The River Why

by David James Duncan

  I made a quick cast to where the blueback had sounded. The instant the fly touched the water the fish smacked it, and after a good fight I landed it—the spitting image of the trout I’d killed yesterday: the one whose blood bought Alfred’s demise; the one that inspired the delirious night; the one that got me this damned headache. Warning upon warning. But I suspected no setup. I’d no one and nothing to suspect. I believed in nothing I couldn’t see except air and fish, and the lust for sleek silver bodies was upon me. I killed this blueback, too, then hopped in the canoe and shoved off.

  The air was chill for midsummer, but a brilliant pink-tinged sky in the east promised an early end to that. Mist clung in patches to the trees on Tamanawis Mountain like herds of amorphous timber-grazing sheep; a jet squadron of mergansers roared past looking for gook fish to bombard; a great blue heron wheeled by, squawking like an airborne limousine with a dying transmission. But the sky and its residents were lost on me: my eyes were all for the water. In a canoe you don’t just float down a river: you’re part of it—a silent water creature responsive to every surge and flex of current, gliding like a fingertip over a naked green body. And because you’re silent you come upon the watering deer, the bent and laborious beavers, the sleazy muskrats and gossiping ducks you seldom see walking the banks. But what did I do when I rounded a bend and came upon a drinking doe and her two spotted fawns? Turned to a seductive riffle on the opposite shore. My one-pointedness was rewarded with an eleven-inch native whose neck I broke as if twisting off a beer cap while the extraneous-to-angling fawns pranced and stumbled on spindly legs, swiveled outsized ears, twitched wet black noses, and flicked ragtag tails, all for the benefit of the numbered hairs hanging off the back of my head.

  In a way this July morning was the culmination of my life’s work. Fishing with total absorption despite my splitting head, employing a half-dozen well-chosen flies, a dozen kinds of casts, and a hundred fine technical nuances, I created—with Rodney’s help—an almost-living creature out of every fly. And the sea-runs had come in: we duped fourteen with our insectile artificing, landing eleven and killing five ranging from 1½ to nearly 4 pounds, filling in the under-12-inch portion of my limit with five natives of 10 to 11½ inches, selected from twenty deceived and netted. By 10 A.M. I had the kind of creel full of trout that would set most fishermen drooling, and still I persisted, releasing them now, but performing the ritual to perfection. The few bank-anglers I passed would hail me and ask “What luck?,” and I’d nod ambiguously, mutter “Middlin’,” and gloat to Rodney over the undoubted paltriness of their catch.

  At noon I pulled up on a gravel bar just above tidewater. The fishing had finally slowed, so while I devoured a baloney and banana sandwich I rigged a spinning rod with a small Doc Shelton and worms. When I was ready to shove off I glanced toward the bay—and was shocked to see an enormous wall of fog rolling inland, right for me, like a slow, titanic tidal wave.

  Summer fogs are common on the Oregon Coast: inland heat waves drag them from the Pacific as a man with a fever pulls the blanket to his chin. But something about this fog bank made my heart sink—the way it covered the entire sky; its density and darkness; its magisterial, inexorable approach.… I tried to ignore it, telling myself the fish would start hitting again in the cold dark beneath it.

  But they didn’t. I reached tidewater just as the fog engulfed me. The tide was full, the current dead. I let the boat hang and tried the spinner, but somehow in that fog the repetitive cast/retrieve, cast/retrieve seemed stupid, out of place, bootless. And I was cold. As soon as the blanket touched me the air went chill, my throat turned sore, my breath made smoke, and even quick paddling didn’t warm me. I trolled the spinner a while longer, but when it snagged I broke off and began paddling for Eaton’s Landing.

  The fog was incredibly thick now. I could only see the nearest bank, though the river was quite narrow. The air was dank, and unearthly still. I saw and heard no wildlife—not even the inevitable riverside wrens. The world seemed to have shrunken and died, turned shapeless and colorless—nothing but monotonous lumps of green and gray. I began to shiver, and to feel afraid. There had been no sign that the world I’d drifted into was inhabited at all. I listened carefully to my weary brain’s assurances that Eaton’s dock was less than two miles downstream and impossible to miss; the boats enshrouded at sea, they had something to worry about, but I was three miles even from the bay. I got hold of myself.

  Even without fog, the stretch of river upstream from Eaton’s Landing is humdrum; there are no riffles or pools, no variations to the brush-choked banks; it’s more a tidal canal or a slough than a river. I began to lose all sense of distance, and I recognized no landmark: the river bends, the pilings, the few old trees—all strange. I heard a small outboard puttering toward me. I made out one of the old green and black wood boats they rented at the Landing. I read the chipped white number on the bow. I tried to make out the men riding in it, but there were only two shapes, faceless, manlike, hunkered on pewlike benches. I would have called to fishermen, asking how far to the Landing, joking about the fog, or the fishing—but I couldn’t make myself call to those shapes. The old boat glided past like a hearse, trailing the reek of menthol cigarettes. Then, when it had disappeared, a disembodied voice that sounded so close it made me start muttered, “You see somethin’, Ray?”

  A second voice growled, “Not sure.”

  The first voice said, “Musta been the Phantom Fisherman.” The two shapes found this humorous, apparently; at least both voices snorted and coughed up mouthfuls of phlegm—I heard the spats foul the river. I was glad the tide began to ebb: I wanted the hell out of this silent slough. I paddled hard, but thanks to port wine and no sleep my body was no longer heating itself: the fog seemed to flow right through my head and chest. Many more hours in this stuff and I would be the Phantom Fisherman, but there was nothing for it now but to shiver and keep paddling.

  By and by I heard a muffled shout far up the opposite bank—a man’s voice, shrouded and strained, calling, “Abe! AAAaaaaabe! Abe! Where are ya!” It was a voice not used to shouting, forced for some reason to holler like a scared kid calling a lost dog. It gave me the willies. Maybe Abe was a dog, lost in the brush. Or maybe a couple of old plunkers got separated. The poor guy’s partner was probably up snoozing in their car.… “Abe! AAaaabe! Jesus, ABE! AAAAAaaaaaaaabe!” A seagull swooped down from the murk and right over my head screamed its most mournful sea-cry—I ducked, nearly swamping the boat, then paddled away with all my strength. I wanted that hollow voice way out of earshot.

  My arms grew leaden. I laid the paddle across the gunwale and rested, staring at my rucksack to keep from having to stare at the damned fog. Then I realized I was staring at a bulge in that rucksack, and that the bulge was a pullover slicker. Of all the stupid… freezing to death, and a slicker sitting under my shoes. I fished the thing out and pulled it over my head but the zipper at the throat somehow caught in my hair. I cussed and fussed around, struggling like a halibut on the floor of a dory, clattering tackle, almost capsizing again before I managed to pull the hair out and the slicker on. Then I reached for the paddle.…

  It was gone. Knocked in the water. I looked around the boat—nowhere in sight. I hand-paddled downstream, thinking it might have drifted faster—didn’t see it. I back-paddled—still didn’t see it. I hand-paddled forward and sideways, this way and that till my arms went numb and my back was breaking, then sat up, muttering the obscene old standbys and inanely computing how many flies I’d have to sell to pay for a new paddle.

  Then I saw something floating near the bank. I worked toward it, but was so tired I quit when I saw it wasn’t my paddle. What the hell was it, though? An animal of some kind? No. A submerged log? Yeah. And something pale rolled on the surface next to it—a good-sized fish taking a fly, looked like. I eyed Rodney. I was all-in and limited out, but what the hell? Seemed like a way of saying Screw-you to the fog.… I tied on a #10 Purple Jerry and laid it lightly, right wh
ere the fish had shown. Nothing struck, but I waited as the fly sank. Just as I started to work it in I felt a tug too soft for any cutthroat—I thought “Summer steelhead!” and was careful not to raise the tip too hard. The rod bent, but there was no vibration—just a dull, steady pull… snag. I brought the rod up harder,

  and a white hand rose from the river.

  A man… a man floating on the tide, face down, my fly stuck in the sleeve at his wrist.

  I didn’t move, but unconsciously kept an even pressure on the fly-line, so the canoe slid up alongside the body. I put down the pole and just sat, unable to think. The man’s pallid fingers were curled under, undulating like feeding slugs; one sported a gold wedding band. Gray hair fluttered off his head like algae off a rock; his ears were a hideous white. He wore a checkered shirt like one of my own, and he had on suspenders, or no, wader straps. Yes, he had on waders. The man was a fisherman.

  He drifted vertically, feet sunken, arms outspread, head lolling on the surface—an outlandish, waterlogged crucifix. In my fished-out condition I found myself wondering what the trout must think of him, even imagined myself a fish on the bottom watching him hang like an icon in the fog overhead. “Christ,” I thought, “no wonder the bite is off.” I began to grumble at him for wrecking the fishing. My mind was gone. It was a long while before I saw I had to do something. Couldn’t just let him drift out to sea. I started to grab him: the canoe tipped; my hand pressed his cold head, forcing it further under. I gagged and lurched back.

  To gather my wits I started talking with Rodney. “What to do, huh, Rod? Wouldn’t help to grab him. Can’t get him in the boat. Got to tie him on and tow him away someway or other.” I considered snagging him with my fly-line and pulling him to shore, but a glimpse of the shoreline ended that notion: at high tide the brush overhangs both banks and the water is immediately deep. I couldn’t climb out of the canoe for the brush, and I couldn’t get the corpse in without me getting out, because to pull him up would swamp me. “Don’t matter,” I told Rodney. “No fight left in him anyhow. No fun for us once they’re all played out, huh, Rod? Well, how ’bout that bow-rope then? Sounds like a plan.”

  I lurched toward the bow and again nearly capsized. I clutched the gunwale, the thought of being in the water with the body sickening me. Creeping into the bow, I turned and steadied the canoe, then watched vacantly as the man drifted down, head-foremost, and thudded into Sardine’s shiny side. “Same noise Alfred made on the fish tank yesterday, remember, Rod? He’s like Alfred, ain’t he? Wants outta there. Nobody likes it in the water with them big sea-runs.…”

  Another gull passed over and, when it saw us, screamed and wheeled away like the first. This time I was too far gone to be frightened, but I remembered the fog-bound voice: Abe.

  “So you’re Abe,” I whispered to the downward-gazing face. “Well let me tell you something, Abe, your wife’s gonna be pissed. I mean it. She never liked you takin’ off goin’ fishin’ anyhow. Shoulda stayed home and mowed the lawn, Abe. You’ve gone and done it to yourself this time. No joke. There won’t be no explainin’ yourself out of this one.” I thought of the frightened voice, the ring on the finger, the shirt like mine—a gift, I figured, from kids or grandkids—and started to cry. “OK Abe. Steady now. No tricks. Let’s get you down to Eaton’s.”

  I looped the rope through his wader straps, touching him as little as possible, fighting off the revulsion when I did; I tied a square knot, let go, and watched. The canoe sped up. The rope came taut. Abe hove around slow in the current, one arm slothfully flailing, his face turning toward me as he bobbed on the tide; the mouth and eyes gaped at me—the same astonished expression I’d seen on the faces of a million spent fish. I turned away. My intestines writhed in a dry heave.

  After a time I heard a car creeping through the fog on the River Road. I considered hollering for help but the knots in my stomach—and the recollection of the way Abe’s friend sounded—stopped me. The tide was flowing strong now anyway; I should reach Eaton’s before long; maybe somebody with an outboard would come and help out.

  I hand-paddled hard for a while, trying to reach the south shore where the dock would be. It was arduous: Abe was like a sea anchor, and with my throat and gut all twisted together I couldn’t get much thrust. I sat up to rest. “We’re not moving so fast,” I told Abe; “Damn fool that I am. Lost my paddle just before I found you. Loss is gain, huh?”

  Abe’s mouth gaped its one reply as I stared against my will, mesmerized by the kelplike flapping of his arms, the unalterable incredulity on his face, and suddenly that expression, the lack of sleep, the fog, the eeriness of our plight—all of it joined to swamp my mind. I burst into uncontrollable, choking, weeping laughter. “I swear to God, Abe. You’re the worst swimmer ever was. I don’t know, maybe it’s those waders, but I swear, I never met nothing could swim the way you can. Unless maybe it was an anvil… Anvil Abe. Anvil Abe and the Phantom Fisherman, huh? That’s us, Abe. That’s us.”

  My head swam; I grew disoriented, unsure of how Abe and I met or where we were going; fog swirled all through me now and I babbled like a creek, sloshing with affection for my ungainly fellow drifter. “Hope them bluebacks aren’t peckin’ at ya, Abe. I’ve seen ’em hit streamers not much smaller’n you, so watch out.…” Abe peered down into the Tamanawis, watching out. “Abe, I’ll tell you what. When me and you get down to the dock I’m gonna give ya a present, damned if I’m not, Abe. But what the, why not give it to ya now—got it right here in the boat, and, and you can—it, it’s my life jacket, Abe. I’m givin’ it to ya and would have sooner and anyhow it’s all yours now. Yep. This big orange sucker right here in the boat. Maybe it’ll, it… hell, it’ll even float an anvil like you. No sweat, Abe, I mean it. I don’t need it. Take it. Keep it with ya and this sorta thing won’t happen no more.” I picked up the life jacket. I held it out to him. Mind stopped, teeth rattling, I held it out, waiting for him to take it. “Come on, Abe. It’s yours.” He didn’t take it. “Goddamnit, Abe, here!” He ignored me, just peered down in the water. That hurt me. I held it out as long as I could but he never looked up. I put it back in the boat when my arm gave out. “OK. OK Abe. I’ll give it to ya later.”

  I started back for the south bank of the river and was making some headway when the canoe jolted to a stop and heaved around sideways. I turned. Abe’s feet were tangled in a sunken tree. I tugged on the rope but he didn’t come free. I was afraid to pull hard: might capsize, or break the wader straps and lose him for good. Gently as I could I pulled Sardine up toward him till I could see, down through the green flow, his left foot wedged in the crotch of a limb. “OK Abe… enough’s enough. You kick loose now.”

  Abe looked at his foot; he waved his arms; he didn’t kick loose.

  “It’s not funny anymore, Abe. Really. Let go.”

  Abe didn’t let go. The tide ebbed faster; the oceanbound river tugged harder at his straps; Abe just rolled a little, side to side, looking down, looking deep down into secret parts of the Tamanawis. So I prayed—for a boat to come, for the limb to break, for the current to free him, anything.…

  No boat came, no limb broke, no current freed, nothing: that was how my prayers had always worked. I saw there was only one way to free him: dive down and loose his foot myself. I started pulling off my clothes. By the time I’d stripped, my teeth were banging till I thought they’d break; tension, cold, and fear had my body knotted and the thought of what I was about to do weakened me. But there’s only one way of getting out of a canoe in deep water without overturning it: I took a careful, gasping gulp of air—and dove.

  I opened my eyes. It was green and calm under the water, neither as cold nor as turbulent as I’d feared. I swam slowly at first, wary of cramps, but with each stroke the tension flowed out of me till my body felt loose and comfortable, more at home in the river than in the air. I surfaced and swam back alongside Sardine. Seeing how light and high it floated I realized how hard it would be to get back in. Didn’t matter
. It was better in the water and would be easier to guide the canoe.

  I swam to Abe and grabbed his shirt to keep from drifting away, but the boot came instantly free and the current drove him into me so hard he seemed alive and swimming: I shot away in revulsion. But I didn’t want Abe to think I didn’t like him so I acted like I’d been going to get the life jacket, pulled it out of the canoe, swam back, and wedged it under his chest. It buoyed him up well. Returning to the stern of the backwards canoe, I guided our course downstream, looking up now and then for the pier at Eaton’s landing. I couldn’t see more than twenty feet, but hugged the shore so I wouldn’t miss it, sliding once in a while through sunken algae-covered trees whose slick dead limbs now stroked, now gouged my legs, forcing myself to stay calm, knowing I’d drown if I didn’t.

  After a time the dock was suddenly right there. I let the canoe wedge itself against the pilings and turned just as Abe, arms undulating, scudded into my chest and trapped me against the dock. I shot out of the water, ramming a big splinter into my thigh. Then I just lay there like a beached tortoise, turning numb, feeling spent enough to welcome it.… But a sudden rasping voice hollered, “Jesus Christ!” I looked up into the prune face of old Ralph Eaton. “No,” I said. “I think his name is Abe.”

  4

  Fainting Before the Duel

  Oh! you should have seen him shiver

  when they pulled him from the river!

  —Heinrich Hoffman

  Numb and wasted though I was, I didn’t fail to remember that wherever Ralph Eaton is, Maggie Eaton can’t be far behind. So my first desperate act upon gaining dry land and a few shreds of consciousness was to fetch my trousers and cover what Adam covered with the leaf. A retired veterinarian, Maggie Eaton was a rock-hard raw-boned old woman whose Christian piety kept her bustling around Fog and the surrounding farms, serving her fellow humans in a kind of medical capacity. Unfortunately, her Philosophy of Healing was derived from her vet experience and consisted of what sounded like six words: Man Ain’t No Differnt’n’inny Other Critter. So it was that prospective patients attempted to conceal even grievous wounds and terminal diseases to avoid her charitable ministrations; I groveled for my trousers, propelled not by any Edenic shame of nakedness, but by the certain knowledge that if Maggie spotted the splinter in my thigh she’d be at it with a needle the size, sharpness, and cleanliness of a used railroad spike.