A Strange Little Band

by Judith B. Glad

  Annie could find no response and Ward did not press her. They turned their backs to the moon and slowly retraced their steps in silence. When they were within a hundred yards or so of the women's house, Ward stopped again.

  "You know, kiddo, your grandmother's advice to you may seem harsh and uncaring, but it's not. She's trying to help."

  Annie made an incoherent sound of protest and disagreement.

  "That mean old lady's my mother, you know. She's quite a gal. Wise, stubborn, and indestructible."

  "And heartless!"

  "Not a bit of it. You don't, you can't possibly know what she's lived through, following Dad to construction projects all over the world, while raising five kids. No, kiddo, your gran's trying, in her not too subtle way, to teach you what she learned the hard way--to pick yourself up again and go on, no matter how completely life seems to have beat you down."

  "Stiff upper lip and all that, you mean.".

  "Precisely. That may not be the easiest way, in the short term, to deal with heartbreak and sorrow, but over time it's the best way. Losers give in. Blankenships fight back."

  "If you say so." Annie was too weary and miserable to argue. Hadn't she tried to fight back? Tried to shed the burden of sorrow, to resolve the guilt? Hadn't she?

  He tousled her hair. "End of lecture. Now tell me about that young man Gib found you with this morning."

  Annie swallowed the tears that threatened to choke her. "He was just a fisherman. I watched him catch a fish, then turn it loose. Isn't that dumb? All that effort and nothing to show for it."

  "And so you told him what you thought?"

  Annie nodded.

  "Traces of the old Annie, after all. The eternal pragmatist. What did he say when you told him that?"

  Annie related the gist of her conversation with the fisherman, but did not repeat his suggestion that she should learn to fly fish. She was still thinking about that.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday

  Loud voices from the next room woke Hetty far too early the next morning. She pulled the pillow over her head, muttering, "I'm on vacation, damn it. Put a sock in it."

  It helped a little. Not nearly enough. When Charlene's foot nearly landed on her elbow, she flung the pillow aside and sat up. "What the hell's going on?"

  Annie was propped up on an elbow. "I don't know, but it sounds like someone's getting killed."

  "It's Angela," Charlene said over her shoulder as she opened the door. "I'm going to see if Emma's all right."

  "Maybe I should..."

  "Enough!" The word came clearly through the wall.

  "Never mind," Hetty said. "Kristi's in charge." She plopped the pillow back over her face, only to have it snatched away.

  "Listen," CeCe told her. "It's that Serhilda. She's fighting with Kristi."

  "Oh, God, I guess one of us had better go see." Hetty rolled out of bed, shivering in the chill of the room. She snatched her robe from the foot of the bed, but didn't bother with slippers.

  Another scream rattled the windows.

  "That's Angela. Sound's like she's being scalped or something." CeCe jumped down from her upper bunk. "I'm gonna go see."

  "Wait--"

  Too late. She was gone.

  Hetty hesitated. The last thing she wanted to do was deal with Angela. One wrong word and Jennifer and Eric would be on her like steamrollers. Nonetheless, she followed Charlene and CeCe. Slowly. Hoping the altercation would be resolved before she got there.

  Annie was climbing out of bed when she went through the door.

  CeCe had hold of Angela, who was making a good try at imitating a calliope. Emma was huddled in her bunk, clinging to Charlene. Her thumb was in mouth, her eyes were big as saucers and fat tears glistened on her cheeks. Serhilda and Kristi were in a face-off in the center of the room, not quite nose-to-nose, but they might as well have been. As Hetty entered, Kristi was saying, "I don't care what Aunt Frances told you. There's no smoking in this house. Not in any of the houses. It's the rule."

  "Fuck off, bitch. You're not in charge." A smoking cigarette bobbed in the corner of her mouth.

  Angela screamed again, and kicked back at CeCe's legs. Fortunately she was barefooted, so she did no damage.

  "As a matter of fact, I am," Kristi said. "It's a family rule that the oldest person in the room is in charge of all the kids present. Now put out that cigarette."

  "Make me."

  As Kristi hesitated, Hetty stepped forward and snatched the cigarette. "Kristi, get me something to put this thing in. Serhilda, it's possible Frances didn't understand the rules, but when Kristi told you there was no smoking inside, you should have paid attention. You're welcome to smoke anywhere outdoors, as long as you don't leave your butts lying around."

  Serhilda turned her back. CeCe released Angela, who had stopped screaming, but looked ready to start again at the slightest provocation. "Charlene, take Emma out of here. In fact, all of you clear out. All but Serhilda."

  She noticed then that Annie was staring at Emma, her mouth twisted as if she was trying to stop her own tears. For a moment she was moved to sympathy, then she remembered the promise Gran had demanded of her. "Annie, go see if there's any coffee. I can't be a peacemaker without caffeine."

  Serhilda took a step toward the door.

  "Hold it. Where do you think you're going?"

  Serhilda strained against Hetty's grip on her upper arm. "Let go, God damn it! I'm outta here."

  "No, you're not. Sit down." When the young woman resisted, Hetty applied force, pushing her into the nearer bottom bunk. "Kristi, you too. Sit over there."

  When both young women were seated, glowering, on the lower bunks, she said, "Okay, here's the deal. Kristi, you're in charge of Emma. Serhilda, you're responsible for Angela. As long as those two little girls are in this room with you, they are your responsibilities. The whole enchilada. Tooth brushing, picking up toys, making beds, and anything else they need. Got it?"

  "Go to hell!"

  Kristi simply glared, her lower lip stuck out.

  "Not only that," Hetty continued, ignoring their reactions, "you will be responsible for them getting along with each other and with everyone else. Serhilda, you've got the more difficult task. Angela is spoiled rotten, and will do everything she can to get you into trouble with her parents. I'll back you if you deserve it, but if you're smart, you'll avoid any confrontations with Jennifer. Believe me, you'd lose."

  "I don't know anything about kids," Serhilda said, sounding less belligerent with every word. "It's not fair, making me responsible for her."

  "Life's not fair, kiddo, and the sooner you learn that, the better. Kristi?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Go get Emma and get her dressed. Since Peter and Kenna didn't come running when the screaming started, I imagine they've already gone up to the cookshack, so you can take Emma up there. She probably needs her mama."

  When Kristi had gone, Hetty lowered herself to the floor in front of Serhilda. "I don't know what Frances was thinking of, bringing you here. She could have given you the week off, instead of-- What?"

  "The week off? What do you think I am, her fucking maid?" Serhilda said, voice cracking.

  "Well, no, actually I figured you were her assistant. Her secretary, maybe."

  "The bitch. The fucking bitch. I thought you knew."

  All bravado was gone. Hetty revised her estimate of Serhilda's age downward by a good five years. "All I know is your name. Frances hasn't exactly kept in touch with the family. What is it? What should I...we know?"

  Serhilda's laugh was harsh, humorless. "That I'm your cousin, that's what. The bitch is my mother."

  * * * *

  Annie's hands were still shaking when she drove away from the compound. How she hated confrontation. Always had. As a middle child, she'd been a peacemaker, and she still had the urge to soothe ruffled feathers and shush raised voices.

  When she reached the pavement, she turned north, but instead of going all the wa
y to the highway, she headed toward the Harriman Park entrance. This early, the only people she was likely to encounter there were birders, and they were not inclined to be talkative.

  She'd had about all the talk she could stand for one morning.

  When she'd gone to the kitchen to start coffee, everyone had been jabbering at once. Everyone but Angela, who had still let out the occasional scream. Finally Charlene had threatened to throw a glass of ice water in her face if she screamed one more time, and she'd shut up.

  How on earth did Jennifer and Eric cope with her? The little girl's voice grated on Annie's nerves like fingernails on a blackboard. As strongly as she felt against physically punishing a child, she had been tempted to slap Angela's face this morning.

  Poor little Emma. Knowing her elder brother, Annie was sure his baby girl had never been exposed to shouting and screaming. No wonder she was terrified.

  Calvin would have clung, just as Emma had. Would have clung and buried his face against her breasts.

  Was that why she had this constant ache, just over her heart. Because Calvin was no longer here to bury his face against her? To fill her arms with his warm little body?

  Stop it! You're supposed to be getting better, not making yourself feel worse!

  She parked near the Visitor Center and took the trail that led to the river. When she reached the basalt promontory, she found the river empty of human presence, even though she had been hoping to see her fly fisherman.

  Her fly fisherman. What a silly thought. The fly fisherman.

  Hiking downstream, she soon spotted a red pickup at the fishing access. Beyond it he was standing on the riverbank, hands in hip pockets of baggy tan pants, hair shining golden in the morning light. She walked down to join him, resolutely ignoring the tiny bubble of excitement in her midriff.

  "Good morning," he said, without turning as if he had known she would be there.

  "How did you know it was me?"

  "I saw you through the trees. Glad you came."

  Now that he was before her, Annie was having second thoughts about the favor she was about to ask him. She scuffed the toe of her sneaker in the dry soil at her feet and stared out across the river, wondering if his offer had been meant seriously or if he had just been being polite.

  "Yesterday you asked me if I would like to learn to fly fish..."

  Clay's found her expression intriguing. What had made this woman so uncertain about asking a favor? The way she had approached along the trail spoke to him of enthusiasm, liveliness, a zest for life. Yet here she was, trying to ask him to teach her about his all-consuming interest, acting as if she expected him to refuse.

  "And..." He gave her a sunny grin, hoping to put her at ease. Her full lips answered it tentatively, but she avoided his inquiring gaze, shifting her attention to the river.

  "Well..." She bit her lip and took a deep breath, an effect that tantalized Clay. "Look, I don't even know your name. I feel...uncomfortable, asking you to do something for me when we're still perfect strangers."

  He couldn't help but grin. Perfect strangers? Not exactly. Not after her visits to his dreams. "Clay Knight. And you are...?"

  "Annie Ab-- Annie Ogilvie." She held out a hand.

  He took it, was unsurprised at its delicacy. One of the first things he'd noticed about her was her apparent fragility. Yet she'd walked along the trail as if she were at home on long hikes, as if she was reasonably athletic, not sedentary. "I'm glad to meet you, Annie. And yes, I'd enjoy teaching you about fly fishing."

  "There's only one thing..."

  "Yes?"

  "Can I do it from the bank?" The swift glance she cast toward the river struck him as more fearful than hesitant.

  "Sure. It's not as much fun, but it works."

  Her expression reminded him of a puppy who knew it had done something wrong. "You're sure it's not an inconvenience?"

  "It was my idea in the first place, wasn't it? You're here with your family aren't you? Do any of them have fishing gear?"

  "How did you know-- Of course. Dad, yesterday. Yes, I'm here with my family. It's like a reunion. But no, I don't think any of them fish. Not like you do."

  He had to shake his head at anyone coming to fly fisherman's heaven for a vacation and not fishing. That's just bizarre. "Well, we'll have to see if we can find some waders for you. I'll check this afternoon. In the meantime, I can explain what all my equipment is for, and maybe show you how to cast."

  "Can't I just watch you, instead? You came out here to fish, not give lessons. I can be thinking of questions while I watch you."

  Clay wondered what caused her to be so unsure of herself. "Well, okay, if that's what you want to do. It'll be pretty boring, though."

  "I don't mind. I sort of like the idea of doing nothing this morning."

  Annie watched as Clay removed his pants, unable to look away from his hands. Underneath he wore running shorts and long johns again. Even so, she felt a shiver of something she did not want to acknowledge as his muscular legs were revealed. She was almost disappointed when he pulled the heavy, shapeless chest waders on. Before he entered the river, he removed the Thermos from the back pocket of his vest and handed it to her. "Help yourself. Just save me a cup, will you?"

  For more than an hour she sat on the bank, watching Clay slowly work his way upstream. It was difficult to ask questions when the source of your information was a hundred yards away, she acknowledged. But the experience of seeing him gracefully cast, whipping the rod over his head, laying the fly in just the right spot, was worth having her questions go unanswered.

  He was truly an artist. Every motion was controlled, efficient, like a dancer's. When he cast, the singing of the line, as it curled through its loop into a silvery tendril above the water, blended with the soft murmur of the river and the distant, high-pitched bird calls. At last he reeled the line in and turned to wade toward the bank. Holding up the vacuum bottle, she waved. He grinned in response.

  She'd found a small clearing about twenty feet back from the bank, where a log lay across a couple of rocks, at just the right height to be a comfortable backrest. He removed the chest waders and seated himself beside her. Slanting rays of sunlight shone though the surrounding trees, lighting him, turning him into something from her girlhood fantasies. If it weren't for those raggedy longjohns, he'd look like a knight. Then she had to giggle, because he was exactly that. A Knight.

  "Something funny?"

  "No. Nothing, really. Here." She handed him the cup.

  "Ah, that hits the spot," Clay said, after taking a cautious sip. He leaned back onto one elbow. "You know, I think the fish must be taking their midmorning nap. Nary a rise."

  "I noticed that you weren't having much luck. Is it always like this?" Annie sat tailor fashion before him, aware of tiny beads of perspiration dampening her upper lip. She picked up his discarded cap and fanned herself with it.

  "No. In June, during the green drake hatch, I've caught six or eight within an hour."

  "What's that--the green drake hatch?"

  "Ephemeroptera. Mayflies. Great big ones. A lot of fly fishing success depends on the insects that are available to fish. You have to know what the fish are feeding on in order to choose flies that will attract them."

  "In other words, you cheat." Desperate for something to distract her wayward mind, she poured liquid sunscreen into her palm. As she stroked it onto the other arm, she sensed Clay following her motions. Goosebumps rose along the path of his gaze. She saw him swallow convulsively before looking away.

  "Cheat? Me?" he protested, with a little catch in his voice. "I never cheat!"

  "What do you call it, then? Tricking the poor fish. You ought to be ashamed of yourself."

  "Not a bit of it. A good fly fisherman has to know quite a bit of entomology or he'll never catch anything. This river is a good example. There are two hatches in June--green drakes and pale morning duns--that bring fly fishermen here from all over the world." He reached for the coffee. "Th
ey're both mayflies."

  "What are they eating now? More mayflies?"

  "Grasshoppers, mostly. I was using a Henrys Fork Hopper yesterday, when you saw me catch the big one. Today, I'm trying something a little different," he said, showing her the tiny fluff of red and black attached to the end of his line. "But they don't seem to like ants this morning. I'll probably change it before I go back out. Right now I'm enjoying the sun." He lay back, closing his eyes and stretching out his legs. "And the company," he murmured, so softly that Annie barely heard him.

  Annie was hard put to untangle her confused reactions to Clay. His very presence succored her, as if he possessed an inner source of repose that her soul responded to. No problem there. She needed all of that she could get. It was this other elemental need she was experiencing that unnerved her. The inner warmth, the faint stirrings of desire--they were out of time and place.

  His plaid shirt, brown today, was unbuttoned and falling open, exposing a muscular chest. Walter had been a hairy man, so much so that he had shaved well below his collar line. Clay Knight's body was relatively hairless, smooth, golden, and solid. Annie had a sudden vision of her hand spread across his hard belly, stroking up between the solid slabs of pectoral muscle.

  She jumped to her feet. "You'll never catch any fish this way," she said when Clay started at her sudden movement. "Go catch another one so I can see again how you do it. I've got to be back at the cookshack in less than an hour."

  Clay pulled himself to a sitting position. "Slave driver." He grinned, reassuring her that he was indeed willing to return to the river. "Hand me my vest."

  Annie watched as he removed the colorful fly from his line, replacing it with one that looked for all the world like a fat grasshopper with its wings half open. "Where do you get your flies?" she said.

  "Tie 'em myself. It's something to do on long winter evenings. There. If that doesn't appeal to a trout appetite, I'll eat it myself."

  Annie chuckled. "Save it until I can watch. Are you still heading upstream?"