Dead Jitterbug

by Victoria Houston

  Over the years, when he had encountered women like this, he did his best to avoid them. If they arrived in his office as potential patients, he’d waste no time referring them elsewhere. If they were friends of his late wife, their presence at a bridge game in his home would spur him out the door and into the boat no matter how bad the weather.

  This particular version resembled an overripe raspberry. Her eyes were too bright, her lips too red, and her bosom too generous. The latter was pushing its way up and out of a sleeveless red blouse, shirttails knotted before meeting the waistband on her shorts, which were also red and way too tight. A fuzzy little pin with glittering eyes substituted for the most important button on her blouse. If it was intended to draw the eye to the valley of her cleavage, Osborne made sure not take the hint.

  Looking everywhere except there, he estimated a dozen thin gold bracelets climbing her left arm and a scattering of rings across pudgy fingers tipped scarlet. Miniature diamonds outlined the lobe of one ear; at least as many pierced the other. No doubt she was fishing for more than just fish—but did she realize that if she fell in the lake, she might sink?

  Even Ray noticed. As he gave her a hand up and out of the boat, he said, “What’s that in your ear, Kitsy? Been tagged by the National Park Service?” With a mock grimace on her face, Kitsy punched him in the arm.

  “Hello there,” she said, pushing past Ray to thrust a hand at Osborne. “Dr. Osborne, remember me?” She had a grip so firm he could feel every ring. Returning the handshake with a silent wince, he struggled to place her face then gave up. He focused on the line of the jaw and the expanse of forehead—the two features least likely to have been surgically altered. “Well … now, I’m not sure….”

  “Kitsy Kelly! Dr. Osborne. Kitsy McDonald Kelly. You used to check my teeth every summer when I was a kid. Don’t you remember? My mom would haul me into your office insisting I was eating so many marsh-mallows, every single one of my teeth would fall out.” She hooted loudly.

  “Of course, Kitsy. My apologies. How could I forget?”

  He hadn’t seen the woman since she was eleven—or was it twelve? Had to be twenty years ago, maybe longer. And this incarnation bore no resemblance to that sullen preteen. Certainly not those lips. Boatox, indeed.

  Osborne was no stranger to the impact cosmetic surgery was having on dentistry. He may have retired from his practice but not his profession, not since Lew Ferris had been willing to trade time in the trout stream for his assistance with dental forensics.

  Eager to maximize any opportunity to fish with the woman who had shown him how to cast a trout fly even as she hooked his heart, he made sure to keep current with national dental journals and stay active in the Wisconsin Dental Society, attending monthly meetings and seminars.

  So he was familiar with Botox. Along with other advances in cosmetic surgery, it had become both a dollar sign and a favorite topic of conversation among the younger dentists. Lips fat with Botox signaled a patient likely to want her teeth whitened, straightened, capped, or crowned. Not to mention dental implants. It all translated to serious money. How much of that money was in Kitsy’s mouth? He was happy not to know.

  “Julia!” Kitsy turned to her friend, who was just stepping off the boat. “You won’t believe who’s here. Remember I told you I had that terrible crush on my dentist when I was a kid? This is the one!”

  Kitsy turned back to Osborne, “Dr. Osborne—you still married?” Her eyes met his: bold and teasing. He gritted his teeth. If this continued all day, Ray would really, really owe him.

  “Doc’s widowed,” said Ray, his tone soft and blunt enough to curb the conversation.

  “Oh? Sorry to hear that,” said Kitsy, not looking sorry at all. But she got the message. Waving a dismissive hand, she peered past Osborne, “Ooh,” her voice ratcheted up six notches, “loook at all that good stuff….” And off she scurried towards the picnic table.

  “Nice to meet you, Dr. Osborne,” said the second woman, removing her hat and sunglasses as she walked toward him, a ghost of a smile on a face so pale that Osborne hoped she had brought along some sunscreen.

  “Julia Wendt.” She extended a hand he was relieved to find free of metallic objects. But her grip was slight, fingers only. He wondered if she would have the strength to handle a spinning rod. Everything about her was fawn colored: her long-sleeved shirt, her trim pedal pushers, even her hair and eyes. She wasn’t small. Her features were full and round, but she gave the effect of needing protection.

  “So you know Kitsy from way back, I take it?” asked Julia, her voice so soft that Osborne had to lean in close to hear her better. So close he could smell her scent. It, too, was soft and lovely.

  “Haven’t seen her since she was a youngster,” said Osborne. “I knew her mother’s family and her parents, but I’m retired from my dental practice. I’m afraid I didn’t recognize her. She’s … changed.”

  “That is putting it mildly,” said Julia with a laugh so pleasant, Osborne had to smile. “Kitsy is addicted to change.”

  “And how do you two know each other?” asked Osborne as they strolled down the dock and over toward the picnic table.

  “Oh, we’ve been friends since our teens. Met at summer camp one year and now that we both live in Madison, every summer we try to get away for a week somewhere. Last year we went to Florence, Italy; this year we decided to come here.”

  “That’s quite a contrast,” said Osborne.

  “Sure is,” said Julia, raising her eyebrows and laughing. “But Kitsy has just finished decorating a beautiful, beautiful summer home she’s built down the lake from her folks. She wanted to show it off. That, and that big honking boat of hers.” Again, the pleasant peal of laughter.

  She shook her head. “We almost didn’t make it on time this morning. I was sure we’d get stuck in the channel on our way over.”

  “So you and Kitsy aren’t staying at the big house?” said Osborne. “Well, I suppose it needs updating given it was built in the early nineteen hundreds. I’m sure the plumbing leaves something to be desired. These old lake lodges are so obsolete, must cost a fortune to update—”

  “It’s not that so much,” said Julia. “She’s … Kitsy loves it up here, but she’s not exactly close to her folks.” She hesitated. “You know, that’s none of my business, and I shouldn’t be saying anything.”

  “Families,” said Osborne. “Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em. You know what my daughters tell me is the definition of a dysfunctional family? More than one person.”

  Pleased with the ease with which he let her off the hook, Osborne excused himself to give Ray a hand. He watched her walk away towards the picnic table. He found her reserve attractive. Could she be Ray’s forget-me-not? He made a mental note to check out her left hand.

  six

  Fish are strange creatures. They’re even more unpredictable than women—and that’s going some.

  —R. V. Gadabout Gaddis

  The red SUV that skidded into Ray’s clearing just as he was handing Kitsy a spinning rod was so bright and shiny, from whitewalls to roof rack, that Osborne wouldn’t have been surprised to learn it had been driven off a dealer’s lot that morning. The behemoth stopped just short of a white birch, the engine idling while a muffled beat boomed from within.

  Two heads were visible through the tinted windows—the silhouette on the driver’s side enhanced with the drooping line of a cigarette. After a few seconds, the booming stopped. The driver opened her door and, jumping down from the high seat, paused to toss her cigarette into the sand and grind it down hard with her heel. Opening the rear door, she reached inside. Without waiting for her companion and clutching two plastic bottles, one in each hand, she hurried across the clearing towards the picnic table.

  Osborne was relieved to see this student of the art of fishing was sensibly dressed in knee-length white cotton shorts, a blue-and-white striped T-shirt, and rubber-soled sandals. A tall, slender woman, her arms and leg
s were so thin he wondered if she was ill. A black leather fanny pack was slung low across her hips. Stopping for a moment, she tucked one bottle of Diet Coke under her left arm so she could shove her car keys into the fanny pack.

  As she neared the table, Osborne had to make an effort not to stare. Her head, capped with a frizz of brown hair held back by a pair of sunglasses, was exceptionally small for her frame. The effect was exaggerated by broad cheekbones that tapered too quickly to her chin, giving her eyes the appearance of having been flattened. Her features had that hollow, weathered look that Osborne associated with people who chain-smoke, drink hard liquor, and watch too much television in the dark. Though she looked older, he guessed her to be in her late thirties.

  Her eyes were vaguely familiar: small, dark, and darting like those of an inquisitive chipmunk. He knew those eyes. Osborne struggled to place her. He was as forgetful as the next fellow but rarely did he forget faces. How did he know those eyes? He knew he knew her from somewhere.

  “Sure as hell we’re not late are we? Ray?” The woman’s voice was flat, accusing. “You said eight—right?” If a mistake had been made, it sure as hell wasn’t hers.

  “You’re fine. Come on down,” said Ray with a genial wave. “Where’s that girlfriend of yours? Didn’t she come today?”

  As if Ray’s words were the cue, the passenger door slammed and a heavyset woman in black shorts and a black T-shirt scurried around the SUV. “Don’t start without me,” she called, tripping as she ran.

  “Carla … Barb,” said Ray as the second woman neared the table, “I want you to meet Doctor Paul Osborne. Doc is my neighbor, my good friend, and a superbly experienced fisherman. He … has graciously consented …” Ray paused to emphasize the importance of Osborne’s presence, “to help us out this morning. So, ladies, whatever he says … goes. Right, Doc?”

  “Whatever you say, Ray,” said Osborne, feeling a flush of embarrassment travel up his neck. He wasn’t that good a fisherman.

  From across the table, the new arrivals gave Osborne blank stares. He figured Carla to be the taller of the two; Barb, the pudgy one, perspiring as if she had been rushing since she was born. An attempt to push a mass of unruly reddish auburn hair into a wide barrette had failed—clumps still fell across her eyes. Freckles blanketed her ruddy face and all the exposed skin on her arms and legs. Wide hazel eyes, which might be her best feature under normal circumstances, looked worried.

  “Sorry we’re late,” she said in a whiskey voice. At the sound of her friend’s apology, annoyance flashed across Carla’s face.

  “Not a problem,” said Ray, glancing at his watch. “We’re waiting on one more person … I expect Molly any moment but, heck, let’s get started.” He turned to Osborne. “Doc, you help Carla and Barb select their rods—I’ll work with Kitsy and Julia.”

  “Okeydoke,” said Osborne, motioning to his team to follow him. “Nice meeting you ladies,” he said, extending a hand to each.

  “C’mon, you know, Carla, Doc,” said Ray, interrupting. “She’s Darryl’s daughter.”

  “Darryl’s daughter…,” said Osborne, struggling to come up with a last name. He gave up: “Darryl who?”

  He knew four men named Darryl: One was an orthodontist, one a retired military man who had been a patient, one his college roommate, and one was his late wife’s brother. The woman in front of him was highly unlikely to be related to any of the four.

  But this was typical of Ray who always assumed you knew everyone he did, which was impossible, as he knew or was known by everyone living within a hundred-mile radius of Loon Lake. Osborne was good on former patients and longtime friends and neighbors, even Mary Lee’s bridge group, but short on Ray’s circle of odd birds—many of whom only Ray knew.

  “What do you mean ‘Darryl who'?” asked Ray in disbelief. “What the heck—Wolniewicz was my right-hand man at the cemetery until he got himself a good job at the Newbold landfill last year. Doc, you’d know him if you saw him.”

  “Appreciate the family history,” said Carla, eyes hostile.

  “What?” asked Ray. “I’m sure Doc knows your father.”

  “Give it a rest, guy,” said Carla, rolling her eyes. “I go to all the trouble of an eighty-thousand-dollar ad campaign for my new real estate office, and you have to go tell everyone my old man collects garbage.”

  Barb looked like she was going to cry, Kitsy raised an eyebrow at Julia, and Ray shrugged, “Garbage, schmarbage, I like your old man. Like him better’n some of the razzbonyas hanging around, and when it comes to fishing bluegills—”

  “Oh, heck, I know who you mean,” said Osborne, anxious to relieve the tension. “That fellow you fish bluegills with—right?”

  “Riiight,” said Ray, drawing out the word.

  Of course Osborne knew the man. Knew him and, like many folks in Loon Lake, felt sorry for him. Darryl Wolniewicz was one of those poor souls endowed with a face that terrified small children.

  His skin was weathered a deep russet red, his beard resembled the back end of a porcupine, and his eyes had a way of fixating on you with an intense stare. A stare that was hard to avoid as the eyes were rimmed bright red. Life had not gone easy on Darryl.

  From Osborne’s perspective, it didn’t contribute to his charm that he was missing his maxillary lateral incisors—his top two front teeth. Darryl’s grin was a snarl.

  Even adults found him unsettling to look at. Except for Ray Pradt.

  In the winter when work was slow, Osborne would often catch a glimpse out his kitchen window of Darryl’s rusted green van heading down to Ray’s for a seventeenth cup of coffee. His neighbor had a fondness for the geezer that went beyond hiring him to help with the backhoe at the cemetery, shovel snow, or any of the other odd jobs with which he might need help. He was there to bail him out when Darryl committed his annual DUI.

  And he had been as proud as a father when Darryl landed the trash-hauling job: “Doc, for the first time in his life the guy’s got health insurance, a retirement plan, and a steady income. He deserves it—he’s one hard worker and a good soul.” Darryl also knew the best bluegill water, public and private, in the county. And he shared that knowledge with only one person: Ray’s kindness paid off.

  Before any more remarks could be made on Darryl’s career path, a black Toyota Camry pulled up beside the SUV. A young woman stepped out, slung a backpack over one shoulder, and hurried towards them. Tall but small-boned, she gave the appearance of being long and light. She wore her straight, brown hair short and pushed back behind her ears to expose a clear, radiant face with wide, dark eyes that smiled the moment she saw Ray.

  “Made it. Sorry, everyone. Had to drop my husband off at the paper. He took forever to get ready.”

  She wore no makeup, leaving her skin pale with a dusting of freckles across her nose. Like Barb and Carla, she was dressed appropriately in a long-sleeved white T-shirt, tan shorts of a sensible length, and black sandals.

  Osborne felt his shoulders relax for the first time since Kitsy’s arrival. At least Julia and Molly could be counted on to behave in reasonable ways. As far as the other three? Ray was moving deeper and deeper into the red.

  Setting down her backpack, Molly pushed wisps of hair from her face as Ray said, “Meet the fifth member of our group, Doc—Molly O’Brien.”

  The girl’s handshake was firm. “Nice to meet you, Doctor,” she said, her voice low and confident. Then she brushed her hair back and took a deep breath. “And you? How are you this morning, Ray?” She thrust her hands into her pockets as she spoke.

  “Lost all my marbles … making me absolutely marbleless,” said Ray with a grin and a lift of his eyebrows.

  “Oh, you,” said Molly with a chortle. “Does this mean you’ll torture us all day?”

  “You betcha,” said Ray, his eyes intent on hers. A smile bloomed across the girl’s face as she glanced away.

  That was all Osborne needed. The signs were as obvious as the ripples of a hungry fish at dusk
. Molly O’Brien: Ray’s forget-me-not.

  seven

  I want fish from fishing, but I want a great deal more than that, and getting it is not always dependent upon catching fish.

  —Roderick Haig-Brown

  Nudging the fishhook along so as not to rip a hole in his shirt, Osborne managed to wiggle it free from where it was lodged in the back of his right sleeve just below the shoulder. He was grateful it was early enough in the day that the women were still learning on #2 hooks with leeches and not one of Ray’s treble-hook specials. That might have done some damage.

  And he was glad it was Julia who had hooked him. Whether it was her lack of upper arm strength or enthusiasm—nothing about Julia’s cast was life threatening. She did, however, prove Ray to be correct on one count: five women on one pontoon—all fishing for the first time—made life exciting. No doubt about it.

  “Photo op!” said Ray, spotting Osborne’s dilemma. He reached for the ancient Polaroid camera. “One human hooked—could be the largest catch of the day.”

  “Don’t you dare,” said Julia.

  “Sorry,” said Ray, “part of the package—you paid for two photos. Shots of your first and your largest catches. Although you may get an extra—”

  “Kitsy, get over here.” Julia pulled her friend into camera range. “You got me into this. You’re responsible for Dr. Osborne’s emergency-room bills.”

  “I think I’ll survive,” said Osborne, as Ray leveled the camera at the three of them. Kitsy mimicked a look of astonishment while Julia, chagrined and embarrassed but sporting, held her rod so it was obvious her catch was a six-foot-three-inch man making an effort to look more distinguished than the average walleye.

  Unlike the fish, he had a full head of black hair, silvered across the temples, quite a nice tan, and he was slim through the middle. And, thank goodness, his eyes were not plastered to the sides of his head, but well placed above the cheekbones that hinted of his Meteis heritage. At least that’s what Osborne thought upon seeing the photo.