Fishing With RayAnne

by Ava Finch

  At twelve, she was too selfish to care what sort of time Gran or her parents might be having. Big Rick had taken up residence in a motel near the Minneapolis airport. Bernadette was attending the women’s divorce support retreat that would become the grit in the oyster of inspiration for her future career of Blood-Tide Questing.

  Ky, ten and clueless, was spending the entire school break skiing in Montana with a classmate’s rich family, having the time of his life.

  As if it were possible, the weeks after the holiday were even worse for RayAnne. She struggled daily but could not keep good thoughts in her head. Home was a fun house of Bernadette’s triumvirate of moods: weepy, furious, and giddy. School felt like a trip down a cinder path on hands and knees. Usually an eager student, RayAnne suddenly hated school, felt the sniggers behind her back. She couldn’t open her mouth without her cheeks flaring apple-red, earning her the name “RaygedyAnne.”

  Which was exactly how she felt then. And now.

  She starts at the sound of van doors slamming in the distance, gravel crunching as vehicles depart to transport sponsors back to Schmancy Camp.

  Once assured all is quiet, RayAnne steps out into the night with her backpack and rolls her heavy suitcase carefully over tree roots. Parts of the camp have already been broken down, the docks cleared of equipment, pontoons motored back to the marina they’d been rented from, the satellite truck telescoped down and driven away. Looking out over the lake, she sees the northern lights are still on and idly wonders if her awe has been shut off.

  As she nears the party tent, a set of voices and footsteps move inside. Most tiki torches have burnt out, but one in the tent casts flickering silhouettes of two men like shadow puppets: one unmistakable and bulky, the other slim. Their forms move to the stage, where a few folding chairs are still set up. Her father stumbles as he steps onstage. “Shit, this thing moving?”

  “You okay there, Rick?” Hal’s shadow reaches out to steady her father’s.

  Realizing there’s no way they can see her, RayAnne edges closer.

  “Yee-up, all good. Thanks. It’s Cal, right?”

  “Close enough.”

  Big Rick thuds onto a chair. “Some party. That horn player? My grandsons sound better blowing toilet paper rolls.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, they weren’t so bad. Might’ve been a better party, though. Shame RayAnne couldn’t join us.”

  “Safe to say she’s avoiding her old man. That one can nurse a grudge.”

  “Well, today wasn’t exactly—”

  “Ha! You don’t know my daughter very well, fella.”

  “Maybe not as much as I’d like.” He clears his throat.

  Her father shifts and fishes in his pockets, and she hears car keys jangle. “Well, Cal.” Big Rick slaps both thighs. “Time to get a move-on.”

  “Pretty late to be on the road, don’t you think?”

  “Nah. Besides, I already broke down my tent. If I start now, I can be in the cities by morning.”

  Hal pauses. “Listen, I’ve got a fold-out you can bunk on. That way you can get some sleep and have some breakfast before heading out.”

  Keys dangling from her father’s fingers drop to the stage. Hal is quick to pick them up but doesn’t hand them back.

  “All settled then: you bunk with me, say good-bye to RayAnne in the morning before you leave.”

  “Oh, I dunno. She’s a pretty tough nut.”

  “Maybe not so tough, Rick.” He helps her father to his feet.

  She watches them leave like she might watch a scene in some film, Hal bent a little under the weight of her father. Well, she thinks. Another lost to Big Rick’s charms.

  Halfway to her car she stops caring about the clatter she’s making, wrestling her roller bag over gravel as best she can with her stupid, itching flipper-hands. She shoves her luggage into the hatchback, jams herself behind the wheel, and turns the key with difficulty, like a parody of starting a car. Tires skid as she peels out of the parking area with as much peel as a four-cylinder Scion can manage.

  A few hours later she stops at a Motel 6 north of Duluth. At reception she requests two ice buckets, and then must ask the sleepy desk clerk to wrangle the credit card out of her wallet because her fingers are too swollen. She spends the rest of the night propped in bed, flanked by the buckets with her hands submerged like twin Titanics, listening to the champion snorer in the next room.

  As she drifts, she recites the slogans of every hokey inspirational poster she’s ever seen: Hang in there! Losing Isn’t Not Winning! After the second dose of Benadryl takes effect, a more reasonable voice finally incites her to sleep: Old Lodge Skins, distant, but resonant.

  “Sometimes the magic works. Sometimes it doesn’t.”

  ELEVEN

  Teresa Hedley of K9ResQ is all business during her inspection, poking into RayAnne’s rooms and closets, scribbling cryptically on a clipboard. The interview is so in-depth, RayAnne wonders if adopting a child might be easier. She’s had to defend her motivations for getting a dog in the face of a dozen questions. An entire week has been spent making the house dog friendly—a canine haven replete with a bone-shaped fleece dog bed, basket of chew toys, the double stainless dish in its own stand so no one has to down-dog for meals. Upon entering the kitchen, Teresa eyes these items warily.

  “You understand there’s no guarantee we can partner you with a dog right away.” She squints at the pantry, separated from the kitchen by the novelty beaded curtain RayAnne spent an entire summer making. “Are those fishing lures?”

  RayAnne edges in front. “The barbs have been removed.”

  Teresa makes another note.

  RayAnne is not deterred—it’s all about getting a dog. Since her return from being on Location, she’s busied herself with all things dog—reading dog books; surfing dog sites; investigating breeds, their habits, behaviors; the longevity and health issues of French bulldogs versus Hungarian vizslas. Were Teresa to suddenly give a pop quiz on hip dysplasia in shepherds, RayAnne would ace it. Perhaps she shouldn’t appear as determined as she feels. “Right. I’m in no rush or anything. I’m just getting prepared, so . . .”

  “A dog.” Teresa’s pen is poised. “Why now? Why have you chosen this point in your life to adopt?”

  “Well, I’m on break from work, so I have time to devote to training and all that.” She rattles the curtain of old Rapalas and shrugs. “It’s not like I do craft projects all day.”

  It’s almost a relief when Teresa simply gets to the point. “But why, exactly, do you want a dog?”

  Her honest answer, I’m sick of humans, is swallowed. Fine, don’t let me have a dog. I’ll find someone who will. She gives up the posturing and wearily admits, “I just want one. And I promised my grandmother I’d get one.”

  “Well then!” Teresa is suddenly animated, pulling doggy dossiers from her files and spreading them across the kitchen table. Once her papers and doggy portraits are arrayed, she says, “Sit!”

  RayAnne sits. Most of the photos show mixed breeds, but a number are purebreds. The first photo is eye-catching: a cocker spaniel blurred in midair while jumping over a hurdle.

  Teresa nods in approval. “This is Harry, a real active boy.”

  “What do you call what he’s doing?”

  “Agility. Harry is also a great candidate for dock diving.”

  “Would he jump out of a boat?”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m not really set up for flying dogs.”

  The next picture is of a pit bull. “Bob is a special-needs case.”

  “I see.” Never having seen a dog with an eye patch, RayAnne bites her lip. The cold sore has healed, finally, as have her Mickey Mouse hands.

  Teresa whispers over a picture of a handsome if droopy-looking red retriever. “Roscoe. Very quiet.”

  RayAnne checks his sheet, st
opping when she gets to his age, and whispers back, “He might be sort of . . . old?”

  “Well, yes, but. Okay, that’s good. You’re in it for the long haul, then? We have Mitzi here, blue heeler cattle dog. She’s just two, and super smart, but as you can tell from the picture, she’s recently whelped.” Mitzi does look sweet but is weighted by a dozen low-slung teats like half-full water balloons. “Of course we’ll spay her once the pups are weaned, and provide all the puppy chow until they are pla—”

  RayAnne shakes her head, sliding the picture aside. Underneath is a glossy shot of two blue- eyed Australian shepherds, both tilting their heads at the camera at identical angles.

  “They’re awfully cute. And that’s a smart breed, right?”

  “Gracie and George. Brother and sister, not to be separated.”

  “Oh.”

  Teresa lays down three photos with a flourish, each with a four-month-old Brittany spaniel puppy, all with curly liver-and-pearl coats and faces to melt icebergs. RayAnne steels herself against the images—no puppies. She knows how this one goes: you fall for their looks, but they’re utterly unproven; no one can vouch for them save their mother, who only speaks dog. Looking at puppies is like being in a bar at last call wearing what Ky calls beer goggles, when the wrong guy looks fantastic enough to drag home. She stands firm. For one thing, puppies chew, and she’s fond of the few nice things she owns, like the rugs from Gran’s old house, and her new motion-balance shoes, which, while ugly, would ideally remain paired—forget Big Rick’s snipe that even nuns wouldn’t be caught dead wearing them.

  If she were ready to take on the kind of commitment a puppy required, she’d have had an actual child by now. At least the traits of dog breeds are somewhat consistent; human children are the unpredictable mutts.

  Teresa is clearly disappointed when RayAnne shuffles the puppies’ pictures under the others.

  She pauses at the next picture, a tricolored face furred in Starbucks hues of caramel, cream, and espresso. His name is Rory. His coat could be part poodle for its soft wave, but his ears are peaked, one flopped at three-quarter mast like a border collie’s. One of Rory’s eyes is blue; the other is the color and clarity of a wet butterscotch Life Saver. Fringing his muzzle is a Scottie-like scruff that makes him look a little like a dog in disguise. His bicolored gaze is cocked warily at the camera.

  “Who’s this guy?”

  “Breed-wise he’s a Heinz 57, but has some herder in him for sure, maybe a bit of Aussie or border collie with that eye. He’s a . . . different fellow.” Teresa begins moving along, but RayAnne plants her palm on the sheet, pulling it closer.

  “Different how?”

  “He’s a surrender. His owner brought him in complaining he was thunder-shy.”

  “Is that bad?” Seems reasonable to her.

  Teresa shrugs. “Well, actually, most loud noises set him off.”

  “Off, as in?”

  “Off and running—usually to the nearest tight space. He needs to feel safe.”

  Safe. She can relate to that. “What else?”

  Teresa is squinting at the page. “Yes, see, herder tendencies.” She points out a red circle-slash over the silhouette of a toddler. “He should not go to a home with children or other pets.”

  “Other pets.” Danny Boy flits through RayAnne’s mind but is as quickly dismissed, since Gran insists rodents do not qualify as pets. “Because . . . ?”

  “He would herd them into corners and places where he can keep an eye on things. A child or cat might find such behavior frightening or threatening.”

  RayAnne scans his stats and profile: Rory is two years old, neutered, his shots are up to date, he is chipped, house-trained, knows basic commands, scores four out of five on leash manners, and weighs forty pounds. Under “Breed” is the happy-sounding understatement “Variety!” Over the bottom of the printed sheet, someone has handwritten and underlined smart.

  Smart. Smart is good. With the exception of certain promising bright guys in her past who turned out to be duds. On the show, matchmaker Maeve had observed that women often confuse intelligence in a man with integrity—a mistake RayAnne has made, and not just with Titty-Zack.

  But a dog? Surely a smart dog could only be a good dog. Puzzling over an odd term on the page, she asks Teresa, “What’s a ‘Velcro’ dog?”

  A ringtone of French horns interrupts them, emitting from the junk drawer as if a tiny brass ensemble is wedged in amid the pencil stubs and dried-up Sharpies. Teresa looks around curiously before zeroing in on the closed drawer. RayAnne ignores it; having assigned various ringtones to her contacts, she now knows who is calling.

  The calls announced by brass tones are all from WYOY. She’s read the polite texts left by producers and staff, requesting she get in touch at her convenience. She figures the longer she stalls, the more chance her performance with Bernadette has to recede down the queues of producers’ inboxes and memories. Bernadette’s ringtone is “Over the Rainbow” in pan flutes, but her mother hasn’t called, surely sorry she’d ever agreed to appear on Fishing. A phone call would be too casual on either of their parts. Likely Bernadette is not even in range. RayAnne has driven by her house only to find it dark—no doubt she’s off questing somewhere. A letter seems best when it comes to her mother, but RayAnne keeps writing and deleting, typing and deleting.

  Ky’s ringtone is Queen’s “We Are the Champions,” Gran’s is West Side Story’s “Jet Song.” “I Am the Walrus” announces Big Rick, not that he would dare call.

  Teresa nods to indicate the ringing drawer. “Shouldn’t you . . . ?”

  “Answer that? Nah, I pretty much don’t these days unless it’s my grandmother.” RayAnne immediately flashes a grin, not wanting to be perceived as some crank or eccentric. “Can I set up a time to meet Rory?”

  At the door, Teresa casts a scrutinizing eye over her, and for a moment RayAnne fears she’s going to change her mind and reject the application on the spot.

  “You look awfully familiar.”

  RayAnne sighs in relief. “I get told that, like, all the time.”

  “But, I’d swear—”

  “I know. People think I’m someone, but I’m not.”

  There was something the Birkett twins had said, something she’d thought enough of to paraphrase in pink chalk on the kitchen hall blackboard. Choose who you are.

  Kira had said, “We didn’t choose how we are . . .” and Kit had finished, “but at least we can choose who we are.”

  This directive confronts RayAnne every time she bangs in the back door, and for as much as it sounds like something her mother might say, she has to admit, it can’t hurt to try. She will choose who she is, now that she has the time to figure out how. Her only real plans are getting a dog and making a road trip, driving the scenic route all the way down the Mississippi River then east to Florida for an extended stay with Dot over Thanksgiving. In the meantime she’s just hanging. She has ordered a cord of fireplace wood and plans to enjoy every spark and ember of it.

  Rory is being fostered in Wisconsin. Sunday she gets up at dawn in order to get there before the family goes to church. Barely out of Minneapolis, RayAnne realizes she’s going to be ridiculously early. Exiting the freeway, she takes the scenic route meandering up the Saint Croix Valley. The late September sky is wiper-fluid blue, with golden aspen leaves pirouetting in the breeze. Oak leaves hang tight as if knowing they’re in for another Minnesota winter.

  RayAnne is trying to give Bernadette’s axiom “live in the moment” a go. She’s enjoying the scenery. Living “in the now,” according to the author of her favorite new blog, Doggerel, is the number-one best thing about interacting with a dog; you’ve no choice but to be in the moment with them—their moment. It’s been a relief to dig into the topic of dogs after those months of trolling through notes and bios of women she’d wanted to interview for the show. Sin
ce wrapping up the season, she’s spoken to Cassi once to ask if she was going to be fired. Cassi had insisted not, but sounded cagey, saying there would be a few changes, that “wheels are turning.” RayAnne interpreted this to mean producers have begun looking for another Mandy and more celebrity guests to drum up the sorts of underwriting they wet themselves over, like Toyota or Wells Fargo. Wouldn’t it be ironic if Cassi’s prediction actually came true and Fishing became a Coke show after all?

  She pulls into a scenic outlook. The waterfall sends up a fine mist, and a stripe of fog rises just above the river’s surface. Because of the hour, she has the place to herself, but it’s a little like watching a movie alone when it would be better to share it with someone. It might be too early for tourists and Sunday drivers, but it is an hour later in Florida and Gran will be up and baking something by now.

  “Morning, Gran.”

  “My, you sound better.”

  “I am. Great, in fact.”

  “Hmm.” Dot sounds unconvinced. “I thought you were doing a marvelous job.”

  “Of course you’d say that, but Gran, I’m not who they had in mind in the first place. I mean, a camera-shy talk show host? Plus, it wasn’t exactly professional of me to haul along the family baggage, lock, stock, and battling parents. And it wasn’t exactly stressless.”

  “Well, then, good riddance to the headaches, right?” Gran yawned.