by J. J. Murray
Larger fish take longer, and by the last fish—the behemoth—my fingers hurt so badly. I have little scales and other nastiness under my nails, I have cut myself several times with the knife, and each fish surprises me with half-digested crap that DJ identifies with glee.
Dante returns with a burst of Italian as I’m wrapping up the biggest filet.
“Papino, the first one had a crayfish inside, the next two had minnows, and the last one had two crayfish, a frog, half a perch, and some bugs,” DJ says.
Those were bugs? They looked like—
Again, I have no metaphors, no similes.
They were just plain freaking slug-nasty.
I hand the stack of wrapped filets to Dante while DJ cleans up the cutting board and knife.
I then remove my hiking boots and socks and march into the water, washing as much crap off my hands as I can. I even pick up some sand and rub my hands together. They look cleaner, but they smell like death.
“Andiamo,” Dante says to DJ while I’m still in the water.
I gather my socks and hiking boots and slosh to the back of the boat, water soaking up into my sweats. I climb in without either one of them offering to help me.
Andiamo.
Two tasks down, three to go.
Damn. I check my nails.
Two nails down—on each hand—only three to go.
Chapter 9
“You caught them all?” Red asks.
I haven’t stopped scrubbing my hands with scalding hot water, antibacterial soap, and a Brillo pad for the last fifteen minutes.
“I could have stuffed two of these for dinner,” Red says. “And the biggest was really five pounds, three ounces?”
I am scrubbing off skin now, but I don’t care. That fishy smell is still there.
“You could have had the big one mounted,” Red says, setting the world’s largest cast-iron skillet on the stove and firing up a gas burner. “It’s bigger than anything Dante has ever caught up here.”
Really. So that’s why he wasn’t speaking. I not only outfished him, I caught a fish bigger—in only thirty minutes—than any fish he’s ever caught in years up here.
“Christiana, why aren’t you speaking?” Red asks.
I smile and turn off the water, smelling my hands. They still don’t smell nice, but at least I know they’re cleaner. “I’m just proving I can tenere provare without speaking.”
“You didn’t speak the entire time you were fishing and hiking?” he asks.
“Not to Dante,” I say.
“Amazing,” he says. “You had trouble breathing, didn’t you?”
“Ha ha,” I say.
“Come over here,” Red says, “and I’ll show you how to make my famous Lime Pine Batter.”
Red’s secret batter is fun to make. While I use an old-fashioned glass juicer to squeeze the juice out of six limes, Red adds two cups of flour, two teaspoons of baking powder, two pinches of salt, four egg whites, and a cup of water to a bowl. After I add my lime juice, he pulls a can of pineapples from a cupboard.
“The secret to the secret recipe,” he says.
I smell my hands. They’re kind of limey. Cool. They don’t smell like fish anymore. My cuts sting like hell, but at least my hands aren’t fishy anymore.
Red opens the can with an old-fashioned twist opener but doesn’t remove the lid entirely, instead pouring the pineapple juice into the bowl and putting the can into the fridge. Then he mixes it until all the lumps are gone.
“Dry the fish,” he tells me.
I hesitate.
“Use some paper towels,” he says. “Just pat them dry.”
Oh. I thought I’d have to do something more sophisticated than using a paper towel.
I dry the filets, patting them gently, and drop them into the batter. Red drops an entire stick of real butter onto the skillet, where it melts quickly and begins to steam.
“They’re your fish,” Red says, handing me a spatula.
“That’s what I keep hearing,” I say.
“Just let them get nice and golden brown.”
I look at the clock. “When’s lunch?”
He smiles. “When you say it is.” He winks. “Just ring the bell.”
I begin laying filets onto the skillet. “Is this all we’re having? No chips?”
“We still have salad left over from last night,” he says. “And we’re not in England, Christiana.”
I am suddenly so hungry! My mouth waters as I watch the filets cook, and as soon as the first little one browns, it is in my mouth.
That batter is orgasmic. Lime Pine, and I’m fine. Whoo. He should sell this stuff. I mean, I already have the jingle he’ll need: “When on fish you want to dine, use Lime Pine and you’ll feel fine.”
Okay, so I’ll never work on Madison Avenue.
Once they’re all crispy and brown, I walk outside and ring the bell. I don’t set a single plate on the table, merely transfer the filets to a huge platter I find. This platter is going in the middle of the table, so if Dante wants any, he’ll have to move closer to me.
In theory.
In actuality, no one sits during lunch, all of us just standing around and chowing down. No one touches the salad, but with around seven pounds of filets, there is no room for salad.
I keep up my silent routine, and other than a few strange looks from Lelani, no one seems to mind.
And then it starts to rain.
Not in proverbial buckets or with cats and dogs. Niagara Falls breaks bad around the cabin, lightning streaking across the dark sky like skeletal fingers, sonic thunder booms rattling the dishes in the cupboards.
“No workout today,” DJ says.
My hamstrings rejoice. The climb wasn’t all that strenuous, but I’m beginning to feel it in my legs. No way I could survive Dante’s boxing workout today.
“We will wait,” Dante says, looking out a window at what used to be the lake. It has disappeared, walls of rain obliterating any view of the water. Even Turkey Island becomes a dark green blur.
“It’ll be muddy,” Red says.
“It will make me work harder,” Dante says.
“It might make you pull something,” Red says. “We’ll wait till tomorrow, all right?”
Dante isn’t happy, but I don’t care. I need all the rest I can get. Boxing in mud? I’d probably slip a disc.
While we wait…and wait—Canadian storms seem to be lazy and like to hang around—DJ and I start a thousand-piece puzzle of Raphael’s School of Athens. In fact, most of the puzzles we have to choose from are famous pieces of art in a thousand or more pieces, from Michelangelo’s The Creation of Adam to Picasso’s Ma Jolie. We avoid a Monet—St. Lazare Station—since it has two thousand pieces of varying shades of blue and green. I don’t want to go blind.
And then…we piece together a famous puzzle while Dante paces from window to window and the thunder rolls. DJ tells me he has put this one together before with Evelyn on just such a day, and I feel honored. He also tells me about every famous philosopher we eventually see as we work. I point at an old man lounging on the steps. “Who’s this?” I ask.
“Oh, that’s Diogenes,” DJ says. “They nicknamed him ‘the Dog.’ He lived in a tub and walked around barefoot. When Alexander the Great himself told Diogenes he’d grant him any favor, Diogenes said, ‘Please move out of my sunlight.’”
I like Diogenes. He could be from Red Hook.
After four solid hours of rain, Dante gives up and decides to go swimming. No one joins him, and I almost caution him about, oh, the lightning still flashing in the sky, the huge waves crashing into the dock, the drop in temperature, and the darkness. It’s not my place to say anything, though, and I’m happy in my place in front of the puzzle.
More fish for dinner, more silence, more rain, more of that puzzle, this time with Lelani helping us. Just before nine, I place Michelangelo into the puzzle. I’ll bet this Italian wouldn’t go swimming during a thunderstorm. He only painted them.
After that, we all drift to our beds.
Kind of boring, yeah, but peaceful, and the steady drip of rain puts me deep into sleep in no time at all.
Chapter 10
Someone very nice lets me sleep in, and by the time I roll out of bed and get to the kitchen, it’s close to lunchtime. Wisps of fog and mist dance on the water, fluffy white clouds barrel across the blue sky, and the pines outside sway in the stiff breeze of pure pine heaven.
I could get used to this place.
Red pulls a plate from the oven, and I chow down on a cheesy omelet and some thick slabs of bacon while Lelani flips through some fashion magazine. “Where is everybody?” I ask.
“Getting ready,” Red says, sipping some hot tea.
“Is it time for Dante’s workout?” I whisper to Lelani.
Lelani nods. “He wants to get an early jump and train longer today because of yesterday. ‘I’m a day behind schedule!’ he says.”
She has one creepy Dante impersonation.
Red sighs and stares at me. “You sure you want to do this?”
No. “I’m sure.”
He looks at my sweatpants and tight T-shirt. “Once this wind dies down, it’s going to heat up, so I’d get into some loose shorts and a much looser T-shirt if I were you.”
I pose for him. “What are you saying, Red?”
Lelani reaches over and tries to pull the T-shirt’s fabric from my back and can’t. “I think he’s saying that he’s afraid that when you throw your first punch, you will come out of this shirt like the Hulk.”
“Oh.” I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.” I hope.
“You have any running shoes?” Red asks.
“No. Just my boots.”
Lelani looks from her tiny feet to mine. “I have nothing that will fit you. I doubt Evelyn’s ‘Canadian’ shoes will fit you either.”
“I didn’t come here to wear Evelyn’s shoes,” I say, taking one last delicious bite of omelet, cheese dripping onto the fork. “I’ll do just fine in my boots.”
I need those boots for the hike up the muddy hill behind the cottage to a clearing where a full ring and all the toys appear. They cut the ring right into the hillside. Heavy bags sway from tree limbs, and a speed bag and two long mirrors have been mounted directly to trees. It’s so…Robinson Crusoe or something, so…
Okay, okay. It’s not Gleason’s Gym. It’s just so rustic. If I were to take photos of his training area and publish them, Dante would become a laughingstock overnight. At least it smells nicer than Gleason’s Gym, and that crisp breeze is heavenly. I look toward the lake and can’t see even a single wave. The only way the paparazzi could get any shots of this place would be from the air.
Red talks to me while I tighten my shoelaces. “We always aim for fifteen four-minute rounds. The first five rounds are skipping rope.” He hands me a jump rope.
No problem, chief. I got this.
Though DJ and Dante are more adept and efficient than I’ll ever be, effortlessly twirling their ropes to near invisibility, I ain’t no slouch. I learned a thing or two on the mean streets of Red Hook. After a rough start, I feel the old rhythm and do tricks like cross crosses, front back crosses, leg overs, and side swings at a steady pace. I ain’t crazy. This is only the beginning of the workout. I need to pace myself. I feel like chanting “Hello Operator” or “Down in the Valley,” but I don’t. This is serious work here. I used to do the Rump Jump but not anymore. At my age, I might not get back up.
After four minutes, Red says, “Time,” and DJ and Dante stop.
Screw that.
I keep jumping at my relaxed, easy pace. DJ and Dante see me and start jumping again. I skip a little closer to where they are and face them doing a series of front back crosses and side swings. Red yells “Time!” four more times, but we don’t stop for a second.
Dante is so intense! It’s like a game. I do a leg over, and he does a leg over. I do a side swing, and he does a side swing. My legs are on fire, my arms are numb, my wrists are calling me names, and my lungs are screaming by the time Red hollers, “Time!”
I stop.
DJ stops.
Dante jumps for four more minutes.
I let him. He’s the boxer, not me.
“You need to pace yourself more,” Red whispers to me.
I bend over and try to find the air. It was just here a minute ago. Where did the air go? I know I just worked off breakfast, lunch, and dinner from yesterday.
“I’ll be fine,” I whisper. “What’s next?”
“Three rounds of shadowboxing,” Red says.
I watch sweat drip off my forehead.
Shadowboxing? No sweat.
Since there are only two mirrors, DJ and Dante go to work in front of them. I face Red and start throwing as Granddaddy taught me, left hand high, right hand tucked, jabbing mostly, dancing, circling, and ducking. Red calls time again, but I keep throwing. I add uppercuts and a couple horrible hooks and notice DJ and Dante kicking up dust behind me.
I am going to die here.
I somehow complete twenty minutes of nonstop jumping and fifteen minutes of shadowboxing. I must be crazy.
“Time!” Red hollers again.
I can’t feel my back, my arms, or my shoulders. I feel blisters forming on my ankles from these hiking boots.
I wonder if they can just bury me here. I’d smell like pine trees for all eternity.
I see DJ and Dante move toward the heavy bags, wrapping each other’s hands and sliding into white boxing gloves. Red hands me a wrap, and I wrap my own damn hands, thank you very much.
Red has to help me with the red gloves he was working on yesterday. It’s scary, but they barely fit. I have some big hands.
“Six rounds,” Red whispers, “and you better rest every time I call time.” He puts on some big mitts and stands in front of me.
Six rounds. Twenty-four minutes with five minutes of rest. I doubt I can go twenty-nine minutes straight on the heavy bag, but I don’t even have a heavy bag to hit. I don’t want to hit birch trees or take potshots at Red.
I walk over to the other side of the heavy bag Dante is using and start throwing, trying to stay directly opposite of him. He knocks it to me, and I pop it back. It’s as if we’re playing tag and hide-and-go-seek at the same time. Red calls time after the first round, but I keep pounding, my shoulders threatening to secede from my body. Dante tries to get around the bag to me, but I’m too fast. He jukes right, and I go right. He feints left and goes right, and I nearly punch him in the stomach.
I only last two rounds before I rest a minute.
Not Dante. He continues to pop the bag.
I wearily move to DJ’s bag and stay fairly still for the next four rounds, throwing jabs and overhand rights at the rate of, oh, one per minute. It’s the strangest symphony. Dante’s hands go pop-pop-pop-pow-boom, DJ’s hands go pop-pop-boom-pop-pop-boom, and I merely go pop.
I look down at my chest and see my breasts staring up at me. I have sweated so much I look as if I’m in a wet T-shirt contest. I am seriously melting out here, and I’m giving Dante an eyeful.
And I don’t give a damn.
We then remove our gloves and do one round of sit-ups—I do some weak-ass crunches instead—and then two rounds of push-ups, facing each other in a triangle. Dante’s eyes lock with mine. If I go down, he goes down. When I come up, he comes up. If I hold my form, he holds his form. My triceps choose to die agonizing deaths after only twelve push-ups, and I flop to the dust in a sweaty heap.
Dante smiles.
Jerk.
And he does one hundred more push-ups before Red calls time.
“Last round!” Red calls.
My body rejoices.
“Ropes and stretching,” Red says.
For some reason, the jump rope weighs a gazillion pounds. I can barely pick it up, much less swing it over my head. Dante and DJ begin windmilling like before, and though the breeze they give me is nice, I am embarrassed I can’t
even move the damn rope.
“Stretch,” Red says.
I am usually a limber human being, and after I work out a kink in my lower back, I’m able to bend at my waist and grab under my feet.
Dante and DJ can do it, too.
That’s not…normal.
I attempt a split and almost make it.
Dante and DJ do full splits.
That’s just plain creepy.
I stand and pull a leg up over my head despite my tight shorts.
Dante does the same. DJ tries but loses his balance. Ha!
“Up to sparring today, Dante?” Red asks.
Dante nods, his leg still over his head. He lowers the leg. “I am up to anything today.”
Jerk.
While he and DJ go into their wrapping routine and put on their gloves, I step closer to Red. “Wasn’t that fifteen rounds?”
“Of exercise,” he says. “Now we practice.”
“He spars with DJ?”
“Sometimes with me, sometimes with DJ.” He smiles. “But not today.”
He begins wrapping my hands rapidly.
And I stupidly watch him wrap my hands. “You mean…”
He slides my sweaty gloves onto my hands, and I can’t believe I’m not resisting. I mean, I’m trying to resist, but it’s hard to resist when you can’t feel your shoulders and your body is one large lead weight.
“You’re kidding, right?” I protest.
He shakes his head. “You got anything left?”
I shake my head. “I had nothing left half an hour ago.”
He tightens my right glove. “You’re close to Tank’s height. DJ and I are too tall. And no offense, but you’re closer in weight to Dante than either of us.”
“I am not,” I hiss. “I don’t weigh a hundred and sixty pounds.”
“Close enough.”
One forty-five, maybe one fifty if I’m a lazy ass, but this pisses me off! My shoulders are coming back to life, and my back quits complaining.
“Look, Christiana,” Red says softly, “from the skills you’ve been showing me, I know you can hang with him for a round or two.”
“One round?”