Backcast

by Ann McMan

  Nope. Quinn didn’t mind the chunks of rust and burnt grease that kept hitting her in the face. It was worth it to enjoy the view.

  She caught Junior watching her watch Montana. She smiled at him and shrugged. He stared at her for another moment before nodding and returning his gaze to the front of the boat. It was pretty clear that he was enjoying the view, too.

  They were making their second trip around Knight Island. It was shadier on the backside, and there were some outcroppings of rocks and places where old trees had fallen and were partially submerged in the water.

  “Stop!”

  Junior’s command surprised Quinn. She cut the motor without hesitation. The water wasn’t very deep through here, so they hadn’t been going all that fast. It didn’t take the boat long to wind down to a gentle drift. The pontoons rocked up and down on the waves that rolled in toward the shore.

  “Why are we stopping?” She asked Junior.

  He pointed a fat finger toward one of the felled trees. “I just saw her.”

  Her? Quinn looked toward the tree and the bank beyond. There were no people in sight. There wasn’t anything in sight but what was left of a cracked concrete slab and a beat-up picnic table. Knight Island was part of a state park, and people could still camp on it.

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  Junior shook his head. “Not a person. A fish.”

  A fish?

  “What fish?” Quinn looked again toward the tree. She could feel a twinge of excitement. Even Montana dropped her steel wool pad and climbed to her feet.

  Something splashed in the water ahead.

  “Right there!” Montana cried. “I saw her. My god. She’s huge!”

  Junior nodded. “That’s her all right.”

  Quinn still didn’t see it. “What the hell are you two looking at? Who is ‘she,’ and why are you so damn excited?”

  “It’s Phoebe.”

  Quinn looked at Junior. His face had taken on an odd expression. It was almost reverential.

  “Who?”

  “Phoebe,” he said again. “The biggest damn bass in this lake.”

  “Her name is Phoebe?”

  Junior nodded. “Been called that for nigh on a hundred years now. She ain’t never been caught. Hooked a time or two, but never brung up.” His voice dropped an octave. “I had her once. She fought me like a tiger. I damn near bested her, too—but my line got tangled up when I was tryin’ to pull her into the boat.” He held up his hand to show Quinn where part of his pinkie finger was missing. “She done this to me when I tried to get a net under her.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  Junior was watching the water again. “They don’t come bigger or meaner’n Phoebe.”

  Montana was shaking her head. “She has to be at least a twenty-pounder.”

  Junior agreed. “Some of them Japanese anglers come over here a year or two back, just hopin’ to get a hook into her. But she’s too smart for ’em. Ain’t nobody ever gonna catch Phoebe.”

  Quinn was still watching the water. She was mesmerized by Junior’s tale about the great fish.

  “You said she’s a hundred years old?”

  He nodded. “Mebbe two hundred. Nobody knows for sure. Only thing I can tell you is that she’s been swishin’ her fat tail around these islands ever since my granddad was runnin’ hooch down from Montréal.”

  Quinn’s eyes grew wide. “Your granddad saw her?”

  “Yep. Lots a times. He said she always knew where to find the sacks of whiskey they’d deep-six when they were bein’ chased by the boat patrol.” He chuckled. “Granddad said that ole Phoebe liked to nip on more than just night crawlers.”

  “Look!” Montana was pointing at the water on the port side of the boat. “I think she’s coming by again.”

  Quinn could see her this time—heading straight for them in bold flashes of brown, green, and silver. She was liquid and solid all at the same time. And she was moving fast—uncommonly fast—as she twisted and shimmied just beneath the surface of the water. She skimmed along the side of the pontoon and at the last second, dipped her head and dove deep, flipping her wide tail up and out of the water in a hail of spray.

  “My god.” Quinn wiped the drops of water from her face.

  But Phoebe wasn’t finished yet. She made another pass. And this time, Quinn saw her eyes, deep, dark eyes that were empty and full all at the same time. Fish eyes. Just like the camera lenses that distorted reality by twisting everything into macabre circles of burlesque shapes. The eyes looked at her and through her, seeing everything and seeing nothing. “I know you,” they said. “You’re just like me—and no one will ever catch you, either.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Quinn was staring at the water like she was in a trance.

  Montana didn’t share her assessment. “That thing is a freak of nature.”

  Junior agreed. “You take my advice and leave that’n alone. Ain’t no good gonna come from chasin’ this piece of tail.”

  Quinn stared at him. Junior was still reared back in his recliner, but his expression looked serious enough to suggest that he was thinking about sitting up.

  “You said nobody’s ever caught her?”

  “Didn’t say that,” he corrected. “Said that nobody’d ever brung her up. She’s been hooked ’bout a dozen times. Just always gets away.”

  Quinn watched Phoebe’s wake slowly dissolve into the rolling water. The lake had closed back up over her.

  “Why do you call her Phoebe?” Montana asked. “That seems like an odd name for a fish.” Before Junior could answer, she added, “Not to say that there are other names that make more sense.” She picked up her steel wool pad and prepared to go back to work cleaning the grill racks.

  “Nobody knows for sure.” Junior was watching Quinn watch the lake. “Most people think she was named for that Phoebe Campbell woman—the Canadian who chopped up her husband with an axe.”

  That got Quinn’s attention. “When did that happen?”

  Junior shrugged. “Don’t know for sure. Some time after the war.”

  “World War II?”

  “Nope. Civil War.”

  “Canada had a civil war?” Quinn asked.

  Montana rolled her eyes. “He means our Civil War.” She looked at Junior. “Isn’t that what you meant?”

  Junior nodded.

  “Great.” Montana sniggered. “A fish named after the Canadian Lizzie Borden.”

  “Why’d she do it?” Quinn was fascinated by Junior’s tale.

  “Why does any woman do anything?”

  Quinn sighed. She was getting pretty used to Junior’s economy of words. “Why’d she kill him? Come on, Junior. Even you have to admit that most women don’t end up hacking their husbands apart with axes. Even if they fantasize about it.”

  He shook his head. “I think she was gettin’ some on the side from a farm hand, and they done him in together. But nobody knows for sure. She hanged for it, though, and he got off.” Junior chuckled. “More’n once, I’ll wager.”

  “So why’d they name this fish after her?”

  “Probably because she’s mean as a snake and craftier than a politician.”

  Quinn didn’t say anything. She continued to stand near the side of the boat, studying the water. There were no other boats out on this part of the lake. It was quiet here. The only sounds came from the slosh of the water rocking the pontoons and the scrape of Montana’s steel wool against the rusty iron grate.

  “She ain’t gonna come ’round again.”

  Quinn looked up at Junior. He really did make a ridiculous picture, bobbing up and down on that absurd chair. He had his feet hooked beneath the footrest so he could ride out the swells like a champion broncobuster. He was the stuff of legend, too.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I know her,” he explained. “She saw what she came for. By now, she’s likely halfway to St. Albans.”

  “Can we go over there?”

  “No.”


  “Why not?”

  “Because that ain’t why we’re out here.” He gestured toward their drink cooler. “Give me one of them grape Fantas.”

  Quinn sighed and walked over to retrieve the soft drink for him.

  Junior was still scrutinizing her. “Don’t go gettin’ no half-cocked ideas about tryin’ to catch her. That ain’t what this whole circus here is about.” He took the frosty bottle from her and cracked its seal. The slow hiss it made underscored his warning. “Better men’n you have wasted their lives thinkin’ they was gonna be the ones to catch her. All they got for their trouble was a lot of mangled hopes and beat-up body parts to match.”

  “He’s right.” Montana spoke up from her seat on the deck. “You’ve got one shot at this tournament, Quinn. Don’t waste your time trying to nail Jell-O to a tree.”

  Quinn was unconvinced. “I think you’re both wrong.”

  “Whatever.” Montana went back to her scraping.

  “Just keep your priorities straight,” Junior cautioned, “and give up on them bass-ackward notions.”

  Montana chuckled.

  “What’s so funny?” Quinn asked her.

  “I think Junior just gave us the perfect name for this stupid boat.”

  “What?”

  “Bass-ackwards.” Montana was still smiling. “You gotta admit, it’s catchier than The Raft of the Medusa.” She got to her feet and displayed the mostly clean grill rack. “Who wants a hotdog?”

  “I am so not eating that.”

  V. Jay-Jay looked at the congealed mass of red goo. “Why did you order it?”

  “I didn’t.” Darien pushed her plate away. “This stuff looks like the aftermath of a miscarriage.”

  V. Jay-Jay did not look amused. “It’s aspic.”

  “I know what it is. I think it’s disgusting.”

  “Maybe you should mention your disdain for it to the wait staff?”

  Darien glared at her. “How come you never get this crap on your plate?”

  “I explained my special dietary needs on the first day.”

  “Really? Is that some religious thing?”

  “Religious?” V. Jay-Jay looked confused.

  “Yeah. Like a Hindu thing?”

  “I’m Presbyterian.”

  “I thought you were from India?”

  “I am. But being Indian and Presbyterian are not mutually exclusive.”

  “So, why don’t you eat this crap?” Darien poked at the aspic with a fork.

  “I’m a vegan.”

  “Aren’t tomatoes vegetables?”

  “Normally. But aspics are always made with some kind of meat stock.”

  Darien stared at her plate. “Gross.”

  “I agree.”

  They were sitting at a window table. It gave them a great view of the lawn and the lake beyond it. There were several clusters of people outside, standing around in tight little groups or sitting in the big white chairs. They laughed and sipped on cocktails while they waited for their tables to be ready. There were several impressive-looking boats tied up at the long dock. Some of them were clearly built for speed. Others looked more like aquatic SUVs, with loud paint schemes and built-in stereo speakers that probably pushed enough amps to fill Yankee Stadium with top-40 tunes. Darien knew all about people who blasted around in these high-dollar rides. Sooner or later, a lot of them ended up on her list of “assignments.” But there were a couple of vintage Chris Craft launches tied up out there, too. The wooden boats looked downright regal with their polished decks and dark green upholstery. They bobbed up and down, sandwiched between the modern monstrosities, with all the understated elegance of old money. They were like stray orchids in a vase full of dyed carnations.

  This restaurant was apparently a popular destination for Lake People.

  That’s what Darien called them. Lake People.

  They appeared to be a savvy and refined lot. The men had thinning hair and spreading middles. Their impossibly thin wives all had tight features, perfect tans, and summer wardrobes that contained enough organic cotton to revitalize the nation’s flagging textile industry.

  They were like refugees from a Flax catalog.

  “What are you scowling at?”

  Darien looked at V. Jay-Jay with surprise. “Was I scowling?”

  “I thought so.”

  “It’s the Lake People.”

  V. Jay-Jay glanced out the window at the lawn. “What about them?”

  “They bug me.”

  “Why? They look pretty ordinary.”

  “Not where I come from.”

  “Which is?”

  Darien shrugged. “Virginia. Mostly.”

  V. Jay-Jay looked out the window again. “I haven’t spent a lot of time in Virginia, but I’m pretty sure that places like Richmond and Charlottesville have their share of pampered elite.”

  “Yeah. Well. I’m not from Richmond or Charlottesville. ‘Pampered elite’ where I grew up meant you didn’t have to punch out the catalytic converter on your pickup.”

  V. Jay-Jay laughed.

  “I’m not kidding.”

  “I know. That’s what I think is funny.”

  Darien regarded her with curiosity. “You think that’s funny?

  “Sure.” V. Jay-Jay quirked her head toward her shoulder. “You should think about putting more elements like that into your writing.”

  “What elements?”

  “Those kinds of colloquialisms. They’d really lend authenticity to your stories.”

  “I don’t write about Virginia.”

  “Really?” V. Jay-Jay sat back and folded her tanned arms. “So those macabre little vampire yarns you spin aren’t masquerading as searing social commentaries on your humble origins?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I thought so.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with writing about vampires.”

  “I agree.”

  “Besides,” Darien was trying hard not to let her annoyance show. “Vampires aren’t any weirder than all that Gyno stuff you obsess about.”

  V. Jay-Jay was the author of a very eclectic and popular series of books that all fell under the rubric Gyno Galaxy. At last count, there were four volumes, and V. Jay-Jay was hard at work writing the fifth book in the series, Gyno Galaxy: Black Holes and Anterior Spaces.

  It was clear that she did not share Darien’s assessment of her work. “I write hard-hitting, edge fiction.”

  “And you can open beer bottles with your hooha.”

  “Hooha?” V. Jay-Jay made air quotes around the word.

  “Oh, come on. A woman with this ability can’t pretend to be insulted by my use of a common term.”

  “It’s common, all right.”

  “And your special skill isn’t?”

  “My ‘special’ skill is part of a carefully crafted public persona.”

  “Like your ‘edge’ fiction?”

  “Precisely.”

  Darien rolled her eyes.

  “You disagree?”

  “Um. Let me think. Yes.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s thinly veiled soft porn.”

  “And your moonlight vampire romps aren’t?”

  Darien noticed that V. Jay-Jay did not bother to disagree with her categorization of the Gyno books. “Soft porn sells copy. Especially in this galaxy.”

  V. Jay-Jay smiled at the analogy. “Sad, but true.”

  “So why do we do it?”

  “Why do we do what?”

  Darien waved an inclusive hand around. “This. The writing. And all the concessions we have to make to popular culture and bad taste.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “Oh, come on. Are you trying to have me believe that you choose to fill your books with spread-eagled women and vaginal swabs?”

  V. Jay-Jay looked amused. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  “You are so full of shit.”

  V. Jay-Jay didn’t repl
y. But Darien noticed that she was absently tapping an index finger against the top of her folded napkin. Was it irritation or intrigue? She really had no idea, but she decided to go for it. “What’s your story, anyway?”

  V. Jay-Jay raised an eyebrow. “My story?”

  “Yeah. You have one, right?”

  V. Jay-Jay shrugged.

  “Come on. Nobody knows anything about you. Your ‘official’ bio gives nothing away. Why all the secrecy?”

  “I’m no more or less secretive about my private life than anyone else in this business.”

  “I find that hard to believe.”

  “I told you I was Presbyterian.”

  Darien gave her a confused look. “Is that supposed to be some kind of index to your character?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Let’s try another approach. What’s your day job?”

  “My day job?”

  “Sure. You have one, right? Or do you make enough money in royalties that you no longer have to pack a lunch and trudge off to the sweatshop every day like the rest of us?”

  V. Jay-Jay looked amused. “I never pack my lunch.”

  Darien sighed. “Of course you don’t. I guess there are charming little vegan restaurants about every ten feet in LA.”

  “There may be. But I don’t live in LA.”

  Darien lifted her chin. Now they were getting someplace. “Okay. Where do you live?”

  “Boston.”

  “Massachusetts?”

  V. Jay-Jay gave her a deprecating look. “No. Idaho.”

  “So sue me. I was just surprised.”

  V. Jay-Jay folded her arms. Darien thought her skin looked like polished olive wood.

  “Why?”

  Darien shrugged. “I don’t know. You seem like a left-coaster to me.”

  “Well. I did live there for a while, many years ago. But I’ve been in Boston for nearly a decade now.”

  “And what do you do there?”

  “What’s with the twenty questions?”