The Sky Fisherman (7 page)

"Yes," I said. "Quite a bit, really."

"I knew it," he said. "Darkness over Arizona."

"You take care," I said again, but he had already hung up. After a couple of moments, I replaced the receiver, too. My right ear, the one I had listened with, seemed hot, so I rubbed it a little. I was trying to figure out what he meant about Arizona, but a customer came in about then and I had to make out a fishing license.

No postcard came to the store that day, and when I went home at night, I debated about telling Mom that Riley had called. When I hit the door, she was all smiles, so I couldn't bring myself to say anything.

"Sit down," she said. "Sit down. I've got some wonderful news."

"Did they make you president of Sunrise Biscuits already?" I asked. I sat in one of the wooden chairs because I'd gotten my jeans dirty fixing some bicycle flats that afternoon. I was eager to hear her news, but I was trying to figure out dinner. Something smelled like fish.

She sat in the love seat, hands folded. Her cheeks were flushed, and for a moment I thought maybe Riley had called her, too, but that wasn't it. "A wonderful opportunity has come up. A truly wonderful opportunity. My supervisor wants me to go to Minneapolis for a training seminar so I can become an office manager."

"That sounds great, Mom."

"It's for ten days. Are you sure you won't mind? Jake can watch out for you."

"You got to get ahead, and it's just us now. You said so yourself."

"That's exactly right," she said. "I leave in two days, then. I've never been to Minneapolis. Maybe I'll have a chance to look around."

Dinner was halibut au gratin and cheese muffins. She claimed it was one of my favorites, but that was news to me, and I didn't think Riley had liked it either. Maybe she was thinking of my father. She was so excited about the Minneapolis seminar, I took a second helping and pretended to like the fish.

"You haven't said much about work today. Anything exciting happen?" She tore open one of her muffins and the steam escaped from the pockets of cheese.

"Packed dozens and dozens of worms," I said. "A few dangerous ones escaped, but I managed to round them up."

She laughed and touched the back of my hand lightly with her finger
tips. "You've always had a great sense of humor. That goes a long way in life. That, and an eager attitude." She picked up the cheese muffin but set it down again. "I'm too excited to eat. Maybe later."

When I finished my second helping of halibut, I asked my mother about the photograph of the fishing trip.

"Oh, good heavens," she said. "I hadn't thought about that picture in years."

"That was your handwriting," I pointed out. "You said you had a marvelous time, a perfect day."

"Did I?" Her face grew troubled. "Well, perhaps I did say something like that in the excitement of the moment, but I never really cared for fishing. That was your father's interest. And Jake's."

"Sure looks like you were having a great time. I never saw so many big fish."

She folded her hands, holding them at the edge of the table. "It probably was fun all right ... in those days. But I don't believe I ever went fishing again."

After supper I helped clear the table, then watched television awhile. When the news came on, I shut it off and went to the bathroom to brush my teeth. Mom had set up the ironing board and was ironing her blouses. The house was filled with the scent of warm cotton.

About ten, someone knocked on the door and I answered. Both of us figured it would be my uncle Jake stopping to see how the business had been. But there stood Grady Simmons, the county sheriff. I was stunned.

He held his hat and looked past me, toward my mother, who seemed startled. Her iron paused in midair. "Excuse me for coming in so late, Mrs. Walker, but there was an accident just this side of the reservation."

She touched her free hand to her heart. "Not Jake."

"No, no, nothing like that. I apologize for worrying you." He ran his hand through his hair. "A couple Indian kids rolled their car, but don't you worry. A broken leg, maybe a couple cracked ribs. Nothing too serious. By now the Gateway volunteers have taken them to the hospital in Central."

"Oh dear," she said. "This town could use a hospital. There are so many wrecks."

"The way we're going, that's going to come through in a couple years. Especially the way the Jaycees are pushing for it." Grady had stepped inside and I remembered to shut the door. My hand trembled a little, but I don't think he noticed because he was looking at my mother.

I think she realized he was watching her because she set down her
iron, and after turning it off, just stood a moment with her hands in front of her stomach. "Sit down; just sit, please," she said then. "I've forgotten my manners. Would you like some tea, officer? It'll only take a minute. The water's still hot."

"I'd appreciate that, Mrs. Walker. I'm just a little cold. To tell the truth, accidents give me the shivers. You get the call, but you never know what might have happened, who might be in the wreck. The phone rings, and you just never know."

When my mother went into the kitchen, Grady smiled at me a moment, then finished surveying the room. He studied the painting above the love seat a long time before leaning toward me. "How are things working out at the store?"

"Real busy," I said, trying to calm my voice. "Jake's on the river a lot so that leaves me with a big responsibility." I told him about selling a hundred-dollar fly rod to a tourist and taking a down payment on a bicycle. I realized I was talking a lot to cover my nervousness, but Grady just kept smiling.

Returning to the room, my mother handed him a cup of tea. "See, that was only a jiffy."

He didn't take the cream and sugar she offered. "Monet, isn't it?" Grady nodded at the painting. "You don't see much of that in Gateway."

"Renoir. You were pretty close." She stirred her tea. "Of course, that's a reproduction.
From the Terrace.
I've had it forever."

"I doubt you're that old, Mrs. Walker," he said. "It looks good there. The colors pick up the print of that love seat."

"Are you interested in art?" she asked.

"Well, it's not quite up my alley, you see. But when I was at the police academy, I did take an art appreciation course at the women's college nearby. We had to take something in the humanities, and frankly—art class—that's where a lot of the most attractive women were, so it was a popular elective among the cadets."

Mom smiled, but I could tell by the way her brow furrowed she was worried.

In Grady's hands the teacup seemed fragile. "Most of the art game went over my head. But I did like Monet. All those haystacks. You see, I grew up on a ranch, and they really do look different in different light, the way the shadows are..."

My mother twisted abruptly and set her teacup down. "He's dead, isn't he? That's what you've come to say. Did your people shoot him?"

Grady stiffened. He seemed genuinely puzzled. "Jake? No, he's fine."
After a moment he said, "Oh, you mean Riley Walker, your husband." He set his cup down and leaned forward, his big hands resting on the thighs of his blue polyester uniform. "The reason I came by was just to check. The railroad authorities keep pestering me ... so I wanted to ask if you've heard anything from him. It's just routine ... my asking."

"Not for me," she said, her voice brittle. "It's nothing like my usual routine." She squeezed her eyes tight and rubbed her forehead with her thumbs. Her eyes remained closed as she said, "He hasn't called for weeks. Not since that unfortunate business in Griggs. No, I don't have any new leads for you."

I didn't say anything when Grady glanced at me. I tried to swallow but I couldn't work up enough spit.

"I'm sure you haven't," Grady said. "No doubt he's lying pretty low right now, maybe staying with friends or relatives. The railroad officials have checked his possible contacts, at least the ones they know."

My mother opened her eyes. "I imagine they're very thorough."

"Yes," he said. "I was just wondering about southern California. Do you know anybody there he might look up? He was in the service, wasn't he? Maybe an old Navy buddy."

"I can't think of a soul," she said. "Don't you people have anything better to do than hound that poor man?"

Grady took a pair of reading glasses out of his shirt pocket, slowly unfolded them, and put them on. When he removed a postcard from his jacket pocket, my blood turned to ice.

"This card was addressed to the boy at the store. The postmaster turned it over to us." He studied the card a moment. "Sure, I recognize that place. Disneyland. Took the grandchildren there one summer and waited in line over an hour for the Matterhorn. They're growing up fast. The time just slips by."

"Perhaps you can take them again," my mother said. "May I see that card?"

"That's a good thought," he said, handing it to her. "You can see the card's not signed. But I expect it's Riley's handwriting."

"Not a doubt," she said after a minute. "He doesn't say much, but then he never did."

She handed the card to me. I could tell it was Riley's handwriting all right, but my eyes wouldn't focus.

"I'm sure you don't know anything about this, do you, Culver?" she asked.

"I've always wanted to go to Disneyland," I said, half smiling. "No, it's news to me."

"You haven't received any other cards, then? Or had any phone calls?" Grady glanced at the canary yellow phone Mom had installed to match the love seat tapestry.

"Not a single word," she said. Her eyes flashed indignation. "That postmaster should be ashamed for reading people's mail. We might as well live in Russia. Who ever thought we'd have the police barging into our lives at all hours. I've got half a mind to get a lawyer and stop this harassment."

Grady scooped up his hat and stood. "I didn't mean to get you upset. It's just routine, like I said, nothing personal. I thought you might know something more that could help us."

"And if I did, who's to say I'd tell you? A wife needn't testify against her husband or have you forgotten that?" She shook her head. "When you think about it, what's so terrible about burning down a crummy railroad siding? I wish I had a big enough torch to burn them all down—squalid little eyesores. Sometimes I wish I had done it myself, I truly do, the way those railroad people shoved us from place to place like a bunch of damned gypsies. Anyway, no one was actually hurt."

After my mother's outburst Grady tried to say a few words about the potential danger of the arsonist, but he was no match for her and soon left, still carrying his hat. Closing the door behind him, she leaned against it, as if bracing for wind.

"Culver," Mom said later, after drinking two cups of tea with generous measures of rum and sugar, "I want you to promise me something."

"What is it?"

"Even if you get truly desperate at times, promise me you won't burn down a railroad siding and get yourself into this kind of jam."

"All right," I said. "I won't, then." It seemed an easy kind of promise to make because at that age, desperation seems unlikely.

"I'm glad that's settled," she said, draining the last of her tea. "Now I'm going to bed."

I stayed up a little, trying to watch something on television, but all the situations seemed too contrived and my mind wandered. This entire business with Riley kept hitting me off guard. Of course, I should have realized he'd be back in touch, like a bad penny showing up. It wasn't too likely a man would live with my mother for eight years and then just vanish.

But what puzzled me was her reaction. She seemed to be sticking up for him now. I didn't know much about love, but I suspected she might have fallen in love with him after these strange events. I didn't believe
that she had loved him earlier, but something about that desperate act of burning down the siding had demonstrated the strength of his desire for her, and perhaps she had succumbed to it, somehow. Maybe his act had even burned away some of the residual love I thought she carried for my father. I believed he had always stood like a shadow between them.

Thinking of that shadow, I realized finally what Riley's remark "darkness over Arizona" had meant. It involved one of the weird news articles from my mother's gossip magazines. In the account, a man's wife had left him because he was spending too much time at a tavern, not paying her enough attention. This was in the Southwest, and they were both Catholics, as I recall. Distraught over the abandonment, he had himself crucified on a wooden cross in the desert to show his desperate love for her. A couple of women from the tavern, casual acquaintances according to the article, helped by pounding the nails through his hands.

It wasn't a complete crucifixion though, because he stood on a ladder so as not to suffocate. The women kept climbing the ladder, bringing him beer, pretzels, pickled eggs, hot sausages, and other bar foods to help ease the pain and keep up his strength.

I remembered Riley finishing the article and slapping the magazine against his knee. "Craziest story I ever heard. Bunch of damn nuts, the lot of them," he had said.

But it had worked. A newspaperman wrote up the guy's plight and the story got syndicated. The wife read about her husband and went back to him when she realized the depth of his love.

She took an ambulance rescue unit out in the desert to save him, but the attendants were afraid to remove the nails without a doctor, and the cross wouldn't fit into the ambulance. So she returned to town, hired a flatbed truck and got him to the hospital that way. A few days later he was released, and they renewed their marriage vows. So the guy's plan worked, crazy or not.

"Can't you go to bed? The TV's bothering me and I've got a headache." My mother stood in the doorway.

"Sorry," I said. "Still unwinding from this goofy day." I turned off the set.

"You said it. Disneyland. That about takes the grand prize." We both moved to the kitchen table and she began picking at the leftover cheese muffin. "What's next? Knott's Berry Farm? If I wrote this to 'Dear Abby' she wouldn't believe it. And she's heard just about everything."