The Sky Fisherman

by Craig Lesley

  The town felt ambivalent about Ace, and once or twice some bluenoses talked about picketing his establishment, but it didn't come to anything because no one wanted to confront him directly. The city police wouldn't deal with the club since it lay beyond their jurisdiction, and the county sheriff, Grady Simmons, gave Ace a wide berth.

  "You can't argue with success," Jake told Grady one morning at the Oasis, and Grady replied, "People might as well spend their wad in Gateway. Why have them cart their business off to Central?"

  Jake usually recommended that the wealthy dudes he guided stay at Ace's, especially if they had a yen for the fast lane. And some nights we went there, too. Anytime we sold seven hundred dollars' worth of sporting goods, Jake treated me to a boys' night out. We celebrated by eating steaks at the Phoenix. He always ordered the Top Hand for himself and the Wrangler for me. Both were T-bones, but the Top Hand was bigger.

  A couple of times Jake asked my mother along, but she declined, saying that eating heavy food so late at night disturbed her rest and made her feel logy the next day at work.

  We almost always saw Gab at a small table in the bar, seated with a different attractive woman. He'd send over a Seven and Seven for Jake and a Coke Virgin for me. When the woman excused herself for the powder room, Gab would slip over and say, "She's a client from Central. Owns a furniture store and takes out lots of advertising. Don't want you guys getting the wrong notion." He'd glance around. "This is a business meeting."

  By the time we'd be ready to leave, Gab might be holding hands with the woman or dancing close.

  "Wonder what kind of business?" I'd ask.

  Jake scowled. "None of yours."

  Some nights Jake decided to stay and check out the action, so I walked home alone. I didn't mind, because it gave me a chance to study the town at night and consider how I fit in it.

  Once I wandered to the back of the motel, seeing what I could glimpse through the open doors. The gambling suites had big-game trophies displayed on the walls, and I guessed Ace had shot the animals on safari. Dozens of gamblers clustered around the tables. Some wore mill hats or farm clothes; others had white shirts and ties. Most of the dealers were women wearing short fringe dresses and white caps with an ace of clubs design. Cigarette smoke and chatter drifted out of the rooms.

  The girls' quarters were quiet, the doors closed and the windows covered with dark green drapes. I stood staring at the rooms a few minutes when two tall men approached carrying flashlights. They were Indians and wore the black and crimson satin jackets of the Redwings, the reservation's semipro basketball team.

  One shone the flashlight in my face. "What's up, kid?"

  I shrugged. "Not much. I had dinner, now I'm just walking around."

  "You a guest? Your folks checked in?"

  I shook my head. "I'm here with my uncle Jake. He owns the sporting goods store."

  "Sure, we know Jake," he said, lowering the light from my face. "See him all the time. Jake wouldn't want you hanging around here." He shifted the flashlight beam to the front of my pants. "Take your stiffie home. Come back when you're twenty-one."

  The other one laughed and held up his hand. "Say hello to Rosie Palm."

  I could feel the heat rise in my neck, and I wanted to say something but couldn't think what, so I just walked away. Seeing my uncle's empty pickup with the blinking neon phoenix reflecting off the windshield made me feel alone and sad. My mother and I were newcomers to Gateway, I realized, connected to the town only by our ties to my uncle.

  That night I walked a long way until I had wrung out the anger and emptiness. I found myself inside the train depot, hanging around listening to the clack-clack of the telegrapher's key, smelling the cigar butts and chewing tobacco in the brass spittoons. At 11:40 the night freight rolled by, and I went outside to watch the boxcars for open doors, imagining the hoboes inside. The moon was nearly full, and I saw a flatcar carrying three John Deere tractors chained to its deck. A hobo perched on one tractor seat, pretending he was driving, and in the indistinct light his face resembled Riley's. The hobo's long matted hair blew back in the wind and he was grinning as if he owned the world. As the freight passed, he waved at me, fingers waggling from the torn holes in his gloves.

  ***

  Four days a week, Jake guided on the Lost. Parts of the other three, he worked in the store. He was building a reputation, and his guide calendar was almost full the entire summer. When he found out how fast I grew savvy about the business, he started relying on me more and more. After a couple of weeks, I could even close out the till and make the night bank deposit.

  On those occasions, I got home just before midnight, and sometimes found my mother still up reading. "Jake shouldn't take advantage of you," she'd say. "Just because you're related doesn't mean he should work you like a slave."

  The fact was, I liked working at the store. The back-room boys put me at the heart of the town. I also enjoyed visiting with the tourists who stopped and listening to the dam workers retell their adventures. Most of all, I liked the excitement of meeting the dudes.

  The dudes, as my uncle called them, fell into two types. Doctors, architects, or businesspeople from the city comprised the first. These had lots of money, and their fishing clothes were so new they still had package creases in the shirtsleeves. Usually, one of the dudes knew my uncle from a trip the year before and had returned with his clients or friends. Most likely it was a tax write-off, according to my uncle. The second group were working people who had saved their money for the three-day trip. Sometimes a couple wives gave their husbands trips for Christmas gifts. My uncle understood these men might have preferred salmon fishing in Alaska or a couple weeks in Canada, but they couldn't afford it, so they settled for three deluxe days on the Lost.

  "Treat 'em right, treat 'em the same" was his motto, and I never saw him deviate from it.

  The groups came in around ten and spent an hour or so getting outfitted. The first group wore sunglasses and bright caps from places like Sun Valley and Aspen. They smelled of aftershave and breath mints. The others wore battered caps from the mills and plants where they worked: Cenex, John Deere, Freightliner. Their eyes creased with worry lines but they were out to have a good time. Jake called everyone fella because he was bad at names. Among the wealthy dudes, usually one was poorly equipped, having tried to match a borrowed fly rod with a spinning reel, so Jake would get him taken care of while the others ribbed him. Nearly everybody needed new monofilament, and we also checked the guides and tips on their rods. A worn tip could cut the monofilament so they'd lose a nice fish.

  Sooner or later most dudes would head for the baseball equipment, pull a thirty-four-inch Louisville Slugger from the bat boxes, and take a few practice cuts, placing the hundred-dollar fly rods in jeopardy. Although they never actually hit one, the danger made me wince.

  Moving from behind the counter and stepping in their direction, Jake would say, "Fellas, I hope your insurance covers those pricey rods. I hate to tell you, mine doesn't." Taking a quick look at the small price tags hanging from the metal eyes, he'd shake his head. "A hundred dollars. That's pure graphite but it sure seems expensive."

  Grinning and looking a little foolish, the dudes would lower their bats. Knowing he had their full attention, Jake would say, "You're welcome to carry that bat outside, try a few swings." Sometimes they'd take up his offer; others, they'd replace the bats into the box and look around a little more, hands jammed in pockets.

  I worried that someone might actually break a rod when Jake was on the river, but he winked and said, "The insurance covers it, but I don't want my premiums jacked."

  ***

  Jake actually outfitted the dudes, and I helped in small ways, but they always wanted to hear advice straight from him. I could explain to the fly fishermen that the trout were taking spent-wing stones, Adams, and Rhoda specials, tell the lure plunkers to use silver Mepps spinners and frog flatfish, but they wouldn't buy a thing until Jake confirmed my picks. Then the
y'd take a dozen.

  I loaded the big Igloo ice chests with blocks from the ice house outside, six-packs of pop, Hamm's beer, and lots of sandwiches. Jake also took the best food from Gateway lockers—steaks, chops, and a baron of sirloin roast beef to cook in the cast-iron Dutch oven. They could have caught enough fish to fill everyone, but they usually ate fish only once on a trip. We iced another big cooler for the catch, because the dudes wanted to return home with impressive trout.

  By eleven-thirty, they left the parking lot in Jake's Dodge crew-cab pickup towing one of the drift boats. I had half an hour until the noon rush started, and I'd thumb through one of the old Outdoor Life or Sports Afield magazines Jake piled on shelves in the bathroom.

  Some days I'd stare at the large black and white photograph of Jake, my father, and mother that hung on the wall behind the cash register. A two-day limit of trout—sixty fish—were spread across a fallen barn door in front of them. Thick-sided rainbows native to that region, the fish had fattened all summer with Salmon flies and crayfish.

  The brothers wore battered straw cowboy hats, lures dangling from the brims, and my mother wore a woman's felt hat—too stylish for the river. She stood squarely before the camera and seemed genuinely happy. Jake's hat tipped forward at a jaunty angle.

  My father held his right hand beside his cheek, shielding the sun. His face was shadowed, but his eyes were distinct and seemed fixed on something far away the others could not see.

  The first time I took the picture down for a better look, I shuddered. My father had penciled the word "Lunkers" and then in my mother's neater hand: "We had such a marvelous time. A perfect day!" The small date marked in the corner showed it was taken the autumn before my father drowned.

  At times when the store was quiet, I studied the picture, trying to determine the meaning of my father's expression. Much later, I came to realize it resembled the faces of high school students featured on the annual's In Memory page, those who die before they graduate. Victims of car accidents or mysterious diseases the small-town doctors cannot fathom, they seem to be gazing into the future they will not share with those around them.

  4

  WHEN JAKE was guiding on the Lost, I answered the phone at the store several dozen times a day, but one call made me jump. It was Riley, calling just before lunch.

  "Culver? Is that you? How's my boy?" He paused. "Listen. Make sure no one's eavesdropping."

  I quickly surveyed the parking lot and store. "No one's here right now."

  "Good. I tried calling a couple days ago, but Jake answered. I don't think I should call the house anymore because the phone might be tapped." He didn't sound frightened or upset, just careful, like a parent explaining something to a child.

  "Are you all right, Riley? Taking care of yourself?"

  He started chuckling. "She never thought I had it in me. Damn railroad ground me down, but not out. I got their attention, didn't I. What did your mother say?"

  "She was surprised," I said after a moment's hesitation. "I think it's fair to say she didn't see it coming." She had said a lot of things, critical and harsh, but I didn't want to go into that right now.

  "I sent you a postcard. But I'm not at that location anymore. Got to keep moving for a while yet."

  "You be careful, Riley."

  "A couple minutes," I heard him say to someone on the other end. "Some bastard needs to use the phone," he said. "Probably calling his girlfriend so his wife can't hear. Listen, tell your mom I love her. And tell her ... I'm just a little short of cash. Otherwise, I'd send some along to help you out."

  "It's all right," I said. "We're both working."

  "I knew Jake would take care of you. He's a stand-up guy. One more quick question. Does she talk about me?"

  "Yes," I said. "Quite a bit, really."

  "I knew it," he said. "Darkness over Arizona."

  "You take care," I said again, but he had already hung up. After a couple of moments, I replaced the receiver, too. My right ear, the one I had listened with, seemed hot, so I rubbed it a little. I was trying to figure out what he meant about Arizona, but a customer came in about then and I had to make out a fishing license.

  No postcard came to the store that day, and when I went home at night, I debated about telling Mom that Riley had called. When I hit the door, she was all smiles, so I couldn't bring myself to say anything.

  "Sit down," she said. "Sit down. I've got some wonderful news."

  "Did they make you president of Sunrise Biscuits already?" I asked. I sat in one of the wooden chairs because I'd gotten my jeans dirty fixing some bicycle flats that afternoon. I was eager to hear her news, but I was trying to figure out dinner. Something smelled like fish.

  She sat in the love seat, hands folded. Her cheeks were flushed, and for a moment I thought maybe Riley had called her, too, but that wasn't it. "A wonderful opportunity has come up. A truly wonderful opportunity. My supervisor wants me to go to Minneapolis for a training seminar so I can become an office manager."

  "That sounds great, Mom."

  "It's for ten days. Are you sure you won't mind? Jake can watch out for you."

  "You got to get ahead, and it's just us now. You said so yourself."

  "That's exactly right," she said. "I leave in two days, then. I've never been to Minneapolis. Maybe I'll have a chance to look around."

  Dinner was halibut au gratin and cheese muffins. She claimed it was one of my favorites, but that was news to me, and I didn't think Riley had liked it either. Maybe she was thinking of my father. She was so excited about the Minneapolis seminar, I took a second helping and pretended to like the fish.

  "You haven't said much about work today. Anything exciting happen?" She tore open one of her muffins and the steam escaped from the pockets of cheese.

  "Packed dozens and dozens of worms," I said. "A few dangerous ones escaped, but I managed to round them up."

  She laughed and touched the back of my hand lightly with her finger tips. "You've always had a great sense of humor. That goes a long way in life. That, and an eager attitude." She picked up the cheese muffin but set it down again. "I'm too excited to eat. Maybe later."

  When I finished my second helping of halibut, I asked my mother about the photograph of the fishing trip.

  "Oh, good heavens," she said. "I hadn't thought about that picture in years."

  "That was your handwriting," I pointed out. "You said you had a marvelous time, a perfect day."

  "Did I?" Her face grew troubled. "Well, perhaps I did say something like that in the excitement of the moment, but I never really cared for fishing. That was your father's interest. And Jake's."

  "Sure looks like you were having a great time. I never saw so many big fish."

  She folded her hands, holding them at the edge of the table. "It probably was fun all right ... in those days. But I don't believe I ever went fishing again."

  After supper I helped clear the table, then watched television awhile. When the news came on, I shut it off and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Mom had set up the ironing board and was ironing her blouses. The house was filled with the scent of warm cotton.

  About ten, someone knocked on the door and I answered. Both of us figured it would be my uncle Jake stopping to see how the business had been. But there stood Grady Simmons, the county sheriff. I was stunned.

  He held his hat and looked past me, toward my mother, who seemed startled. Her iron paused in midair. "Excuse me for coming in so late, Mrs. Walker, but there was an accident just this side of the reservation."

  She touched her free hand to her heart. "Not Jake."

  "No, no, nothing like that. I apologize for worrying you." He ran his hand through his hair. "A couple Indian kids rolled their car, but don't you worry. A broken leg, maybe a couple cracked ribs. Nothing too serious. By now the Gateway volunteers have taken them to the hospital in Central."

  "Oh dear," she said. "This town could use a hospital. There are so many wrecks."

  "T
he way we're going, that's going to come through in a couple years. Especially the way the Jaycees are pushing for it." Grady had stepped inside and I remembered to shut the door. My hand trembled a little, but I don't think he noticed because he was looking at my mother.

  I think she realized he was watching her because she set down her iron, and after turning it off, just stood a moment with her hands in front of her stomach. "Sit down; just sit, please," she said then. "I've forgotten my manners. Would you like some tea, officer? It'll only take a minute. The water's still hot."

  "I'd appreciate that, Mrs. Walker. I'm just a little cold. To tell the truth, accidents give me the shivers. You get the call, but you never know what might have happened, who might be in the wreck. The phone rings, and you just never know."

  When my mother went into the kitchen, Grady smiled at me a moment, then finished surveying the room. He studied the painting above the love seat a long time before leaning toward me. "How are things working out at the store?"

  "Real busy," I said, trying to calm my voice. "Jake's on the river a lot so that leaves me with a big responsibility." I told him about selling a hundred-dollar fly rod to a tourist and taking a down payment on a bicycle. I realized I was talking a lot to cover my nervousness, but Grady just kept smiling.

  Returning to the room, my mother handed him a cup of tea. "See, that was only a jiffy."

  He didn't take the cream and sugar she offered. "Monet, isn't it?" Grady nodded at the painting. "You don't see much of that in Gateway."

  "Renoir. You were pretty close." She stirred her tea. "Of course, that's a reproduction. From the Terrace. I've had it forever."

  "I doubt you're that old, Mrs. Walker," he said. "It looks good there. The colors pick up the print of that love seat."

  "Are you interested in art?" she asked.