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Catch & Release

Page 14

by Blythe Woolston


  “Well, get your pants on then. I’d just as soon you do the driving if you can,” I say.

  “Me too,” says Odd.

  Traffic is streaming around us and we are streaming with it. Should we take this exit? The next one? Is there going to be a sign marked “Bacon Doughnuts”?

  “I think I need something more like food than a doughnut,” I say.

  “Thai?” Odd points down the cross street.

  “That’s a one-way.”

  “Crap, how do we get back on the interstate?”

  “Just follow the arrows.”

  “Morrison Bridge, that looks good, we’ll take that.”

  But first we’re stuck at a stoplight beside a real estate business. The sign says, “Home is only the beginning.” The light changes and Odd heads out. We act like we have a plan. And we do, at the moment. Pretty soon we are crossing the Willamette. If I were a fish, I would know I was heading the wrong direction. The waters of the Willamette would not smell right. They would not smell like home.

  It isn’t easy to park D’Elegance on the street. She’s a prehistoric pig. She wants more room than a delivery van. Once we find a space big enough, we still need to figure out how the parking meter ticket thingy works.

  “No biggy,” says Odd. “It doesn’t matter.

  “It’s the law,” I say

  “Seriously? You know the license plates on the car expired ten years ago, right? Look, we’ll eat right over there.” He points at a pizza place. “If somebody comes around to write a ticket, we’ll just explain. We’ll explain how you don’t like to break the law. I’m sure they will be real impressed.”

  Some things never change. Odd might be one of them.

  “I need to find an ATM. We’ll probably need cash for the pizza. You can wait for me there.”

  And he does. When I get back I find him in front of a pinball machine. The Sopranos it says. How much story is there in a pinball game? Does having pictures of fat old gangsters on it make it more fun? It isn’t like there is some sad chick with big hair crawling away on her knees in the woods and when it goes TILT she gets shot in the head. Or is it?

  The pizza is hot. Big leaves of fresh basil are wilting in the steam rising up from the tomato sauce and cheese.

  “I’m done,” I say.

  “What you mean?” asks Odd. “You didn’t even eat any of it yet. Then he picks up a piece of pizza bigger than his head, folds it, and steers the point into his gullet.

  “No, Odd. Not the pizza,” I pick up a piece of my own. The food smells good, full of heat and life. The cheese stretches out like a suspension bridge from the slice in my hand to the pieces waiting in the pan. I break the connection. “I’m just totally done. I’m going home.”

  I hand him a wad of bills. It’s as much as I could get out of the ATM, minus the cost of pizza. I hand it to him while I get my stuff out of the car and shove it into a big black trash bag that was in the trunk. There are some coffee cups and chip bags in the bag already. I don’t care.

  Odd doesn’t say anything. He just stands there with his hand full of twenties. Maybe he thinks I just want him to hold it while I get myself organized.

  I touch his hand so he understands. “You can spend it on a tattoo. You can spend it on bacon doughnuts. But there’s enough there to get gas if you want to go home,” I say.

  He shoves it in his pocket. “You ever seen the ocean, Polly? Because we are that close. It’s crazy to come this far and not see the ocean.”

  “I’ve seen the ocean,” I say.

  “We could go all the way like Lewis and Clark. We could go to Cape Disappointment. You seen Cape Disappointment?”

  Cape Disappointment? That question is harder to answer than it ought to be. I saw the ocean from a sand dune beside Monterey Bay. My dad was holding my hand, and he said there were seals and otters and sharks out there, even whales. We were going to the aquarium to see them. But the sharks were only babies and there weren’t any whales, except for bones. So I’ve been to Cape Disappointment lots of times, I think. Who hasn’t? I look at Odd’s face and try to read out why he wants to go there. There is something pure about his face, pure like a river ought to be. There is nothing hiding there, I think. He just wants to see something that hasn’t changed since Lewis and Clark saw it. And the ocean hasn’t changed because it never holds still. There is no good reason why Odd shouldn’t do what he wants.

  “If you go to Cape Disappointment, you might not have enough money to make it all the way home. But that’s OK. You just get as close as you can and then you call me. Like, if you get as far as Missoula and you can’t get back, you call me. I’ll come get you.”

  “Hey.” The hug surprises me. It feels for real. It feels good, and before I move away I rest my forehead under his collarbone on his chest. I can hear his heart inside my head, but it is probably my imagination.

  “Hey,” I say. And then I pick up my garbage bag and my rod case. It is time to go.

  “Hey,” says Odd, “Can you do me a solid? Can you give these letters to my Gramma Dot? I don’t know what her address is going to be when she gets back. You know? So if you could take them, you could get them to her, since you’re going that direction.”

  “Yeah, I can do that,” I say. I wait while he pulls the pages out of a little notebook he carries in his pocket. He folds them up into a crooked wad and holds them out to me.

  Then I pick up my garbage bag and my rod case. It’s time for me to go.

  On the streets of Portland there is really nothing weird at all about a grubby girl carrying her stuff in a black plastic garbage bag. Here I could pass for normal, almost, until someone got a good look at me. But really, nobody looks that hard at a grubby girl and her garbage bag—at least not on this street at this time of day.

  But I’d like to pass for normal in the airport. A normal person does not board a plane carrying a rod case and a garbage bag. A garbage bag is not a conventional carry-on.

  Luggage. It is my lucky day, the sign across the street says, “Luggage.”

  I get pretty immediate attention, as a grubby girl should in a not-so-grubby place. “Give me the cheapest duffle this big.” I hold my hands out like I’m telling a fish story, a fish story big enough to hold my sleeping bag , fishing vest, and tent.

  He looks a little suspiciously at my debit card—and then at my face. I lay the driver’s license of Polly-That-Was on the counter. Then I put my Montana fishing license beside it. The signatures match.

  The transaction is complete.

  “Where can I catch transport to the airport?”

  The guy points.

  “Thanks. Got it.”

  But I have one more thing to do.

  I stop at the green park by the river’s edge and dump out my stuff. I fold the garbage bag and put it on the ground beside the trash can. I weigh it down with a rock so it won’t blow away. It’s a resource. Someone might be able to use it. Then I rummage in the foot of my sleeping bag. The gun is in one bloody sock and the ammo in the other. I take them out and put them on my lap, and then I zip the duffle shut.

  When I stand up, I’m a grubby girl with a duffle slung on my shoulder, my rod case in one hand, and a pair of lumpy, dirty socks in the other. I could just drop the socks and their burden in the trash can beside me, but I don’t want anyone to find the gun and maybe use it. It’s a resource that shouldn’t be loose in the world. I owe that much to the other grubby girls and wandering boys.

  There isn’t that much foot traffic on the Morrison Bridge. I sort of hate being here. I know it’s just because I can’t see very well, but the gust of force and exhaust when the trucks pass feels strong enough to knock me off my feet. I just promise myself that I will get far enough to be over deep water, deep enough water.

  The air below me is deep—my body knows it even if my eye can’t see it. The further I go, the deeper the air, the deeper the water. This is deep enough. I crowd the rail, stand on my toes, and lean to look over the edge. I fe
el the tug of gravity and the dizzy spinning that comes from not trusting what I see. And something else: just for a moment I let myself feel how much I desire falling, how much I feel the impulse to—just let myself go. There’s a future down there, and it would be so easy to be finished with it. The little voice inside my head is whispering, “Yes. Yes.” And I’m listening. I admit it. I’ve been carrying that hitchhiker the whole time. I pretended it was Odd, by all logic it should have been Odd, but it was inside of me, that little suicidal whisper.

  I grab that impulse. I hook my fingers deep in its gills, and I’m the one in control. I’m the one who gets to decide if I live or die.

  I get to decide.

  There isn’t a boat directly below me. I drop the socks. I’m so high up, and the light on the water is so flat, I can’t even see a splash. I hope nobody else saw it either. The damn gun is gone, and Odd was alive the last time I saw him, and that’s the whole story. At least the part of it I know.

  The souvenir T-shirt is pink as a marshmallow heart and says, “Girls Fish Too!” My mom always said I looked pretty in pink, because all redheads look pretty in pink. I always thought it made me look like a strawberry milk-shake. The shirt’s pink, but it’s on sale. That makes it perfect. It matches my scar. Pink is my new favorite color. I buy a hairbrush, too. And a tiny bottle of mouthwash.

  I strip off my dirty shirt and shove it in the trash in the airport bathroom. I swish the mouthwash around. I wash my face and arms. Then I try to brush my hair, what’s left of it.

  There are yards of mirrors over the sinks in the bathrooms. There are big full-length mirrors on the exit wall. I look at myself. I’ve looked worse. It won’t matter much anyway, since most people won’t even see me. I’m just another invisible stranger. I can walk through the airport. I can go anywhere. I can go to Ireland to look for talking trout or to Siberia to see sturgeon. Home is only the beginning. That’s where it starts. So I’m going there and I’m going to start. So I pick up my rod case and go to the gate for my flight.

  I’m waiting in an airport. Just like all the people around me. I’m waiting, and I have nothing to read—except the wad of letters to Gramma Dot.

  Boulder River

  Dear Gramma Dot,

  Wish you were here. I bet you wish you were here too, because here is a good place to be. It’s a blue-sky day. I’m on the Boulder down by the Natural Bridge. That girl Polly and me came up here to do some fishing. Seems like they ought to be biting, but they aren’t buying what I’m selling. Maybe it’s a little too hot or they’re all full to the gills with grasshoppers because I got nothing.

  I drove G-pa Odd’s car up here—I figure you don’t mind—you said it was going to be mine when I needed it. That car is like driving a big old chunk of heaven, like you already know.

  Stopped to see the prairie dog show on the way over. Polly didn’t seem too impressed. She thinks she’s going to get the plague off them. Normal person would see cute. That Polly, she sees a tick bus full of disease. Anyhow, Hokahey! like Crazy Horse said. It’s a good day.

  So you remember when you brought me here the first time? I do. I remember you told me that there used to be a real natural bridge made of rock that went from one side of the river to the other. You told me about how there was a fieldtrip and a bus full of kids went over to the other side to have a picnic. After the picnic, when they were all in the bus, the bridge fell down and just crashed down into the river. If it happened ten minutes earlier all them kids would have died, but they didn’t.

  We found some real good fossils in the riverbed that day. I still got mine. Then we climbed up to that cave and saw those paintings, the red ones. And you said they couldn’t be too ancient because one of them showed a gun, but they were still cool. The cave was cool too, the air in it I mean. And you told me that was what bat shit smells like and not to stir up the dust. I still remember all about that day. It was a good day too. A real good day.

  And today is a real good day. I saw some prairie dogs, and I hiked down here to this hole below the falls, and since the fish aren’t cooperating I’m sitting on this rock by the river and writing to you.

  Love, your boy Odd

  Firehole River

  Dear Gramma Dot,

  Started out the day with some biscuits and gravy, but they weren’t nearly good as you make. Not even after I put on a lot more pepper. They don’t know your secret ingredients.

  The reason I’m writing today is that you might hear from some people how I’m not acting responsible. That’s one way to look at it, I guess, but I got another, and the way I look at it is Buck doesn’t need my help and I sure don’t need his. I was going down to the dealership just like I was supposed to, but all Buck ever had me do was vacuum the sales office and make coffee—and they got a janitor service and Diane in the office makes better coffee than me—or so I got told. So mostly I was just standing around doing nothing. That gave me plenty of time to hear Buck saying about how I used to have a future but that’s over now. He’d say it right in front of me like I was rig with a busted axle and trading up was a better idea because what’s the point of fixing it. I just got a little tired of that. I don’t care if it was helping him make sales or not. He used to get people to buy equipment before I was available to look pathetic so he can just go back to doing whatever works.

  So anyhow I need to figure out what works for me. What works today is some more fishing.

  Me and that girl Polly came down the Paradise through the park to the Firehole. Stopped at Mammoth Hot Springs on the way in and the minerals were all sparkly in the sunshine. It occurred to me that maybe this was the mountains of salt that Lewis and Clark thought they’d find, so I mentioned that to some tourists, but the whole story was news to them. I also told them about how Lewis and Clark thought they would be finding wooly mammoths. The world was a pretty big place back then and nobody knew what was in it.

  I kept an eye out for mammoths, but all I saw was a badger and a buttload of slow-moving buffalo. Spent time out on the river, but I still didn’t catch anything. I got distracted by some pretty girls from Japan who were taking pictures. Polly didn’t catch anything either, but I don’t know what distracted her. She doesn’t talk much. She isn’t shy—more pissed off and stuck up.

  Basically, it was a good day—a whole lot better than it would have been making coffee at the dealership.

  Love, your boy Odd

  Out by Elkhorn

  Dear Gramma Dot,

  It’s getting light, but it still ain’t warm so I’m not going to get up for a while. It’s OK here in the sleeping bag, and I don’t mind burning daylight. Got a headache or I’d go back to sleep. Took some aspirin and a drink of water and that should kick in a while, but right now, I remembered you saying that doing something keeps the mind off the pain. So what I’m doing is writing to you.

  One reason I might have a headache is because that girl Polly flew off the handle and whacked me in the head. She goes from mopey to dangerous faster than a snake. I never saw that coming, tell you what. She’s sad and she’s mad—I get that. But the worst thing is she doesn’t appreciate anything. On top of that she’s got a stick up her butt like you wouldn’t believe.

  Like yesterday we went to Elkhorn, which you know is a cool place because you showed it to me. Some things have changed. I looked all around in the cemetery, and I didn’t see a jar full of lemons and vinegar on any of the graves. Not even any broken glass. I remember what you said about how we can’t know if there is a heaven or a hell, but if there is a hell there are way more people who deserve to be in it. I remember what you said about that grave and how the vinegar and lemons was left on it by people he’d hurt. They left that there as a way to remember but also get rid of the memories. I thought about that and then I peed on the grave I think was the right one. I figure it’s the thought that counts.

  Polly didn’t like that.

  Did a little target practice. Polly didn’t like that either.

  Then
while she was supposed to be getting a fire together so we could make some dinner, she kicked me in the head with my own foot and gave me a bloody nose.

  She’s a handful of crazy. But I remember you told me crazy isn’t the same as bad and most crazy comes from being afraid. So I gave her the gun and told her nobody could make her do what she didn’t want to do. We’ll see how that turns out.

  Love, your boy Odd

  Blackfoot River

  Dear Gramma Dot,

  I remember you told me that dreams are just my brain flushing the toilet and that I should just wake up and forget them, but sometimes that’s not so easy to do. Last night I dreamed I was little again and Buck was going shove my head in the toilet like he tried to do that one time when he bashed my face on the rim so hard I nearly bit my own lip off.

  But then—because it was a dream, and dreams don’t make sense, like you always said—the toilet turned into a cat box and Buck made me eat a cat turd. Then after that I had to do whatever Buck told me until he fell asleep. But I couldn’t run away because I couldn’t find my robot leg. I don’t know what I needed it for because in the dream I had my own two legs, but I woke up needing to find it. I still had it on. That just proves you are right about dreams. But that dream did remind me about something I need to tell you, but I been avoiding it.

  It’s about your kitty, Cat Ballou.

  Buck told me I was supposed to take Cat to the vet and get her put down. He said it needed done because you can’t take her with you to the new place, and nobody wants to deal with her because she’s so old and smells bad. I said I’d take care of her, but he said “no way” and I’m not responsible and besides she just dribbles pee. He said Dad left money for the vet and if I didn’t take her, he’d keep the money and throw her in a dumpster. Wouldn’t even cost a bullet, he said. But it was supposed to be my job to deal with it.

 

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