Tell No One

by Jeff Vrolyks

  “You’ll know it without knowing you know it.”

  “Gee, that makes a lot of sense, Dad.”

  His father smiled and continued whipping the pole back and forth. Then he stopped and reeled the line in.

  “I’ll do it with you.”

  He handed his son the pole, stood behind him and to the side to avoid getting a metal hook lodged in his ear, and put his hand above his son’s on the pole. His son pulled line out of the reel, the fly hit the water and began drifting down-stream, and kept feeding line until his father said that was good enough. Together they began the motion, backward and forward, backward and forward. The fly never got within two feet of the water at first, but that was fine, his father assured him. They’d get there eventually. They did this for a few minutes, and his father thought he had the motion down fairly enough.

  “Are you ready to try it on your own?”

  “Okay.”

  “Reel it in and start over.”

  The sun was ascending the bright blue sky, an enormous sky spanning states, it seemed. Wasn’t it called Big Sky country? Something like that. And it was getting warm finally. Theodore thought he might take off his flannel shirt and fish in waders and a tee-shirt soon, maybe after lunch. Time was flying by, no pun intended. They had been fishing for hours, his father just a few feet upstream of him, not doing much fishing of his own, but instead watching and offering small tidbits of advice every so often. Theodore was surprising himself with how well he was catching on, and was making his father very proud. The fly was descending to just inches above the swirls and ripples of the river twenty-five feet away, and one time a fish had jumped to strike it, though it had missed. His father suggested he throw the fly a couple feet above that spot and let it float over where the fish had jumped, and he did. He didn’t catch him, but his father had said “Perfect, son, perfect,” and that made him happy.

  It was ten-thirty according to Theodore’s wrist-watch when he asked if they could eat lunch yet. Sure, let’s do it, he replied, and they sloshed through the moving water to the broken-grass clearing. They set their poles down, set up a white sheet from the backpack and sat down on it, ice-chest between them. His father took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled slowly. Theo then did the same thing.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” his father said, more to himself.

  “Do you think the snow ever melts from those mountains?” He pointed to the distant mountains to the north-west, which were at least half-covered with snow.

  “Oh, I’m sure by August the snow is gone.”

  “We should try hunting sometime, Dad. I hear it’s good here.”

  “Very good. I’ve never been hunting, though. I suppose if my father had been a hunter instead of a fisher, we’d be holding guns right now. I wouldn’t mind giving it a try. It could never compete with my love for fishing, though.”

  “I’d only be able to shoot ugly animals. Deers are neat-looking, I wouldn’t shoot one.”

  “They are deer, son, not deers. Like two moose are still moose, not mooses.”

  He pulled out a Ziplocked baggie with a ham sandwich and handed it to his son, then another for himself. Then a Capri Sun and a Miller Lite. His father cracked open his beer, stretched out his legs before him, leaned back on his elbows, and took a sip.

  Theodore did the same, and sipped his Very Berry Capri Sun. Between sips he said, “You know what you should paint?”

  This intrigued his father, who had never heard his son say that. “What should I paint?”

  “This. This exact spot, with those mountains in it. Maybe the sun a little lower, so the sky is glowing orange. That would be cool.”

  “Yes, it would be. Actually, I have considered bringing out a canvas and doing just that.”

  “Why haven’t you then?”

  “I don’t know,” he said dismissively. “Maybe I don’t want to mix business with pleasure. I come out here for fishing, not for work.”

  “I thought you loved painting. I’ve never heard you call it work before.”

  His dad grinned over at his son. “You’re right. I do love painting, Theo. Do you know how lucky I am to be able to support our family doing what I love? I’m very fortunate.”

  James had been a professional artist since he was twenty-two, some fifteen years ago. He was in college, the University of San Francisco, studying Art History. His goal was to become an Art History professor. James had taken a photograph of his favorite painting (an old ship amid a tempest) to show to his professor, who was more of a mentor than his educator. The professor asked James to bring the painting in next week and he did, asked if he could borrow it and he could. He showed his inner-circle of friends the painting, and one of them knew someone who worked in a gallery in downtown San Francisco. It piqued the interest of the owner of that gallery, and he asked to meet with James. James had never been more excited about anything, and brought his other paintings with him in the back of his Datsun and showed them off. Two of his paintings were displayed on the gallery floor and were purchased shortly thereafter, for three-hundred dollars and five-hundred, the ship being the five-hundred dollar sale. That was how it started, and over the years he’d built quite a reputation amongst art-lovers on the local scene of San Fran. He’d been featured in Art World magazine once, ten years ago. He’d never be famous outside of San Francisco, he reckoned, but that was alright. He was selling his paintings for three thousand bucks a piece, and as high as eight thousand. He painted a small rustic Italian village, and for some reason that one was wanted by several people, who bid against each other until it reached fourteen-thousand dollars. James and his wife Lea drank a bottle of Dom Perignon that night.

  “Maybe you could paint me in the picture, catching a fish with my new rod.”

  They smiled at each other. It was short lived, as a distant shriek startled them out of the moment.

  “What was that?” Theo blurted.

  “A girl.”

  It wasn’t a shriek of desperation or horror, but one of mirth. And it came upstream, beyond where the river bent out of view.

  “I thought nobody ever came out here?” Theo said.

  “I thought so, too. Well, we don’t own the river. We can’t expect to be the only two people enjoying such a serene, beautiful spot on the river. A spot crammed with big fat trout.”

  Theodore held his gaze upstream, where the grass of the far bank and the grass of their bank appeared to touch, the river snaking upward and out of view.

  They finished their sandwiches and thought they should put in another hour or two before calling it a day and stopping by the town market for some ribs and barbecue sauce. The market wasn’t in Lotton but in Cedar Hills, a town of three-thousand, some fifteen minutes farther south than Lotton. There was only one business in Lotton and that was a Conoco station. If that Conoco survived on solely the business of people in town, it wouldn’t make enough money to power the lights illuminating the sign, but enough cars traveled through Lotton to make it a sustainable business.

  They resumed fly fishing, and this time engaged in tactics they hadn’t earlier engaged in. Such as hunting for prime spots, spots rich with opportunity, trout habitats. Near large boulders, by fallen trees in the river, by drop-offs marked by slower moving water, and various other places. Together they steadily made their way upstream, casting their flies along the way. It was his father who caught the first fish of the day, and it was a whopper. Theodore held his rod motionless as he watched his dad pulling back the rod, reel some line in, and repeat the process.

  “Come on, dad, don’t lose it, she’s a fighter!”

  He said nothing, but the gleam in his eye said a lot. He was ecstatic. And when he removed the net from the catch on his waist and scooped up a sixteen inch brown trout, his smile was as wide as Theo had ever seen it.

  “Woohoo! Nice, Dad!”

  “Isn’t she a beaut? She’s eighteen inches if she’s an inch!”

  Theodore begged to differ, but it was sti
ll or gorgeous fish. His father took the hook out of the fish and admired it before putting it in the wicker basket slung over his son’s shoulder by a leather strap.

  “Gosh, it barely fits,” his father said.

  “Let’s eat him with our ribs tonight,” Theo said excitedly.

  “Yes, let’s do. I’ll teach you how to gut a trout this afternoon.”

  Theo’s nose squinched at the bridge. “Uh, no thanks. That’s gross.”

  “Gotta learn sometime, son. Men gut fish.”

  “Maybe next year.”

  “It’s your turn to catch one. Let’s catch another and call it a day.”

  They slowly made their way upstream, casting their flies at various spots along the way. His father remembered a good spot, one which he caught perhaps his biggest fish ever since fishing in the Fallbrook river, and it was just a little bit farther upstream. They trudged to the shore and trampled through the tall grass, northwest upstream.

  “There’s a boulder close to the shore,” he said to his son, “and it’s on the edge of a drop-off. Fish hang out there and wait for unlucky bugs to float by.”

  “I remember the spot, dad. That was a big trout.”

  “It’s just a little bit farther.”

  His father stopped. Theo nearly collided into his back. Before Theo could ask why he stopped, he heard talking. A man at first, then a girl.

  “I think they’re at that spot,” James said hushedly.

  “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s go see. And let’s see if they caught anything.”

  James wasn’t as social as his son and thought he had inherited that from his mother. James would be content never encountering anyone while fishing, and that was one reason he loved fishing this section of Fallbrook River. But his son had a point, it would be interesting to see if they’d caught anything. Perhaps they could compare fish. James was plenty proud of his trout.

  “Okay,” his father said and recommenced his pace.

  Once they rounded the bend there was straight stretch of river that went on for maybe a mile. It was plenty wide, a good fifty feet, and slower moving than was the spot by their picnic area. Standing five feet apart in the shallows of the river was a man and a girl, both fly-fishing. They hadn’t spied James and Theodore yet. Unless they had exceptionally good peripheral vision, they wouldn’t see them, but perhaps hear them approaching. James was contemplating their introduction. He didn’t want to startle them, or upset them if this was their coveted spot and saw Theo and James as competition. He didn’t need to contemplate for long, as Theo took it upon himself to say “Hello there!”

  Both heads turned downstream to the boys.

  “Mornin’, fellas!” the man said cordially.

  “Morning,” James said, and just stood there, unsure if he should approach them or not. He hated his awkwardness around people.

  Theodore walked around his father and toward the father-daughter fishing duo. “You guys catch anything?”

  The father began reeling his line in, the girl continued whipping her rod back and forth. “Two trout, you guys?” In an undertone he said to the girl, “Reel it in. Don’t be rude.”

  “Okay, daddy.”

  James followed his son to the strangers. Once arriving, they both shook the man’s hand after he introduced himself as George. George nodded to his girl and said she was Georgette. She stepped to James and Theo while rolling her eyes at her father, and said, “Carmen. Please don’t call me Georgette, I asked you.”

  George grinned down at his daughter, cupped the mane of her blonde hair against the nape of her neck and said, “I’m sorry, Carmen.”

  She shook their hands. Theo couldn’t take his eyes off of her. He was uncharacteristically without words. She looked away from Theo, up at James, and thought she was being stared at, but pretended not to notice.

  “We only caught one so far,” James said. “May we see yours?”

  “If you show me yours,” George said playfully, and opened the lid of the basket at his side. He lifted the fish by its mouth with a thumb and forefinger. “This was mine.” It was about thirteen inches long and pretty fat. He put the fish back and removed the second trout. It was huge. Theo’s gaze at Carmen flashed to the fish. “My girl caught this one,” George said proudly. “Her first fish… isn’t it gorgeous?”

  Theo had resumed his gaze at the girl when he mumbled, “Very.”

  James whistled. “Wow. You caught this?”

  She smiled up at him. Her two front teeth were crooked. Theo thought it was her only flaw, if that could be considered a flaw. Somehow they looked neat on her.

  “Yes, sir! I just learned how to fly fish today and it was my first fish!” James’ heart warmed at her excitement. He wished his daughter Jessica enjoyed fishing.

  “Well you did an amazing job!” He narrowed his eyes on the fish and whistled again. “Do you mind if I hold it?”

  “Not at all,” George said and handed it over.

  James held it with two hands, studied the markings on its body, which were brown spots on an olive green body. The inside of its mouth was white. “What do you think, twenty inches?”

  “I don’t know,” Carmen said and looked up at her dad. “How big do you think?”

  “James is probably right. I’d put her at twenty inches.”

  “Her…?” Carmen said and giggled. “Is my fish a girl, Daddy?”

  “All fish are,” George said and accepted the fish back from James. “Just like all cars are female.”

  “You’re weird,” she said and met eyes with Theo, who still hadn’t much to say.

  James suddenly realized that his son hadn’t said anything, and that wasn’t like him at all. And he was staring at this Carmen girl. James grinned and said, “Son…?” When Theodore looked over at him, James said, “Show them your fish.” He said your suggestively.

  “My fish?” Theo repeated.

  “Yes, show Carmen and her father the fish you caught this morning.” He directed to George, “That’s a coincidence, I taught my boy how to fly fish today as well.”

  “Oh yeah? It’s a good age to learn. I learned at ten. Carmen is eleven.”

  Theodore removed the fish from the basket, held it up for them to see, then placed it back in the basket.

  “How about that?” James said, resumed his gaze at the two kids standing before each other. “Theodore is also eleven. I agree, it is a good age to learn. Kids pick things up so quickly, you know?”

  “Boy howdy,” George said. “Georgette’s only been fishing for four hours and already caught as big a fish as I’ve ever caught out of this river.”

  She beamed up at her father, smile so wide that her lips parted, showing her two crooked front teeth. George winked at her.

  “It’s Theo, not Theodore,” Theo said. “My name’s Theo.”

  James struggled to keep from laughing.

  “Can I call you Beaver?” Carmen said to him with a wry grin.

  “Beaver? Why?”

  “You know, Beaver Cleaver. Theodore.” When he wasn’t responding how she imagined he would, she added, “Leave it to Beaver?”

  “What’s that?” Theo said.

  “What’s that?” Carmen repeated incredulously. “You’ve never watched Leave it to Beaver?”

  “Nuh-uh.”

  “Oh.” She shrugged. “Never mind then.”

  “Where you guys from?” George inquired.

  “San Francisco. You?”

  “San Francisco?” His eyes had widened. “Wow. What brings you all the way out here?”

  “My father owns a summer cabin in Lotton. We come out for a month every year to do some fishing.”

  “Ah, I see. We live in Cedar Hills. Born and raised there.”

  “It’s a lovely town. We buy our groceries there.”

  “We enjoy it. Good hunting, too. Black bear, deer, even an occasional boar. You do any hunting, James?”

  “No,” he said regretfully. “I’m sure it’s a blast. No pun intended.�
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  “You love fishing but don’t hunt? I thought the two went hand in hand.”

  “My father and I used to fish together. He was never into hunting.”

  “I see. Well you ought to give it a try sometime, I think you’d love it.”

  “I just might. I wouldn’t know where to begin, though. Are there guides you can hire to take you out?”

  “Guides?” George appeared to not understand what that meant. “A guide to hunt? Hmm, I don’t think you’d find one of those. Hunting is just something that’s passed down from generation to generation, like your pop taught you how to fish.”

  James nodded. Theo was mindlessly drawing invisible doodles on the lid of the wicker basket. James exhaled deeply, and was on the verge of doing something he never thought he’d do in a million years. But staring down at his son, he knew it was the right thing to do. “My son and I are barbecuing ribs and trout tonight. Cedar Hills is what, a fifteen-minute drive away? You’re welcome to come over and join us.”

  Theo’s eyes flashed up to his dad’s, wide alarmed eyes.

  “That is mighty kind of you to offer.” George scratched the stubble on his cheek. His pensive demeanor made James feel awkward, as surely he was searching for a polite way of declining the invitation.

  “It’s okay, if you’re busy or something. I don’t want you to feel like you have to. I just thought it would be nice to meet some of the locals here.”

  “No-no, it isn’t that. I was just remembering what Cheryl had planned on cooking tonight, and I think she had a roast defrosting. I could call her and tell her not to put it in the oven. Or she could cook it and you two could join us. We don’t get many outsiders visiting us. I’m sure she’d welcome the company.”

  Outsiders? James thought. “I don’t want to be any trouble.”

  “No trouble. Let me call her right quick.” He unbuttoned the snap of his left breast pocket and removed a cell phone, stared at it, swiveled, still staring at it. “No bars here.”

  James took his cell out of his jeans pocket beneath his waders and checked his reception: two bars. “You can use mine if you’d like. I have reception.”

  George thanked him and accepted the phone. “Some phone you got here. It’s tiny. Must have cost a fortune.”