Fish Tales: The Guppy Anthology

by Budewitz, Leslie

* * * *

  Frank did take the boys fishing when they were young. I would pack a lunch basket for them, just like my mother had. But Frank would come home grumbling that I’d put the wrong kind of pickle relish in the ham salad. Or complaining that I shouldn’t have packed potato chips because they made too much noise and that’s why they hadn’t caught anything. Back then, when Frank would talk like that, I held it in and focused my attention on making the boys happy. I hadn’t yet discovered the therapeutic power of funeral planning.

  As I attended funerals over the years, I took mental notes of what I liked. I was drawn to a casket at one funeral, made of dark, polished mahogany with large silver-colored handles along the sides. It was beautiful—the perfect final resting place for Frank. I began researching caskets, always when Frank was out on the lake, of course, until I found a similar model that I could afford. It was solid walnut, with a gloss lacquer finish and an almond velvet interior. I thought that the praying hands embroidered on the head panel were lovely, but, in truth, I was more drawn to the fact that its highlights listed a state-of-the-art lid locking mechanism. At last I’d found a casket that was tasteful, affordable, and met all the criteria I required. Solid. Permanent. Soundproof.

  Several years ago Frank retired from his job at the plant and took up fishing full-time. He even turned it into a fishing guide business. I wasn’t sure, given Frank’s personality, that his business would be successful. Fortunately for Frank, fishermen tend to be a taciturn bunch when they’re on the water. Frank was smart enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. That ability proved to be a real business asset.

  Unwilling to divulge his secret fishing spots on the lake, he took people to the Vissenkill River to fish for brown trout. Frank built quite a reputation through the years as a skilled angler and we had a mantle full of trophies to prove it. Brown trout are notoriously wary and harder to catch than other types of trout, especially with a fly. But fishermen love a challenge, and Frank was gifted at reading streams. He would take a group and hike in to a remote area of the Vissenkill, tell them what fly to use and show them where to cast their lines. Frank even developed a special fly, the Blonde Bombshell, which proved irresistible to trout. Between acting as a fishing guide and tying flies on my dad’s old equipment in the basement, I saw less of Frank than I did when he was working fulltime at the plant.

  The thought of Frank’s retirement filled me with dread at first, but I began to think it might not be so bad. Then November rolled around and his guide business dropped off for the season. I wondered if both of us would make it through the winter alive. Thank God for ice fishing. I spent many peaceful hours, cup of tea in hand, staring out our front window at Frank’s shanty in the middle of the lake, planning the funeral of my dreams.

  The Lord has promised good to me.

  His word my hope secures.

  He will my shield and portion be,

  As long as life endures.

  One morning my dreams nearly came to a crashing halt when Frank came into the kitchen with a handful of pamphlets on funeral planning and a casket catalog. “I found these in the hall closet. What the hell are they doing there?”

  I was afraid to look him in the eye for fear that he might be able to read my thoughts. “Oh, those? They must be from when I planned Dad’s funeral,” I lied.

  Frank shoved the papers into the garbage can with disgust. “Maybe if you spent less time on your ass watching Oprah and more time picking up around here, this place wouldn’t be such a pigsty.”

  He slammed the door and I watched him through the kitchen window as he got in his pickup and drove off to meet that day’s fishing party. When I was sure he was gone, I retrieved my papers, brushing off the coffee grounds and carefully smoothing the crumpled pages. My hand caressed the top pamphlet, a glossy image of fluffy white clouds in a blue sky on the cover. Above the picture, fancy script lettering promised: “Your healing starts here.” My heart wasn’t beating as hard in my chest and the prickly feeling under my arms was gone. I poured myself another cup of coffee and turned on Oprah.

  Selecting the flowers for Frank’s funeral was the easy part. I inherited the gardens around my lake home, as well as my love of gardening, from my mother. From the moment the ground thawed in late spring until the first hard frost in the fall, I felt a sense of renewal from nurturing the life in the soil. During the winter, I stayed sane by pouring through garden catalogs, deciding what new flowers I would plant that coming season. It was a nice change of pace from thinking about planting Frank in the ground.

  I envisioned a huge saddle of roses draped over Frank’s casket. They would be red, of course. In the language of flowers, red roses symbolize strength of feeling. No one had to know my feelings weren’t those of love. And lilies, there would be lots of lilies. A traditional flower of funerals, they quickly became my favorite. In summer, I grew them in my garden and brought bouquets of them inside. In winter, I used lily-scented candles and plug-in air fresheners to fill my house with their thick, sweet scent. My friend, Sally, couldn’t understand my fascination with lilies.

  “I hate them,” she told me. “They’re funeral flowers. When I smell them, I think of death.”

  Well, isn’t that the point?

  The years passed, and as my loathing for Frank solidified, so did my plans for his funeral. Every habit and quirk repulsed me, from the way he cleared his throat before turning on the television to the way he clicked the tines of his fork on his plate while he was chewing his food. I was particularly aggravated by the fact that my father’s fishing gear, which was once a part of so many happy times on the lake, now belonged to Frank. He would sit in the basement, hunched over my father’s workbench, using my father’s fly-tying vice to tie his Blonde Bombshells. He’d lick his callused fingertips and then run them down the thread and then lick his fingers again, over and over, while tying his flies. Another one of his little quirks. It certainly wasn’t one he picked up from my father. Or from any other fisherman, for that matter. At least I could derive some comfort from the fact that the money he earned from his fishing business would someday go to pay for his funeral.

  Then, last winter, I attended my friend Nancy’s funeral. She had died unexpectedly. I hugged her sister, Susan, saying that Nancy had gone too soon. Susan broke down and told me that Nancy’s daughter was going to be married that summer. Nancy had been planning the wedding for years, even before her daughter got engaged. She’d kept a wedding file, clipping articles and pictures, taking notes of what she liked at other weddings, hoping to give her daughter the perfect wedding.

  “I can’t believe she didn’t live to see that day,” Susan sobbed.

  Then it hit me. All this time I’d assumed that Frank would go first and his funeral would be my freedom. But what if I died first and never got to see the happiest day of my life? All my careful planning would have been for nothing. I wouldn’t be able to give Frank the funeral of my dreams. If the roles were reversed, I was sure Frank wouldn’t put much thought, or money, into my funeral. I’d be lucky if he bought a vase of carnations and a bag of chips. To add insult to injury, he’d get to spend the rest of his days on the lake. Alone. In my house.

  Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,

  And mortal life shall cease,

  I shall possess within the veil,

  A life of joy and peace.

  Frank did not look well this morning when he left to meet his fishing party. Business always picks up in the spring. He works late into the night, tying flies for customers, and leaves early in the morning to meet fishing parties as their guide. Our phone rings almost nonstop this time of year. I do my part for the business, taking orders and messages. Yesterday, I slipped another order onto the pile on his workbench—a big rush job for his specialty, the Blonde Bombshell. Frank stayed up all last night trying to fill it. Fishermen, it seems, are the only ones Frank hates to disappoint. As the snows melt, they become impatient to cast their lines into the chilly mountain waters. I’m
impatient, too. I want to host a funeral. From the way Frank looked this morning, he won’t be disappointing me, either.

  My garden is just starting to wake up from its winter nap, and the perennials are beginning to poke through the soil. I’m itching to sink my hands into the just-thawed dirt. The tulip and daffodil bulbs will flower soon, but the garden won’t be truly spectacular until summer, when most of the flowers, including my lilies, will be in bloom. Mother Nature rewards the patient gardener. Everything has its time and season.

  There’s a patch of monkshood down by the dock I’ve been meaning to transplant. I dug it up yesterday, even though it’s really too early in the season to do that. Fall would have been the better time, but I just couldn’t wait. Monkshood will be much more deadly in a few months, but I need it now.

  Luckily, I don’t have to wait for its lovely blue blossoms. The roots of the monkshood plant are its most potent part. Was it my imagination that I felt its strength through my garden gloves as I carried it into the house? Or was it my own power I felt as I chopped the root and added it to the pot of water on the stove? Boiling the root and running the fly-tying thread through the solution was easy. I did it while watching Oprah. Frank’s nasty habit of continuously licking his fingers and then the thread while tying his flies went from being disgusting to being incredibly convenient. He did it repeatedly last night while working feverishly to complete the rush order for the Blonde Bombshells. No one has to know that order came from me.

  And I’m the only one who will know that Frank’s poor state this morning was not due to fatigue. That’s the beauty of monkshood. His condition will worsen as he hikes far into the woods with his customers to some remote location on the Vissenkill. First, Frank will begin sweating and he’ll get a headache and become dizzy. Then he’ll have trouble breathing and his vision will blur. Finally, the tingling in his arms and legs will quickly lead to paralysis, which will cause him to collapse. Just like a heart attack or stroke.

  No doubt the other fishermen will try to call for help. Unfortunately for Frank, cell phones don’t work out there. They may even throw his considerable bulk in the back of his truck and drive him to the nearest town. But Frank will be dead before help can reach him. Not that a doctor could do anything for him. There’s no antidote for monkshood poisoning, even if they knew what to look for. And they won’t know to look for it because nothing will seem out of the ordinary. Men of Frank’s age and physical condition drop dead every day.

  I check the clock and listen for the sound of sirens, even though I know they’ll be too far away for me to hear. Frank left over two hours ago. I wonder if someone will call me, or will they just come to the door. I really don’t know what to expect. I’ve never done this sort of thing before.

  My day in the sun is finally here. The thought gives me goose bumps. I put on some lipstick and check my hair in the mirror. I want to look my best when I get the news. I light a candle and breathe in the scent of lilies. It won’t be long now. If I close my eyes and listen, I can hear the bagpipes playing.

  __________

  Betsy Bitner is a former criminal defense attorney who gave up law to become a chef. She then gave up cooking, at least professionally, to become a mom. And while Betsy hasn’t given up on her three kids, she’s decided to try her hand at writing fiction. “Amazing Grace” is her first story.

  A MURDER RUNS THROUGH IT, by Annette Dashofy

  Nothing ruins a romantic riverside picnic like a dead body. At first I thought someone had dumped a bag of trash in the water. But when it bobbed against the rock at the edge of the Youghiogheny, where Josh and I were breaking out the fried chicken and potato salad, I gasped. Choking, I waved a hand at the soggy mound crashing our party.

  Josh scowled at me, but followed my gesture and swore under his breath. “Call 9-1-1.” He grabbed for the tattered wet fabric still clinging to the corpse.

  I can’t recall what I said on the phone. I must have given adequate directions because before long, the Pennsylvania State Police and an ambulance rolled up.

  The first thing the troopers and paramedics did when they arrived was assist Josh. They dragged the poor stiff onto dry land and rolled him over.

  That’s when the day went from lousy to seriously crappy.

  I knew the dead guy.

  “Isn’t that . . .” Josh asked.

  “Anthony.”

  “You know this guy?” one of the troopers asked.

  “It’s Anthony DeStephano. I work with him.” Or used to. The two of us had closed up the Whitewater Café last night.

  The trooper whipped out a notepad and pen and fired questions. “Had he seemed depressed recently?”

  “No.”

  “Did he do drugs or drink?” I had no clue about the drugs. As for drinking? Yeah. He and his buddies liked to head up the hill to the Patio Bar after work. “Was he in any kind of trouble?”

  Looking at him now, all gray and bloated, bearing no resemblance to the vibrant party boy with the toothy smile and infectious laugh, I guessed the answer had to be a resounding yes.

  After the coroner and police did their thing, we followed the emergency vehicles back to Ohiopyle. Tourists continued to ride their bikes and bundle in life vests to take their whitewater rafting tours. Families with kids and dogs lined the river’s edge and played in the water upstream from the falls. Life went on. For everyone except Anthony.

  Josh and I headed for the Whitewater Café. Like most summer days, the line stretched out the front door onto the deck. Unlike most summer days, Marilee Weber sat on the deck with her face in her hands.

  Marilee was Anthony’s girl.

  She spotted our approach and called out our names. “They said you were the ones who found him.”

  “Yeah,” Josh said. “He was already gone. There wasn’t anything we could do to save him.”

  Bob Taggart appeared at the door, wide-eyed and frazzled. “Hey, Nell. We’re swamped in here. Don’t suppose you’re up to filling in for Marilee, are you?”

  The last thing I felt like doing was looking at food. But Marilee wasn’t going to snap out of it any time soon.

  “I have to get to work, too,” Josh said.

  As Josh gave me quick good-bye kiss, a state police cruiser pulled up. The trooper we’d talked to earlier climbed out and barreled past us.

  “Bob may not be as overworked as he thinks,” Josh commented. “A cop asking questions about a dead employee will likely clear out the crowd.”

  “Or bring out the looky-lous,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Or that.”

  The trooper set up shop at picnic table on the deck and called us out of the Café one at a time to question us. He saved me for last. “Nell Parker, right?”

  “Yes, Trooper Mason.”

  “I have a few more questions for you. What was the victim’s relationship with his co-workers?”

  “Okay, I guess. He and Marilee were dating. Everyone else liked him. He was a good guy.”

  “Apparently someone didn’t like him. You mentioned earlier you didn’t know anything about the victim’s involvement with drugs. Are you sure about that?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  The trooper kept his gaze on his notes. “Just following up on some allegations that have been made. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Anthony DeStephano dead?”

  I choked. “You think someone killed him?”

  “I’m looking into all possibilities.” Trooper Mason snapped his notebook shut and slipped it into his breast pocket. He handed me a business card with his name and number. “If you see, hear, or remember anything, call me.”

  He followed me back inside and asked if any of us had plans to be away the next few days. We all stared at each other.

  Crap. Did he think one of us killed Anthony?

  I thought the police presence and the buzz around town about the drowning might put a dent in the afternoon business. Wrong. Tourists still wanted to eat. They acted like Anthony’s death w
as part of the entertainment. At least the volume of customers kept me too busy to think about what had happened.

  * * * *

  I strolled into the Café the following morning. Raul was firing up the grill and Bob sat at a table with a piece of cardboard and a marker. “Can you work today?” Bob showed me what he was writing.

  Help Wanted.

  What I really wanted to do was get the hell out of there. But I needed the money. “Yeah, I’ll work.”

  Two college kids applied for the job. I spent the entire day training them while taking orders, running the cash register, making lemonade, scooping ice cream, and bussing tables. Bob and I agreed to close early.

  I barely made it across the road and into my house before collapsing on my sofa. That’s when I noticed the red light blinking on my answering machine.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.” It was Marilee’s frantic voice. “Don’t you answer your cell phone? Meet me at the bridge on Route 281 by the ice cream place in Confluence.”

  I dug my cell phone out of my purse. The screen indicated I had three voice messages. They were all from Marilee, variations of the one on my machine. My return call went straight to her voicemail.

  Confluence was ten miles upriver. As I negotiated the rutted, winding road, my work-fogged brain started clicking. What did Marilee want with me? Why Confluence? Why a bridge?

  Anthony lived in Confluence. Or had.

  At the stop sign, I made a left and dropped down the hill, past the ice cream place and over the bridge leading into town. No Marilee. I eased my Toyota off the road and tried calling her on my cell phone again. Her voicemail kicked in.

  “I’m in Confluence. Call me.”

  I wandered over to the ice cream shop and bought a shake. Then I sat on the concrete side of the bridge. Scrawls of spray paint tagged the structure. Bonnie Jean Forever. Class of ’98. Apparently no one ever attempted to clean the graffiti. R.T. heart M.W. Marilee Loves Anthony.