The Sky Fisherman

by Craig Lesley

  After Jake came back from checking the boat, I held out the reel. "This must have been my father's spare, don't you think? His rod and reel probably went down with the boat."

  Jake took the reel, turning it over in his hands before setting it on the flat rock. "That's his spare all right. Your dad never carried much equipment, but he always packed an extra reel." He shook his head. "Most likely he tucked that vest under the seat before we hit the rapids. When the scuba divers brought up the gear, the vest was with the rest of the stuff. Like I said, Dave traveled a little light. Me, I'm on the heavy side. Pliers and knives get dropped into the river; sunglasses fall off; tackle goes all over hell and gone. I remember one time when the fishing was red hot. A big caddis hatch was on and fish were boiling the water. I was hooking one every second cast, but when I went to check on Dave, he was sitting on a rock, watching the river. Turns out he'd dropped his fly box and it swept downstream before he could grab it.

  "He kept a small plastic box in his shirt pocket—only held four big caddis flies. But the monsters had broken off three, and the last had a bum hook. So he just sat twiddling his thumbs, watching the fish rise. I gave him more flies and a heavier leader."

  "Maybe he was counting on you," I said.

  Jake mulled it over. "Think your dad was smart enough to make me mule-pack for him?"

  I shrugged. "It's possible."

  "Well, it worked out. He caught eight big redsides that afternoon, all over sixteen inches. And I only landed five. We cooked the two biggest for supper. 'You were fishing pretty puny this afternoon,' he said as he squeezed fresh lemon on his trout.

  '"You wouldn't be eating at all, if I hadn't come prepared,' I told him. Your dad laughed. 'If it weren't for me,' he said, 'you'd have to munch on minnows.'

  "Your great-uncle Harold and the old man," Jake said after studying the photograph I'd found along with my father's license. "Now that's a pair to draw to. Harold was the only man I ever saw actually fish while wearing his bow tie. Claimed the fish respected authority. But he still never caught as many lunkers as the old man. Pissed him off some, too, since he always bought tons of gear."

  "Harold loved good equipment and he wasn't stingy. He'd lumber off the tram from Minnesota, bristling with fishing rods and dragging two footlockers jammed with gear. A couple times he came out with nice Gokey outfits he bought in St. Paul. Whatever didn't catch fish, he gave to me and Dave. Said he'd probably borrow it next trip, but never did. Always came completely reequipped."

  "Sounds like a character," I said.

  "A gen-u-ine character," Jake said, emphasizing each syllable. "Big timber buyer for Weyerhaeuser. Self-made man. The old man and my uncle's father had been the coachman for Weyerhaeuser, so the boys grew up in 'coachman's alley,' just behind Summit Avenue in St. Paul, where all the muck-a-mucks lived.

  "Harold always bragged that the top hands knew him from the time he started sucking lollipops. Frederick Weyerhaeuser, James J. Hill, the empire builder, A. B. Stickney, president of the Chicago Northern Railroad."

  "Big shots," I said.

  "The biggest," Jake agreed. "Big shots still call the plays. This whole country was built on timber and railroads. And a lot of them started back in Minnesota.

  "Weyerhaeuser took a liking to the boys. They were full of vinegar and his kid was sickly. He paid them for shooting rats back in his horse stables. They killed those pests with twenty-two Hamiltons they got scrounging cigarette coupons off high rollers, and he thought they were go-getters. He appreciated that since he was a hustler himself—had to be.

  "How he got his start, now there was a story. He had a contract to build a road through upper Minnesota, and the deal was he could keep all the timber they cleared building that road." Jake broke a stick and tossed it into the fire. "Nowhere in the contract did it specify how wide that roadway was to be." He squinted at me. "If you were building the road, how wide would you make it?"

  "Pretty wide," I said.

  "Pretty goddamn wide," he said. "Wide enough to jump into the timber business.

  "Anyway, Harold saw everybody on Summit Avenue making big dollars and he vowed to grab a piece of the wealth himself. And I guess he did. Each time before he hopped that train back to Minnesota, he'd chide the old man about ever leaving, then put his arms around Dave and me. 'Boys, there's a wealth of opportunity in Minnesota. Your father's a brick head for ever leaving, but maybe you'll come back. I'll show you the ropes.'

  "Harold had flair. When the snow got real deep at his winter cabin along the St. Croix River, he'd make a snowman. One Christmas he sent photos. His snowman had a creel slung over the shoulder and a fly rod tucked under the arm. His wife's snowwoman held a frying pan with some fish."

  "Real fish?" I asked.

  "Wooden. Otherwise the birds would get them. I'll say this about Harold. He came through with a loan when we needed it most. The old man was dead and the hospital bills staggering. Dave and I were foundering in the business. I thought maybe we'd have to give up and sell, but your dad wouldn't budge.

  '"We got to nail our thumbs to the wall and try to hang on,' Dave said. And we did until Harold came through. Of course, eventually he wanted it back—with interest.

  "Two kinds of people in the world," Jake said. "Those that wait for things to get handed to them. Others reach out and grab all they can." He closed both fists for emphasis. "That's why we got two."

  "Whatever happened to Harold? If he liked you so much, maybe you'll inherit a bundle." I enjoyed the idea of cruising through the timber with another colorful uncle sizing up the trees for big commercial deals.

  "Don't be a sucker," Jake said. "He got religion and gave almost everything away. Went on the road preaching. Once he came around here and we saw a poster describing Holy Harold. That night he drew a pretty good crowd to a little country Baptist church. Faith healing. A dozen people went up front. Whoever he touched jumped like he was a lightning bolt.

  "Your dad and I stepped forward—just for a gag—but Harold spotted us right off. Drawing us close so his helpers couldn't hear, he said, 'Boys, I can't heal ugly.'

  "We waited for him after the service, got him something to eat. He carried all his worldly goods in two small suitcases, one missing a handle. After dinner he said, 'Fishing for souls is all that counts. You should have seen me yesterday, boys. Put a brand new nose on a man and he dedicated himself to the good work.'"

  "He really went a hundred percent, I guess."

  "You're right." Jake stood and stretched. "There wasn't a half-assed bone in his body."

  My uncle was working on his third drink. "Dave and I spent a lot of good times with Harold and the old man on this river just studying the sky, imagining things." Jake tapped his glass. "Dave always figured on having a kid, passing things on. Me, I wasn't so sure.

  "The old man knew so much about the river, we expected him to know everything else, even the sky. Once we got past the Big Dipper, Little Dipper, and Orion, he was stuck. But he never let on." Jake craned back his neck and pointed. '"There's the Chinook Salmon,' the old man used to say. 'See the curved line of stars that make his back. That cluster is his tail. And those three that make a triangle—his fin.'

  "He sounded pretty convincing. I kept believing that stuff long after I quit believing in Santa Claus. Of course, your dad played along with the old man, even after he had things figured.

  "Whatever he knew about the river, that's what he saw in the sky. Watch." Jake pointed to a section of sky that contained clusters of stars, some stacked in columns, others forming graceful arcs. "There's the Sky Fisherman. Those stars closest to the mountain are the hip boots. Straight above is his vest, and the little curved line of stars is a pipe jutting out his mouth. That long row of curved stars makes up his fly rod. From the deep bend in that rod, I'd say he's hooked a dandy."

  I stared at where Jake was pointing and thought I had the right stars. Sometimes the formations seemed to blur into one another and I couldn't quite tell. "And that fish
will never get away," I said. "Maybe that's the best part."

  "Sure," Jake said. "You can always imagine how big that lunker is going to be." Shaking his head, he added, "What always amazed your dad and me was how the Sky Fisherman dressed so much like the old man, right down to the crook-stem pipe. And when I got a little older and studied the stars at school, I couldn't figure why the teacher left out some of the most important ones. Even now, when I come out here on these clear nights and see all those stars, I'd rather think of them the way the old man had them, not the way some Greek or Roman said."

  "That makes sense." Looking at the faraway stars made me think about heaven. Perhaps that was a place you could finally do what you wanted with those you loved—have a picnic with my father instead of Franklin. My mother and Jake would be there, too, of course. "Uncle Jake, point out all the constellations to me, would you? The way my grandfather had them?"

  "Sure," he said. "Look over there to the east, right above the canyon rim. That's the Leaky Boat."

  13

  "I FEEL like eating something light," my mother said. "Light food for this hot weather. And a summer dress, light as gossamer." She stood at the sink, deveining the shrimp for her shrimp salad. Central had a new seafood market that shipped in fresh seafood twice a week. "These weren't cheap, but it's a good way to get iodine," she said. "Did you ever see that picture of your great-aunty Hessie and that horrible goiter? Poor woman was long suffering."

  I had seen it and slipped it out of the family album a couple times to scare a fat kid at school. "Get one of these and you'll never wear a necktie, Delbert," I had told him. I squeezed a little lemon on one of the cleaned shrimp and popped it into my mouth. "They got iodine in salt now, Mom. You'd have to work pretty hard at getting a goiter."

  "I'm sure you're right," she said. "But when I was growing up you couldn't get fresh seafood. Father used to put three iodine drops in a glass of water each Monday before he went to the office. When I saw the skull and crossbones on the dark blue bottle, I was positive he'd poisoned himself. I cried most of the day until he came home safely."

  "Isn't Franklin going to be a little curious when he doesn't get to eat any of the shrimp he saw you buy?"

  "I don't want to be predictable." She put the cleaned shrimp into the colander and ran cold water over them. "If a man knows everything you're going to do, it's no fun. You have to create a bit of flair, some mystery."

  "And you get all that by not feeding Franklin these shrimp? Anyway, I'm glad he's not coming this time. It hurts to see him all beat up."

  She flicked some cold water at me with her fingertips. "You were supposed to get out the good silver."

  "Jake doesn't like stuff too fancy." I hoped the silver could pass inspection without being polished. I hated the smell of the polish.

  "If I were thinking only of Jake, I'd fix steak and potatoes. This is for us." She softened. "And a little elegance now and then doesn't hurt."

  I put the lace tablecloth, the sterling silverware, and the china on the kitchen table that we had moved into the front room for my mother's idea of "elegant" dining. Somehow most of the china had survived the moves, although only three teacups remained with handles. Two wine glasses survived, these being for my mother and Jake. Recently, I'd gotten used to putting out the good tableware for Franklin's visits.

  My mother set the shrimp salad in the refrigerator and popped the cheese muffins into the preheated oven. Then she sat with me in the front room. "The table looks nice, Culver. But we're going to need the silver polished again soon."

  "Thanks. I pretty much know the drill."

  She frowned at the clock. "He's late."

  "When the fishing's good, the dudes don't want to leave the river," I said. "This is the first trip he hasn't canceled in a couple weeks. Secretary of state or some hot shot."

  "It's all right," she said. "Shrimp salad is delicious chilled. And this gives us a few moments to visit. It seems you're so busy I hardly see you. Is Jake paying you extra for overtime?"

  "We've talked about it." He'd mentioned it once or twice but I wasn't counting my chickens.

  "Well, he mustn't take advantage just because you're a relative."

  "It's a good job, Mom. I'm learning all kinds of things about fishing and hunting."

  "I'm sure you are, dear, but there are other things to consider, and school will be starting in about a month."

  "Jake's said he wants me to work after school and weekends—at least through deer season."

  "Well, we'll see how all that works out." She tipped her head slightly. "But let's talk about something else. I'm just curious. If you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?"

  "Is this some kind of trick question?"

  She smiled. "Of course not. Don't tell me you're getting a suspicious mind. Just let your fancy take you. Pretend you have a magic carpet."

  I tried, but as my mind ticked off the possibilities, I realized I wasn't interested in most of them. "I'd like to go to one of those big fishing resorts in Canada. Jake had some brochures and the guys caught salmon weighing over eighty pounds."

  She sat a little straighter. "Yes, salmon. Okay, then, what would be your next choice?"

  "Alaska," I said, but when I saw her mouth tighten, I added, "or probably England. My literature teacher talked a lot about the places there. A dead poet's buried under every tree."

  She laughed. "Culver, you have an extravagant sense of humor, but yes, England would be ideal. Your father took me to Victoria on our honeymoon. That's very much like England."

  "What about now, Mom?" I said. "Where would you like to go?"

  "Anyplace I could be pampered," she said. "Waited on hand and foot."

  Twenty minutes late, Jake smelled of Lava. His hands and forearms appeared well scrubbed. "Gateway's agreeing with you, Flora." He stepped in the door. "You're looking fit." Noticing the table, he added, "Nice spread. Haven't seen that china for a spell."

  "Took dozens of newspapers to pack it," she said. "And those galoots Riley hired managed to drop a barrel or two. Please just take a seat. The cheese muffins are getting cool."

  Mom brought in the shrimp salad and muffins as well as some white wine she bought in Central. I had to settle for apple juice in an everyday glass. As soon as I had filled my plate, I was ready to eat, but she stopped me with a look. "Jake, would you like to offer thanks?"

  "Sure," he said without missing a beat. "Dear Lord, for this food and family and all thy blessings, we give thanks. Guide us, and especially watch over the young one, we pray. Amen."

  After a moment's hesitation, she said, "That was very nice. Thank you." She lifted her fork and I knew we could begin eating.

  "You know, these shrimp are terrific," he said after a couple bites. "Maybe just a bit more lemon."

  I passed him the plate of lemon wedges and he continued. "Funny how fish smells like the water it comes from. A trout from the Lost tastes different than a trout from the Pine. And lake trout differ from stream. These shrimp smell like the ocean."

  "I bought them fresh in Central," she said. "They fly fresh seafood in twice a week."

  "Central would do that," he said, and I thought he might light into Central or the Water Pageant, but he didn't. "I ate crabs from the Chesapeake one time at a little place on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. Blue crabs, and they tasted just like the bay. That water's milder than here, more tropical. They boil crabs using a spicy seasoning called Old Bay."

  "Jake, you're just full of surprises." Mom set down her fork. "I never knew you were in Maryland."

  It was difficult to imagine my uncle anywhere but on the Lost. "When were you in the Chesapeake?" I asked.

  Jake looked at me, not my mother. "After your father's death, I traveled around the country, tried to reckon with things."

  "I remember you were out of touch a long time," Mom said after a moment.

  He nodded. "Somehow, I always went to water. In Maryland, it was the Chesapeake and a place along the Chop
tank River. They study marine biology there."

  "What was it like?" My mother broke one of her cheese muffins in half and slid a piece into her mouth.

  "Nice country, but the water's pretty sluggish. Lots of mosquitoes. The official bird of Maryland." He winked.

  "I'll bet you met a woman," my mother said, studying him. "Why else would you stay in Maryland?"

  Jake nodded. "Later, she married a biologist. Now they've got three kids."

  "So you were in Maryland and no one knew. I find that remarkable."

  Jake poured wine for my mother, then filled his own glass. "Like I said, I always went to water. When I hit the Great Lakes, I was out of money, so I signed on as a deckhand for the Cleveland Cliffs boats. That's a steel company. When the captain learned I like to fish, once he anchored off Isle Royal in Lake Superior. We rowed the dinghy to shore, then hiked to an inland lake for walleyes. Caught a couple nice ones, but they don't fight anything like a Lost River steelhead. At night we heard wolves howling—spooky. Moose and wolves share that island. No people.

  "We sailed all around the Great Lakes—Michigan and Superior. One time we anchored off a little town holding a memorial service to honor all the drowned sailors. Great Lake storms are wicked, especially on Superior. The big waves coming from all sides can rip a ship in half." He took a sip of his wine

  "Back in those days, fathers, sons, brothers, could work the same boats. But they changed the regulations since then, a couple years ago after the Carl Bradley sank." He shook his head. "1 read about it in the paper. Twenty-two men were lost just from one city. Thirty-five altogether." He tapped the side of his glass. "All that sadness. But I had realized a long time ago that my own grief was back here, so I'd come home."

  My mother picked up her napkin, dabbing the corners of her mouth. Her eyes glistened and she blinked.