by Jim Guhl
As I was heading out the door, the man stopped me one more time. “Chapter thirty-five,” he said. Your whales must be seen before they can be killed.
I nodded, not sure what the heck that was supposed to mean.
I returned home at dusk with nine perch, a frozen face, and that old man with the Moby-Dick lines still rattling around in my brain. Without asking, I scaled and cleaned the fish on some old newspapers at the kitchen sink. Mom came in as I was setting up the electric frying pan with oil. She opened a can of baked beans and emptied it into another pan on the stove. We ate it all and had ice cream for dessert.
“You’re okay, Del.” Mom kissed me on the cheek.
Exhausted, I flopped on the couch. My eyes followed the dancers and singers on The Lawrence Welk Show but my mind was everywhere else. Would I end up in juvie if I didn’t hand over the bullet? Would Mom ever really get better? Would we ever really get justice for Dad’s killer?
Mom sat in the chair next to me. “Don’t forget your duties,” she said.
“What duties?”
“Dishes. Floors. Bathrooms.”
“Oh . . .”
“Did I forget anything?”
“Pull-ups,” I said.
38
Mom had slipped back into her bad habits of spending hour after hour sitting in front of the television and smoking cigarettes, interrupted only by the occasional, slow-motion walk to the bathroom or the refrigerator. I tried to think of ways to get her off the couch, but she was even losing interest in dancing.
“Can we practice again?” I asked.
“Do you have a date yet?”
“No.”
“Do you have someone in mind?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
“Just a girl I met in English class,” I said. The part about English class was true. The just a girl part wasn’t.
“Is she nice?”
“Yes.”
“Well, why don’t you call her then?”
“I don’t know.”
“No sense working on dancing if you’re not going to the dance.”
Jeez! Why was I afraid to pick up the stupid telephone? I walked into the kitchen and looked up Parsons in the phone book. I picked up the phone receiver and started dialing but set it back down.
“Just call her. What’s the worst thing that can happen?” said Mom.
I picked up the phone with conviction and dialed the number again. It rang once, then twice . . .
“Hello. Parsons residence.”
“Hi, Mrs. Parsons. This is Del Finwick. Is Opal there?”
“Hello, Del. She be right here.”
I heard her tell Opal that it was me. The next voice I heard was Opal on the phone.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hi, Opal. How was your Christmas?”
“It was nice,” she said. “How about yours?”
“Mine was good too. Did you get any nice presents?”
“Sure. Mostly clothes. I also got some earrings. How about you?”
“I got some ice fishing stuff and Sorel Boots.”
“That sounds perfect for you.”
“Yeah. It’s great.”
“That’s nice.”
For a pretty long stretch I didn’t say anything, not sure how to shift the conversation over to the dance. Opal finally broke the silence.
“Is there another reason for your call, Del?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
“Would you go to the Snow-Ball dance with me next month?” My knees nearly buckled as the question spilled out of my mouth. There it was. All she had to do was say yes, and we could work out the details later.
Silence.
“Are you still there?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I already have a date to the dance. I’m going with Mark.”
Lucky for me I had an escape route, and it was the frozen ice of Lake Winnebago. December was the best time for ice fishing, but it didn’t matter. I just needed a place to be by myself. Mom drove me to the Fresh Air Camp south of town.
“I’ll pick you up at five o’clock, honey.”
“Okay, Mom.”
When she drove away I felt a little better. Just me and the ice. I strapped all my gear to a wooden sled, checked my compass, and started walking southeast.
That phone call with Opal had really taken something out of me. It was a blow, like the stomach punch that ended up killing the Great Houdini. On top of it all, I was embarrassed. It wasn’t easy telling Mom that I had been turned down. It was even tougher knowing that Opal would be going with my best friend.
I needed to disappear from the entire world. The snow crunched beneath my Sorels as I began my trek into the empty frontier of nothingness. I was Lawrence of Arabia on the vast desert. I was Neil Armstrong on the moon. I was an atom, invisible and lost to the infinity of the universe.
Swish, swish, swish. The legs of my snow pants rubbed together like blocks of sandpaper. Just get over it, I told myself. Who wants to go to a stupid dance anyhow?
Have you ever tried to force your brain to quit thinking about something? It’s impossible. I tried changing the subject to sports, hunting, even my battles with Sheriff Heiselmann, but with every try my thoughts returned to Opal and Mark.
Swish, swish, swish.
What had I been thinking, asking a pretty girl like Opal to the dance? What would I say to her in English class from now on? What about Mark? Were we finished being friends? Jeez! I should have known he would ask Opal out eventually. It was obvious that he liked her.
Everything added up to the same conclusion that I already knew. I was a hopeless loser. My nickname was Minnow for a reason. It was the name that I deserved.
Eventually, I decided on a spot a couple miles from shore and unlashed my gear, starting first with the six-foot-long, iron chisel known as a spud. Chop! Chop! Chop! Chop! It felt good to harpoon away with a loud grunt behind each blast. Ice chips flew in every direction from the sharpened tip as I shuffled my feet in a circular path around the emerging hole. The final ploinck into liquid water sent a miniature gusher into the hole until the water level was even with the ice surface. A few more chops through splashing water finished the hole. I skimmed out the chips and built a pile of slush on the windward side to support the vertical post of my tip-up. With a clip-on lead weight snapped onto the hook, I loosened the spool and dropped it fifteen feet to the lake bottom until the black line went slack. That’s where I tied a loop into the line, which I hung on the nail in the end of the wooden cross bar. The whole idea of a tip-up was to use the pull of a fish on the line to send a signal to the fisherman. As the fish pulled down one side of the teeter-totter crossbar, a weight slid down a wire and lifted a red flag all the way up toward the sky.
I repeated the process and within thirty-five minutes had three tip-ups baited with minnows and bobbing gently in the wind. It was time to sit and watch. I scrunched up Indian style, pulled my hat over my eyebrows like a visor, and waited.
Guess what. After all that work of chopping holes and setting up tip-ups, the sick feeling of rejection was almost gone. I had pretty well finished beating myself up after the disastrous phone conversation with Opal. I had decided that my life as a fifteen-year-old wasn’t over and my brain actually moved on to other things.
At the top of the list were the protests, the news reports, and the visit by Sheriff Heiselmann and his court order to make me hand over the bullet. The newspapers and TV people sure had shown the world the Genghis Khan side of the sheriff, and all those letters to the editors were just gravy on the mashed potatoes. Yep, he was feeling the squeeze, all right. I could practically see him squirming in his office. Now if only I could put together the rest of the puzzle. If only I knew how the Cadillac Man fit in and who actually pulled the trigger on the .357 Magnum revolver that was used to murder my dad.
With the orange sun sinking low and t
he wind dying off, the flag on my number 3 tip-up teetered slightly. I knew right away that it was a walleye. They always pull slowly on the line. A northern or white bass will grab the bait and run, flipping the tip-up flag instantly upward. A walleye sucks the minnow into its mouth and barely moves. I walked over to the flag, which was still at half-mast. The line was taut and pulled to one side of the hole. There was no sense waiting; the fish was on. I grabbed the heavy, black line and gave it a yank. Tug, tug, Tu-tu-tug, the fish came up and splashed out of the hole. A nice eighteen-incher with greenish gold on the sides and a belly as white and shiny as a porcelain sink.
I rebaited the hook with another minnow and dropped it back down. Not thirty seconds later that same tip-up flag went up again. Holy smokes! Was there a school of them down there? Just like before, I grabbed the line barehanded and set the hook. Moments later, another beauty, slightly smaller than the first, flopped onto the ice and snow.
I hadn’t even reached the minnow bucket to rebait when the flag on my number 2 tip-up started moving skyward. I jogged over as the loop in the line slid off the end of my tip-up flag and started slipping down into the hole. I gave it a yank and again felt the familiar tug-tug-tug of what I was certain would be my third nice walleye inside of ten minutes. This time the fish was a slab of black-and-gold flecks about fifteen inches long. A sand pike, and a darn nice one.
The action died down as quick as it had started. Three for three in ten minutes. Was anything in the world more fun? I sprawled out on the ice as the light grew dim and the billowing clouds of steam from the mills washed away into gray darkness. That was it—time to go home.
My catch of two walleyes and a sand pike was just two fish short of the limit. They were already frozen into bricks as I slid them, nose first, into a Wonder Bread bag. The frozen tail of the eighteen-incher hung out the open end. I wedged the bag between the minnow bucket and tackle box on my sled and roped everything down again so as not to lose anything on the bumpy ice and pressure ridges as I walked back toward shore in the darkness.
As I guided the sled over the last rough patch, my eyes fell on the frozen beach, lit up by a single overhead light suspended from a telephone pole. A car sat at idle, pumping a twisty tail of exhaust in the yellow glow. It wasn’t Mom’s car, I could tell that much. Instead, my eyes crashed into the distinctive shape of a long black Plymouth with white doors and a gold star on the side. Crud! It was a Winnebago County cop.
Maybe he’s taking a break, I thought. Cops loved hanging out in public parks and boat landings. It was probably just a deputy, killing time and having a donut. When my sled runners hit gravel, Sheriff Heiselmann stepped out of the car.
Rats!
“Nice day for fishing,” said the sheriff.
I said nothing.
“Did you catch anything?” he asked.
“A couple.” I looked around. “My mom is supposed to be here.”
“I was just over at your house having a little chat with your mom. We talked for quite a while and straightened a few things out. She said it would be okay if I picked you up and brought you home.”
Was this for real? I thought Mom and I were a team. I thought that she hated Heiselmann as much as I did. I looked at his smiling face and saw Dr. Jekyll, knowing full well that Mr. Hyde was just under the surface.
“Come on,” said the sheriff as he popped the trunk open with his key. “I’ll help you load your gear.”
I took a couple steps back toward the lake. There was no way in hell that I was getting into that car. The creep either murdered Dad or he knew who did.
“It’s okay,” he said. His phony smile was as big as ever. I took a couple more steps back, prepared to leave my sled and make a run for the lake if it came to that.
“I’ll just wait for my mom,” I said.
Heiselmann held up both hands in a submissive gesture. “I understand,” said the sheriff. “How about if I get your mom on the police radio and she can explain it herself.”
What?
Heiselmann got in the car, leaving the door open so I could hear the radio, and had the dispatcher patch him through with a phone call to my house. I heard the ringing of a phone.
“Hello?” It was Mom’s voice.
“Hi, Mrs. Finwick. It’s Sheriff Heiselmann again. I’m here with your son at the Fresh Air camp. He wanted to check with you to see if it was all right to ride back to your house with me.”
“Yes, of course. Del, if you can hear me, go ahead and ride home with the sheriff. You’ll be glad to know that we had a nice discussion and cleared the air about our disagreements. You be sure to thank him for the ride.”
Not sure what else to do, I rode home with the jerk. He wanted to chitchat and talk about working together with me and Mom to solve the crime. He said that from this point forward we were a team. I kept my mouth shut and my eyes straight ahead. I didn’t know what kind of fancy talk he had used on Mom, but it sure as heck wasn’t going to work on me. I had my hand on the door handle when we pulled into the driveway and immediately jumped out and grabbed my stuff from the trunk before Heiselmann could offer to help.
“I look forward to working with you and your mother,” said the sheriff.
I said nothing. Not even a thanks for the ride. As soon as my sled runners scraped the floor of the garage, I pulled the door shut and let it slam at the bottom. I stood in silent darkness, waiting for Heiselmann’s car to crunch out our driveway and go away.
Suddenly, Mom was all bubbly, if you can believe that.
“He’s just doing his job,” she said. “We need to cooperate with the sheriff so that he can solve the murder and catch the Highway 41 killer.”
“He’s a crook!” I shouted. “It’s because of Heiselmann that Dad was murdered in the first place. I haven’t figured it all out yet but I know he was part of it. You’ve got to believe me. Jeez, Mom—you don’t even know the guy.”
“Del, we don’t have to like the man, but we have to work with him. Take your coat off and sit down. I’ll get you a piece of apple pie.”
“Apple pie?”
Mom looked sort of embarrassed. “Sheriff Heiselmann brought it over,” she said.
“Jeez, Mom!”
Just when I figured things couldn’t get worse, Channel 2 Eyewitness News came on the tube at ten o’clock. The lead story showed a reporter standing in front of the Winnebago County Sheriff’s Department building. He talked about a press conference held by Sheriff Heiselmann earlier in the day in which the sheriff apologized for the way he and his deputies responded to the protest march conducted by four Neenah High School students on December 23. The television report clicked over to film footage showing Sheriff Heiselmann in his uniform speaking into a microphone at a podium. I nearly puked when he smirked with that idiotic, Jerry Lewis grin into the camera.
“I’m really sorry, folks. I was wrong about the way I responded to those young protesters during their march on December twenty-third,” said the sheriff. “Even though they broke the law on Highway 41, we should have used it as an educational opportunity. You see, young people are our most valuable resource. They are our future. They need our guidance in matters of this type to understand the difference between acceptable and unacceptable forms of behavior. In this instance, the students should have simply asked for cooperation from my department in advance and we would have been more than happy to help them.”
“What?!” I was on my feet, yelling at the TV.
“From this point forward, my department will be assisting the youngsters. We are now a team. We will cooperate rather than confront. If they desire to protest again, we will help them to do it in a safe manner.”
I couldn’t believe it. “Hey Peckerhead, you’re the damned criminal!” I yelled.
Heiselmann tilted his head slightly and licked his lips like some sort of bogus diplomat. Then he continued.
“Not only will we be teaming up with the young people, we intend to do more on the investigation of the unfortunat
e death of Officer Finwick.”
“Unfortunate death? He was murdered, asshole!” I felt the blood rising into my face.
“I have added two additional investigators to the case. In addition, we have learned that Officer Finwick’s son, Delmar, has located a bullet near the crime scene, which will be very helpful to the investigation. I have been assured by Mrs. Finwick that the bullet will be turned over to me expeditiously, as required by law.”
“Fat chance, jerk!” Now I was the one foaming at the mouth. The sheriff looked so fatherly and concerned that I felt like kicking one of my Eaglewings right through the television set.
“Lastly, I would like to address another subject that has been troubling me. As many of you know, the protest signs used by the young marchers accused me of killing a swan. Well, it’s true. This fall, during waterfowl hunting season, I mistook a flying swan for a goose and accidentally shot and killed it. I apologize for this mistake and am prepared to pay whatever fine the DNR chooses to impose upon me for the violation. Thank you.”
As the reporter wrapped up the story and the TV switched over to a commercial, my mouth hung open and my eyes blinked rapid-fire. Did I really hear that? What did it all mean? Did that dink really expect me to just hand him the bullet? Was it really that easy for Heiselmann to wash away his evil deeds?
I walked slowly into the kitchen.
“What was that all about?” asked Mom.
“Sheriff Heiselmann was on TV,” I said.
“Yes, he said he held a news conference today. By the way, honey, you will give him the bullet.”
“I’m going to bed,” I said. I had had enough. My head and eyes drooped. I was zonked.
“Are you forgetting about the dishes?” I glanced at the pile in the sink that might as well have reached the ceiling. Mom took a long drag on her cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke across the room. “Have you done your fifty pull-ups yet?”
