Backcast

by Ann McMan

  Marvin walked over and handed Montana two grape Fanta bottles filled with frozen water.

  “Thanks.” Montana leaned over the cooler to place the bottles at opposite ends, but recoiled before reaching into the tank. “What the hell is that thing doing in there?”

  Marvin chuckled.

  “You’re a pervert.” She thrust the bottles at Quinn and stood up. “I’m getting us out of here.”

  “Hey?” Marvin pointed at Phoebe. “Unlike you, she doesn’t seem to mind it.”

  “What-ever.” Montana stomped off to start the engines.

  Quinn positioned the two bottles so they wouldn’t be in Phoebe’s way. She’d already added the right amount of noniodized salt to the tank when she refilled it with fresh water that morning.

  “Here. I picked this up for you.” Marvin handed Quinn Laddie’s jointed yellow tail fly. “I have a feeling this one is going to be legendary.”

  “Thanks.” Quinn pulled the Lucky Strike tin from her pocket and put the tiny rig away.

  Marvin walked back to reclaim his seat on the recliner, and left her alone with Phoebe.

  Quinn sat watching her and wondered what Junior would say when he found out that it was one of his granddad’s flies that ended up hooking the most famous fish to ever swim these waters.

  But that wasn’t right. Phoebe hadn’t been hooked. Phoebe had . . .

  What had Phoebe done?

  Quinn still didn’t know.

  The only thing she was sure about was that she hadn’t really caught her—not in any of the ways that counted.

  Still. There she was, slowly swishing her tail in the cool water of Quinn’s homemade live well.

  Montana had them out in the channel now. They were gaining steam, roaring down that imaginary state line that would take them straight to Dock Street Marina. For once, both of the motors seemed to be working.

  There was no longer any reason to tarry, and there was every reason to celebrate.

  Quinn was aware of feeling many things—but celebratory wasn’t one of them. Most of her emotions were tangled up together like the wad of fishing line she’d had to leave hanging in that tree yesterday. She wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to sort them all out. And maybe she didn’t need to.

  For now, it was enough just to sit here and share this small bit of quiet space with the great fish that had spawned rumors, inspired myths, and defied anglers for generations.

  True to form, and oddly like the stuff of all great legends, Phoebe kept her head down and held her peace.

  Dock Street Marina was humming like a beehive. The final day of a big fishing tournament was a real media event in a lakefront community that made its living on tourism. A TV crew from the local station in Plattsburgh had set up near the judging area, and a cameraman was out shooting footage of all the high-dollar boats heading in for the final showdown.

  The location of the slip you were assigned was based on your standing in the contest, so Quinn’s spot was a primo one, not too far from all the action. It was a far cry from where she started out on the first day. But even her prestigious ranking wasn’t enough to quell the eye-rolling and sarcastic remarks she overheard when they tied up and got ready to check in. That part didn’t really bother her. She’d had a lifetime of getting used to it.

  There was excitement in the air. People knew the point totals were close, and there was a lot of speculation about who was ultimately going to walk away with the big purse and the hopped-up Ranger bass boat. They had the dart-shaped, shiny black boat and its companion Evinrude E-Tech motor on display against a colorful backdrop inside a makeshift winner’s circle.

  There were people everyplace. Quinn could hear music playing. It didn’t sound live, so she figured they must have loudspeakers set up out in the dock area.

  Some of the teams had already checked in and were starting to line up. Anglers wearing snappy jumpsuits that were covered with corporate sponsor logos were making their way along the docks carrying their regulation, mesh weigh bags full of fat fish. This part of the process always went pretty fast. They couldn’t really drag it out when they knew they needed to record the catches and get the bass back into the holding tanks that would take them back out to the center of the lake for release. Quinn knew the drill by now.

  A tournament official checked them in. His eyes about popped out of his head when he looked into their live well. Quinn could tell he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He stared into the tank with a stunned expression. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He could have been shocked by the size of the fish—or shocked by the size of the dildo. It was hard to tell. After about a full minute, he handed Quinn a mesh bag and a card with her weigh-in time stamped on it. He left the boat without saying anything.

  Quinn checked her card. Since she was in second place, she’d be in the last group called up. That meant they still had a bit of time to wait on the boat before they took Phoebe out and carried her to one of the big, open cooling tanks in the judging area.

  They kept hearing roars of cheering and applause as the weight totals were called out. She could tell by their reactions that Marvin and Montana wanted to go watch the show.

  “You two go on ahead.” She gestured toward the staging area. “I’ll stay here with Phoebe until our group gets called up.”

  “Are you sure?” Montana seemed reluctant to leave. “I can wait here with you.”

  Quinn shook her head. “It’s fine. I think I’d like to stay here.”

  “Come on, little girl.” Marvin took Montana by the arm. “Let’s give these women some privacy.”

  Quinn was happy when Montana didn’t argue. The two of them hopped off the boat onto the dock.

  “We’ll come back and get you when it’s our turn.”

  Quinn smiled at her. “We’ll both be ready.”

  She watched them walk off until they disappeared into the crowd. Then she went over to check on Phoebe. They’d closed the cover on the cooler after the check-in. Too much unfiltered light was hard on Phoebe’s eyes. Quinn had been amazed at how they looked up close—black, fathomless eyes that were like the inside of a well.

  She inched back a corner of the cover so she could peek inside at her. She was shocked to see Phoebe’s broad face, poking up out of the water, looking right back at her. Her mouth was working.

  Quinn thought maybe she wanted something to eat. She remembered how hungry Phoebe had been in her dream.

  She went to the Kelvinator and retrieved a small Ziploc bag.

  Here goes nothing. She opened the end of the bag and held it over the cooler. She hesitated. Would it hurt Phoebe? Probably not. If she didn’t eat it, it would just sink to the bottom of the water. It couldn’t be any worse than most of the crap that floated around near the bottom of the lake.

  She gave the bag a squeeze and a couple globs of the tomato aspic dropped into the water. She quickly replaced the cover and waited. She didn’t want to push it with the sunlight. After a couple of minutes, she lifted the cover and took a quick look. The aspic was nowhere in sight. She smiled.

  Dream my ass.

  Another loud burst of cheering erupted from the crowd.

  Phoebe didn’t like it. Quinn could feel her agitation mounting. She was getting more active in the tank. Impatient. She wanted to get this over with.

  Quinn checked her watch. They had at least twenty more minutes to wait.

  To wait for what? So the tournament judges could hold the grandest and noblest fish that ever swam these waters up in front of cell phones and TV cameras? So they could post her picture on every news outlet and transform her from a legend into a sound bite?

  That wasn’t right. No one should do that. Not the judges—and certainly not her. She didn’t catch Phoebe. Nobody could catch Phoebe.

  Phoebe wasn’t here so Quinn could win this stupid tournament. Phoebe was here for one reason, and one reason only.

  “Things don’t have meaning,” Phoebe told her in the dream. “Once you u
nderstand that, you can relax and stop equating feeling with pain. And then you can learn how to let go.”

  Quinn covered the cooler before walking over to untie the cleat lines. As calmly as she could, she started the engines and slowly pulled out of the slip.

  In a few minutes, they’d be out of the marina. Then she could make for the open water and head north for Bixby Island. If Phoebe had been hanging out there, she must’ve had a reason. So it would be there that Quinn would let her go.

  “Tell me again what’s in this?”

  Cricket was downing her second Moby Dick. Doug Archer had created the signature cocktail to commemorate the last night of the retreat—and the somewhat esoteric catch Quinn and her crew had made earlier that day.

  “It’s cranberry juice, Blue Curacao, Grey Goose L’Orange, and simple syrup.” Linda stirred hers with the stick of rock candy Doug had added as a garnish. “Pretty damn tasty, if you ask me.”

  “And appropriate. Did you get a load of that centerpiece?” Cricket pointed at the buffet table where the industrial-sized pleasure aid projected from an arrangement of red and purple Dianthus blossoms cut from Kate and Shawn’s new backyard.

  Linda shuddered. “I think Viv is selling raffle tickets to see who gets to keep it when the party’s over.”

  Cricket rolled her eyes. “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  “I have to admit that, although that thing offends my traditional lesbian sensibilities, it does provoke one’s curiosity.”

  “Trust me, if you tried it, it would provoke more than your curiosity. I look at it and see nothing but the certain risk of cervical puncture.”

  Linda choked on her drink.

  “What are you two gabbing about?” Towanda joined them at the bar. She was carrying two empty Collins glasses.

  “We were just admiring the flowers.” Cricket patted Linda between the shoulder blades. “Weren’t we, Linda?”

  Linda nodded and cleared her throat.

  “Yeah. The flowers.” Towanda made air quotes. “Right.” She set her empties down on the bar. “So, do you think that if you sterilized that thing it would be safe to use?”

  Cricket squinted at her. “You’re asking me this question? Seriously?”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  “Oh, god.” Cricket scanned the bar area. “Where is Doug? I need a double.”

  “Come on. You’re a nurse. What do you think?”

  “I think you need a psychiatrist.”

  “Wanting a little variety in my sex life doesn’t make me crazy.”

  “No.” Cricket agreed. “Wanting that kind of ‘variety’ makes you suicidal.”

  Towanda threw up her hands in frustration. “I don’t know why I keep hanging around with lesbians.”

  “Probably because you love eating coochie.”

  Towanda reeled around to face Viv. “Very funny. Where the hell have you been?”

  “I was over there.” Viv jerked a thumb toward the lobby. “Selling raffle tickets.” She waved a handful of bills. “We’re up to three hundred bucks.” She lowered her voice. “Those two Canadians bought six of them.”

  Linda was confused. “Isn’t this kind of thing against your religion?”

  “What religion?” Viv was scanning the bar. “Anybody seen Doug? I want another one of those Moby Dicks.”

  “No pun intended.” Cricket quipped.

  “Your Esoteric Seminary thing.” Linda pressed her point. “Aren’t you some kind of minister?”

  “Oh, no,” Towanda clarified. “She’s not a minister, she’s a Teutonic Chaplain.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Cricket patted her hand. “It’s an online church, Linda.”

  “How do you do a church online?”

  “The same way you do your magazine online. Only this is a lot simpler. You log in, pay a hundred and fifty bucks, and voila.” Towanda framed Viv’s face with her hands. “You’re ordained.”

  “It cost more than that.” Viv groused.

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot.” Towanda draped an arm around Viv’s shoulders. “She shelled out an extra fifty for the wallet ID.”

  Linda seemed suitably impressed. “And you’re doing the ceremony for Kate and Shawn tomorrow?”

  “As soon as those Bible beaters clear out.” Viv sighed. “At first, I was concerned because I neglected to pack my vestments, but Page Archer said she had a sewing machine and could whip something up for me if I found the right fabric.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Viv tossed her head. “Wanda and I found a couple of great-looking tablecloths at TJ Maxx in St. Albans.”

  Towanda nodded. “They’re dark blue with little cartoon fish all over them. Perfect for this wedding.”

  “Oh, my god.” Cricket turned back toward the bar and was relieved when she saw Doug Archer reappear.

  He sauntered over to where they all stood holding up his bar, and took in their row of empty glasses.

  “Ladies?” He adjusted his bow tie. “It looks like we need another round.”

  “Here, here.” Viv clapped her hands. “It’s like they say: you can’t walk on one leg.”

  “Don’t worry, honey,” Towanda cooed. “If one of us wins the raffle, you can always pole vault.”

  “I think it’s simply genius.”

  Kate meant it, too. Barb’s model for the exhibit had blown them all away.

  Kate knew that Barb had been working to incorporate the fishing motif that had formed the backdrop of their two-week retreat into the show. She even had a preview of how it was all coming together the day she visited Barb in the studio to ask her about making the rings. At that time, the little sculptures weren’t even arranged like the constellation or tied to each other—but getting a peek at them strewn across the big worktable had still been a jaw-dropping experience. They contained such simple and direct references to the life experiences they each had written about. Barb had managed to craft each one of them with some kind of unique twist that spoke to the author’s individuality. Yet, taken together, they were all alike.

  It was pretty incredible. No wonder Barb commanded the respect she had in the arts community. Works like this made it easy to understand why the NEA continued to fund her projects.

  Mavis helped Barb move her model down to the inn for the party so the group could see it and react to the ways she had interpreted their essays. Shawn and Kate were standing near the table at the back of the restaurant where the exhibit was spread out. Darien and V. Jay-Jay were with them.

  Shawn was bent over the table, examining the intricacies of the glass and metal work on the tiny fish.

  “I can’t believe the level of detail on these.” She pointed at one. “Look how this one is riding a bicycle on a wave made of copper.”

  “I guess it’s pointless for us to try and figure out who we are?”

  V. Jay-Jay shook her head. “I don’t think that’s the point, Darien.”

  “It isn’t?”

  “No. These models are intended to be evocative of the stories we told—not the lives we lead today.”

  Kate was intrigued by V. Jay-Jay’s observation. “You think there’s a difference?”

  “I hope so.” V. Jay-Jay looked at Shawn. “Don’t you?”

  “I’m not really sure.” Shawn seemed to consider V. Jay-Jay’s observation. “I guess like all good art, this one hits us at about every level.”

  “That’s sure true for me.” Darien shook her head. “Besides, when this thing is finished and ready for display, isn’t Barb going to tell viewers which fish go with what essays?”

  “I think that’s the plan.” Shawn stood up. “It’s hard to imagine the impact this will have when the fish are recreated at life size.”

  “Or the physical space the entire thing will command.” Kate lifted up a bit of the string that connected the tiny statues. “Barb said she’s going to use lengths of Manila boat dock rope to tie the fish together.”

  “Holy
cow.” Darien stared at the expanse of the display with wonder. “How long is it going to take her to recreate all of these?”

  “She said about twelve to fourteen months.” Kate shook her head. “Incredible. I had my doubts about this whole thing at first. But now, I’m honored to be a part of it. I think it’s going to be a seminal installation—akin to Judy Chicago’s masterpiece back in the 70s.”

  V. Jay-Jay was nodding enthusiastically. “You mean The Dinner Party?”

  “Yes. Well, minus all the vulvas, of course.”

  V. Jay-Jay smiled. “A regrettable omission, to be sure.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Darien nudged V. Jay-Jay and pointed at one of the fish that appeared to be sporting a very red genital opening near its anal fin.

  “Close, but no cigar. Fish lay eggs. They don’t have vulvas.”

  “Well they don’t drink alcohol either,” Darien countered. “But that one is sure stuck inside a Jack Daniels bottle.”

  Shawn had to agree. “She’s got a point there.”

  V. Jay-Jay capitulated. “I guess this is where that whole willing suspension of disbelief comes in.”

  “Well I, for one, am just eternally grateful that I was willing to suspend my personal disbelief long enough to make the trek down here.” Kate linked arms with Shawn. “The outcome ended up changing my life in ways I never could have imagined.”

  Shawn tugged her closer. “Mine, too.”

  Kate noticed that Darien and V. Jay-Jay exchanged shy-looking smiles. She threw caution to the wind and decided to make a comment about it.

  “It looks like you two might have drawn winning cards in the relationship lottery, too.”

  Shawn looked at Kate in amazement.

  “What?” Kate defended her uncharacteristic observation. “You can’t blame me for my candor. I’ve had three Moby Dicks.”

  Darien burst out laughing.

  “It’s true.” The normally taciturn V. Jay-Jay seemed to take it all in stride. “We weren’t looking for anything, but thank god we both had the sense not to run away when it showed up.”