Tell No One

by Jeff Vrolyks

  “That he does. Let’s finish these sandwiches and hit the river. Twenty bucks says I’ll catch the biggest fish today.”

  “You’re on. And I’ll take it one step further. The loser has to clean the fish.”

  “Good. I hope you feel like handling guts.”

  Chapter Three

  It was still afternoon, though the sun had descended below the far mountain ridge a half hour ago, and it was already starting to get chilly out. It was not quite six yet, the wicker basket weighing heavily with five trout, the biggest being a twenty-one inch rainbow caught by James, and that was just fine by Theo. It was his birthday trip, after all. He’d pay the twenty bucks and gut the fish, and that was okay. It was wonderful to see his dad so happy. On several occasions James had groped out of his pocket his cell phone and snapped a few pictures. There was nobody around to take a pic of them together, but that wasn’t so bad. He had Theo take a few pics of him, holding his new rod proudly, holding each of his three fish. They’d make a fine addition to the album he created a couple months ago.

  Had they called it a day when Theo wanted to, the rest of the trip would have turned out much differently. James was trudging upstream to areas of Fallbrook new to him, his foot slipped off a mossy rock and he cursed, loudly. Theo rushed to him, asking what was wrong. “Oh nothing,” his father replied, and took a few steps, hissing each time his left foot took his weight.

  James hobbled to shore, removed his waders and took a seat. Once his sock was off the damage was discernable. His ankle was already purple and swelling.

  “Twisted your ankle. Damn, Dad.”

  “It’ll be okay. I’ll ice it when we get home. Not a big deal.”

  James put his left arm around his son for the long walk back to the truck, using him as a crutch. Climbing up the steep bank just past the beach was painstaking and timely, but they made it up by slow degrees. Once arriving at the truck his dad relaxed in the passenger seat while Theo returned to the river to gather the stuff they couldn’t carry due to their circumstance. Theo remembered rolling his ankle his freshman year at Stanford and he was out for three weeks. But for fishing one’s ankle doesn’t need to be in the kind of shape required for football. He supposed popping a few Ibuprofen would help with the swelling and pain, and he’d be able to fish these next couple days. If not, his heart would break for his father.

  They stopped by the Conoco station on the way back to the cabin and bought a bag of ice, a bag of briquettes and charcoal lighter fluid. Theo would be cleaning and barbecuing the trout. Once home, Theo helped his father to the couch, elevated his left foot with a pile of pillows, and filled two large Ziploc baggies with ice and mounded them over his father’s swollen ankle. He was thrilled to find a bottle of Ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet. They expired two years ago, but he’d just have to pop an extra pill to compensate for that.

  Theo put a movie in the DVD player for his dad to watch in the main room, A River Runs Through It, and got to cleaning the fish. The movie was his father’s favorite. He had a copy both here at the cabin and back at home. If there was no fishing in the film, let alone fly fishing, he’d guess his father would be indifferent to it. Once the trout were cleaned, he rolled them in foil and took them to the back deck where the briquettes were orange and smoking in the barbecue. He threw some pork and beans in a pot on the stove and let them simmer, then sat in the chair facing the couch and asked his father how he was feeling.

  “I feel fine, son. Honestly. I already feel those pills working.”

  “That’s good. I rolled my ankle before and know how bad it hurts to walk on it, and for many days. I don’t think you should—”

  “Nonsense. I’m fishing tomorrow and every day this trip. I can handle a little pain.”

  “It’ll probably be more than a little pain. Maybe we can bring some chairs out there and bait-fish.”

  “Eh, we won’t catch anything.”

  “We might. I caught a trout on a worm here before, remember?”

  “Yeah, that was lucky.”

  “It’s better than staying home or fly fishing with pain. Give it some thought. Tomorrow morning pop a few pills and see how you feel. I think we should bring some chairs along just in case.”

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to bring them.”

  “We don’t have any bait-rods. I’ll tell you what, I’ll drive out to what’s that store called in Cedar Hills…”

  “The Mercantile.”

  “Yeah, I’ll head over and pick up a pair of cheap rods, line, sinkers, and worms. We needed to buy groceries anyway, I’ll pick them up. Some corn, bread, lunch meat, why don’t you make a list and I’ll pick the stuff up.”

  “Alright, hand me that notepad by the phone and a pen. I want you to take my credit card with you and use that.”

  “No, I got it. It’s your birthday.”

  “I don’t care, you’re not paying for this stuff. It’s my treat, end of discussion.”

  Theo handed him the items and took two beers out of the ice-chest.

  * * *

  Theo drove the new F-150 with unease. He loathed the idea of being in Cedar Hills, knew he’d be coming here at least once for groceries, but didn’t think he’d feel ill being here. At least he didn’t know anyone, there would be no awkward conversations. He wondered what the odds were that he’d run into one of the Handles. Would he recognize them if he did? Probably not. And Carmen might not even live here anymore. It was getting dark, that degree of dusk warranting a debate before committing to headlights.

  He parked in the small lot fronting The Mercantile, and entered. A forty-something male checker greeted him with a smile. Theo nodded and got a cart, proceeded to the aisle with fishing gear and put in two rod-reel combos, and tackle. A fridge nearby had live bait—worms, and various things such as hellgrammites, an evil looking insect that fish must like. He chose the worms and left.

  After filling his cart with everything on the list and a few things not on the list, such as Twinkies, he got in line behind an older woman. After her transaction, Theo unloaded his cart onto the conveyer belt.

  “Evening. From out of town?” the checker said.

  It was a question but may as well been a statement. In a town as small as this, this checker knew every resident, probably very well.

  “Yep. From California.”

  His eyes widened, he was impressed. “California, huh? What part, Los Angeles?”

  “San Francisco.”

  “No kidding? What brings you to Cedar Hills? Other than for our worms and groceries.”

  “Fishing. Great fishing at Fallbrook.”

  “You bet.” He began scanning the items. “Got relatives out here? People usually don’t accidently happen upon Cedar Hills.”

  “My grandpa owns a cabin in Lotton.”

  “Ah, Lotton.” His expression said quite a bit. This checker (his name-plate read Steve Jacoby) now knew that Theo and his family were strangers of this community and mostly likely not Mormons. His demeanor remained just as pleasant, regardless. “Good luck fishing. You ought to try the hellgrammites. Trout prefer them over worms. The worms are good if you go fish Lake Gallant, catfish love them. If you want to go swap the worms for them, might increase your odds.”

  “Sure, I appreciate the advice.”

  “And I’d go for the four-pound test line. This eight-pound test is a little thick. Again, good for catfish, but native trout are smart and will see this thick of test and you won’t catch a thing.”

  “Thanks again, Steve. I appreciate it.”

  He returned a moment later with line and bugs. His groceries were all scanned and bagged, save for the twelve pack of Miller Lite on the counter.

  “May I see your ID? No offense, it’s part of my job.”

  “Not a problem.” He handed over his ID.

  The man punched the birthday into the keypad on the register, glanced again at the ID, then up at Theo. “You aren’t… you are.”

  “What?”


  “Theo Graham. My goodness, you are Theo Graham! I live and breathe college football, friend. I cannot believe the quarterback for Stanford is in my humble store.” His mouth was both ajar and grinning. He returned the ID.

  “I don’t imagine you’re a Stanford fan.”

  “I’m a Hawkeye fan, but I enjoy watching your team. What a team you have had these last few years. Coach Harbaugh really turned you guys around, not to take anything away from what you’ve done for the team. It was a pity to see him leave Stanford to coach the Forty Niner’s.”

  Theo smiled. “A pity for you, but not so bad for me. I hope to play on the Niner’s someday. I love coach Harbaugh.”

  “You don’t say! How about that! Well good for you, Theo. I watched the Fiesta Bowl, thought you played your heart out. In fact, I told my wife Aubrey that you were robbed of the Heisman trophy. Not that she knows a lick about sports, but I told her just the same. And you were robbed. Dante is good, and Williams is a great back, but neither will amount to much in the NFL, is my two cents. Williams will be a decent third-down back, but Dante will break a leg before scoring his first touchdown. You will be around for awhile, I have no doubt. Hey, would it be possible for you to sign an autograph for me?”

  “Of course. Under one condition.”

  “You name it.”

  “Don’t tell anyone I’m here. Not that I’m famous or a big deal, but I’d rather nobody knew that I was here.”

  “I don’t blame you, a man needs his privacy. And you’re wrong about not being famous. We all love football out here and most folks prefer college ball to professional ball, being that we have no pro teams in Montana. That’s asking a lot, keeping this a secret. I’d love to tell Bob, he wouldn’t believe me unless I showed him an autograph. And Hank, oh my, Hank would be in disbelief. He likes Stanford, you know. Big Harbaugh fan. They aren’t his team but he likes ‘em just the same. Are you sure you don’t want me telling anyone? Nobody will bother you, I give you my word.”

  Theo considered the request, saw the excitement in Steve (heck, felt the excitement in Steve), and acquiesced. “Sure, tell your closest friends, the ones you mentioned. But nobody else.”

  “Outstanding!” He thrust out a hand and Theo shook it.

  After signing a blank piece of paper for Steve, he thanked him and pushed his cart toward the double-doors.

  “Good luck, Theo Graham. Good luck in the NFL. I wish you a long prosperous career. Break many records. You have a heck of an arm. You deserved the Heisman, young man.”

  “You’re too kind. Take care.”

  It was dark when he returned home. He could hear his father’s voice inside, and he was in disagreement with someone on the phone. Theo figured it was his mom on the other end, telling him to keep off his ankle. His dad could be quite stubborn, and his stubbornness was in full bore now. He argued the sprain was minor, and how often does he get to come out to Montana with Theo, and that silenced her a moment. They settled on him fishing from a chair, though he had no intention of leaving his fly-rod home these next few days; he’d at least give fly-fishing a try. It seemed to him that the cold water of the river would be therapeutic to his ankle, even if a layer of rubber separated the two. Before hanging up the phone, James handed it off to Theo. She asked if he were having a good time before emphasizing that his father was to remain off his feet, and Theo needed to see to it that was the case. He agreed and they said goodbye.

  James asked how it was shopping, if he got a couple of decent rods and bait. Theo said yes and didn’t mention that he was recognized. No need to be braggadocios. He thought it smelled a little too much like fish inside and slid the back door open. Then gathered wood from outside and made a fire. He opened the Twinkies and tossed one to his father who hadn’t moved from the couch yet, and sat down facing him.

  “Am I going to have to lie to mom about you fly fishing tomorrow?”

  “Oh, probably,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Don’t worry about me. I want you to have fun.”

  “You know what I was thinking about on the drive back? We never did go hunting. Remember we were supposed to go? I was looking forward to it.”

  “You may have a good memory but it isn’t flawless. We both wanted to go hunting, but after you broke up with your little darling, that was the end of it.”

  “Really? Why? Was it...” he thought back. “Oh that’s right.”

  “Yes, it was the Handles who were going to take us. The girl’s father. Bear hunting. You decided you didn’t want to go, and we haven’t been back here since then, there’s never been an opportunity. Is it something you’d like to try sometime? I’d love to come back out with you and give it a try. Just the two of us.”

  “We’ll see.” Which was a no. He’d probably do some fishing again with his dad, but probably not out here again. He couldn’t deny having a good time fishing today, but it came with a price: his mind returned to the mine with damning frequency. Not so much of the girl, he scarcely remembered her. To Theo it seemed like it was he and only he inside the cart that day. It was he who struck and killed that man, no one to share the blame with. Of course it wasn’t true, but it sure felt that way. Whenever he did remember the girl it was always attached to the thought, which had become somewhat of a mantra, ‘I wish I never met her that day; he’d still be alive.’ That there was a ‘her’ was a sufficient enough reminder that a girl captivated his interest ten years ago. But the degree to which she did it, the effect she once had upon him was long forgotten. Forgotten or diluted so strongly that when he encountered Carmen tomorrow at the river, it would feel a little like waking up.

  Chapter Four

  Carmen loaded the back of her Honda hatchback with her rod and tackle, a bag with waders and a sack-lunch, and hit the road. She turned up the stereo and sang along loudly to Freelance Whales, a new band that she couldn’t get enough of and the radio couldn’t get enough of playing them. Any passers-by would see the girl in the little blue car wailing along to a song, head bobbing and hair flinging to and fro, and probably think her to be crazy or eccentric, and the thought made her smile. It was something one had to deal with living in a town of three thousand, that if someone saw her behaving strangely they’d probably mention it to someone, or someones. Gossip is the currency of trade in small towns. And after all, people did need things to talk about. What would pass for headline news in Cedar Hills wouldn’t even make the radar in a big city. Something as benign as her getting her groove on while driving her car was something to talk about. It was both the charm of her home town and the curse.

  As it chanced, nobody passed by on her drive to Fallbrook River. The roads were especially void of motorists, as they tended to be on Sunday after church. It was the Sabbath, God’s day of rest, and townsfolk didn’t take that lightly. Shops and stores were closed on Sunday, with the exception of the gas station and The Merc. Carmen’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. She dug it out and saw that she had a text from her Dad. She huffed and called him.

  “Dad, you said you’d make it!”

  “I know, sweetie, I’m sorry. I forgot that I promised your mother that I would transplant the rose bushes from the backyard to the front. She has all these ideas for the front yard and apparently none of them can wait. I’m sorry, honey. Next week we’ll go, I promise.”

  She sighed to convey her disappointment. “I’m almost to the river already. Couldn’t you have texted or called sooner?”

  “It slipped my mind till now. Your old man is getting forgetful in his years. Why are you driving there? Didn’t I say I’d pick you up?”

  “You did and I said don’t worry about it. I wanted to drive separately this time because you always want to fish for like nine-hundred hours straight and it gets boring.”

  “Boring?” He sounded hurt.

  “Fishing isn’t boring, but fishing all day can be. I love fishing, you know that.”

  “It’s the first time I’ve ever heard the word boring and fishing in the same sentence, George
tte. Should I be concerned?”

  “Ha-ha,” she patronized, “aren’t you funny? Well, since I’m just pulling up now, I’m going to fish without you. I hope it hurts you to think I’ll be catching fish while you’re gardening.”

  “You’re a spiteful little thing. A trait surely inherited from your mother’s side.”

  “Hey! Mom isn’t spiteful!”

  “I said her side, not her. Her mother, your grandma.”

  “Oh, well that’s true.”

  “You catch some trout, Georgette. And if you feel like it you can bring them over and we’ll have them for dinner.”

  “Can’t. I have plans tonight.”

  She put the Honda in park, turned the engine off.

  “Plans? Do they center around Matthew?”

  “None of your business, Mister.”

  “You can tell me, I like Matthew. He’s a good boy.”

  “I know he is, and no I can’t tell you. You like to tease me.”

  “Bring him along, if you catch enough fish.”

  “No, Dad,” she said thickly. “Have fun with the rose bushes. If I catch anything big I’ll text you a picture of it. Talk to you later.”

  “I love you, Georgette.”

  “I love you too.”

  She ended the call and got out of the car debating taking off her sweat-shirt. It was still a little chilly, but the sun would be melting that chill soon enough. Off it went. From the hatchback she took her olive-green rubber waders and put them on over her jeans and slid the straps up over her yellow tee-shirt. Since her dad wouldn’t be coming, she guessed she wouldn’t fish for more than a couple hours, so there was no need to bring food. She’d rather not tote around the fish-basket and net, too, so she left them behind. If she caught something she’d take a picture for her dad and release it. If they fell off the hook because she had no net, then so be it. She closed the hatchback, slid the scrunchy from her wrist and bit it while she gathered her thick blonde hair into a pony tail and subdued it with the scrunchy. A Ford truck passed her on Road 17, she waved. She didn’t recognize it, so it probably wasn’t anyone from town.