no wonder I made up that story of having a sister. Actually, my best guess is that Jenny Boudreau intentionally left that bra there a couple weeks ago when I asked her to leave. That’s when we broke up. She might have figured that the bra would act like a juju or a talisman to win me back, or maybe to keep other women from entering my life, or at least my bedroom. She has a jealous streak, and I think she’s into some kind of voodoo, which is why I ended our relationship. I met you for the first time a couple of days after she vacated the premises, apparently minus one brassier.”

  “And one other thing,” I added, “I have no idea how I failed to see it lying over there for the past two weeks, but I can’t afford a maid, and I’ve been really busy.”

  Unfortunately, I was starting to sound like Woody Allen in Manhattan, trying to keep Mariel Hemingway from going to London.

  Angele looked at me for a few moments and then burst out laughing. Uncontrollably. I had to agree with her; I must have sounded like a buffoon. I managed a self-effacing smile, which slipped in rather nicely between her remarks. Finally she said, “Jesse Thorpe, you may have some faults—and a few of them come to mind at this point—but you do have two things going for you.”

  “Thank God for that,” I said to myself.

  “First, you are persistent. You’re willing to fight for what you want, against long odds, even if that means creating an imaginary sibling in the heat of passion. And second, you are charming. In fact, you’ve charmed the shirt right off my back.”

  And with that she pulled her sweatshirt up and over her head, and tossed it across the room, magically landing right on top of, and completely covering, the offending undergarment by the baseboard.

  I made a quick mental note to dispose of that bra as soon as it came up for air. I also noted that Angele, herself, wasn’t wearing one. I wondered if this was her standard attire—but not for long. The Fugue was back on the playlist! I became so mesmerized by it that I could barely decide what to do next. Winging it without a safety net, I surrendered to uncertainty and let one thing lead to another.

  • • •

  Apologies and compliments are more than just handy social skills; they can pivot your fate decisively. Before lunch, Cynthia Dumais and I would be employing both of them to the hilt—not once, but twice—in a half-controlled, half-desperate, attempt to elude FBI scrutiny. It’s all the more curious because the day began so peacefully…without the slightest whiff of chaos or danger.

  1

  On Golden Pond

  A fish is a dream

  alive in sleepy waters.

  The fisherman casts his fly

  upon the surface

  hoping to lure that dream

  into the light of day.

  The sun had not yet risen, and a dense mist engulfed us on the lake. There was just enough light for me to read each line of the verse, a few words at a time. At first, I read it quietly to myself. “That’s charming,” I thought, “although it is an unusual place to find a poem.”

  I broke the pre-dawn silence by reading the poem again while standing in the bow of the boat. I spoke just loud enough so Michael could hear me from the stern. I thought my soft rendition sounded appropriately theatrical. When I finished, I paused for dramatic effect.

  “Huh?” I said, “A beautiful poem like that on a tackle box? Go figure! Are you a professor of English literature, or w
hat?”

  “Ah guess prob’ly,” came the minimalist, tongue in cheek reply.

  I love Michael. He can sound like a local when he wants—and unquestionably he is a local—but his everyday voice is warmhearted, understated and enriched with experience. He is, without question, an authentic human being, witty, totally comfortable in his skin, and never in a hurry to make a point.

  Michael Wyeth has been a professor of English Literature, tenured at Colby College in Waterville, Maine for thirty years. He’s a tall, distinguished looking man in his mid sixties, with short silver hair and a clear, almost bronze complexion. His blue eyes are steady and engaging.

  “Where did you find a tackle box with a poem printed on the top?” I asked.

  “It was a gift from Kathleen on the occasion of our thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. Do you like it, Jesse?”

  “Definitely. But since when did Plano start engraving poetry on their fishing equipment?” I asked. “Do they employ poets now to appeal to the ecological niche of stylish, sophisticated fly fishermen?”

  “Actually,” Michael offered with a slight hesitation, “I wrote that verse more than thirty-five years ago, when Kathleen was a student of mine. On the day she graduated from Colby, I signed a copy of my novel, Silent Trees, and had it ready to give to her as a parting gift. As a prelude to the ceremony, the graduates paraded by the lineup of professors on their way to their seats. When Kathleen filed past me, I called her aside and handed her the book, saying, ‘Here’s something you can read if the commencement speech gets a little boring.’

  “I was already enamored with her…smitten really…but as her professor I had been coy about my feelings. I guess I let the cat out of the bag with the poem, which, incidentally, I wrote just for her. I penned it on a blank page at the end of the book. The rest of the poem reads:

  Friends are more conscious.

  We are the angels of the earth and the air,

  learning through our struggle

  to live together in the vast expanse.

  Love opens the heart

  and unfurls our wings.

  Mysteriously we take to flight.

  Michael went quiet for a minute or two…enough time for me to absorb the full history and impact of the poem. He cast his fly and let it sit gently on the water, perhaps hoping to lure that recurring dream into the light of day. Then, as if to dissolve the last trace of guilt he still might feel for romancing one of his students, he said, “Honestly, when I wrote that, I was hoping Kathleen wouldn’t discover it until she had finished reading my novel. That’s the reason I put it on the last page. By then, she’d be gone, living her life in Boston or beyond. Not far from Maine, perhaps, but far enough from me that she wouldn’t be pressured, even though the thought of her moving away made my heart ache. But, if a courtship was going to happen, it would have to come later, after the somber, professor-student relationship had passed away.”

  “Apparently, the poem worked its magic,” I suggested.

  “That, it did!” he intoned slowly, without hiding his satisfaction. A smile beamed across his face as he continued, “It was ten o’clock at night, barely three weeks after graduation, when totally unannounced, she came knocking at the front door of my home. To this day, that moment plays out for me in slow motion. She’s standing on my porch, obviously nervous, yet bold and determined at the same time. I am taken completely by surprise. Her interest and affection for me is unmistakable, and yet the first thing out of my mouth is, ‘I thought you were in Boston.’

  “‘I didn’t like Boston,’ she said flatly, perhaps hinting that she didn’t care much for the first words out of my mouth either, ‘The roundabouts scared the daylights out of me.’

  “‘All you do is flow with the traffic, stay in the outside lane and find your exit,’ I said, still frozen in my tracks, unable to think of anything reasonable to say, let alone romantic.

  “She stood there dumbfounded for a few seconds and then said, ‘I’m still scared, but now it’s not about the traffic.’

  “‘What are you afraid of now?’ I asked.

  “‘I’m afraid you won’t invite me in. If you don’t, I’ll have to leave, and then figure out something else to do with my life.’

  “‘So, you want to come inside?’ I mumbled.

  “‘I thought you’d never ask,’ she said, with a charming mixture of presumption and glee.

  “By midnight we were a couple.”

  Without warning I had a strike. A smallmouth bass rose for my fly, but in a heartbeat it disappeared. I pulled up too late. My attention had been divided by Michael’s engaging story. He smiled and then asked, “Are you fishing, or are you daydreaming?”

  “I guess I was gawking. But you are mostly to blame. I was transfixed by your poem, and how you romanced your novel.”

  Michael seemed genuinely amused by the way I phrased my response.

  “Tell me something, Michael,” I went on, “why have you never written a story inspired by fly fishing? It’s the second great love of your life.”

  “Well, Jesse, like so many good books, it’s already been written, and twice for good measure. Those two books harvested most of the imagery and metaphors I might ever cultivate for such a story. Ernest Thompson wrote the play, On Golden Pond, in 1979. A couple years later it became a blockbuster film. I’m sure you know that Mr. Thompson spent his summers here, on Great Pond, while he was writing the play. It’s a well-known fact, around here at least, that this is Golden Pond.”

  “I have heard that,” I said.

  “There’s a marvelous touch in the movie that has become part of the local lore. Dave Webster owned the marina in Belgrade Lakes and delivered the mail from his boat, Mariah, for half a century. I used to see Dave every year making his runs when I stayed here in late spring. Although he was a generation older than I, we became friends. Dave was friendly with everyone he met. That was his special gift.

  “Before they began filming the movie, he took some of the cast for a spin around Great Pond on his boat, and related stories about his days as a mailman. The actor who portrayed him as ‘Charlie’ was William Lanteau. Dave schooled him well. Even Lanteau’s accent was spot on. Later Dave commented, ‘I never, ever used the words, ‘Holy Mack-a-nole,’ as Charlie does in the movie.’ No doubt Dave felt that Lanteau played him a bit too much like a yokel. Nevertheless, William Lanteau created an endearing character. When I first heard ‘Charlie’ speak in the film, I did a double take, thinking I was actually hearing Dave himself. It was brilliant. Several years later, Dave told me about his connection to the film. He passed away in 1996.”

  I waited for Michael to go on with his story, but he simply continued casting his fly along the shoreline, almost as if he had never spoken a word. Perhaps the thought of Dave’s passing reminded him once again how brief our time is.

  I felt a chill set in. I found my thermos still nestled into the anchor rope at the bow, unscrewed the top and poured myself some coffee. Steam rose from my cup. The smell of the roasted beans set my mind at ease. It’s curious how invigorating this simple ritual of the cup can be, not to mention the java and its rousing caffeine. I took a few sips and felt the heat flow inside. I let the brew have its way with me.

  After I finished my coffee and returned the thermos to its resting place, I asked the question that had been lingering, “Michael, you said that book has been written twice for good measure. What’s the other book?”

  After his next cast nestled the fly inches from a log near the bank, Michael replied, “A River Runs Through It. It’s a tale about fly fishing, and, of course, about growing up. The book is a novella, written by Norman Maclean in 1976. I remember the date because I read it while we were celebrating our country’s bi-centennial.”

  Michael smiled and added, “As fly fishermen, we are part of a dying breed. We’re throwbacks to a time that exists only in the memories of a few stubborn devotees of our craft. Sure, a new book about the likes of us might make a quaint story. In f
act, I once began the research for just such a novel. That was in 1992. I had imagined that On Golden Pond and Norman Maclean’s novella had faded from the collective memory long enough to make my version seem fresh. Before I was two weeks into the project, the film, A River Runs Through It, was released. So I just dropped the idea entirely. It would have sounded plagiarized. But even more to the point, who’s going to read a book about a young fly fisherman today, when he can watch Brad Pitt in high definition cast his fly across a stream as if God had created him to do just that?”

  The sun was now making its way above the hill of pine trees on the east side of the cove. A gentle breeze from the north stirred the birch leaves, but the lake remained perfectly calm. There was not yet even a ripple to move us along to virgin fishing spots. Michael pulled an oar every now and then, providing us fresh water along the bank to try our luck. As we drifted, all we could hear, other than the occasional thoughts running out of our mouths and the more steady ones passing through our minds, was the sound of our lines sliding through the guides…and the wildlife.

  A red-winged black bird called out into the silence. I couldn’t tell if he was pining for a mate, or squawking because we had come too close to his perch. A pair of dragonflies flew by, mating in mid air. (And we humans think we’re resourceful in the art of making love!) There were frogs and crickets, and down the way a river otter splashed near the shore and then disappeared below the surface.

  When a loon spoke up, so did Michael. “I have often wondered why this species was named The Common Loon. There’s nothing common about it. If all the sounds along the shore were likened to The Pastoral, Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, then the shrill solitary wail of the not at all common loon can be imitated best with a Shakuhachi, the classical, bamboo flute of Japan. Wistful. Alone. Calling through the uncertainty for its mate.”