The Codfish Dream

by David Giblin

  The landlord used the cottage as storage space during the off season. It was filled with all the odds and ends needed to support human life on this part of the planet toward the end of the twentieth century. Rust fell in huge flakes off the boom chains on the floor. One-hundred-gallon propane tanks left rust-red rings on the green shag rug in the living room. An old barbecue corroded peacefully next to a huge cardboard box full of old outboard parts that was forever moved from one place to another on the chance that one day the contents would prove useful.

  After the flight and the two bottles of wine, we were past caring about the conditions. Our dinner was eaten like a picnic amid the rubble of an archeological dig. We cleared enough space to drop our belongings, chased most of the bugs out of the bedrooms, and passed out for the night.

  Vop woke up before me in the morning. I heard him get out of bed, open his bedroom door, and make his way into the kitchen. Then there was a long silence. I got out of bed to investigate. When I entered the kitchen, I found him standing in the middle of the floor amid all the chaos and clutter, wearing his bright yellow bathrobe and staring down at one of the boxes we had brought in the night before. I threaded my way through all the junk and came up beside him. He wore the look of a prison inmate waking up after a long and pleasant dream only to find he was still in prison.

  A shaft of early morning sunlight shone through the kitchen window onto the box by his foot. Warming herself on top of the box, a piece of Vop’s favourite cheese in her paws, was a very small mouse. She stared back up at Vop, her little whiskers gleaming in the sun. She was no more afraid of him than she was of one of the propane tanks. She nibbled the cheese with the distracted air of someone enjoying popcorn during the good part of a movie. When I disturbed the scene, she hopped delicately off the box and disappeared in the maze of boxes around us.

  Over the years Vop spent much time and energy reclaiming this cottage, and others like it on other islands. There were times when the futility of it all was brought home to him.

  five THE ORANGE ORIFICE

  THE REST OF the day we spent cleaning house. We began by moving the heavy equipment out of the living room. The boom chains would be needed for the landlord’s float house when it arrived, so we took them down to the dock, along with the propane tanks that would be filled when the fuel barge came by in a few days. We moved the barbecue out to its spot on the lawn, ready for summer cookouts. The box full of outboard parts was moved once more (you never know when those parts might come in handy) into the boatshed at the side of the house.

  The boom chains and propane tanks had bled rust stains into the rug all winter, leaving a curious abstract pattern similar to the pattern on the living room curtains. After a short discussion we decided to leave the stains where they were—a decorating decision influenced by the impossibility of ever successfully removing them. The curtains and most of the other furnishings were remnants of an unfortunate redecoration that had taken place some time in the fifties. A rising affluence had given people the leisure time to rediscover places like Stuart Island and use the buildings for summer homes and fishing lodges.

  The signs of a fifties aesthetic were everywhere. The kitchen was done in a grey, metal-flake Formica. The counter was covered with it, the edges finished in chrome. The kitchen table had a grey Formica top with chrome legs and matching chairs covered in grey vinyl. In the living room, to complement the curtains and the green shag, sat a square and uncomfortable looking couch and matching chair covered in a brown nubbly material. The coffee table had the same sharp-edged look, the fifties’ idea of future furniture. Walking into the house was like entering a poorly maintained museum exhibit.

  Next to the side entrance, which opened out onto the lawn, was a built-in bookcase. Like another exhibit in the same museum, it held a large collection of yellowing paperbacks from the same period as the decor. I had read all of them over the summers I had lived in the house, but they were classics—the original Alfred Hitchcock mystery collections, to name a few—and could be returned to time and time again.

  By late afternoon we had the place almost livable. There was a fire going in the wood stove, which didn’t smoke too badly. Dinner was cooking on the gas range in the kitchen. I was on the couch reading a murder mystery when Vop announced he was going to have a shower. Vop took his personal hygiene very seriously. Wearing his yellow monogrammed bathrobe, he advanced on the bathroom with the gravity of a bishop in a religious procession.

  Actually, to call the bathroom a room was glorifying it. When the house was first built, an indoor toilet was considered rather effete. The room Vop was about to enter was a later addition, designed by people who had developed a taste for modern conveniences. It was added, no doubt, during the redecoration in an attempt to mimic the creature comforts found in the city. No bathing in creeks or using an outhouse for these newcomers.

  The bathroom was not much more than a lean-to tacked onto the side of the cottage. It contained a toilet, a sink, a metal shower stall, and a propane-fired hot water tank that took up most of the room’s available space. The landlord had been by to light the hot water tank a couple of days before we had arrived, but we had completely forgotten to include the bathroom in our cleaning frenzy.

  When Vop entered he found that the spiders had saved their most important temples for this forgotten room. Egg sacks containing members of their paramount bloodlines had been stored here, and the shower stall had been used like a sacrificial well: the husks of victims lay thickly on its floor. Water, which had been left running to prevent the pipes from freezing over in winter, had seeped from the faucets for so long that spawning green algae mingled with the dead flies. Mildew grew up the metal walls, and here and there was the shocking orange accent of a small fungus known as wood ear.

  The recently lit water heater had added a moist warmth to the room that allowed the rich fungal odours to reach their full bouquet. When Vop opened the door and entered the cramped space, the thick atmosphere caught him by surprise. Instinctively, he reached out and drew back the shower curtain. The shock of so much unexpected life and death hit Vop full in the chest. His reflexive gasp caused him to inhale more of the fetid air.

  From my position on the couch I heard a thin, strangled cry—a cry that coincided so nicely with my choice of reading material that at first I thought it was in my own head. Then a stream of profanities issued from the bathroom, followed by a desperate, scrabbling sound as Vop tried to close the curtain on the awful sight. No doubt the delicate little mushrooms curled up in embarrassment.

  Vop stalked past me and out of the house, and I soon heard him enter the boatshed. There was a great clattering as he dug through the cans of paint stored there. In a few moments he reappeared, armed with a long-handled scrub brush, a paintbrush, and a can of paint. I recognized the paint. It was the same stuff he had used on the hull of his fibreglass boat: a lurid, throbbing orange that was the product of a miss-mixed batch. The salesman had given him a great deal on it.

  The shower stall thumped and rumbled as Vop scrubbed it clean. He then applied a thick coat of paint to the metal walls, sealing in anything the scrub brush had missed. It gave a lumpy, organic quality to the finished look.

  When Troutbreath saw it for the first time he shuddered and said, “Huh, it looks just like an orifice.”

  six THE HERBY DERBY

  AT THE SAME time as Vop was standing in a room full of rusting hardware and useless engine parts looking down at a mouse eating cheese, Herbert Crane was standing in a room full of leather furniture and high-end Japanese electronic equipment looking down at his son eating a cheese bagel. Herbert had looked down at his son one day not long before and realized the boy was no longer six years old. The child of six had called him Daddy; they had played ball together, rolled around on the front lawn, and hugged each other. To reach out and hug his son now would be acutely embarrassing for both of them.

  Herbert didn’t know exactly when this change had taken place, but he also co
uldn’t remember the last time they’d had a real conversation. It was almost as if he was dealing with a complete stranger. They ate together, lived under the same roof, watched the game on TV, but, he realized, he didn’t know anything about this person who was his son.

  From the spot in which Herbert was standing he could see out the front window of his house. A broad expanse of lush grass sloped down to the edge of Lake Washington. Tied to an expensive set of docks were a very expensive luxury yacht and a brand new Cessna 185 on floats. Its propeller blades gleamed in the morning sun.

  Seeing his belongings arrayed before him usually filled him with an overwhelming pride—not a selfish pride, but a pride all tied up in feelings about the country he lived in. It was a country that allowed people to achieve and aspire, and had allowed him to ultimately become vastly successful with only a small starter loan of some $500,000 from his father. It was the kind of pride that asked him, or rather demanded of him, that he share his success with others who hadn’t had the same opportunities. He liked the fact that his country tried to help other, less fortunate countries with foreign aid; that was the way it should be, like from father to a grateful son. In his own small way he was able to do the same thing: to help people in other, less fortunate places aspire to more and achieve better. It made him happy to do that. Looking down at the dock today, though, he could only think about the one person with whom he hadn’t been able to share this largesse. He could only think about his son.

  Two years ago, during an especially expansive moment, he and a neighbour on the lake had helped their favourite guide at Stuart Island buy a small and very rustic resort there. He put a few trips a year through the lodge, mainly business associates, clients, and people that worked for his company. The resort wasn’t there to make money for him; he just genuinely liked the guide who was now his partner, and it was something he’d wanted to do for him.

  Of course, it also fulfilled some rustic fantasy. The log cabins, the trophy-mounted animals in the main lodge . . . it was like a shrine to the outdoors, a symbol of manly activity—or at least Herbert’s idea of such things. Herbert liked to think of himself as an outdoorsman. He was a member of the Seattle Yacht Club. He water-skied, went sport fishing, and operated his own boat and plane. He owned shares in Eddie Bauer.

  As he stood there looking down at the float plane and thinking about the lodge up there in Canada, a plan took shape in his mind. The best way for he and his son to get reacquainted was to spend a few days together at the lodge. He could picture it in his mind already. The regular guests wouldn’t start arriving for a few days yet. They would have the whole resort to themselves. The fishing would be great, and there was always work to be done this time of the year. Nothing like a little backwoods adventure to achieve some healthy male bonding! Getting up early and going fishing, maybe chopping wood or building something with their hands.

  Of course, Herbert had never built anything with his hands in his life, but his mounting enthusiasm allowed him to overlook such small details. He wanted do to something simple and life affirming. He knew they could do with some help up there. They’d be happy to have him and his son. Herbert smiled as he stood in the window, that old feeling of pride flooding back. Yes, he just knew this was going to work out fine.

  Once Herbert had made up his mind he acted on it. That was the way he was. It was how he had taken that small loan from his father and built the company he had today. Regardless of his son’s protestations, he would fly them up there this very morning. It was only a two-hour flight in the new plane. They could get up there in time for lunch, even with going through customs. He was taking some time off work anyway. They could get by without him for a few days.

  His wife got that odd little smile of hers, the smile that reminded him of that famous painting by the Italian guy. She wished him luck. It wasn’t until he was in the plane and flying north that he wondered what, exactly, she had meant by that.

  He didn’t think about it too much, though, what with the prospect of the days ahead. He hadn’t spent much time at the resort since he had bought the place, a terrible oversight. It was all part of the problem driving the wedge between him and his son—he had gotten too caught up in the minutiae of running a large, successful business. He let it consume too much of his time, too many of his thoughts. It was time to step back and take stock of the situation.

  He thought about his wife again. That odd, enigmatic smile she had given him as he was getting ready to leave stayed with him. Perhaps he wasn’t spending enough time with her, either. Certainly there wasn’t the gap that existed between him and his son, but there was something in that smile and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Maybe she would enjoy some time at the lodge as well, kind of a family thing. He hummed to himself as he guided the plane north, already thinking about the times they would share there.

  In the excitement of leaving so spontaneously for the island, one small detail was overlooked. It was a minor thing, really, a gesture of good manners. No one had remembered to radio the lodge and tell them they were coming.

  They showed up shortly before lunch. Nelson, the guide and Herbert’s partner, was sitting down to eat when he saw a plane make a rough, bumpy landing and then taxi toward the resort. Nelson didn’t recognize the brand new plane, but there was something familiar in the way it was being mishandled. Nelson recalled hearing that Herbert had recently taken delivery of a new Cessna. A sense of foreboding grew in him. He left his lunch and went down to the dock.

  Herbert and his son were tying the plane up when Nelson arrived. The two of them stood up and smiled at him as he approached. Seeing them there, with the plane tied to the dock and the islands behind them, reminded Nelson of something he had seen before. He tried to place the image, and then it came to him: they looked like something out of one of those outdoor clothing catalogues people kept leaving around the lodge. The photos in them showed guys with perfectly blow-dried hair standing around a dock or an incredibly neat campsite. They were always smiling, as though one of them had just said something terribly amusing. The people in the photos looked too clean to have ever been anywhere near the outdoors. Nobody Nelson knew would ever wear clothes like that around a campsite. The only time Nelson ever got that dressed up was when he was going to dinner with his wife’s parents.

  There was something else about those photos. The men always wore small leather cases attached to their belts, meant to contain some sort of folding knife. Herbert had one on his belt. Many of the guests, especially the ones who made the most noise about being the outdoor type, wore ones just like it. The curious thing was, in all the years Nelson had taken them out fishing with their little knife cases, he had never seen a knife outside its case, let alone used.

  Herbert reached out and shook Nelson’s hand enthusiastically. He announced that he and his son were there to help. They wanted to do whatever needed doing to get the resort ready for the coming season. He knew how much work the place needed, and they were just here to be of assistance. No matter how dull or dirty the job, they were Nelson’s men. Nelson was appalled.

  They joined Nelson for lunch. While Herbert chatted on happily about his plans for the future, Nelson ate his meal in silence. He tried to think of something that the two of them could do without getting in the way. Herbert was right about one thing: there was a huge amount of work to finish before the first guests were due to arrive. Nelson finally decided to send them out to cut firewood. It was one of those little chores that he never seemed to find the time for. It was necessary; the main lodge and all the cabins had fireplaces, and it was still cold and damp this time of year. And they would be out of the way. The activity was manly enough, and Herbert could feel as if he was contributing to the comfort of the guests. They could arm themselves with mauls and splitting wedges, axes and chainsaws. Herbert might even get some chain oil on that new chamois cloth shirt he was wearing.

  Nelson had to laugh. When he needed outdoor clothing he went to the thrift shop in Cam
pbell River. His latest find had been a dozen surplus postal uniforms. They were of high quality wool and cotton and still had the shoulder badges and postal markings attached. He felt they lent an air of gravitas—the full weight of a federal institution—to any work he did around the resort.

  After lunch Herbert and his son set off to cut firewood. Nelson had given them explicit instructions. There was a gigantic Douglas fir log lying on the beach in front of the resort. Its huge size and freshly cut appearance suggested it had broken away from a passing log boom. Nelson had found it floating and towed it back to the lodge with the workboat.

  “I’d leave that fir for now,” Nelson had warned them. “The tide is on the way in and that log will soon be afloat. I’ve dogged it off to a tree down there so it’s in no danger of floating away. I’d start on the alder up on the hill.”

  Nelson didn’t mention he thought the alder was more their speed. He had some concerns about Herbert’s expertise with a chainsaw, and bucking up a log that big was not for a beginner.

  The main lodge buildings sat on the top of a large rock outcropping almost surrounded by water at high tide. A path led from the lodge to a walkway that joined it to the main island and continued along the shoreline, giving access to the workshops, boatshed, and other guest cabins that perched on the edge of the dense forest. The shore was very rocky, and the land rose steeply behind the cabins to become a rugged tree-covered mountain that loomed over the resort.

  Having armed themselves with as much hardware as they could carry, Herbert and his son tottered off down the path from the lodge. It was a beautiful spring day, and they stopped to admire an eagle in a tall snag. The bird’s high-pitched, wickering cry echoed around them.