The Sky Fisherman Page 16

  "Wolves and moose," I said, trying to keep the conversation going. "I'd like to see a wolf."

  "They'll give you goose bumps." He laid his hand on my shoulder. "The only other time I heard wolves was in Alaska, when Dave and I tried longshoring to make money for the guide service."

  My mother set down her napkin and stood. "Maybe that's enough stories for now. You're filling the boy's head with wild notions."

  Jake tightened his grip. "She's afraid I'll tell you about the girl from Oberlin. In college she got knowledge, but in Alaska, she was educated." He let go of my shoulder and spread his hands. "What wild notions, Flora?"

  She held the back of her chair. "School's coming up. He's got to study and get good grades. Right now he's got too many notions about fishing. Salmon in Canada, fish camp in Alaska. There's more to life than fishing. I plan for him to aim a little higher." She let go of her chair. "Now who wants coffee?"

  Jake said he did, please, and she went into the kitchen. He scraped back his chair, intending to clear the table but she called, "Just sit still, I'm not ready for those yet. It's a small kitchen."

  Jake leaned toward me and mouthed, "Canada?"

  I shrugged, but for the first time since she'd invited Jake to dinner I realized her strategy. She wanted him to back off. She was laying out her territory. I didn't know how he would handle it, but I expected him to take her square on.

  "How's Juniper?" she called from the kitchen, her tone lightened. We could hear her getting the coffee.

  "Sold her painting of horses yesterday at the store. Guy wrote out a check for two hundred dollars like it was chicken feed." Jake paused. "I liked that painting and kinda hated to see it go."

  "I'm certain the Central show will be a big success. Franklin and I are planning to attend the opening." Mom put two cups on the table and poured steaming hot coffee into each. When she offered cream and sugar, Jake shook his head. "Juniper must have a good head for business," she said.

  He let Mom get the coffee to her mouth before he spoke. "Flora, I'm all for study. College, too, if necessary. We got no quarrel over that. But Culver needs to learn about business, and I can teach him."

  "I'm not talking about fishing," she said, setting the cup down.

  "Neither am I," he said and tapped his head. "It takes smarts to run a business these days, advertising, merchandising. All good skills. He learns a lot working in the store, and if it comes to college, I can help some."

  I half expected my mother to say I could get a scholarship or we could swing it ourselves, but she didn't. She was already reading up on college expenses and knew we'd need help.

  "Maybe the business at the store's okay, Jake," she said. "But I don't want him taking chances on the river. I don't." She put both hands on the table, leaning forward.

  Glancing at Jake, I tried to catch his eye. I didn't want him thinking this confrontation was my idea.

  Setting down his cup, he squared his shoulders and took her straight on. "Flora, don't try to tie him to your apron strings."

  "Damn you, Jake, I'm not."

  "Cut him some slack. Your own fears will hold him back."

  "My fears?" She flared. "I've got reasons." Her wild eyes made Jake pause, and I realized how deep the hurt and anger were. I doubted she was ever going to change.

  After taking a sip of his coffee, Jake said in a reassuring tone, "We never go on the dangerous parts, Flora. As for the rest, hell, college kids that don't know a paddle from a bailing bucket go through every weekend." He paused. "If you insist, I'll row Culver through the rapids. But we can't stay off the river. We're putting together a great project down there, aren't we, Culver?"

  "That's right. We are." In some ways, I didn't want to be his accomplice against my mother, but I didn't want her preventing me from going on the river. "We're putting up a monument for my father, grandfather, and some of the other old guides. And we need your help to get the right words."

  "Sure," Jake said. "I've been over to Silverdale to learn about metal plaques. They'll do a fine job. But saying the words, that's something else."

  Her right hand went to the top button of her dress. She looked at me, Jake, then me again. "You're really involved in this, Culver?"

  I nodded.

  "It's something he'll always remember," Jake said. "We want to get it right."

  She went into the kitchen to get some store-bought cookies for dessert, but she seemed to take a long time. After a while, Jake leaned toward me and said, "Coffee's cold. Tough getting a warm-up around here."

  When I glanced into the kitchen, I could see my mother leaning heavily on the counter, totally still.

  I don't remember much about conversation over the cookies and second cups of coffee. Jake helped clear the table and offered to wash or dry, but Mom said she'd get the dishes later. After he left, she put the leftover salad and muffins in the refrigerator, rinsed out the wine glasses and coffee cups. She filled each of the muffin tin containers with water, letting the crusty baked-on parts soften for the morning wash. "I can't face this right now," she said. When we moved the kitchen table back, she took out her manicure bag and started working on her cuticles, pushing them back with a little silver instrument until the moon slivers showed. "I've always had strong nails," she said. "They're one of my best features." She held up her left hand, inspecting the fingernails. "Even when I went to secretarial school and had to do all that typing, they never broke or chipped.

  "A few of the other girls were jealous and when I found out, I told them Knox gelatin sometimes did the trick, even though I never used it myself. For a couple weeks they tried it but nothing changed. Then I discovered they had been soaking their nails instead of drinking it like they were supposed to." She shook her head and smiled at the memory. "Some of those girls didn't know sickem." She applied some clear lacquer to her nails and waited for them to dry, occasionally blowing gently. "Soaking them for two weeks. Can you imagine?"

  Before going to bed, I took the garbage outside and placed a big rock on the dented can lid. According to my mother, cats were crazy about shrimp and she didn't want to find garbage strewn about the next morning.

  Lying in bed that night, I felt a little sorry for her. Voices played over in my mind, especially the brief exchange she and my uncle had when she returned from the kitchen, composed, and set the cookies on the table.

  "So you've gotten over it, I guess." Her words had been a challenge to Jake, rather than a question.

  Reaching for a cookie, he stopped. "Not for a minute. I just quit hurting like hell."

  14

  "I'D SAY THOSE FOLKS are in deep doo-doo. One bad rock and they hit dead center." Jake studied Combine Rapids and the large rock midstream the shape and reddish color of a rusty combine. A bright orange raft had wrapped around the rock, the swift current pinning it to the stone like a wet butterfly. The raft's oars were gone and some of the cargo netting had torn away. A blue plastic ice cooler floated downstream. White Styrofoam coolers had broken apart in the rooster tail and bobbed like chunks of ice against the shoreline below.

  Two rafters, a man and a woman, had scrambled up the rock and were stranded on a ledge three feet above the current. To my amazement, the man had no life vest. On the opposite shore, the third rafter waved feebly at his companions. Even at this distance, we could see the bloody scrapes on his legs from the sharp lava ledges of the sweeping rooster tail.

  Jake had pulled our boat ashore to study the rapids, make certain a log hadn't jammed the chute he planned to run. "Sometimes a rock will roll, too," he said. "Always take time to look, even if you've run the thing a hundred times." When we had hiked around the corner on the railroad grade and seen the stricken raft, Jake had been almost as surprised as the rafters.

  "They approached wrong," he said, pointing to the channel our side of midstream. "They stayed out there to avoid the overhanging trees along the bank, but the current swept them onto the rock. That's why it's also called Oh, fuck! rock. If you hit it, you scr
eam, 'Oh, fuck.' Usually, a boat just bangs the side and hangs up for a moment. These dudes must have panicked and paddled the wrong way—something."

  The man on the opposite shore finally saw us and started waving wildly, pointing. Then the two on the rock saw us and waved their arms, signaling distress.

  "What are we going to do?" I asked.

  "I'm wondering if we can get close enough to scrape them into the boat." Jake shook his head. "Look at that damn cargo net, floating on our side of the rock. Get tangled in that and you're dead."

  Taking out his sheath knife, Jake made cutting motions at the couple on the ledge while pointing to their raft's floating cargo net, but they just kept waving.

  "Maybe they don't have a knife," I said.

  "There's a fool born a minute and only one dies a day." Jake sheathed the knife. "That's why this river's full of rafters. Guess we'll have to get them off."

  The water churned and boiled around the rock. "Can we get close enough?" I wanted the pair to be rescued but hated the look of the water. "How about a helicopter or something?"

  Jake reached into his pants pocket and held out a dime. "Go find us a phone booth."

  I glanced at the steep timbered hillside, the stretches of rugged talus slopes, and felt dumb as a dude.

  Jake started toward our boat. "I've heard other guides brag about pulling people from that rock. Always thought they were bullshitting."

  Jake double-checked the buckles on his life vest and made sure I knew where the bailing bucket was. He had put an extra life vest on the seat beside me. When we got close, I was supposed to toss it to the man on the rock. That way, even if he missed the boat, he'd have a life vest for later.

  "I'll pass by as close as I can," Jake said. "Throw him the vest as we approach. Let them try to jump in and sit. Knock them flat if you have to. Got it so far?"

  I nodded, tightening the buckles on my own vest.

  "If they hit the water, don't let them grab you or the boat. Might jerk you out or tangle us in that damn net. If they're too scared to jump, tough shit. Eventually, they'll get tired and fall off."

  Pulling away from the shore, he continued giving instructions. "If we take on water, bail like hell. I'll yell 'right' or 'left' if I want you to shift weight.

  "Now listen, if we get in bad trouble, I'll yell, 'The boat is lost!' Then get out. Go over the high side or off the end so she doesn't shift and pin you against some rock. Whatever you do, stay away from that fucking cargo net."

  Even though I couldn't remember half of his instructions, I held two thumbs up.

  "If you hit the water, clamp a hand over your mouth and nose so you don't suck in a lungful. A lot of drowned people float with their heads above water, cozy in their life vests. But they're dead as hell."

  Maybe I looked scared because he grinned. "Now take a deep seat and enjoy the ride. I'm not figuring to lose this boat."

  He rowed out to midstream, then let the boat slip down current.

  We crossed the shallow rock shelf at the head of the rapids.

  "Another damn can opener," Jake said as the boat scraped against barely submerged boulders. "It gets worse when the river lowers." He rowed toward the lapping green tongue between two submerged rocks. "This is the trick—Go right of the rocks and you hit the trees. Go left and you hit the Combine. You got to shoot straight through the middle. It's fast water—scares some people."

  Sliding past the tongue and onto clear blue-green water, I glimpsed the rocky river bottom below us.

  Approaching the Combine, I could see the gear still remaining in the raft's cargo net: soggy sleeping bags, a Coleman stove, folding aluminum chairs. Ten feet away, I waved the life vest at the man and pitched it sideways, a clean throw, but he didn't raise his arms to catch it, and the vest slid off the rock, falling into the water.

  "Dumb shit," Jake muttered.

  The woman leaned out toward us. She was wearing turquoise-colored shorts and a halter top but no shoes. Both knees and forearms were scraped from scrambling up the rock. The man had a wispy brown beard and stared straight ahead like an owl in sunlight. Maybe he lost his glasses, I thought.

  Jake shipped the left oar so it wouldn't tangle in the cargo net. He ducked a little and braced for hitting the rock. "Jump," he shouted at the couple.

  Bow first, we hit the Combine and the current swung the stern against the rock's side. The impact jolted me from the seat and I crouched on the boat bottom. For a moment we held steady, then started scraping along the rock.

  "Jump," Jake yelled.

  Holding her nose like a kid leaping into a summer lake, the woman jumped, crashing into my shoulder. Water sloshed over the side of the boat as momentum carried her past me, and she slammed against the gunnel.

  "Shit, that stings," she said. The life jacket had prevented her from being hurt seriously.

  Grabbing her arm, I pulled her down. Pain filled her eyes, but she was in the boat.

  "Jump, goddamn you," Jake yelled, reaching toward the man with his left hand. The boat ground along the rock with a high screech.

  "Look out below!" the man shouted. His arms came forward the way a large restless bird sometimes shifts its wings when it seems about to fly. But then he settled back on his perch.

  "Chickenshit!" Jake pushed his fist against the slick red rock as if to shove the grinding boat free, and suddenly we were clear, hurling downstream in the foaming whitewater.

  The man jumped, a full boat length too late, and disappeared into the churning water.

  "Will," she cried out, half standing. "No, Will!"

  His head appeared above water, dark as a seal's and he took several strong strokes toward the boat before going under again. Panic filled the woman's eyes.

  "Bail, damn it! Wake up!" Jake strained at the oars.

  I was surprised to see the ankle-deep water sloshing in the boat. Grabbing the bailer, I flung three bucketfuls of water over the side. Then I saw a hand and arm rise out of the water. Instinctively, I leaned over the side of the boat, reaching for the hand. Half standing, I reached further.

  Jake was yelling, but I couldn't hear what as I grabbed the man's wrist and hung on. Then the other hand seized my arm, and I felt the terrible weight pulling me from the boat.

  "Let go," I yelled as I slid over the gunnel. I felt the woman grab my right leg but she couldn't hold, and I knew I was going into the water.

  After sucking a deep breath, I clamped my free hand over my mouth and gave in. The water was cold and so powerful it tumbled me and my captor over and over. We hit a smooth, deep underwater boulder, but he took most of the blow against his back. His grip relaxed a second and I wanted to go up for air, but had lost direction. Then he wrapped his arms around my neck and shoulders, dragging me down. I closed my eyes and went limp, hoping to lull him into letting go.

  When we stopped tumbling, I opened my eyes and saw a sweep of clear blue-green water. Sunlight shone above, and below I saw a sunken boat, a broken oar still jammed in the oar lock, and I wondered how long it had been there, what fate its occupants met. I considered what an odd thing it might be to die here, drowned like my father, within sight of a sunken boat. Its bailing bucket, attached by a length of orange rope, pointed downstream five or six feet above the boat and turned slowly in the current.

  Realizing I was low on breath, I struggled toward the light, but the man held me down the way a raccoon rides a dog's head underwater. I tried punching him, but my arms were tangled in his and the current spun us. I imagined how the searchers might find us in some quiet eddy, still entwined, the startling way one comes upon dead elk in a spring green meadow, their antlers locked in death's struggle. And I foresaw the uncomprehending look in my mother's eyes as Jake carried her the shocking news.

  Coming out of the lull, I realized I couldn't allow myself to drown and resolved to do all I could to surface. I wanted to bite the man's nose or gouge his eyes, anything to make his grip loosen. With my right hand, I managed to grab his ear, pulling and
twisting with all my might. A stream of bubbles escaped his mouth in a silent scream. One arm loosened.

  Half free, I struggled to the surface and managed a quick clear breath before the current and the man's clinging weight dragged me under again.

  Renewed by the oxygen, I managed to twist him downstream so his body would hit the rocks of the lower lava shelf, shielding mine. When we struck the first jagged ledge, the pain registered in his face and more bubbles slipped between his lips.

  You'll drown first, you bastard, I thought, and if he did, maybe I could kick clear of him.

  A bloodline rose from the torn ear. In the bright water, it seemed almost black.

  Beyond anger, I was possessed by a kind of cold fury. Gripping the back of his neck with both my hands, I thrust my head forward, trying to break his nose with my skull.

  My right leg scraped against sharp lava rocks and I gritted my teeth, trying to hold my breath and not cry out. Then he hit a rock. The shock of pain twisted his face and he writhed with renewed strength.

  I braced for another blow against rock, but it never came. Instead, my left foot touched bottom and in a few more seconds the right touched as well. For a moment we struggled in the current, which swept us close to shore, until finally, I could stand and breathe.

  Half carrying, half dragging him, I stumbled to waist-deep water. He was still draped all over me, but I managed to punch him in the stomach twice, and he slowly slid into the water.

  Looking square into his owlish face, I hated his staring eyes and sparse wet beard. I understood that this was a complete stranger who had nearly drowned me, someone whose incompetence and cowardice proved he had no right to be on the same river my father had known, my uncle and I now treasured. I became furious with the man and punched him again, listening to the gurgle of water deep in his throat.

  His eyes went from glassy to pain-filled as I started to rain blows on him. Finally, he lifted his arms to block my fists.

  Shouts came from the bank. I heard splashing. The woman threw herself upon my back, and her weight, the unexpected thrust of it, knocked me to my knees. I tried elbowing her away, but only struck her life preserver.