by Ann McMan
“Why?”
Montana shrugged. “It’s just a thing with me.”
“How does Quinn feel about it?”
“Are you kidding? Quinn wouldn’t care if Mavis had cloven hooves and a forked tail as long as she qualified her to compete in that damn bass tournament.”
Barb smiled. “Then I guess there’s no problem.”
Montana sighed. “I guess not.”
Montana had picked up the two-headed fish again, and was slowly turning it over and over.
Barb watched her for a minute. “Why don’t you keep that?”
“What?” Montana looked up at her. She seemed embarrassed. “No. I couldn’t.”
“Sure you could.”
“Don’t you need it?”
Barb shook her head. “I can make another one.”
“I, um. I do kind of like it. It’s—quirky.”
“I do, too. It reminds me that all things are possible.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Mostly.”
Montana sat quietly on her stool for another minute. Then she got to her feet. She was still holding the small fish in her hand.
“Thanks. I think I would like to keep this.”
“Good.”
“I guess I’ll see you later at the cocktail hour?”
“Count on it.”
Barb watched her head toward the door.
“Montana?” Montana stopped and turned back to face her. “I think you should try talking with Mavis again.”
“Why?”
“Because she has a way of knowing when things really matter.”
Barb was gratified when Montana didn’t try to argue with her. She just nodded and went on her way.
After Montana left, Barb opened a drawer in her toolbox and pulled out another small, two-headed fish. She held it up and smiled. “I love it when a plan comes together.”
“You sure as hell look like something the cat drug in.” Viv didn’t wait for Darien to invite her to sit down. She just pulled out a chair and perched on it.
Great.
Darien had been hoping to finish her breakfast in solitude. Coming in early like this was usually a safe way to guarantee that. Half the time, she was the only one in here with Page Archer, who, by all accounts, never slept.
“I didn’t sleep well last night.” She hoped Viv would drop it.
“There must be a lot of that going around. I just passed V. Jay-Jay in the breezeway and she looked like death takes a holiday, too.”
“You did?” Darien tried to make her question appear casual. “Where was she headed?”
“Who knows?” Viv took a sip of her coffee. “Probably the deli up the road. And who could blame her?” She held up a menu. “These prices are ridiculous.”
“They’re not that bad unless you order a la carte.”
“What are you talking about? Everything on the damn menu is a la carte.”
“Except the aspic.”
Viv rolled her eyes. “Yeah. They throw that crap in for free.”
“I hear that Quinn likes it. Apparently, she’s been loading up on it every day when she goes out on the boat.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me. That woman doesn’t have the sense god gave a lab rat.”
“Why are you so hard on her?” Darien didn’t really care. She just wanted to keep Viv talking so she could hide her panic about why Vee left the inn.
“I’m hard on everyone. Or haven’t you noticed?”
“Yeah. I guess that’s true.”
“You think that’s tough? Wait’ll I get my hands on the numbskull who defaced the Town of Clifstock sign.”
Darien hadn’t heard about that. And Viv seemed pretty steamed about it. She was practically yelling. “What happened?”
Viv jerked a thumb toward the lobby. “Page Archer just told me that someone took black paint and changed the f in Clifstock to a t.”
Darien thought about it. “Welcome to Clitstock?”
“Bingo.”
Darien smiled at her. “It is kinda funny, Viv.”
“No it isn’t. Lawless behavior like this is precisely what’s wrong with America.”
Darien wondered why Viv continued to make her pronouncements in such a bombastic tone. Then she got an idea. She leaned to the side and peered past Viv to see Page Archer, working away at the front desk.
She bent forward and spoke in a whisper.
“Where’d you get the black paint?”
Viv leaned forward, too and cupped a hand beside her mouth. “In the barn, beneath Barb’s workbench.”
Darien chuckled and gave her a fist bump. “Nice work.”
“Thanks. I do try.”
Darien sat back against her chair. “You must’ve taken a ladder, too. That sign is pretty high.”
Viv shook her red head. “Wanda was tall enough to reach it.”
“Wanda?”
Viv nodded.
“Wait a minute. She helped you? I thought you two hated each other?”
“What are you talking about?”
Darien squinted at her. “Did we just fold space and end up in a new galaxy?”
“Of course not. Wanda and I have artistic disagreements. They have nothing to do with our close, personal friendship.”
“Artistic disagreements?”
Viv nodded.
“With all due respect, Viv, I have to say that I’ve never ended up in a wrestling match because of an artistic disagreement.”
“I’m very passionate about the things that matter to me. That includes my steadfast commitment to the integrity of our literature.”
“I guess.”
“Passion and good information are the most important aspects of my business career, too.”
None of this was really holding water for Darien.
“Viv? You’re an actuary.”
Viv gave her an energetic nod. “So?”
“So, that’s like being a white-collar bookie.”
Viv took a moment to let that sink in.
“True. And now that you mention it, I need to get with Cricket about her payouts on that most recent fracas. I think her calculations were flawed. Those ratios were seriously skewed. She never even counted V. Jay-Jay’s twenty. And in my view, a verbal bet is just as binding as cash in hand.”
Viv’s mention of V. Jay-Jay sent Darien into another silent tail-spin. Where had she gone? And what would happen when they ran into each other later on? That is, if Vee showed up at all. Right now, Darien wasn’t sure about anything.
Viv was still prattling on about actuarial science.
“You can never overestimate how much some unassuming event will end up costing. I told Page Archer the same thing yesterday after that group of Bible beaters came in here and wanted to rent the beach for a sunrise service. In my humble opinion, that is a catastrophe in the making. All it would take is for one of those octogenarian holy rollers to slip on the rocks and, bam—this entire inn ends up on the auction block.”
Holy rollers?
“Who is renting the beach?”
Viv waved a hand. “Some born-again zealots who are up here spreading the word.” She put air quotes around the last part of her statement.
Darien didn’t have time to follow up with more questions because her heart leapt up into her throat and cut off her air supply.
V. Jay-Jay had just walked into the restaurant.
Quinn stopped in at the A&B supermarket and picked up a couple of party-sized bags of Cool Ranch Doritos and a fridge pack of grape Fanta. She knew it would probably be a while before Junior could return to his dietary staples, but she didn’t really know what else he liked, and she wanted to take him something. He didn’t seem like the cut flowers type, and she wouldn’t have known where to get a bouquet, anyway. The German lady who did all the arrangements for the inn only came in twice a week, and she wasn’t due back until next Tuesday, after they all would be gone.
She figured that Junior would get around to i
ndulging in his favorite food groups soon enough, so why not make sure he had plenty of stash on hand?
When she got to the salvage yard, she knocked first on the door of the fieldstone and clapboard house that sat back from the water a ways. But there was no answer. She could see that the lights were on inside the big shed that served as their workshop and store. There was a hazy column of gray smoke belching up from the flue pipe that jutted out of its rusty metal roof. She decided to check it out. She cinched up her hold on the grocery bags and picked her way down along the runoff ruts that served as a path from the house to the shop.
Sure enough, she could hear the TV blasting as soon as she stepped inside. She knew it was pretty early for game shows and soap operas, so she had no idea what the brothers might watch at this hour of the morning. It was barely eight o’clock.
She threaded her way back through the piles of musty-smelling, cast-off marine equipment until she reached the corner where the Ladd brothers kept their mismatched La-Z-Boy recliners. Junior’s new model looked a bit sportier than his former chair, which still sat proudly on the bridge of Quinn’s pontoon. She knew that, eventually, that chair would take its place back inside this hallowed monument to things that had outlived their usefulness.
Junior saw her approaching. He was dressed in plaid flannel pajamas and an old, pea green chenille robe that looked more like a kid’s bedspread. It had some kind of elaborate western motif going on with its piping—big, lariat-shaped swirls and curlicues all over the place. Quinn thought she could even make out a cowboy hat on the sleeve.
“I brought you some treats,” she said. She held up both bulging plastic bags.
He nodded and pointed at the top of the console TV. “Won’t be eatin’ none of them chips for a while.”
It was clear that Junior recognized the telltale, blue and orange packaging of the Doritos.
Quinn set the bags down. “Where’s Big Boy?”
“Right behind you.”
Quinn turned around to see the older Ladd brother approaching. She had to stifle a laugh. He was wearing a fussy, yellow apron festooned with big tomato appliques. On his right hand, he wore an oversized oven mitt that was shaped like a giant fish. He was carrying a beat-up metal pot full of something steaming.
“Clear off one of them tables for me,” he ordered Quinn. “I gotta set this down.”
Quinn did as she was ordered and Big Boy set the pot down on a stack of old Maclean’s magazines. Whatever was in the pot smelled great—even though it looked like a runny mass of caulk.
“What is that stuff?” Quinn asked.
“Maypo.” Junior was reaching for his cereal bowl. “This’n chicken noodle soup are about the only things I can eat right now.”
“What’s Maypo?”
“It’s oatmeal with maple in it.” Big Boy eyed her. “You want some?”
“No. I already ate breakfast.”
Big Boy claimed his own seat in the other recliner and lapsed into his customary radio silence. Quinn noticed that he didn’t bother taking off his apron. He did leave the big fish-shaped oven mitt on the handle of the pot, however. Quinn thought it was comical hanging out in the air like that. It reminded her of how Phoebe looked every time she jumped out of her hands and dove for the water.
She wondered if she should tell Junior about her dreams?
No. He’d just think she was off her rocker. She had other business to take care of on this visit. It was best to keep things simple.
“So I came here to tell you that I found somebody to take your place on the boat.”
Junior had been shoveling healthy spoonsful of oatmeal into his mouth. He stopped midstream and glared at her.
“Who?”
“It’s another one of the guests at the inn. Name’s Marvin Pants.”
Quinn thought it was best to keep the details to a minimum.
“Marvin who?”
“Pants.”
Junior shoved another big spoonful of the oatmeal into his mouth. “Never heard of him.”
“He’s not from the islands.”
“He know how to fish?”
“I don’t know about that. He knows how to drive a boat, though.”
Junior looked down at his bowl of oatmeal. “I guess that’s something.”
“I thought you’d want to know. I went over yesterday and got registered.”
“They passed that boat?” Big Boy sounded surprised.
Quinn nodded. “Yes sir, they sure did.”
“Ain’t no accounting for taste, I reckon.” He turned his attention back to the TV. Quinn glanced at the screen. It was some old movie.
“What are you watching?”
Big Boy grunted.
“It’s that one about falling,” Junior explained. “With Jimmy Stewart and Miss Ellie.”
Miss Ellie?
Quinn looked more closely at the screen. “You mean Barbara Bel Geddes?”
Junior nodded. “And that other blonde one. The Novak girl.”
“Vertigo?”
“Yep. That’n. Big Boy likes watchin’ these to look for Alfred Hitchcock.” Junior ate another mouthful of hot cereal. “We haven’t seen him yet.”
“I think you already missed it. He shows up pretty early on.”
“He does?” Junior looked over at his brother. Big Boy grunted. “Oh, well. There ain’t nothin’ else to watch until lunch and the stories come on.”
“I wanted to tell you that I’ll still fix the Panhead.”
Junior took his time answering. “No call to do that. A deal’s a deal, and I ain’t holdin’ up my end of the bargain.”
“It’s not your fault your gall bladder ruptured.”
“We can’t pay for it.” Big Boy was staring at Quinn with his owl eyes.
“I don’t expect you to pay for it. I said I’d fix it if Junior helped me, and Junior helped me.”
Big Boy lapsed into silence again.
Quinn looked back at Junior. “You helped me.”
“That young girl gonna ride along?”
“You mean Montana?”
Junior nodded.
“Yes sir.”
“Well. I suppose you’ll do okay, then. She knows her way around that boat.”
“She does.”
“I didn’t have much else to show you, anyway.”
Quinn doubted that was true. She figured she could spend the next twenty years on a boat with Junior and not scratch the surface of all he knew about life and what swam in the waters that surrounded these islands.
“I’ll always be grateful to you for taking a chance on me.”
“You just stick to that map I give you. And don’t try none of them fancy rigs on your line. And remember to cut the engines and let the boat drift into them best spots. These fish are smarter’n you and they won’t respect you if you roar up into their backyards with all your guns blazin’.”
Guns blazing. That made her think about Mavis—Marvin. She’d have to tell him to leave his gun in the room.
“Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”
“And don’t never be late for them weigh-ins. You miss one, and it’s sayonara. Them Japanese anglers always have the fastest boats and they ain’t never late for nothin’.” He shook his head. “You really have to hand it to them people when it comes to following the rules.”
“I won’t be late. I already marked all the spots on the New York side of the lake. I’ll make sure I finish up over there.”
Junior held up a fat finger. “Don’t plan on nothin’. You just finish up wherever you finish up. The fish’ll let you know when you’re done.”
Quinn had no idea what that meant, so she just nodded.
Junior was still staring at her.
“Any other advice?”
He shook his head.
“Okay, then. I guess I’ll head out.”
“Hold up one more minute.” Junior set his cereal bowl down and pointed at a small metal box that sat between a couple of faded photographs on
the dusty shelf behind his recliner. “Hand me that old Lucky Strike box.”
Quinn retrieved the dented cigarette box and gave it to him. Junior wiped off the top of it with his sleeve. He opened it up and showed its contents to her.
“These here are some flies my granddad tied. Ever time I won one of them tourneys, I was using one of these.” He handed the box to Quinn.
The flies were spectacular. Intricate. Precise. Alive with color. They were like small works of art. Quinn couldn’t imagine the hands that tied all those delicate little knots.
“These are really beautiful.”
Junior nodded. “You take them and use them when the time is right.”
Quinn was stunned. Nobody had ever given her anything this meaningful before—especially not anything with this much significance. She ran a fingertip across all the fussy, feathered surfaces. There were more than half a dozen flies in this old cigarette box. All of them tied by the legendary angler, Laddie Ladd—the man whose name was synonymous with fishing the Inland Sea.
“You want me to use your granddad’s flies?”
“I figure you could use the help.”
Quinn didn’t know what to say. She looked up at Junior. “How do I know when the time is right?”
He sat back and pulled on the wooden handle of his recliner. The footrest flew up and came to a stop beneath his feet.
“Nobody else can tell you that. You just have to know.”
Quinn stared down into the box again. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever know. Not about flies. Not about fishing. And not about life. She closed the tiny box.
Tomorrow would be soon enough to start figuring things out.
She sat down on a low stool beside Junior’s chair and watched the rest of the movie.
Essay 9
“And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.”
—Mark 16:17-18
I guess you’d say I was afflicted with a kind of sickness that couldn’t be healed by the laying on of hands. My parents were led to understand that some demons were like that. They were told that some demons required more time and focused attention. I don’t think it ever occurred to them to wonder if the form the intervention took was a factor in its lack of success.