The Sky Fisherman (8 page)

I watched her across the table. "I think he did it for you, Mom. Burning that place down was Riley's way of showing love."

She stared at me as if I were an alien. "Do you know what you're saying? What kind of crazy talk is that?"

I took a breath. "Riley wanted to show he loves you. Maybe you love him."

She fixed her burning eyes on me and there was a long pause. Then slowly, as if thinking of the right words, she said, "I understand what it means to be pushed to your limit. To be shoved from pillar to post. That's all." She stood abruptly. "But I am not one to squander my opportunities. Now let's get some sleep."

I watched my mother retreat down the hall, a small figure silhouetted in the doorway, holding herself straight.

M
OM WENT
to Minneapolis just as she had planned, but first she warned me to notify the police if I heard anything at all from Riley. I promised I would, but kept my fingers crossed. I just couldn't betray him like that, and deep down, she wouldn't have wanted me to either. Maybe she was worried about kidnapping, even though she didn't say it, but I was too old for that. Anyway, his first call had sounded pretty distant, although it could have been a lousy connection.

I started taking my meals at the Oasis Cafe with Jake, and I got a kick out of it because he knew everyone in town, and they swapped extravagant yarns or told off-color jokes in low voices, raising the punch lines just loud enough for the waitresses to catch. One named Doreen had her eye out for Jake and usually traded the others for our table. She wore several pieces of turquoise jewelry and kept the top two buttons of her uniform undone. She called us Big Sweetie and Little Sweetie, and always smelled like Doublemint.

Nearly everybody in the Oasis had a nickname labeling their coffee cups, which hung on wooden racks behind the counter. I enjoyed trying to match the customers with their colorful monikers: Big Joe, Babe, Grasshopper, Heavy Duty, Short Stack, Skook. A few cups were turned upside down, honoring the patrons who had died. Although I didn't have a cup, Jake introduced me to the others as Shotgun, because I was always riding with him now. If we were talking to some of the local cowboys, he called me Number One Rowdy, the guy who hangs out behind the rodeo bucking chutes and cheers on the riders.

The cops ate in the Oasis too, usually sitting at the counter for
sandwiches and coffee, then swiveling half a turn on the stools as if to survey the diners for suspects. Grady was in a few times and Jake nodded toward him, but you could tell things were cool. Mom had told Jake about Grady coming over, and the next morning when he stopped by the store for coffee, Jake told him off, concluding with the warning "Election's coming soon." After that, Grady stayed out of the store, although some of the other policemen came in to buy fishing gear and tennis shoes. To tell the truth, it made me a little jumpy to see them. They might have traced Riley's call, although I don't think I broke any laws by keeping quiet.

Mom called a couple times, telling me the seminar was going well. Once she was particularly excited. "After our training session for the day, we got to ride a riverboat down the Mississippi, a big old stern-wheeler, just like Mark Twain wrote about."

"That's great, Mom. Are you sure it was the Mississippi? I thought it was farther east."

She clucked her tongue. "What are those schools teaching you? Don't you learn any geography? When I get back we're going to put a big map of the U.S. in your bedroom."

"I was just kidding, Mom," I said. A map would look horrible alongside the pictures of basketball players I kept up there.

"I haven't told you the best part," she said. "There was a dance band right on the boat, and I had several dances with one of the men from the seminars." Her voice got a little lower, taking on a confidential tone. "Not one of the participants—most of us are women. He's one of the actual directors, a big muck-a-muck who works right here in Minneapolis."

"Don't let him sweep you off your feet, Mom. Winters are pretty cold back there." I tried to picture him, a blond, no doubt.

"Don't you go worrying. He's not really my type. But it was fun, and it's nice to know a little bloom's still left on the rose."

"You haven't lost a thing, Mom," I said, and she seemed pleased with the compliment.

"Everything all right there? You eating okay? Be sure to get enough vegetables."

"I've got it covered, Mom. Don't
you
work too hard."

"I won't, but I'm ringing off for now. Got to run for class. Just one more thing. Any word of Riley?"

I shook my head. "Not a bit, unless the post office is keeping his cards tacked up with the Most Wanted posters. I haven't looked."

Her voice got lower. "Don't even kid about that. This is a dorm phone
and I don't want anyone to know we've got the law mixed up in this. It's a sorry business." She paused. "Well, love you." She hung up, as usual, without pausing to say good-bye, as though her thoughts had already outpaced the conversation.

***

Three days after my mother had left, a tribal policeman driving a white pickup with the reservation insignia stopped by the store. Getting out, he seemed huge, solid and tall, like an upright freezer.

Jake introduced us. "You haven't met my nephew, Culver. He's riding shotgun around here now. Number two man. This is Billyum Bruised-Head. His people were from Alberta, but moved out here. We go back a long way—high school football."

"Jake was the slowest halfback Gateway ever had," Billyum said. His hand was calloused and rough, but he shook lightly, the Indian way.

"I thought I was half fast," Jake said, pronouncing it like "half-assed."

"Not anymore," Billyum said. "You should see how you look from behind. Two hogs fighting under a sheet. Aaay." Turning to me, he said, "This boy's a lot better looking."

"Takes after his father." Jake pointed to the picture above the cash register. "Culver and his mother moved to town three weeks ago."

Billyum squinted at the picture a moment, then motioned us to the back of the store.

Jake poured three coffees and turned over an ammunition box to sit on. He pointed Billyum to the good chair. "Take a load off."

When Billyum sat, I saw he was wearing black cowboy boots with silver toeplates.

The two men talked about high school football, fishing, the progress of building the dam on the Upper Lost. I sipped my coffee and waited. Their talk seemed casual, but something about the way Billyum acted made me realize he was here on business. Jake knew it, too, but just waited politely until Billyum got around to it.

Eventually, he put his coffee cup down on the workbench and examined the Snap-On Tool calendar hanging above the bench. Miss June was holding a crescent wrench and wearing an orange bikini. Billyum pointed to the calendar's words. "Make your tool a Snap-On," he said.

"I'm always afraid mine's going to snap off," Jake said. "I'm way past the warranty"—and we all grinned.

Then Billyum got down to business. "Twenty-eight days is what I'm thinking. Kalim Kania's been in the river twenty-six days now."

Billyum sat down again and took out a small pocketknife. He began trimming his nails, picking each small sliver off his whipcord trousers and placing it in his olive shirt pocket. "His people want that boy back. Old Sylvester Silvertooth went down to the water and chanted. His grandmother threw in a medicine bundle."

"You think he's about ready to pop up, then?" Jake asked.

Billyum nodded. "Sure. After twenty-eight, twenty-nine days. He'll come up all right."

"Medicine works every time, doesn't it?" Jake sipped his coffee. "Pretty darned slow though."

Billyum shrugged. "Everybody's not in a hurry. But we need to start looking for that boy again, and I was hoping you could help."

"I'm full up with guide trips," Jake said. "This is my peak season." He spread his hands and shrugged. "Sorry, I'd like to help..."

"Suit yourself," Billyum said. He snapped the knife closed and put it in his pocket. "Did you know Kalim's aunt was Juniper Teewah? She might come back for his funeral, if we find him." He sipped his coffee and studied Jake.

My uncle put down his cup. "I didn't know that. She still in New Mexico, or what?"

"Albuquerque. Going on two years now. Hanging out with fancy artists. I hear she's part owner of a gallery." Billyum carried his cup to the sink and washed it out. "Well, I better go see about rounding up some more help."

"Never mind." Jake pushed aside some broken reels and a couple of snapped fly rod tips. He spread a map of the Lost River Wilderness Area on the workbench. "Lots of water to search, but most of them get found eventually, once they float."

Billyum traced a stretch of the river with his large finger. "I'll take some of the reservation boys and cover Whiskey Dick's down to Bakeoven. We got good access there from the reservation back roads."

"All right," Jake said. "I'll cover the stretch between Bakeoven and the Bronco."

"Think you can watch the rapids and the shore both?" Billyum asked.

"I'll row. Shotgun here can keep his eyes peeled. We won't let him slip by."

"No we won't," I said, excited about the prospect of a river trip with Jake.

Billyum studied me. "Your father had great eyes. He could see a doe's ear flick in a juniper flat. You got good eyes?"

"Pretty good." I was curious about this talk of my father and won
dered how Billyum had known him. And I was also curious about the woman Juniper.

"You're both hired, then," Billyum said. "Double trouble."

"It's a deal," Jake said. "How much you paying?"

"Same as the last time. Next Ceremonial Days, you can eat all the salmon and elk you want."

"I'm afraid I'll jump an income tax bracket," Jake said.

"That's only a problem for you white guys." Billyum stood and put on his cap. "Well, better get back to the rez. Stop the damn crime wave." He touched my shoulder. "Good meeting you. I won't hold Jake against you. A man can choose his friends, but gets stuck with his relations."

"We'll be on the river in two days," Jake said. "I've got to call old Jed to cover the store. He's a retired salesman, but he'll help us out."

"I'm stopping by to tell the sheriff," Billyum said. "He should put a boat on the water."

"Tell him if you want, but there's not much point," Jake said. "Grady couldn't find his butt in the bathtub."

After Billyum left, Jake and I stayed at the back of the store and talked. No customers came in for over half an hour. I was so excited about going on the Lost with my uncle, I could barely keep quiet, but I did because I didn't want to seem like a dude. I knew my mother wouldn't approve, that she'd worry herself sick every minute if she knew, so I thought I'd have to think up some excuse.

According to my uncle, the Lost claimed a lot of lives year round, but summers were the worst. Fishermen stepped in deep holes with the ankle straps of their waders tied too tightly to wriggle free; boaters failed to fasten the lower cinches of their life vests, so when they went into whitewater, the force ripped the vests over their heads like wet T-shirts; drunks waded into fast water and lost their footing, then banged their heads against the rocks.

But Kalim's circumstances appeared to be different. The young man was only a few months past twenty-one when a troop of Boy Scouts had seen him standing on the railroad bridge at White River Junction. He had waved as the boats passed beneath the bridge, and they noticed he was wearing a crimson and black RedWing jacket. Some heard a shout, and when they looked back to the bridge it was empty. One boy reported he thought that he had seen someone else standing in the Russian olives along the riverbank, but he couldn't be certain. The scouts had stopped for lunch at Whiskey Dick's, two miles below the bridge, and while eating they were startled to see someone floating down the river face first. They had tried to get out to the body, but they were too slow. Later
they had stopped downstream and searched the banks, but found no sign. Everyone agreed the body was wearing a RedWing jacket.

"Once they go down in the Lost, they stay under about four weeks," Jake said. "Sometimes longer. Bloat depends on the water temperature, whether they drank beer and ate a pizza." His voice trailed. "Maybe they don't come up at all. There's sections that have old lava tubes. Some are blind—no outlets. It's always better if you get a floater before he goes down."

"Yes," I said. I figured we were both thinking about my father.

"Well, we better get some gear together. Those scouts planted a lot of Bureau of Land Management saplings hoping they'll get big enough to stop soil erosion. We'll take buckets and water them along the way. It gets mighty hot and it's good to have some shade."

"And we can fish a little?" I asked.

"You bet. We'll cook them up in the pan. I got to call Jed. He'll probably want time and a half."

"You pay time and a half? What about me?"

He grinned. "You're still learning. Hell, I ought to charge for showing you the ropes. Anyway, you're family and that makes it special."

"You can't spend special."

"You're keeping me broke in Pepsi and jelly rolls. Listen, be sure to pack a sweatshirt and windbreaker. It gets cold at night."

"What about that guy on the bridge? Think he jumped?"

"It's hard to say." Jake dumped the grounds from his coffee cup. "I imagine Billyum asked around, talked to his family, guys he works with, and girlfriend. Kalim was a damn good high school basketball player. Second team all-state. But he flunked out of college and started working in the woods."

"Seems like a waste," I said.

Jake wiped his cup with a paper towel. "Billyum probably checked the riverbank to see if he left anything behind. A good cop makes sense of that stuff..."

"What kind of stuff?"

Jake picked up a broken fly rod from the repair rack. We were waiting for the new tip section from Fenwick. He flicked it back and forth a couple of times, but the action was too stiff without the tip. "Say a fellow has some trouble with the wife or business—just decides to end it." Jake scowled at the rod. "He leaves a bottle and his fly rod on the riverbank. Now a lot of guys drink too much, go out in deep water, and lose their footing—but they're planning to fish. A rod on the bank is a dead giveaway, see?"