Dead Water (16 page)

“Trust me, she’s not that busy. You’re such a wuss, Dad. Just … go for it, y’know.”

“What are you talking about?” He tried to give her a stern look, but she slapped him on the shoulder and hooted with laughter.

Then her face settled into an attempt at a very serious look. Dropping her voice so his two granddaughters watching television in the next room couldn’t hear, she leaned forward. “Dad, if you don’t know it now, you never will.”

“What
are you talking about?” Osborne knew the moment he uttered the words he’d made a mistake.

“What do you mean, what am I talking about? Those are Mom’s famous words. That’s all she ever told me and Mallory about sex. ‘If you don’t know it now, you never will.’ ”

“Honestly, Erin, sometimes you’re worse than your children.”

“Da-a-d…. Go for it. I like Lew. Mallory likes Lew. We want you to—”

“This is embarrassing. We’re just fishing buddies. And, um, there’s a fella by the name of Hank Kendrickson who’s been asking her out, too.”

“No … for real, Dad? He’s an interesting guy. I know I’d put him on my list if I were single.”

“What?” Osborne was taken aback. “How do
you
know Hank Kendrickson?”

“He made a presentation to the school board several weeks ago. We’re looking for ideas on how to better invest the endowment, and someone suggested Hank because he’s been so successful in the stock market. I was impressed.

“You know, Dad.” Erin crossed her arms and leaned back against the kitchen counter, a thoughtful look on her face. “There’s a guy who is a good example of what attracts a woman. I mean, he’s not drop-dead handsome, but he’s got a shrewd look in his eye, a very nice smile … and he listens.”

“He listens?”

“Yeah. Most men don’t; they’re always looking over your shoulder or their eyes space out while you’re talking. Hank Kendrickson comes across as very smart and kinda sexy, if you ask me. Plain old charisma.”

The look on Osborne’s face must have been one of acute dismay, because Erin reached to hook her arm through his. “Hey, don’t look so down, Dad. You’re not a bad catch yourself, y’know.”

“Oh sure. I’m ten years older and short sixty million bucks.”

“That may be, but you are the best-looking man in Loon Lake.”

“Easy for you to say, sweetheart.”

“You are, Dad.” She gave him a teasing look. “I have single friends who have asked me about you.”

“They have?” His spirits lifted a tiny bit.

“Yes, they have. Don’t you worry about Hank, even if he does call Lew. I can tell from the look on her face she thinks you’re very cool.”

Osborne shook his head. “You’re just saying that to make your old man feel better.”

“No, I’m not! Oh, darn. I shouldn’t have said anything. Now you’re all worried. Listen, Dad, Lew would not be having dinner at your house—the two of you alone—if she wasn’t interested. Trust me on this. I’m female. I know. Now get outta here and get cooking.”

Erin pushed him toward the door. “Put a candle on the table, Dad. Okay? Placemats, napkins, silverware, and a
candle.
Promise?”

“I promise.”

He knew she was smiling after him as he walked out the door. Driving home, Osborne wondered if he would ever make it through this passage in life. It isn’t easy falling in love when you’re sixty-three.

It was nearly seven when Osborne hurried down to the dock with his muskie rod and tackle box, anxious to set up so he and Lew could start casting the minute she arrived. The clouds were darker now; they would be lucky to get in an hour of fishing. Osborne counted four boats out on the lake, four sets of numnut fishermen willing to risk death by lightning because it upped the percentage for hooking a big one.

He heard voices and looked over to see Ray out on his own dock with Nick. Concentrating on helping the kid learn to cast, he wasn’t aware Osborne was watching. Ray’s voice carried easily, even though they were a good 150 feet away.

“Good … good,” he heard Ray coach the boy. “All right, cast toward the horizon, that’ll help you get that lure up and out. Better … You’re getting the hang of it. No matter what anyone ever tells you, you stay with this overhead cast; don’t sidearm it, okay? Watch that razzbonya in the boat over in that weed bed to the right. He’s doing it wrong. He’ll hook a nose before he gets a walleye…. Jeez!” Ray flinched at the sight of the fisherman’s next cast. “Now that, Nick, is what they mean when they say, ‘Fishing is a jerk on one end of a line waiting for a jerk on the other.’ ”

“Yeah?” The kid’s voice sounded petulant. “This is dumb. Look how shallow it is. I’ll never catch anything doing this, Ray. Can I quit now?”

The boy lowered his rod and turned to the man standing beside him. One look at the two of them, and Osborne recognized a familiar scene: He’d been there. As clearly as he saw the slouch in the boy’s back, he could see the look of defiance on Mallory’s sixteen-year-old face. A look she had turned on him every time he had tried to help or correct or be a good father. He finally gave up. Let her learn on her own. Maybe they always have to. The day did come that she walked into his house, asked for advice and actually listened to what he had to say. But that was six months ago. She was thirty-three years old. He sure hoped Ray wasn’t in for such a long haul.

“So how come we aren’t out in a boat like those guys?” he heard Nick complain again.

“Boater today, floater tomorrow,” said Ray breezily. “Look, I’ll put you in a boat when you have more control over your cast. Nothing is more ignominious than going into the lake after your fish.”

“This is dumb,” said the boy, giving his rod a halfhearted sweep. The lure landed about thirty feet away, just short of the weed bed fronting Ray’s dock. He reeled in and as the lure neared the dock, Ray prompted, “Good, keep it steady, now remember what I told you about that figure eight, swirl it, swirl it—”

“Yow!” Nick screamed and backed up. Forgetting where he was, he stepped back so far he went right off the dock and into the water. Hitting flat on his back, he went under and came up sputtering. Staggering and flailing, he stood up in water just above his knees.

“Holy shit, what was that?”

“A small northern,” said Ray calmly, picking up the rod that Nick had dropped on the dock.

“That was a monster,” said the kid. He was scrambling up on the dock as if he thought the thing was after him.

“I’ve been trying to tell you, Nick. Fishing is a challenging sport.” The dry tone in Ray’s voice told Osborne he was tickled to death that a fish had struck at the lure. “Nice looking fish, huh? Tough to clean, but good eating. Up here we call that fish the wolf of the north.”

“I believe it,” said Nick. “Whoa.”

“Small potatoes. A muskie is ten times that size. We call her the shark of the north, queen of the freshwater fish. This is what I’ve been trying to tell you, Nick, you haven’t fished until you’ve fought a muskie. That’s when
you
get hooked.”

The boy stood dripping and shivering as water streamed from his shorts. The slouch was gone.

“A muskie is
ten times
as big as that one?” He was awestruck. “But that thing was huge. The mouth, the teeth!” Osborne was delighted. The kid had obviously gotten a full frontal view of the arcing fish.

“You betcha. You’ll get used to it.”

“Where’s my rod? Did I catch that thing?”

“Nope. That’s what we call a strike. And if you
see
the fish, but it doesn’t strike your lure, we call it a follow.”

“So how do I catch it?”

“That’s the next lesson. I’ll teach you how to set the hook … but we need to get you a towel and some dry clothes.”

“No, no, I’m fine. So I really can catch a big fish just standing right here?”

“That’s why I bought this place. That weed bed, this whole lake, is rich with trophy muskie. But the muskie is a wise and wary fish. We may know they’re out there, but we can’t see them in this dark water.”

“Can they see us?”

“Oh yeah, and they are always watching. Y’know, Nick, men have paid me a thousand bucks a day to help them hook one of those magnificent fish. I can never guarantee success, because even I never know for sure what’s under the surface. What I can guarantee is the thrill when they hook one. It thrills the soul, Nick. The soul. Life just doesn’t get any better.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” said Nick, “I’m never gonna swim in this lake. Not with those things in here.”

At that, Ray threw his head back and laughed. He laughed and laughed. “They won’t hurt you, Nick. Don’t worry about that.”

The boy reached for the rod. “Let me cast just a couple more times, then I’ll go up, okay?”

Osborne could tell from his tone that Nick was both frightened and happy and close to being hooked on fishing. Not that he would admit it, at least for a while. And it crossed Osborne’s mind as he watched Nick’s casts that seeing a youngster raise their first big fish was almost as good as watching them take their first step. Both are moves that can take you out into the world and lead to great happiness.

“Doc!”

Startled, Osborne swung around, tripping over the tackle box at his feet. “Oops! Don’t fall into the boat lift.” Lew grabbed him by the arms. She held on, too; she didn’t let go. “Steady there. I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

“I didn’t hear you coming,” said Osborne. “I was concentrating on the fishing lesson Ray was giving young Nick over there.” They looked over to see Ray and Nick staring at them. Osborne was suddenly aware he was standing so close to Lew that with her still holding on to him, they must appear to be embracing. Taking his heart in his hands or maybe it was Erin’s advice, Osborne decided he liked the image. Ray would razz him anyway. So he took his own hands and placed them at Lew’s waist. He was very pleased to find the pose seemed incredibly natural.

“Now I’m very steady, Lew,” he smiled down at her. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she said looking up at him with a pleased smile as she took her hands away. Osborne let his linger just a moment longer. He resisted the impulse to pull her closer. Something told him she might not resist if he did. A happy calmness settled over him.
Not yet,
he thought to himself,
not quite yet.

Lew had changed from her uniform into a pair of dark-green fishing shorts and a burgundy T-shirt. As she stepped away from him, Osborne touched her right arm just below the elbow with his finger. It was the spot where her skin changed from a warm brown to a much paler shade. “Fishing tan, huh?”

Osborne felt an instant charge of electricity as his hand grazed her arm. Again, she didn’t move away. It was almost as if she lingered, even enjoyed being so close to him.

“Where’s your gear?” he asked, his voice low so he wouldn’t break the spell.

“Right there.” She pointed back to the front of the dock. She walked over and knelt to pick up her rod and open her tackle box. She turned to him with a lure in her hand. “I was planning to fish with my Bobbie tonight, Doc, but I don’t think it’s right for this lake. And I’ve got an ounce weight in front of the bait, too.”

“That’ll drop way too deep, Lew. Now you know why I like the Mud Puppy. This lake is so shallow, I use a surface lure in most places.”

“I can see that. I didn’t think you could get a big fish in two and a half feet of water. How deep does this lake get, anyway?”

“Twelve, fourteen feet.”

“Jeez, that is shallow. Good structure?”

“Excellent structure. We’ve got a long sand bar that runs across that southern end.” Osborne pointed in the direction of the sand bar. “And a very rocky bottom with some huge boulders, most of them marked. You’ll see three, four fishing boats anchored around those locations almost every morning. But that weed bed in front of Ray’s dock is one of the best places to hook a muskie on this entire chain. I’ve seen some forty-five to fifty-inchers taken out of here. Lew, I thought you fished this lake the year you won the Hodag Muskie Tournament over in Rhinelander. Ray told me you got first place.”

“Yep, but I was fishing Lake Thompson. I’ve never fished Loon Lake. This is a first.”

And not your last
, thought Osborne.
Not if I take Erin’s advice.
And with that, he handed over his bright-orange mud puppy. “Give it a try, Lew.” He didn’t tell her she was the first fisherman he ever let use the prized lure.

“There’s magic in this mud puppy,” he said, “I’ve caught more than a dozen muskies with this lure over the last thirty years, including one that measured a whopping forty-seven inches.”

Osborne watched her tie it on, his heart happy, his trophy for the evening not a fish at all but a lovely woman named Lew. The mud puppy was magic indeed; it worked in reverse!

twenty

“Muskie: the fish of 10,000 casts.”

Anonymous

The
storm was moving in fast. Lightning lacerated the western sky. Dense clouds silhouetted the tamarack spires on the far shore and masked the early evening sun. The temperature had dropped, too, from the low eighties to nearly sixty, a summer cold front.

Soon soft, warm pellets of rain began to drift toward them. Osborne lifted his face, letting them fall like a sweet shower against his eyelids and cheeks. He looked over at Lew. She had that unmistakable gleam in her eye that said she knew what he knew: This was exactly the kind of rainstorm that pulls lunker muskies—huge muskies—up to the surface. They
love
warmer water. They may hide deep, they may fight deep, but they love to tease the surface when air and water temperatures are colliding.

Ray’s dock was empty. He and Nick had retreated into the trailer with the first raindrops. In fact, all the docks within sight were empty, and only two of the fishing boats remained. This was typical. Osborne had learned years ago that only a select few muskie fishermen would brave a thunderstorm. Actually, only a crazy few. But at the end of the season, if they were still alive, the storm guys would have seen a lot more muskies than the wimps. Ray usually fished storms. Osborne figured he must be trying to keep Nick happy; otherwise for sure he would be out.