Sleep with the Fishes (4 page)

“The Ballards did. And every year they had the farm come out and chuck in fifty twelve-inch brook trout. So whaddaya say, sport? Want your own lil’ trout pond?”

“Could be there’s still some trout left from last year.”

“Don’t think so, sport. Ballard died last spring, just after stocking. Kids were in all last summer catching ’em any way they could.” Jenny pushed past Sid, making for her truck.

She just had the truck door open when she heard: “How much?”

Jenny turned and handed him the pink invoice. Sid produced a wad of bills from his bathrobe pocket.

“Damn, Smonig—that was some real frontline fishing. How much you think this roe shad weighs?” The Iguana was tromping in Russ’s wake through the high grass and toward the trailer. Hanging from his stringer was a shad that looked like a large startled herring.

“Four, maybe going on five,” Russ lied. “Definitely the best one you had on.” Roe shad were commonly four to six pounds; buck shad rarely broke four pounds. The bloody critter the sport had bagged was just a bit better than three.

The Iguana was quite pleased with his trophy, though, and when they reached the car and he had all his stuff packed up, he handed Russ the borrowed reel along with the seventy-five-dollar fee. And that was that. For a sport so well pleased, a tip is usual, but Russ was just glad they didn’t haggle over the fact that they’d only been on the water two and a half hours, even though it was the Iguana who insisted they head in after he had his fish.

As soon as the Eldorado and “Semper Fi” disappeared up the drive, Russ stopped waving bye-bye and turned toward his trailer. It was Friday, Russ had his seventy-five bucks, and before you knew it, it would be Saturday night, when he would head over to the Duck Pond Bar for a beery respite. In the meantime, Russ’s choice of activities included finishing an article for
Fly-Fishing Gazette
, a complimentary tackle store rag for which he was compensated with a free three-line ad for his guiding services. Or he could tie a bunch of early season flies for the local tackle shop, a labor-intensive undertaking that netted him a whopping five dollars an hour. Or he could attempt to exorcise the demon from the International’s ignition, potentially making money by avoiding giving it to the mechanic.

A truck’s backup beep sounded from behind the willow. The crunch of weeds and the snap of twigs followed. The seventy-five dollars tucked in his back pocket, Russ decided to see what was up on the other side of the hedge. He veered from the trailer, went past the barbecue pit, and came to a stop next to the willow at the edge of Ballard Pond.

The serviceberry bushes parted, tiny white petals from their flowers snowing onto the red satin bathrobe of the guy in hip boots coming into view. Beyond him, red round taillights approached.

“Hold it,” Sid barked, and the taillights went bright. The back tires of the truck were beginning to make ruts in the mud. The beeper stopped, the air brakes sneezed. Jenny came around the other side of the truck.

“Yeah, that’s close enough.” Jenny disappeared for a second, then reappeared with a long-handled net. She scaled a ladder on the back of the truck to the top, where she opened a tank lid.

“O.K., sport, here’s how we’ll count ’em. I pull up a net full—usually five fish—then I say ‘five,’ hold it down for ya to check, then chuck the fish into the pond, O.K.?”

“Let’s get somethin’ straight, you an’ me. I’m no sport. You call me Sid, got it? Second, you’re not chucking anything. There’s a bucket on the side of the truck. I fill it with water, you
place
my fish in the bucket of water, and I will put my fish
gently
into the pond. Got it?”

Jenny grinned. “Whatever ya say, sport. Uh, Sid. And ya can just keep calling me ‘lady,’ thank ya very much.” She already had the net down in the tank. Sid grabbed the bucket and filled it with water from the pond.

On the first attempt, two fish catapulted out of the pail into the leafy underbrush, from whence Sid had to nudge the leaf-matted critters with his foot to the very edge of the pond. By the time they made it to the water they looked like squirming cigars.

So Sid filled the next bucket only halfway, and there were no more escapes. Somewhere around the fifth bucket, he spied his Captain Fedora watching from the far bank, though he paid him little attention. Fifteen minutes later, all fifty trout were gently delivered and the truck was pulling out of the bushes. Sid took a last look and saw his neighbor was gone. However, when he got back to his driveway he found the guy exchanging a few words with Trout Lady.

Sid walked between them and handed a twenty up to Jenny in the truck. “Here. Make sure you don’t tell nobody about my trout. I wanna keep the locals outta my pond. Got it?”

Jenny snapped the bill taut, put it in her teeth, and wrestled the truck into gear. Through her teeth she said: “Neighbor, ya got a deal!” She pulled away, looking in the rearview mirror.

Sid pulled an about-face.

His neighbor put out one hand and jerked the thumb of the other back at the pond.

“Nice to see you’re stocking the pond. Hi, I’m Russ Smonig, your neighbor.”

As was his way, Sid considered the extended hand a moment before clasping it. Shaking hands, he stared into Captain Fedora’s eyes. Then his other hand swooped up and latched onto Russ’s shoulder.

“Sponick?” Sid asked.

“No, Smonig. Russ Smonig.”

“Sid.” Sid gestured casually to himself. “Hey, Smonig, you know anything about kids comin’ in here swiping trout?”

“Sure. Hard to stop ’em though. It’s just the way kids are, you know?”

“Hm.” Sid supposed that was true enough. It seemed his entire childhood had revolved around swiping things, though certainly not trout. “These kids, do they, like, climb up that tree? That one, the sticky one over my house.”

“Um, I don’t know, Sid. Why?”

“Just curious. There’s a bottle opener up there, and a buncha loose change.”

“Up in the tree? Up there? Where?” Russ took a sudden interest.

“Why, you know who put it up there?”

“It must be Reverend Jim. He’s been stealing stuff from me for years and I never knew what he did with—”

“Whoa. You tellin’ me that your local padre climbs up that tree and puts your pocket change up there?” These yokels were a pisser.

“Reverend Jim is a crow. You know, a bird. Kind of like a pet, sort of. He likes to steal shiny objects. Was it a Pabst opener?”

Sid’s eyes widened. “I think so.”

“Mind if I go up and…”

“Sure, Smonig, g’head, knock yourself out.” Sid shooed Russ toward the porch as though it were a gag. Why would anybody climb all the way up there for a bottle opener?

Russ had a dicey moment making it onto the roof from the portico railing, but did it without falling. Minutes later he was back on the ground, breathing hard.

“I even found the keys to my padlock. I thought I’d just lost them. And there must be, let’s see, maybe three bucks in change. This is great,” he panted.

Sid wondered if everybody in Hellbender Eddy was so hard up.

“Uh, you move here with your wife?” Russ asked as he pocketed his goodies.

Sid shook his head.

“Nope. Just me.” He gave Russ’s shoulder a quick squeeze and pulled him a step closer. “Tell you what, Smonig. Whenever you see kids here, chase ’em off, wouldya? I’ll let you fish the pond all you want—catch an’ release, of course. I’ll even give you a brand-new bottle opener. Deal?”

“Catch and release? I don’t expect I’ll fish the pond, you know, what with a whole river out there. Besides, the Ballards pretty much used it as an eatin’-fish pond, if you know what I mean. Fed ’em strips of bacon fat and salt pork. Made ’em tasty as all get out.”

Sid gave Russ’s shoulder another squeeze. “The Ballards is dead.” The remark was framed with a cold, bright eye and a chummy smile. He wanted Smonig to understand that from now on it was Bifulco Cabin. He let his hand fall from Russ’s shoulder.

“True enough,” Russ admitted, becoming a bit skeptical of the prospects for selling his services as Jenny had suggested. His neighbor was a tough customer. But he forged ahead.

“Hey, Sid, since you just moved in and all, and maybe you haven’t got around to doing any food shopping, I thought maybe you’d like to come over tonight. I’m going to barbecue some walleye, have a few Yuenglings. Interested?”

Sid grinned.

“Thanks, but I got a lot to do.” Sid shoved his hands into the pockets of his bathrobe and stomped in his hip boots back to the cabin. “Adios, Smonig.”

“Hey, Sid?”

Sid stopped on his portico and pivoted.

“Nice outfit.” Russ smiled and turned away. He was crossing the dam breast when he heard Sid’s screen door slam.

Russ shook his head. Some neighbor.

Late that
afternoon, Sid was loaded for bear. His vest was packed with fly boxes, leaders, floatants, extra spools, clippers, snippers, hemostats, thermometer, and license. Two fly rods—one sturdy bass-weight rod and the more delicate trouter’s rod—plus a medium-duty spin cast outfit. Hip boots, jumpsuit, long-brimmed ball cap, and polarized shades. Off went Sid, down an overgrown path, headed for the Ballard boat and his angling destiny.

The Ballard rowboat was next to the old bridge abutment. It was speckled gray aluminum, lying upside down, with one end propped up on a stump. When Sid flipped it over, two barn swallows bolted from a nest built under one of the seats. Sid chiseled the clay bird’s nest off with a stick. The oars were wedged under the seats, but he left them where they were while he dragged the boat down the embankment and fifty feet over to a small bay. By the time both tackle and Sid were aboard and the oars were in the locks, he was breaking a sweat as much from the anticipation as from the exertion.

Sid studied the rapids. From a river-level vantage, it was difficult to see the spot where Smonig had set up, but he knew it was on the other side, and that didn’t look too easy to get to. Sure, if he had a motor, getting there wouldn’t be a problem. Sid wiggled the oars in the air and checked out his biceps. He was a strong guy, he’d worked out regularly in the prison gym.

And an even, warm breeze was blowing downriver.

Russ was on his way to pull his boat out of the river before it rained. Halfway there, he saw Sid below the rapids in a rowboat, oars hacking away at the water in great splashes like a clipped-wing swan attempting flight. He was struggling upriver against a heavy current.

Russ quickened his step, and when he reached his boat, he fetched his binoculars.

Mid-rapid and rowing ferociously, Sid suddenly dropped the oars, grabbed the anchor, and tossed it overboard. The anchor didn’t hold, and the boat was washed down out of the rapid. So Sid hauled in the anchor, put it on the seat next to him, and pulled the swan routine again until he was in heavy current. And again the anchor didn’t hold.

Lowering the binoculars, Russ faced upstream, took off his fedora, and let the warm, moist air play with his sandy hair. He could tell just from the texture of the breeze that it was already raining up in Hancock, so he went about his business. By the time he had the boat out of the river and covered up, the first raindrops were thwacking the tarp. Squinting across the river, he noted that Sid was finally set up in the current and casting a fly. Russ shrugged and headed for the shelter of his trailer.

No sooner had he sat down at the ol’ computer to finish his article “Best Bet for Browns” than there was the hesitant flash, crack, and boom of lightning overhead. The sky opened up, and soon drops from the ceiling plunked into the Folgers can on the kitchen floor.

Muddy swells boiled around Sid’s bucking rowboat and he was ankle deep in water. But it was the lightning that convinced him this was no passing shower. Time to abort his mission.

Rain fell steadily. Deep below, the scrap-iron anchor was wedged in a rocky fissure. Despite Sid’s rebukes it wouldn’t budge, and he realized he’d soon be swamped or pulled under the rising river. The one tool he didn’t have was a knife, so he clawed at the frayed rope’s tight, wet knot fastened to the bow. Meanwhile, there was commotion astern—the fly line and fly he’d left drifting in the current jerked taut. Fish on. The rod clattered toward the edge of the boat. Sid lunged. And missed. The rod disappeared into the river chop, but not before Sid grabbed a loop of line caught on an oarlock.

The sky split with light, there was a heartbeat, then a profound discharge that Sid felt in his fillings. He reared to his feet, pier after pier of rain swirling round him as he began to haul up the line.

An electric spear shattered the dark, swirling sky, and the flashing blade of a rocket-fish broke the surface downstream. A hooked shad played tug-o-war with Sid’s one hand while the other hand felt the distant rattle of line peeling from his fly reel, deep in the weedy bay below.

Turbid river water began to top the gunnels; Sid realized the river had him by the balls. That’s when the anchor rope snapped, and the jolt shoved Sid backward. He staggered as the boat swung suddenly around. Man overboard.

The sky splintered with light, but Sid couldn’t hear the storm’s explosions. Fly line was tangled around his legs, and whitecaps kicked his head against the twirling aluminum hull. He clung to a gunnel by elbow and armpit—to let go would be to join guys that got popped. Boulders nudged him from below. And all the while, he could still feel a well-hooked rocket-fish tugging at one end of the line, like it was sewing him up in a body bag.

It was almost nine that evening by the time the rain stalled, but Russ had the barbecue pit stoked even as the clouds were running out of gas. Fillets steeped in garlic and beer, topped with strips of bacon, hissed and browned over the coals. Russ sat in a sagging Adirondack chair, one foot on the edge of the brick oven, one hand around a cold Yuengling beer. The other hand held a blue plastic water pistol ready to put out any bacon fires. Eyes alight with the fire, his thoughts turned to Sandra.

Perhaps the most debilitating aspect of his past tragedy was the emotional baggage he’d packed for himself. At the bottom of this steamer trunk of pain was self-loathing over his inability to prevent Sandra’s death.

On top of that was his frustration over trying to prove or convince the police that his wife’s “accident” had been murder. Russ had truly hit rock bottom when his friends and family began scolding him for his assertions. They felt he was dragging Sandra’s name through the mud, that he was indirectly suggesting she must have been involved with criminals to be the target of murder. They took to psychoanalyzing him, telling him he was flipped-out from despair, or suffering effects from the bump on his head, or concocting a cover-up for some misdeed on his part.

Near the top of the trunk rested the conundrum of why someone had killed her in the first place, a question with which police, friends, and family pelted him and for which he had no answer.

It had been ten years since her death, and the sickly sweet taste of regret had become familiar enough that it was not altogether overwhelming. Over the last couple of years he’d been able to set that aside and remember Sandra herself, the woman he loved, and the time they’d had together, however brief.

He smiled at the thought of their first meeting, when they’d scraped fenders at Bradley Airport parking lot and subsequently found themselves seated on the same flight, side by side. Their relationship warmed over dinner and the next few months. Eventually, she took him to small claims court over the traffic accident, and when she won, she used the money to take him to Montego Bay for a week, where they got married to the accompaniment of a steel drum calypso band. Russ burned the photos from that trip after Sandra died. The evidence of his loss was too damn painful to have around. Of course, destroying all those photos was just one more thing to regret, one more garment in the trunk. But he’d managed to rescue one photo of their honeymoon, which she’d kept at her office. It hung over Russ’s fly-tying desk, and sometimes when he saw it, he felt a little like smiling. Those were the good days.

Russ had decided against Postum with Phennel Rowe. Although she never tired of hearing of his pain, Russ did. After a while, it all seemed perverse, masochistic. He was sick of hearing his own voice, his own sighs, and his own doubts. Phennel’s languid creaky words of comfort and religion were like ice on a burn. It didn’t really help, it only made the boo-boo feel better for a while. Russ never much liked himself after those sessions. He had determined to try going it alone. Alone with that picture.

So on this night, rather than wallowing in self-pity, he was taking a dip in the warm bittersweet waters of the tragic true romance of his past.

But he was snapped from his trance by a ghoulish apparition near the willow tree.

Russ spasmed with fright, toppling his chair. He fell backward, Yuengling gushing all over his chest. Scrambling away from the demon stomping up from the pond, Russ slipped on the wet grass in a frenzied lurch, did a half twist, and fell on his butt facing The Creature.

Panic melted away, along with all his blood. Russ almost fainted before he realized what he was looking at.

The Creature stopped abreast of the barbecue pit, clothes torn and muddy, blood running from its nose, and hair in matted tussocks with twigs for accents. Fly line wrapped like mummy tape around its shoulders and legs. One hand held up a battered fish, its silvery moon-eyed countenance held forth like the bizarre lantern of a sea witch. His neighbor’s flame-flickered visage gurgled, then spoke.

“Smonig, what…is…this…thing?”

Russ got to his feet, wanting to curse and ask a question at the same time. Instead, he heard himself stammer: “It’s…it’s a shad.”

Sid nodded blankly, turned, and tromped back into the forest shadows, disappearing behind the willow from whence he’d come.