A Strange Little Band

by Judith B. Glad

  The bunkroom was cool and dark and quiet. She curled up on her bed, but was unable to relax. She picked up a paperback mystery Hetty had recommended and found it boring. She went to the kitchen and poured a glass of ice tea from the pitcher in the refrigerator, but set it untasted on the counter. She looked at the clock on the stove.

  Three-thirty. If she was going to meet Clay at four, she'd have to hurry. Maybe I won't go.

  There were a few dirty dishes in the sink. Instead of putting them into the dishwasher, she washed them, dried them, put them in the cupboard. At ten of four she finished wiping down the countertops and hung the dishcloth on the faucet.

  I should go. At least to tell him I've changed my mind. Tucking her driver's license into her hip pocket, she grabbed a billed cap off a hook by the back door and headed for her car. At the last minute she remembered her promise to Uncle Ward.

  Back inside. She found a scrap of paper, a pencil, wrote in a hurried scribble: Gone fishing. I may not be back in time for supper--Annie and stuck it under a magnet on the fridge door.

  It was only five after four when she drove into the graveled area near Osborn Bridge. A familiar red pickup was already parked there.

  After spending the last half-hour wondering if she'd show, Clay grinned when she parked beside him.

  "Sorry I'm late," she said as she locked her car. "I--:"

  "Fishing doesn't follow a schedule. You're here now. That's what counts. All ready to conquer the wily rainbow?"

  "Absolutely."

  Her smile was far more alive than anything he'd seen before. "Okay." Clay unloaded the rods and other gear from the pickup. "How much fishing have you done?"

  "Practically none. Oh, I've gone out with Dad a few times, but I just held a pole like he told me and once in a while I'd get a bite." Her shrug told him just how exciting she'd found that.

  "We'll have you doing more than holding a pole this afternoon," he promised. "The hardest thing about fly fishing is putting the flies exactly where you want them. You do that with your cast and there are a lot of variations of the basic cast."

  "Show me."

  He showed her how to hold the rod, had her practice the basic cast without line for a while. She was so earnest about the whole thing he almost laughed. Not at her, but in pleasure at how her concentration had wiped the lingering sadness from her expression.

  Once her movements had become smooth and automatic, he asked if she was ready for the next step.

  "Oh, yes. This is fun."

  "Isn't it? And it gets better. Now, we'll add line. Unlock your reel and pull about ten feet out and hold it loosely in your left hand." He watched her trying to follow his instructions. "No, not like that. Let it fall in coils and hold them loosely between your thumb and forefinger."

  Annie did as instructed, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she concentrated.

  "Now, work most of that line off the tip of your rod, using the basic cast."

  Annie tried, but all she ended up with was a tangle of line piled at her feet. She looked at him with chagrin.

  "Don't give up. Bring it back in and try again. Use your elbow more and your wrist less."

  He stood behind her, his hand holding hers, and showed her how to use wrist action.

  Annie's breath caught in her throat and her stomach did flipflops. Much as she tried to keep her mind on his instruction, she could not. His words went into her ears, but they were lost in the unnerving sensation of having his arms wrapped around her, however loosely.

  "I think you'd do better if I showed you," Clay said after a few bungled casts. He sounded as breathless as she felt. Avoiding her eyes, he picked up his flyrod and demonstrated the proper motions for lengthening the line and casting. Again Annie admired his grace as he moved the long, slender rod through the air. "Okay, now you try it."

  After an hour's practice, Annie felt she was making headway. At least once in ten tries, she was putting the fly in the general vicinity of where she wanted it. How could something that looked so simple be so difficult?

  "Good," Clay finally told her. "You're ready for the river. Let's go fishing!"

  Annie gave the chest waders hanging over the tailgate a dubious look. From her expression, they held about as much appeal for her as a dose of castor oil. Clay was pretty sure she wasn't real excited about putting them on. I wonder why. He smiled encouragingly.

  If he hadn't been watching so closely, he might have missed the way she set her jaw, how her throat worked a she swallowed. She's scared. That's it. She's scared to death. He opened his mouth to tell her to forget the waders, that she could fish from the bank.

  Before he could say a word, she'd slipped out of her jeans, revealing red nylon jogging shorts over dark green tights. The dark color emphasized the slim, delicious curves of her legs. "I guess I forgot how short you are," he said, handing her the waders. "But I can fix the length after you put them on." He helped her struggle into the bibbed and booted garment, remembering how clumsy he'd been the first time or two he'd worn them.

  The waders, even with their suspenders pulled up tight, sagged. Clay pulled a webbing belt from behind the seat. "Hold them up as high as they'll go," he instructed. He slipped the belt around Annie's waist--or where he thought her waist must be--and pulled it tight. Even through the thick rubber, he was conscious of her body. Watch it, man, he told himself. You're here to fish, not to monkey around.

  Annie frowned down at the waders. The suspendered top drooped over the belt. "I look like a clown." She took a few steps, her legs spread, her feet coming down clumsily. "they feel weird."

  Clay contained his laughter. "You'll get used to them. And we're going fishing, not to a fashion show." She did indeed look clownish, in her red and white billed cap, loose t-shirt, and the baggy waders. Quite a sight.

  He led the way to the river, choosing a section of bank that slanted down to the water. He stepped in and turned to lend a hand.

  She hesitated, bit her bottom lip. Then he saw her mouth firm, her chin set. She took his offered hand and stepped into the shallow water. Slowly he led her out into the river, until the water lapped at her belt.

  She shivered.

  He pretended not to notice. Many people were nervous their first time in the water. He'd seen it before. "You may feel cold at first," he said. "but it won't last, once you start casting. Are you ready?"

  "I guess so."

  He handed her the rod that he'd carried out for her. Tongue caught between her teeth, she pulled out enough line for a first cast, went through the motions, too carefully, too slowly. The fly landed about ten feet upstream, in a tangle of line.

  "Obviously I need more practice," she said, as she reeled in.

  "Actually, that wasn't too bad for a first cast. Like anything worth doing, this takes practice."

  On her second try, she made a creditable cast. The fly landed within ten feet of where he'd told her to put it. Clay watched her for a while, then waded back to get his own rod from the bank. He moved upstream and made his cast.

  For nearly an hour they fished in silence. Annie had no luck, but she found that the soothing murmur of the river, the muted roar of traffic on the highway, and an occasional birdcall worked on her in a way nothing else had. The belly-clenching fear she'd felt when she first stepped into the river had gone, borne away on the gentle current, lost in the silence. She cast and cast again, not really caring whether she caught a fish, but trying to put into practice everything Clay had told her. In her mind there was an echo of something Clay had said. What was it? ...my soul feels cleansed and at peace with itself. Yes. That was it. Right now, at this single moment, she had a glimmering of what he'd meant. She truly did feel at peace, without any of the usual compulsion to seek out her sorrow and suffer with it.

  "Are you ready for a break?" Clay's voice cut through her concentration. Annie turned to him with a smile.

  "Not really, I'm enjoying this too much."

  "I need coffee. And you're probably mor
e tired than you realize. Let's get out for a while."

  Annie reeled her line in and followed him. Once on the bank, Clay dug the vacuum bottle out of his vest and offered it to her.

  She took a quick sip, then quickly handed the Thermos back. Unable to stay upright, she sank to her knees, then rolled down to lay prone in the warm grass. "My legs are shaking."

  "I know. Mine always do, the first time out every year. It's the tension of holding yourself against the current. You'll get used to it after a while. It also helps if you move around more." He handed her the Thermos again. "Kick your legs. Loosen them up."

  She did. "Y'know, there's a package of Oreos in my daypack, if you can make it to my car. I doubt I could." She dug inside her waders and eventually pulled out a set of keys.

  "The magic words." He got to his feet and strode to the parking area. In a few minutes he was back with the cookies and another Thermos. "My favorite cookies," he said, as she tore the package open.

  "Mine too. I don't know who they belong to, but they'll probably be mad when they can't find them."

  "You stole them?" Clay pretended to be shocked.

  Annie grinned. "Let's just say I borrowed them. They were in the kitchen and that made them fair game." She accepted the cup of coffee he held out. "This is nice. Good food, good company."

  "Good fishing," he added. "There. Did you see that? They're starting to rise. Time to go back in."

  Annie dropped her head onto her folded arms, letting the empty coffee cup fall into the grass. "No yet, please. The sun feels so good on my back. I could sleep right here."

  "Go ahead. The fish will be here another day." To his surprise, he didn't care whether he went back into the river or not. Just sitting here with her was about as good as anything he'd done for a long time.

  "Not on your life. I came out here to catch a fish and that's what I'm gonna do." Annie stretched, feeling quietly content. Moving slowly, she got to her feet, picked up her rod. "Now we'll see if your teaching took."

  Back in the river, she found that the brief rest had done her good. Casting was easier; it felt more natural. She became oblivious to everything but the gentle river sounds and the ever changing light on its surface as the sun slowly moved lower in the sky. Time was suspended, and the real world was far, far away.

  Suddenly the tip of her rod dipped and line zipped through her left hand. She forgot what Clay had told her to do if she got a strike. All she could think of was landing the fish.

  She grabbed at the line, felt it slip through her fingers. Her fingers fumbled on the spinning reel, finally caught it, slowed it. Despite her ineptitude, the fish stayed on her hook. She played it, following Clay's low-voiced instructions, until she had it reeled in.

  "A big one!" he said approvingly, when the trout lay quiescent in the water. He handed her the net that had been hanging from the back of his vest.

  "Now what?" Annie said. With the fly rod in one hand and the net in the other, how would she manage to find a hand free to release the fish? Or two hands, she wondered, eyeing the now-struggling trout in her net. She tried tucking the rod under her arm, as she had seen Clay do the first day. She almost dropped it.

  She was still wondering how to find that necessary third hand when one materialized, taking hold of the net. "Slip your hand through the loop," Clay told her. "Or do you want me to release him?"

  "Not on your life. He's my fish. If you'll just hold the rod, I think I can do it." She slipped the net around the fish and lifted it free of the water. It flopped about, nearly causing her to drop the net. "How big is he, do you think?"

  "Three pounds, easy. Not bad for your first fish."

  "What do I do now?" she said, lowering the fish back into the water, but still keeping it within the net.

  "Just take hold of it right behind the gill slits," Clay told her, "and work the hook free."

  "I never knew that a fish could be so...so strong." She gently pulled the hook from the trout's jaw. It had almost stopped struggling and she looked up at Clay. "Is it all right? I haven't killed it, have I?"

  "No," he chuckled. "Just wore it out. Hold it still for a minute or two; give it a change to get its second wind."

  The trout slowly moved under her hands and she let the net fall lower into the water. Finally it flexed its body and pulled free of her hands. One final flick of its tail and it was gone.

  "Go eat lots of bugs and grow even bigger," Annie told it softly. "I'll see you next year."

  "Your first fish," Clay said softly. "How'd it feel?"

  "Oh, it was wonderful! I loved it. I love all of this." She gestured at the river, the open sky, the forest. "I could stay here forever!"

  "Not even come out for supper?"

  "Now that you mention it, I'm starved." Annie rubbed her midriff. "But I hate to stop."

  "We've got a couple more hours before sunset, but I think you've probably had enough. You'd be surprised how much work it is. Don't overdo it your first time."

  Annie perched herself on the wide back bumper of his pickup after she'd pulled off the waders. Her legs felt like so much Jell-O, as if she'd run a marathon. "I'm starved," she said, in surprise. She hadn't been hungry for a long time, not like this.

  "If you'll look in the cooler in the cab, you'll find a feast." He hung his waders over the tailgate beside hers and tossed her the keys.

  "A feast? Real food?"

  "Bologna sandwiches and potato chips."

  "What time is it?" She'd left her watch on the bureau in the bunkroom.

  He dug his out of one of the pockets on his vest. "Seven-forty. No wonder you're hungry. It's probably way past your dinnertime."

  "It is, but we had a late lunch, so I shouldn't be this hungry." Her mouth twisted and her eyebrows drew together, as if she were thinking. "We're too late for dinner, but I'll bet there are leftovers. Do you want to come back with me and raid the fridge?"

  Pretending to be affronted, he said, "You don't like bologna sandwiches and potato chips? I'm crushed."

  "It's not that. I just don't want to take your supper. I'm really hungry." She felt like she could eat two sandwiches and half a bag of chips.

  "There's plenty. I made extra, in case you showed up. And there are grapes, the rest of the cookies, and Cokes. That should feed us both."

  "If you're sure--" She really wanted to stay with him, not to share him with her family. Not yet.

  "I'm sure. I want you to stay for supper."

  Chapter Twelve

  Hetty handed the note to Gran, wondering what her reaction would be. Personally she was glad Annie had found something to do. She was also consumed with curiosity. Fishing? Of all things, that was the last she'd expected Annie to be enthusiastic about.

  And enthusiastic she was, if her handwriting--a hurried scrawl--was any indication. The few notes she'd written Hetty this past year had been terse and written in a tight little hand that was scarcely recognizable as Annie's.

  "Did you know about this?" Gran said as she folded the note and tucked it into her shirt pocket.

  "Not a thing."

  "Not to worry, Ma," Ward said, coming up behind her and draping an arm across her shoulders. "I told Annie I'd let you know she might not be here for dinner, but I guess I wasn't quick enough."

  "Do you know anything about this fishing? Is she with someone?" Gran imbued the preposition with a whole lot of meaning.

  "Not in the sense you mean," Ward said. "I met the fellow. He said he'd run into Annie in the park the other day and she'd asked him about fly fishing. He offered to teach her. I guess she decided to take him up on it." He sat down next to his mother and pulled Hetty with him. "He struck me as a good sort."

  Gran raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. Instead she said, "So, Hetty, what is this problem of yours."

  Hetty looked around. Her parents were sitting at the next table and Eric and Jennifer were across from them. "Can we talk about it after dinner? I need your advice." She hesitated when Gran frowned. "And your
help. Please?"

  For a good minute Gran gazed steadily at her, seeming to be searching for something. As last she sighed. "I don't have a good feeling about this, but yes, I'll listen to you. And I'll advise you, for what it's worth."

  "Your advice is worth a lot," Hetty said, giving her a quick hug. "I'll never forget what you said when I told you I didn't want to be a botanist after all."

  "Advice your mother still hasn't forgiven me for offering. I should learn to keep my nose out of other people's business."

  "Nonsense, Ma. You know you'd never be able to do that," Ward told her.

  Just then the dinner bell sounded. And sounded. And sounded some more. Tonight Tommy had won the drawing, and he was making sure everyone heard him clanging the antique handbell. Hetty stood and held out a hand to help Gran.

  "I can still get up on my own two legs, even if they don't move as fast as they used to," the old woman said with a sniff. "Go on, now and save me a place in line."

  The everlasting Bridge game started right after dinner; tonight the players were Joss, John, Ben and Thea. Jennifer herded her complaining children to the Blue House, while the teenagers sauntered over to the Big House playroom, to play pool or watch one of the many videos on the shelves. There had been an uneasy truce among them all day, with Serhilda only occasionally sniping at CeCe and Charlene. Owen hadn't teased his sister once, and Tommy had apparently decided that hanging with the older kids was preferable to picking on Norman and Joey.

  Ward and Hetty matched their pace to Gran's as they crossed the uneven lawn to the front porch of the Big House. It was a perfect evening, with the setting sun scattering color across the tendrils of clouds on the western horizon, a fitful breeze bringing an occasional whiff of sagebrush to the nose. Occasionally a truck sped along the highway with a far-off and faint snarl of tires on asphalt, but mostly the only sound was the occasional muted laugh from the game room.

  Gran and Hetty settled in the swing. It moved gently, slowly, with a comfortable, low-pitched squeak. "I'll see you later," Ward said, turning to go indoors.