If I Lose Her (7 page)

 I have
always loved fishing and being back on the lake was invigorating. I had used a
simple hook and worm or hook and salmon egg rig as a boy, but I didn’t have the
patience anymore for just sitting around for hours staring at the tip of my
pole, hoping that at any second I would see the tell tale bounce of a bite. Two
summers earlier I had started playing around with rubber worms and spoons and
several other more active means of fishing, and this year I bought my first
expensive, proper lure. It was called a fire-tiger. It was shaped like a fish
with a yellow-belly, orange sides and green top, and it had little black
stripes. It was smooth as a fish’s wet body, and it had a tiny rattle hidden
somewhere inside it so that it made noise when I shook it. When I bought it I
read the entire little foldout flier that came with it about how to adjust the
metal eye and what knots were best and even how to cast it. Now I held it in my
hand, paying particular attention to the two treble hooks, sharp as rose
thorns, hanging from either of its ends.

 I tied it
onto the end of my line and decided to take a few practice casts from land just
to see how it looked in the water while it swam. Zing. It flew only a few feet
out landing in the water in front of me.
I can do better than that.
I
reeled it in, watching it shake like a little minnow on fire as I pulled it in.
Zing. This time I flicked my wrist more, trying to get some distance while
avoiding the branches of the tree overhead. It flew out just past the end of
the dock.
That’s a little better.
Again I reeled it in, this time more
slowly to see how quickly its weight would pull it down to the bottom of the
water. About six feet out I could see it slowly swimming its way just above the
lake grass. Then there was a momentary flash of silver like the chrome of a car
handle caught by the sun and my rod bent heavy toward the water. I was startled
but instinctively pulled back on my rod. The tip bounced and jerked from left
to right. I didn’t want to break the line so I let some line out from the
spool; just enough to give the fish some room to fight and tire itself out a
bit. Then it broke the water and splashed against the surface, probably since
the water couldn’t have been much more than two or three feet deep this close
to land. I reeled it in and let it out. Reeled it in and let it out. Slowly the
fish wore itself out, and I reeled it in, close enough to see that this was
unlike any other fish I had ever landed. Mainly, the thing had teeth; serious,
take-your-finger-off teeth.

 I laid my
rod down, took my line in one hand and carefully reached underneath the fish to
where I could grab it behind its gills. I knew this would be a good hold, and
if I was careful I shouldn’t hurt it. Then I lifted it out of the water. Its
tube-like form, slick-green with yellow spots, hung in front of me. This was no
catfish or bottom feeder. This was a hunter. I looked at it as its mouth gasped
for someway to breath. The hook that had snared it was lying between two teeth,
and curved down piercing through the thinnest of membranes in its lip. I
carefully took the back of the hook between my fingers and turned it up and out
of its mouth. Then I ran my free hand underneath its belly. I wanted to show my
mother, but I knew that another twenty to thirty seconds of being out of the water
would daze it beyond recovery, and I didn’t have any reason to kill such a
beautiful lake monster, so I knelt down and lowered it back into the
cloudy-green water.  I moved it backwards and forwards a few times forcing
water through its gills then, with a single motion it was gone. I rinsed the
fish grease from my hands in the lake and just looked out through the water,
into the river grass and imagined my lake monster in its home.

 Evening
came.

 I spent the
rest of the night tossing my fire-tiger out into the water with no further
luck. Then mom and I headed back for a late dinner and early bed.

 I had
dropped off a roll of film for quick developing when we were at Target, and I
pulled out the box of goodies that Jo had sent with me.

 I took out
her shirt and took a deep breath of it while I imagined her sprawled out on the
bed in nothing but this and a pair of cotton whites.
There is nothing like
the smell of a thing to draw your memory back to it,
I thought. I laid her
shirt on my pillow and removed the stack of photos from the box. One by one I
flipped through them. I stopped at the red one of her in the darkroom at school
and I leaned it against the lamp on the nightstand next to my bed. Then I tore
open the package of Oreo’s, popped one into my mouth and tore open her letter.

 
My
Dearest Alex,

 I just
wanted to take the time to write you a good ol’ fashioned love letter and tell
you that the past nine months have been amazing. Spending time with you has
made me more confident in who I am. There are times I miss you
SO
much!
All I want to do is crawl into your arms and curl up there forever. I so love
being close to you…smelling you, feeling your smooth skin, kissing your soft,
perfectly shaped lips… You are so perfect to me. I love every drop of you with
all
of my heart. Thank you so much for who you are. For loving me and needing me,
for always trying so hard, for being so fun and crazy. I love being with you. I
will miss you greatly this summer. I will miss you deeply. I love you, and look
forward with much anticipation to seeing you when you come home.

     Yours
Forever,

       -Jo

 Yours
Forever
, I thought to myself running my finger over the ink on the page.

 I set the
letter down next to the photograph on my nightstand and looked out my window.
Kris was down in the front yard sitting on top of the white table, sketching in
a black-leather book.

 My
Grandfather was primarily a Pentecostal minister for fifty-seven years, but he
never led a church that was ever large enough to pay him a salary, which meant
that up until about ten years before he died, he worked full-time in ministry
and full-time selling something to support his family. When my mother was
young, it was salad dressing that he and my grandmother made out of their
kitchen. Towards the end of his life it was brooms. These were no ordinary
brooms like the ones you would buy at Walmart mind you. No, these were
industrial strength push brooms, some four-feet wide, built with all manner of
bristle heads. There were your basic straw bristles for gravel and dirt,
neoprene (like the rubber on the bottom of your shoes my grandfather would say)
for pushing through oil, anti-corrosive for working with chemicals and even
soft-bristle heads with holes in the middle and telescoping handles so you
could attach a water hose and wash the outside of a truck. Then you had your
squeegees and chamois, buckets and mops. Just about anything you needed to keep
a factory clean.

 My
grandfather, with my grandmother in tow, had a circuit he made every year
between Colorado, California, Minnesota and Texas stopping at gas stations, car
dealerships, saw mills and just about anywhere else he could think that might
need a cleaning. “Broom man,” he would say walking through the front door with
a smile, and he made a living at it too. Nothing to build kingdoms with, but
enough to keep his little family fed.

 When I was
little I would go out once in a while with my grandfather, and I can still
remember him whistling as we drove down the road in his blue, bus-sized
econoline van filled to the front seats with his brooms. I didn’t just sit
outside while he went in either, he wouldn’t have that. Instead I would follow
right alongside him, one time right into the office of the owner of
Tilt-a-Whirl, one of his regular clients.

 They would
shake hands and laugh and sit and talk about their kids and grandkids before my
grandfather would pull out his lined notepad, list off what they had bought the
year before and see if they needed any restocking.

 I remember
looking around that office and seeing photos hanging on the walls of dozens of
carnival rides I had ridden. Spin-the-Apple, Monkey Mayhem, the Spider and of
course, the classic red and blue Tilt-a-Whirl itself. As a kid I had never
actually stopped to think that people actually built these things. I guess I
just thought they were like unicorns or something that magically wandered out
of the mist in the form of a carnival or fair, and then they would just wander
back until the next child needed to be twisted and spun until they begged sweet
Jesus to let them off before bursting into tears.

 “I can set
my watch by your grand dad,” the man would say as we left his office.

 Since my
grandfather had died, my mother started selling brooms to some of his old customers.
She didn’t have the range he did and the chemistry was never the same, but she
was able to pay for our summer and take a little extra home at the end.

 I had now
started going out with her, to help her sell but more to help assemble the
brooms and do the heavy lifting, and I made a percentage of what was sold.

 At night I
would write to Jo, and every few days we would call and tell each other how
much we missed each other and talk about how our summers were going.

 About a week
after arriving, Nathan asked me if I could show him where some decent fishing
spots were, so we went out and I introduced him to Stella and Doc. His tackle
box was still in the wrapper, but I showed him the basics of tying a blood
knot, a dropper loop and an improved clinch. I showed him how to cast and what
to do if he got a bite. He appreciated the help and caught a walleye and a carp
our first night out. I was mostly grateful to have someone to talk to, and we
started fishing together regularly.

 Then one
Saturday afternoon I stopped by the library to pick up a copy of ‘Memoirs of a
Geisha’ that I had requested, and took it with me to Blue Mondays for a few
hours of reading. I walked into the coffee shop and saw Kris sitting at a side
table listening to a CD player and sketching something in a leather-bound
notebook. She looked up at me as I walked in and smiled. Then she took off her
headphones.

 “Hey,” she
said.

 “Hey.”

 “What are
you up to?”

 “I just got
a book in from the library, and I was planning on doing some reading for a
while. But it doesn’t look like there are any tables.”

 “You can sit
with me,” and she picked her bag up off of the chair across from her.

 “Are you
sure? I don’t want to bother you.”

 “You’re not
bothering me. I’m kinda bored actually. I can’t figure out what there is to do
in this town.”  

 I nodded.

 “Yeah, I
know what you mean. Hey, can I get you something? They have a killer Mexican
hot chocolate.”

 “Actually,
that’s what I’m drinking, but I could use another if that’s okay.”

 “Sure.”

 I walked up
to the bar and ordered two Mexican hot chocolates.

 “One hot
chocolate from south of the border,” I said sitting down across from her.

 
South of
the border? Really?

 “Thanks. So,
‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ huh?” She said with a quizzical look on her face.

 “It’s been
on the New York Times bestseller list for over a year now.”

 “So has
Stephen King.”

 “What are
you drawing?” I asked ready to change the topic.

 She slid her
notebook over to me.

 The outer
edge of a bald man wearing Buddhist beads and reading a book was drawn with
black scratches on the linen pages lying in front of me. I turned and sitting
in front of the large coffee house window was the very same man.

 “How did you
make him feel so real?”

 “I don’t
know. It kind of just flows out of me.”

 I started to
turn the page. “Can I–”

 “NO! Sorry,
no,” she said grabbing the book.

 “I didn’t
mean to–”

 “It’s okay,
I just don’t like showing people my stuff.”

 “Nate said
you’ve been showing him how to fish.” Now she was the one changing the subject.

 “Just the
basics, but he doesn’t need much help. Yesterday he caught more than I did.”

 “God I’d
love to get out of this town for a little bit. Do you think I could go out with
you two the next time you go? It would be nice to get out and see the lake.”

 “We could go
tomorrow if you want. Nate wants to try fishing some of the reeds across the
river, see if he can catch some bass.”

 “Yeah, that
would be good.”

 That night,
just after mom and I finished an amazing dinner of chicken alfredo with garlic
bread and creamy Caesar salad, the phone rang.

 “Hello.”

 “Hey.”

 “Jo! Hey,
how are you?”

 “Oh, I’m
good. I miss you. How are you?”

 “Ah babe, I
miss you too. I’m doing pretty good. Mom and I just finished dinner. How about
you?”

 “Yeah, we
just got back from Texas Roadhouse. I can’t believe how much steak my dad can
eat. What have you been up to the past few days?”

 “Oh, not a
whole lot. I may or may not have gotten back another pack of photos for
somebody today.”

 “Oooohh,
really? Well if I’m the lucky girl, I’ll look forward to getting them. Did you
get my last letter?”

 “Yeah, it’s
sitting on the table. I haven’t opened it yet. ‘Memoirs of a Geisha’ came in
today.”

 “Nice. How
much of it have you read?”

 “Not much
actually. I was going to but I got distracted.”

 “By what?”

 
By what?
By whom? How much do I say? Will she even care that I sat for almost two hours
this afternoon talking to a blonde wearing shorts much too small for her who
happens to be living in the apartment beneath me?

 
“I
just got caught up talking to someone at the coffee shop,” I said squeezing my
eyes shut and rubbing my forehead.

 The next
morning I went down and knocked on Nate’s door. Kris answered.

 “Hey.”

 “Morning.
You two ready?”

 “Yeah. Can
we stop by Blue Monday’s on the way?”

 “Heck yeah!”
I said stepping into the front room.

 Nate had his
gear ready and lying out on the front table.

 “Let me just
get my bag,” Kris said walking to the back of the apartment.

 She was
wearing sandals, white shorts rolled up just about as high as they could go, a
loose fitting black tank top, and the colorful strings of a bikini rose out of
the tank top and tied around her neck.

 “You do know
we’re going fishing?” I asked as she walked past me out to the car.

 “I know
you’re going fishing. I never said I was going fishing,” she said looking at me
over the top of her sunglasses.

 We made our
stop at Blue Monday’s loading up on coffee and pastries, grabbed some
sandwiches at Hogan Brothers for lunch and headed out of town.

 Kris brought
some music and we all laughed while we tried to figure out how we ended up so
far north for the summer.

 We pulled up
to Doc’s Doc and Doc was sitting out front cleaning some fish he had caught
earlier that morning.

 You could
tell by Doc’s hands that he was a hardworking man. He had a large belly and a
face full of long whiskers that were scattered and sparse, not full like what you
would imagine on a man in his sixties growing out his beard. He was missing
several teeth, and he always wore the same hat that had “Pete’s Bait Shop”
embroidered in red letters against what I imagine used to be a blue background
but now looked more like a light grey with brown and yellow stains highlighting
its edges.

 “Hey Doc,” I
said as the three of us walked up to the bar door.

 “Mornin’,”
he replied slicing a fish’s belly and around the back of its head. Then he put
his finger in the fish’s mouth and with a single motion pulled its head off and
its entrails out so they hung from his finger like a bloody Christmas ornament.
“Who’s yer friends?”

 “This is
Nate. He’s been here a couple of times with me, and this is Kris.”

 Kris, with
her hand over her mouth, looked like she was watching someone gut a kitten.

 I smiled and
shook my head.

 “Well, happy
to meetcha,” he said dropping the two parts of the fish into two separate
buckets and reaching for another.

 We walked in
and found Stella behind the bar wiping dry some glasses.

 “Morning
Stella. I just wanted to come in and pay for two of us to do some fishing.”

 Stella
looked Kris up and down.

 “Are yall
goin to be out on them docks?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Then yall
need a mark.”

 “Okay, no
problem,” and I laid three dollars on the counter.

 One by one
we held out our hands. Then we left the bar and walked down to the water. Once
we were far enough away to be sure we weren’t heard, we all burst into
laughter, mostly for the sake of Kris’ response to the whole situation.

 The three of
us started out on the same dock, but after about five minutes Nate crossed the
bridge near us and started fishing the reeds for small-mouth bass. Kris just
let her feet hang down into the water while she watched me for a while and then
started drawing.

 “So what do
you do back home?” She asked me.

 “I’m a
photographer for the yearbook at my school.”

 “Really? I
haven’t seen you taking any photos.”

 “Yeah, I
know. I think I just needed a break from it.”

 “Yeah, I
know what you mean.”

 “What do you
do back home?”

 “School and
sports, school and sports. Nothing but school and sports. Dad’s pretty sure
I’ll get a scholarship in track.”

 “Are you any
good?”

 “Yeah, I
took first place in state last year. How about you? Any plans for college?”

 “Not really.
I’ve thought about the military, but I’m really getting into the photography. I
know I can be a photographer in the army, but I’m pretty sure that whatever I
shoot for them will be controlled by them and I don’t want that. I just really
want to get out and see the world with my camera. Rome. Japan. Tel Aviv. I’m
thinking maybe of trying to work for a newspaper. ”

 “That’d be
cool. Alex Douglas Photojournalist. I could see that.”

 “Really?”

 “Yeah, you
seem like the kind of person that goes after what they want. Are you any good?”

 “Not as good
as I want to be,” I replied then my rod jerked. “Oh, here we go.”

 She put her
pen in her book and watched me as I reeled the fish in. I could tell by the
pull on the line that it wasn’t very big. I reached into the water and lifted
out a fairly small walleye.

 “Are you
going to keep it?”

 “Nah,” I
said carefully pulling the hook out of its lip. “I toss most stuff back. Back
home I’ll keep a trout once in a while because they are pretty good to eat.”

 “Why fish if
you don’t keep them?”

 “I guess it
gives me something mildly challenging to do while I sit out by the lake on a
sunny day.”

 She laughed.
“Well, there’s more to do at a lake on a sunny day, than just catch some nasty
fish you know.”

 “Oh, like
what?”

 Then she
stood, pulled down her white shorts reveling bikini bottoms that matched her
colorful straps, pulled off her tank top and laid her sunglasses on her newly
formed pile of clothes. Then she dove into the lake. I will admit that I wasn’t
expecting that for an answer.

 I set my rod
down on the dock next to me, crossed my arms and watched her swim up to me- her
form lengthened under the ripples of the lake. Then she lifted her head out of
the water and crossed her arms, resting them on the edge of the dock.