Fishing With RayAnne

by Ava Finch

  He says something that sounds like a remix of his words in the well house that day: “You were real out there, you and your mother.”

  RayAnne pulls a face. “It was a disaster.”

  Hal sighs. “I told you the worst would be cut. I sat in on the editing to make sure.”

  “You did?”

  He frowns. “Well, I generally do what I say I’m going to. You do know Cassi and the crew followed your mother up to that Ojibwa retreat the next day?”

  “No.”

  “She got a really great ten-minute piece out of it. Mostly of Bernadette in action. We can thank Cassi for saving the segment.”

  “They cut out the throwing-up part, right?”

  “The actual moment? Don’t worry, it only shows your face while she’s doing it.”

  This time he is kidding—his laugh is deep, while hers sounds like a sort of punctured-tire hiss.

  Hal’s hand settles firmly on her shoulder. “Hey. Give yourself some credit. Give us all some credit.”

  Her eyes fall back to the contract. Two seasons. The document is a six-page scroll of legalese she can barely grasp. When his hand falls away from her shoulder to turn the page, she feels a slight trail of disappointment. She looks again at the amount they will be paying her. It’s probably a fraction of what Mandy got, certainly less than a cable show host might get, yet more than she’s used to making—quite a decent sum, in fact. She rereads the terms. “Wait. This figure, that’s not for two seasons?”

  “No, see, annual. That’s what you’ll get for each season.”

  “No way.” It’s three times what she’d made during her best year on the circuit. Images of “PAID” stamped over her student loans, her Amex, and the final bills for Penelope’s restoration flit through her mind. It’s an income Gran would call “comfortable enough.” Comfortable enough RayAnne could take Gran to Italy. I could take Gran to Naples.

  But she’s getting ahead of herself; besides, it’s not like she’s signed anything yet. There are still unanswered questions.

  “And Cassi?”

  “Producer.”

  She squints hard at Hal with Caroline Crabb’s snake-eye. “For real?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  She’s still not convinced it’s all real. “Why’d they send you?”

  “They didn’t. I sent myself.”

  “Because . . .”

  “I wanted to? Crazy, I know—because Lefty’s, because I, signed on as an underwriter for the duration of your contract.”

  Perhaps Dot is wrong after all; opportunity can come knocking. It’s a lot to take in. A week ago she was reading crime novels in bed in the afternoon, eating meals of red licorice and Cheez-Its.

  “You have a pen?”

  “Sure. But don’t you want to have your lawyer look it over first?”

  Would admitting she doesn’t have a lawyer make her seem like a total rube? She chews her lip. “Seems you’ve looked it over a few times.”

  “Just making sure you get what you deserve.”

  She signs the document. “That works for me.” She holds her good hand out to his and they solemnly shake in a left-handed deal.

  RayAnne recalls the morning they’d gone fishing, the ease they’d had with one another; sitting here with him now feels like sitting in the boat that day. She shrugs, adding, “Boss.”

  “Nope. None of that. Collaborator, more like. Think you can stop thinking of me as a sponsor?”

  “I can, I think. It’s not so much—when I think of sponsors I’m always reminded of something Old Lodge Skins said, ‘There is an endless supply of white men . . .’”

  Hal finishes the quote. “‘But there have always been a limited number of Human Beings.’” He sighs. “There’s two strikes against me: I’m a sponsor and a man.”

  “And white.”

  “Well, mostly. My father’s mom was Lakota, so . . .”

  “You are part Human Being.”

  Rory is turning circles under the table. “Ray. I’d—”

  She cuts him off, thinking that maybe enough has been said, at least for now. “We should celebrate sometime.”

  He brightens. “Sure. Sure, you’ll need a bit to let this all sink in.”

  Hal is still wearing his coat, but it seems too late to be a good hostess and offer to hang it up. Besides, he’s right; she’s still not taken it all in—the turn of events, the scope, the thunk of life abruptly switching tracks. The contract in her hand is real.

  Hal nods. “Make sure you send that registered mail. You really didn’t think you’d be signed on?”

  “Not as host.”

  One of the boots he’d heeled off in the foyer is missing—Rory’s been in round-up mode again. She opens the pocket doors to the living room and sure enough, the boot is in the middle of the carpet among a small herd of RayAnne’s own footwear and bits of discarded bubble wrap. Hal looks around at the chaos of cardboard and stacks of shelves.

  She holds up her bandaged hand. “The offending DIY project. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” RayAnne picks up his well-worn Frye boot and hands it over.

  He takes his time putting it back on, his gaze assessing the wall and the shelves stacked against it. At the door he seems hesitant, as if word-shopping. “I could . . .” He seems to be weighing an option. Nodding to the wall, he offers, “I could bring my tools over and tackle these bookshelves.”

  “That’s really nice, but—”

  “Seriously. You’ll need some shims with these walls. I could bring some, maybe order takeout from Szechuan Village? We could celebrate.”

  Chinese does sound good, but she nods to the window where snow is accumulating on the sill. “Will they even deliver? It’ll be amateur night on the roads.”

  Rory is suddenly sitting on her foot, as if to remind her how much he likes to herd empty takeout containers.

  “I can pick it up. I just put snow tires on the Wagoneer.”

  “Oh, well then, Chinese and shims.”

  “Dan-dan noodle? Spicy pork.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Great.” He grins, suddenly boyish.

  After the door shuts, she clamps a hand over her mouth and manages not to squeal until hearing the door of Hal’s Jeep slam. She braces her back against the wall and slides to Rory’s level, clutching her copy of the contract like a bouquet. Thoughts dart and jump as she reels them in. She’s got a contract. She has a show.

  All the ideas she’d shunted to the background come edging back—the potential guests she and Cassi had talked about after their long days of taping, their plots to circumnavigate those producers loath to take risks, brainstorming a wish list that included Amy Klobuchar; Janet Yellen; Malala Yousafzai, the girl shot by the Taliban for daring to go to school; hysterically funny feminists Caitlin Moran and Amy Schumer. RayAnne and Cassi would collapse on Tiffany’s couches and hatch show ideas that kept entertainment value high while being relevant, admittedly with an agenda. They wondered if Cecile Richards from Planned Parenthood might agree to come on. RayAnne’s generation have been taking women’s rights for granted, states like North Dakota have been banning abortions, and trolls like the “legitimate rape” guy and scary Paul Ryan pop up across the political landscape like stinkhorn mushrooms. They’d considered booking the young woman who’d defected from the Brattleboro nutcase-church that pickets military funerals with “God Hates Fags” signs. There are so many challenges out there. RayAnne was interested in the author of Doing Nothing, a chronicle of the social costs and insidious fallout stemming from the seemingly innocent tradition of women changing their names upon marrying, how doing nothing can instead take back power, diffuse the underlying message—if women don’t value their own identities enough to keep them, why should society?

  She will dig around in her notes and call Cassi later. Producer. S
he has to laugh.

  Amazing.

  Hal’s only coming over with Chinese food for DIY, hardly a date. Or is it? He can’t have shaken the calamitous, vomitus near-kiss any more than she can. RayAnne shudders—it’s almost too mortifying to think about. Really, she should be questioning the wisdom of even a friendly meal with him, especially on the heels of signing a contract.

  The show. A real salary. Would Christmas be too soon to take Dot to Naples?

  FOURTEEN

  Unlike certain first kisses, the first snow is always the best snow. Fluffy, with no ice lurking beneath. Taking Hal’s advice, RayAnne is letting things sink in. Walking off some of the buzz, kicking through the ankle-deep snow, snug in her official winter uniform of mukluks and the gray down jacket that makes her look like the Michelin Man rolled in soot. As she looks skyward, flakes sting across the bridge of her nose like cold freckles. Rory sniffs as if trying to remember where he’s smelled snow before.

  After a mile at a brisk pace, she slows, her head a little clearer, her pulse only cardio-fast, not racy. The throb in her hand has lessened some, thanks to the cold. She allows herself to be absorbed by the weather, which for the moment is magical in its novelty. A snow day, a school-closer.

  When she and Ky were little and woke on snowy mornings, they would race for the television to wrestle for the remote and channel-surf the weather reports, shouting out the running ticker of school closings like manic bond traders. They would cheer for their own school. There would be time for real oatmeal instead of instant. They would pull their sleds to the hill above the rink, part at the clubhouse gate so as not to be caught dead together, and locate their friends. Those days felt just like this, except now she’s gripping a dog leash instead of a sled rope.

  Rory tugs ahead on his leash when they near the gate of the dog park as if to say, Walk on; nothing to see here, folks. It dawns on RayAnne that he only goes because she drags him. She is learning to pay attention to what he wants, but until now has only been leading him through her world, giving him no choice but to go along to whatever’s next. She pulls all the strings when he’s probably thinking, Would a side trip to this telephone pole kill you? Normally, every walk with Rory is an opportunity to learn, à la Dagmar, but rules do not apply on snow days. Rory pulls her along on his own diversions, cutting through the park, sniffing at every hydrant. He chomps at flakes, paws them from his snout, blinks them coquettishly from his lashes, making RayAnne snort. He is hesitant about rolling in it until RayAnne drops to the ground to show him how.

  On her iPhone, she makes a short video to send to Gran—Rory bounding through the snow and skidding to a stop at her feet to jar the frame and focus, RayAnne unsteadied. “Here’s Rory in action, Gran!” She sweeps the viewfinder to the snow-frosted trees. “This is winter!” She turns the camera on herself, fogging the lens with her own breath. “This is me! See you soon! I’ve got a surprise for you—I’ve got news! Smooches!”

  She presses “Send” and trips after Rory, veering off on a side street, plowing right down the middle. They wind their way up Central Avenue and pass Afghan Pizza, where a woman she recognizes is sweeping the stretch of sidewalk clear, wearing a letter jacket over her long skirts and earmuffs over her headscarf. How long it must take for a person from a hot climate to get used to Minnesota, a place that can be cold in more ways than one. She wonders whether Muslim women who wear traditional clothing also wear long underwear or leggings underneath. It occurs to her that a good theme for the show might be to invite women from various cultures to explain traditional garb and its significance in regard to tradition, faith, and society—a hijab she sort of understands, but she could use some enlightenment when it comes to the full burka.

  Outside Abdallah Bakery, she ties Rory to the bike rack. When she reaches for the door, he whines and strains as if she has tethered him to a grizzly. Inside, she hastily points to the first items in the glass case that might make acceptable desserts to follow her takeout dinner with Hal—baklava and a dozen squares of yellow taffylike confection with almonds. Rory barks the entire time she’s choosing and paying, which is annoying, and it occurs to her that separation is even more distressing for him when he can see her through the windows. Nothing is so yearned for as that which is just out of reach.

  They stop at the coffee shop, its windows so steamed she can barely see inside. Coats and scarves dry on chair backs, and radiators have created a tropical microclimate. While looping the leash to a snow-domed patio table, she weighs how much yowling Rory might broadcast against how badly she wants a latte. The barista clearing tables inside wipes clear a circle in the condensation and raps the glass, motioning for her to bring Rory inside.

  RayAnne sticks her head in the door. “You sure?”

  “Day like this? Screw the health inspector.”

  The moment he’s inside, Rory shakes, pelting all in range with fine snow and icy droplets. Fortunately, the snow-day atmosphere has affected even the grumpiest patron—the café suddenly goes viral with good cheer. Several people pet Rory, sending his tail wagging and back end wriggling so violently his rear paws threaten to slip out from under him on the tile. A woman offers to hold his leash while RayAnne orders and pays.

  “He thinks he’s shy,” she explains.

  Back outside, it occurs to her that she might have easily been describing herself. She’s able to get halfway down the block before it sinks in all over again and she bursts out, “I’ve got a show!”

  Back home she stands in front of her open closet for a long time. What to wear for a DIY session with a colleague? Jeans and a sweater, she supposes, but not the light-weave snug sky-colored V-neck she might wear on a date, too low-cut for hanging shelves. Safer to choose one from her sturdier stock of “Hildegard” numbers shipped every Christmas from Gran since she’d outgrown dolls. They are thick Scandinavian pullovers and cardigans with geometrical patterns knitted in red, cream, black, and green, with snowflakes, trees, and reindeer, as if Dot remembers Minnesota as some vast ski resort. The sweaters have armorlike pewter closures and hasps, and not one is remotely alluring. She chooses the most festive—a pumpkin and sage number with cream snowflakes. While buckling in, RayAnne employs reverse psychology: If he likes me in this, he’ll like me in anything.

  Considering the weather, Hal arrives earlier than she expects. Opening the door, she steps back from the blast of snow over his shoulder and takes the bag of takeout he hands her. “Jeez, still coming down?”

  He stomps. “I can’t remember a first snow like this.” He ducks out again to return with a toolbox. The takeout bag is leaking a garlicky-smelling ooze. RayAnne licks her fingers. “Mmm?”

  “Seafood fun.”

  Rory follows the takeout bag as if fastened to it, and Hal follows Rory with another bag. Once in the kitchen, he pulls out two growlers of beer from a nearby brewpub, holding them up for RayAnne’s vote.

  She cheerfully points. “That one.”

  The kitchen table is nearly set. RayAnne had reasoned that the dining room would feel too formal for an occasion that is definitely casual. She and Hal move carefully in the small kitchen, easing around each other like shy dance partners. The music she’s chosen is low-key, her iPod queued up with Bon Iver, Regina Spektor, Mumford and Sons, Low Anthem, the Eels, St. Vincent, and the Owls.

  She’d set out forks, unsure if Hal could manage chopsticks, but he pulls them from the bag and sets them next to each plate. Once they dig in she sees he has a better grasp on them than she does, able to pick up one of the slippery dumplings while she can only manage to slap one to and fro like an oiled puck. Hal grins at her quandary, clamps one, and aims it at her mouth. She tentatively bites, their eyes meeting.

  RayAnne has never been so aware of the sound of her own chewing. His dimples crease.

  They are close enough she can smell the drying wool of his snow-dampened shirt cuffs. She drops her gaze to his wrist, to the sca
r where his hand was reattached, the line so uniform and neat it looks like a thin rubber band snugging his wrist, the slightest pause interrupting the dark, seal-sleek hairs. Of course there would be similar sleek hair up his sleeve, likely across his chest . . .

  She swallows the chewed dumpling with an audible gulp and they both laugh.

  Hal winks. “Nice to see a woman actually eat.”

  “Ha.” She steers the conversation to the show, telling Hal about encountering the Muslim shopkeeper and her idea regarding garments and culture. “Do you think the producers would go for—”

  “Sure I do. I think it’s a great idea.” Without breaking her gaze, Hal crosses his chopsticks into an X and holds them up. “But would you mind if we call a moratorium on shop talk? Just for tonight?”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I’m just the handyman, ma’am.”

  “Of course.” But she has so many questions. It only occurs to her now, that while she’s been avoiding the station, Cassi and Hal must have been hard at work behind the scenes, assuring the show will go on. He’s done a lot of work on her behalf, and he does run a rather large business to boot—tonight is probably a break for him.

  Hal locates the studs by gently rapping his knuckles across the wall with his ear flat to the plaster. He hangs a plumb bob and makes marks along the length of the string. He taps the pencil against his chin, considering.

  His ears are small and close to his head. When RayAnne imagines taking one of his earlobes between her teeth—who knows from where such urges spring—a falling-elevator sensation travels her spine.

  Between the ensuing drilling, anchor-bolting, and fitting, there isn’t much opportunity for conversation. During the pauses between attaching and adjusting one shelf and leveling the next, they volley light questions about recent books read and films watched, eventually veering, for some reason, to cartoons.

  “Favorite animated character?”

  He doesn’t pause. “Pepé Le Pew.”