Dead Renegade (10 page)

“So today you’ll learn the roll cast, which is the best for catching bluegills off a pontoon like this. Watch me a few more times—then I’ll have you try …” Again the elbow up, down and the thumb snapping forward.

“See how I keep my hand, forearm and upper arm in line? Watch my wrist: I start by bending it down so I can feel the rod against my arm here—” He held his arm out so they could both see, “now I take my wrist straight back, lift … and lower my elbow as I
push
with my thumb to let the fly line out—that’s the power snap that Lewellyn Ferris taught me. She learned it from Joan Wulff who was a world champion fly fisherman.”

He demonstrated twice more, then handed the rod to Mason. “C.J., Mason, you try it.”

“This doesn’t look like the movies,” said C.J. after a few tries. “I want to look like Brad Pitt in
A River Runs Through It”

Osborne chuckled. “Hold your horses, C.J. Next trip, I promise you’ll learn how to backcast—but not today or we’ll hook your husband in the head. One step at a time, kiddo.”

“Oh?” said C.J. with a tease in her voice. “Do you mean we might have to do this again pretty soon?” The prospect appeared to please her and Osborne suspected it had less to do with backcasting than spending more time with a certain fellow who did not have a cell phone permanently attached to his ear.

She raised the Sage rod, bringing her arm back and sideways as if to throw a baseball. “No—no swinging,” said Osborne, straightening her arm. “Bring the rod
straight
up. Bring your thumbnail to your forehead with your hand close to your face … lead with your elbow, finish with your hand forward … good! Okay, again. Keep in mind that the rod is an
extension
of your arm.”

Mason and C.J. cast again and again, eager to get it right. Osborne watched, then offered the tips he heard so often from Lew: “Use your thumb to target an area … okay, lead with your elbow and if the line coils try again … keep going ‘til you get a nice, straight cast. If it coils, you chopped too low and didn’t push out … think of
punching
your thumb forward.”

“So if I do this right, I’ll catch a fish?” asked Mason, raising her elbow and nearly clocking herself in the forehead, she was so determined.

“Well, that’s part of it,” said Osborne. “I still have to teach you how to pick the right trout fly—the one that looks just like the insects the fish are eating—how to ‘match the hatch’ as they say.”

Mason looked at him in surprise: “They don’t eat worms?”

“They do. Yes, they do. But that’s a political issue we’ll discuss another day. For now keep practicing—you’re getting it.”

As Osborne settled back to watch, he let his mind drift to an evening of fly fishing weeks earlier. The kind of evening that always settled his soul …

Lew had managed to escape her office early and they’d sped north to a place known only to a few lucky anglers as “secret lake.” And a secret it was: well hidden with no motorboats allowed, only a few cabins to mar the shoreline and a bounty of seldom-harvested rainbow trout.

They had hiked in a mile and a half then sat on boulders to pull on their waders. Osborne had entered the water behind Lew, following her lead from a distance. By the time she reached the spot she wanted, the sun had dipped below the spires of the balsams lining the western shore.

He took care to stay far enough behind that he wouldn’t disturb the fish Lew was targeting—but he wanted to be close enough to watch as she fished. A rank beginner still, he knew he could learn more from watching than struggling with his own floppy fly line.

And so he watched as Lew waded in until she was waist deep in the darkening, silent water. Random lights glowed gold along the far shore, a fish slurped. She began to rock back and forth, her body supple as a dancer’s, moving with the grace of a doe. A whisper as the fly line unfurled behind her only to shoot forward with the momentum of a power snap that sent the line straight and true, dropping a #12 Adams dry fly with such stealth that the trout leaping for a fluttering insect was stunned.

“Doc,” said C.J., interrupting his reverie, “my arm is tired. Do you mind if I sit for a while?”

“Of course not. We’re here to have fun.” Osborne took the fly rod from her hands and set it nearby as C.J. sauntered across the deck to plunk herself down by Ray and Nick.

“So, Ray,” said C.J., wrapping her arms around her knees as she spoke, “how come you do all this fishing instead of making a living like an honest man?”

Osborne resisted a chuckle: now how many people had he heard ask that identical question of his subsistence level trailer home-living neighbor? Some asked it to his face, others behind his back.

“Well,” said Ray, lifting his eyebrows as he looked at his questioner, “I figured out early in life that … fishing … is the most fun you can have … with your clothes on.” Nick turned his head away so C.J. couldn’t see the look on his face.

“No, I’m serious,” said C.J., lowering her voice. She glanced towards the rear of the pontoon where her husband sat with his back to them, still anchored to his cell phone.

“Serious? You want
serious
,” said Ray.

“He doesn’t do serious,” said Nick.

“Yeah. I do,” said C.J, ignoring Nick’s remark. She crossed her arms and waited.

Ray dropped his head and studied his feet as if the answer was in his flip flops, then looked up, “I tried a year in college as a business major because my folks said it was the only way I’d ever find out how to make money—but nothing about helping American businesses become more efficient made me want to get up in the morning … so I quit.”

“What
does
make you want to get up in the morning?”

“Fishing. Simple as that. Not a lot of money, but plenty of fresh air.” The three of them sat in silence for a few moments pondering Ray’s answer. Then Ray said, “what about you, C.J.? What makes
you
want to get up in the morning?”

The girl stared at him, her eyes widening. To his surprise, Osborne could see tears brimming as she opened her mouth.

“Grandpa!” shouted Mason with a sudden lurch backwards, the Winston rod bent towards the water. “I think I got a fish!”

Jumping to his feet, Ray rushed forward. “Set the hook! Set the hook!” he cried. “Mason, keep that rod tip high!”

Osborne stayed back. He knew from experience not to interfere. A fish on the line is guaranteed to turn Ray Pradt into a kid again. “That’s it,” said Ray, voice high with excitement, “bring him alongside … careful … careful. Watch that rod tip!”

“What is it? A muskie?” said C.J., crowding in behind Ray. “Is it a big fish?”

“Sure is,” said Ray, reaching down to grab the fly line and pull up a wriggling seven-inch blue gill. “Where’s the camera? Doc, you got a camera?”

“Here,” said Nick, thrusting a disposable camera into Osborne’s hand as Ray slipped the barbless hook from the bluegill.

“Hold it gently like this,” Ray said, guiding Mason’s hands into a cradle that wouldn’t harm the fish. “We’re catch-and-release today, hon. Let Grandpa take your picture and then this guy gets to go home. Okay?”

Mason nodded as happily as if she’d caught a six-foot tarpon—smiling for the camera, hands gentle on the bluegill. Then she got down on her knees and stretched along the deck, arms over the side of the pontoon so the little fish could swim away. She scrambled to her feet, fists clenched as she jumped up and down saying, “Oh, Grandpa, wait’ll Cody hears this!”

“Your first fish with a fly rod—wow!!” said Ray, whacking her on the back so hard she nearly went flying off the boat after her catch.

“What the hell is all the noise?” said Curt, marching forward from the back of the boat and covering the mouthpiece of his cell phone.

“Mason caught a bluegill on a fly rod,” said C.J.

“Oh for Christ’s sake, keep it down, will you?” said Curt. “I can’t hear a goddamn word—” He turned back towards the rear of the boat.

“What’s he doing that’s so important?” Ray asked. “Does he ever take a break?”

“Moving money,” said C.J. with a tight smile, “he’s always
moving money.”

Curt must have heard her because he said something into the phone and flipped it shut. He turned back to walk over to where C. J. was standing.

“What?” she said, looking at him just as, palm open, he slammed his right hand across her face so hard she staggered back against the railing.

“How many times have I told you—
never talk about my business
.” Curt loomed over her as she fell to her knees gasping for breath through harsh sobs.

“Hey!” said Ray, grabbing Curt by the arm. “You don’t treat women that way—not on my watch, you don’t.”

“Then you won’t be back,” said Curt, yanking his arm away.

Osborne pulled Mason towards him. The pontoon was nearing the cove on the small island. C.J. wiped at her face as Curt headed to the back of the boat, where he sat back down.

“I’m okay,” said C.J., pushing Ray and Nick away as they reached to help her stand up. “No, please, this is so embarrassing.” She gave a weak grin. “Let’s have our picnic, all right?”

“We can do that,” said Ray, patting her shoulder. He shot a glance at Osborne, and he wasn’t smiling.

CHAPTER
15

I
t was a subdued party of five that let themselves down, one by one, into knee-deep water to wade up to the sandy beach where C.J. planned to have the picnic. Taking whispered directions from their hostess, Nick and Ray carried ashore the grill and two large picnic baskets. Osborne handed a six-pack of Sprecher’s Root Beer to Mason, then grabbed four lightweight folding chairs and a quilt, which he tucked under one arm.

“What else can I do?” he said after setting everything down on the sand near C.J.

“We’ll take it from here, Dr. Osborne,” said C.J., straightening up and dusting off her hands. “I have an idea—why don’t you and Mason check out the other side of the island? See if there’s a better spot for our picnic.” She winked.

Osborne squeezed her arm in appreciation and said, “Have you noticed most people around here call me ‘Doc?’ Why don’t you do the same? Drop the
Doctor,
;” he said, dropping his voice to the low tone he once saved for flossing instructions. “Doctor sounds way too serious for an old retired guy who spends most of his day in a fishing boat. You are a friend, C.J., not a patient.”

“Thank you,” said C.J. She gave him a sheepish smile as if she knew he was just trying to make her feel better. She glanced back at the pontoon where Curt reclined on one of the padded benches: arms folded, feet propped up on a railing and a khaki fishing hat covering his eyes. He appeared to be sound asleep.

“I don’t know what to do …” She pursed her lips as if holding back another flood of emotion. “And I am
so
embarrassed.”

“Let it go,” said Osborne. “We’ve all been there. Right now you’ve got your hands full with those two—better keep an eye on them or you’ll be embarrassed in ways you never expected.” He pointed towards Ray and Nick who were wrestling with the portable grill. C J. grinned, “I’ll bet you’re right.”

Turning towards the lake, Osborne shouted, “Hey, young lady,” in an alert to Mason who had waded back into the water chasing frogs, “time for you and me to take a walk. Go exploring.”

“O-o-o-KAY!” shouted Mason as she splashed his way. Her eyes had been tinged with worry ever since the altercation on the pontoon but the invitation to walk with her grandfather appeared to spark glee and relief.

They trudged along a sandy, pebble-strewn path for a few yards. It led up a steep hill and down the other side with enough tall grasses and tag alder shrubs to hide them from the others. A rotting tree trunk lying lengthwise beckoned, and Osborne sank down with a sigh.

Mason plopped down alongside, hands tucked between her knees and a serious look on her face. Osborne waited, not

sure how to open the conversation. She spoke first, “That man is mean, Grandpa. I don’t like him. C.J. is so nice. Why is he so mean?”

“I don’t know, hon. But there are a lot of mean people in this world and they can be hard to understand. If it makes you feel better, I don’t like him either. For your next lesson on fly fishing, we’ll go on my bassboat and invite C.J. Only C.J. How’s that sound?”