by Randy Kadish
CHAPTER 3
We came to the big, slow-moving McCarthy’s Pool. It was named after Michael McCarthy, who luckily survived the killing fields of World War One, only to come home, get drunk and fish the pool. The next morning two anglers found his body floating face-down, and from that day on his father swore the Junction was a murderer. Though I didn’t see the river that way, as far as I was concerned, it didn’t matter that the pool was filled with plants, moss-covered rocks and insects trout loved to eat. I always passed the pool by. In my mind it was haunted. I didn’t want any part of it, the way I knew I didn’t want any part of liquor or war, even though I knew they weren’t the only things that had led to McCarthy’s death. You see, the water in the pool was so clear, it acted like an invisible magnifying glass, and disguised many of the drop-offs and holes, causing many sober anglers to get drenched.
“Vernon, were you ever in war?”
“Well, kind of.”
“What does ‘kind of’ mean? Either you were or you weren’t.”
“Well, I got sent to Europe as a cook. I didn’t see any fightin’.”
“Then you weren’t in war.”
“Soldiers have to eat, don’t they?”
“I guess so.”
“Besides, I enlisted. No evil Nazi was gonna scare me. Was it my fault I knew how to cook?”
“Sometimes I’m glad I’m a girl, Vernon. Girls aren’t supposed to go to war and shoot at people.”
“That’s a good way of lookin’ at it.”
“Why do you think countries go to war?”
“Damn if I know, but war is in the Bible.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“I didn’t say it does.”
“You know what else I wonder about? How does moss grow on dead rocks?”
“I don’t know that either. I guess nature has a way of givin’ life.”
He has a simple answer for everything. I was silly to ask him a question about science.
We left the pool and walked alongside a long stretch of shallow, gurgling riffles. I asked Vernon if he wanted to rest. He said no. I offered him some of my water. He looked at me and smiled. Suddenly, he looked ten years younger. “I can drink from the river,” he said.
“No, you can’t. You’ll get sick.”
His eyes became as big and round as quarters. “How do you see me?” he asked.
“See you? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m black and you’re white.”
“And I’m a fly fisher and you’re not.” I held out my canteen.
He took it. Without touching the canteen with his lips, he poured water into his mouth. Some of the water ran down his neck. “I never thought water could taste as good as whiskey.”
“You didn’t have to hold the canteen away from your lips.”
“I didn’t want to spread germs.”
“Maybe you don’t have any.” I cupped my hand and poured water into it. Shana licked the water up. I poured her more.
We came to Banana Pool. Its short, fast tail narrowed like a funnel. On one side of the funnel a fallen tree slowed the current. The tree still had leaves on it, but it was only a matter of time until it would be completely dead. It just didn’t seem right that a beautiful river could wash away the banks and kill a hundred-year-old tree. If there is a God, why didn’t he give the tree a way of fighting back? Vernon will have only a simple answer.
In the slow water two beautiful swans rested. To me they looked more beautiful than any trout I had ever seen, maybe because I knew the swans were in love and, in their way, married.
Will I ever fall in love and get married? If so, will my future husband be as good of a person as he hopefully looks? Where is he now? Fishing, I hope.
In the middle of the pool the long, flickering path of sunlight went out. A big cloud blocked out the sun. I got into a crouch and walked close to where I had caught Mr. Trout.
“Vernon, Mr. Trout is here!”
“We got no time to look for fish.”
“I caught him once. Maybe he remembers me.”
“He’s a fish. He doesn’t—well, maybe he does.”
I moved closer. My image scared him. He darted away and I found myself looking at my reflection. I pulled down the front brim of my hat, and wished I could live and stay pretty forever, like the Junction.
Shana barked, jumped in the river and swam towards the swans.
“Shana, come back! Bad girl!”
Shana ignored me and got caught in a seam of fast water. She barked frantically and paddled faster and faster, but the seam carried her downstream. The swans flew away. Shana was pulled into the fast tail.
“Please, don’t drown and leave me!”
“Dogs are born to swim,” Vernon assured me. “Looky here, when she gets to the next pool she’ll just swim to the bank.”
“Which one, though? The near bank is lined with bushes.”
“I’ll go down this bank. You cross the river at the riffles and we’ll meet at the stone bridge.”
“Vernon, the bottom is rocky. I don’t have my wading stick.”
“There must be a big stick in the woods.”
“I don’t like going in the woods by myself.”
He smiled in a funny way; or at least I thought so. “I’ll go with you,” he said.
“Thanks.”
We quickly found a big stick. I ran back to the river. Slowly, making sure I had good footing and balance, I waded to the far bank. I looked at Vernon.
He gave me a thumbs-up. We marched downstream at the same pace. The river soon widened and snaked to the left.
I crashed into a long wall of thorny bushes, and was stabbed in a hundred places, or so I felt. I screamed, and then wiped my cheek. It bled. Now I, like Mr. Trout, was scarred. Even worse, I had to go into the woods to get around the wall. I wished I had my grandfather’s gun, even though I had never fired it. I looked at the bottom of my stick. It was pointy, like a spear.
No, I won’t be scared, but even if I am, if I don’t save Shana she’ll never forgive me, and neither will I.
“Vernon, I’ll meet you downstream!” I walked into the thick woods. The shade was dark and eerie, and made the woods seem haunted. I wanted to turn back.
Damn you Shana. Why did you have to jump into the river? But shouldn’t I be hoping that you and Grandma are okay? Maybe I really am bad. Maybe that’s why my mother left.
I walked deeper into the woods, and then hiked up a long, low hill.
He stood on the other side as if he had been waiting for me. His arms were folded. He wore an old, green army jacket and torn, dirty jeans. His image hit me like a punch. Numb from the blow, I tried to step back. My legs didn’t move.
Should I yell out to Vernon? If I do the man might do something bad before Vernon can save me. But maybe the man’s not really bad. He is good-looking, in a cowboy sort of way.
He was about thirty and unshaven. He smiled. He was missing a bottom tooth.
“What happened to your face?” he asked.
“The thorns got me.”
“You should watch where you’re going.”
“From now on I will.”
He scanned my grandmother’s fly rod from top to bottom. His eyes, the color of the clear sky, opened wide as if he saw gold. He grinned. “That’s fine, fine-looking fly rod, a real work of art that might even hang in a museum one day.”
“What do you know about fly rods?”
“You don’t have to wear a suit or finish college to know beauty, the beauty of a river, of a sunset, of a wo— Kind of a shame, isn't it?”
“Isn’t what?”
“That unlike fly rods, people don’t become more beautiful with old age?”
“Fly rods aren’t living things.”
“I’d really, really like to hold the rod.” He spoke softly, politely.
“No.” I backed away, pointing my stick at him.
He laughed loudly and looked up. I must’ve looked up too, because
quick as a cat, he grabbed my stick and threw it behind him. “When I was a boy I always dreamed of owning a fly rod that I would cherish my whole life.”
“Then why didn’t you get a job and buy one?”
“You ask a lot of questions, don’t you?"
"Only when there are a lot to be asked. You don’t want to see my rod. You want to take it."
“What makes you so sure?” His vagabond’s look clashed with his soft politician’s voice.
I believed his voice, for a second. I said, “My gut makes me sure.”
“I was once a real kid too, though without the freckles.”
“Who are you?”
“Someone who fished this river a lot, until my father couldn’t pay rent, and we were forced to move.”
Why couldn’t he pay? But I didn’t ask the question. The shadow deep inside him made him go bad. Is there a shadow in me? Will I go bad?
I forced myself to look into his eyes. “Look, if you’re hungry and don’t mind going into the river and getting wet I’ll show you one of my secret spots. I’ll let you use the rod to catch a fish, but you have to promise me that then you’ll leave me alone.”
“I promise,” he insisted.
This time real life won’t let me run away from playing a part. Why don’t I feel more scared? I said, “We’ll go downstream.”
“Let’s go, little girl.”
“I’m not little.”
“That’s right, pretty lady, you really aren’t.” He grinned.
Suddenly, I thought that maybe he wanted more than my grandmother’s fly rod. I was real scared. I wished, more than I’d ever wished for anything, that I could turn into a big man for a few seconds and wallop him right between the eyes.
But I couldn’t, I knew, so I decided not to let him see Vernon, and hopefully Shana, walk down the other bank, because then he might grab the fly rod and run. I led him through the woods, parallel, but about twenty yards from the river. Finally, when I guessed we were almost even with the bridge, I turned toward the river, praying that Vernon and Shana waited there for me.
They didn’t.
Stay calm, as if I’m trying to land a monster fish. Stall for time. I said, “Let me tie a fly on.” I had made a mistake. Now he would see my grandfather’s fly box. Reluctantly, I took it out, picked out an Adams and pretended I couldn’t get the line through the fly’s eye.
“Let me do that,” he demanded.
I got the line through the eye and tied the fly on. Shana barked. I looked up. She streaked across the bridge.
“Get him, Shana! Get him!”
“Damn you, you little bitch!” He lunged for the rod. Ready, I jumped back. He fell, then got up and ran into the woods and out of my view.
Shana jumped on me, almost knocking me down. She was all wet. Her muddy paws dirtied my vest, but I didn’t care. I kissed her. “Good girl, Shana. Good girl. You saved me.”
Vernon crossed the bridge.
I yelled, “What took you so long?”
He gulped air. “Shana wouldn’t come with me at first.”
“That man tried to steal Grandma’s fly rod.”
My heart beat hard, like a throbbing fly rod. Suddenly, uncontrollably, I laughed. “I tricked him. Did you see the way he ran?”
Vernon’s breath smelled of whiskey. “Maybe we should head back,” he said.
“He won’t be back. He’s a coward. Besides, Grandma brought her gun. We’re closer to her than from where we started. I should’ve brought Shana’s leash.”
Vernon took off his belt. “We’ll use this.”
“If Shana hadn’t gone after the swans I wouldn’t have run into the bad man.”
“Now, don’t go blaming Shana.”
“Who should I blame? Me? I have to find my grandmother.”
“Don’t blame anyone. Sometimes things just happen.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re good.”
“Who knows what they mean?”
Please, stop with all your simple answers.