The Sky Fisherman

by Craig Lesley

  Billyum half swung at Jake, but he ducked away and both men laughed. Everything appeared okay, just a couple of old friends making camp and kidding around. But when I noticed they had put my sleeping bag closest to Kalim, I shivered.

  Turning back to the dishes, I saw one of the tin cups floating away. It bobbed toward the boat, just out of reach. "Shit," I said as it filled with water and sank. Picking up the flashlight, I waded out to the spot, but it was deeper than I thought and the cold water swirled around my thighs. Playing the beam onto the river bottom, I didn't see the cup, but I was startled to see a large crayfish scuttle between rocks, dragging a piece of fish gut. Stepping back, I bumped my arm against the boat. The flashlight fell into the water, winking out.

  I reached for it, but stopped when my fingers touched the water. I was afraid to grope among the dark rocks at the river bottom. The Wet Shoes business was just a crazy superstition, I knew, but I felt as if some icy hand could reach up from the river bottom and claim mine. Standing in the cold water, my legs grew numb and I grabbed the boat, clutching its side for balance.

  I wanted to call out, but waited until my fear passed, leaving me with emptiness and disappointment. Deep in the marrow of my bones, I felt that nothing was going to turn out as we had hoped, and I felt sick for all of us, especially my mother.

  9

  THAT SUMMER lightning ignited so many fires it seemed half the West was burning. Everyone remembers the big Montana fires, because of the destroyed wildlife, and the Hell's Canyon burn that charred a lot of eastern Oregon and Idaho, but there were hundreds of others, too, so many the smoke-jumping Hot-Shots couldn't get to half of them. Smoke from the fires close by drifted over Gateway skies, dimming the sun and hanging like a pall.

  A rash of mysterious barn fires erupted across the West, isolated wooden barns blowing like tinderboxes. The work of arsonists, according to the authorities. Some farmers lost their structures and hay but others lost the stock. One described the horrible smell of burning horseflesh.

  Timber and grass fires swept across the reservation, and some Gateway residents said the Indians set them on purpose, trying to make firefighting jobs for themselves, but Jake said that was just mean talk, although he acknowledged the Alaskan natives were known for that. Everybody worried about the cold deck at the plywood mill, and the company kept giant sprinklers circulating on top of the stacked logs soaking the top layer's bark, even though the lower layers were so dry a carelessly tossed cigarette would ignite the entire deck. Mule Mullins claimed once those logs started, nothing could stop them until the entire deck was destroyed.

  The ground was parched as baked clay, and puffs of dust rose from my feet wherever I walked. The fires kept me jittery thinking about Riley. Our house was so hot we slept with the doors open, although we kept the screens locked for security.

  Some nights I'd dream I was choking on smoke. Riley hunched over a square metal can pouring kerosene and the thick fumes filled the room. He shuffled along, dousing the floors and furniture. Turning in my direction, his eyes danced with reflected flames, while outside, beyond the smoke-darkened windows, fires consumed so many houses, I could tell this place was larger and more dangerous than Griggs.

  When Riley held out the can, I seized it, inhaling the fumes. He led me to the bedroom he'd shared with my mother and showed me where to pour. After he stripped back the covers, I soaked their mattress, then the clothes hanging in their closet, finally the gaping bureau drawers that held her nightgowns and underwear.

  Suddenly the entire room was burning, although I never struck a match, and when I turned to run from the fire, they were all watching: Riley, my mother, Jake, even Dwight and his wife. Someone else, too, an obscure figure backlit by the flames. The shadowy face could have been my father's.

  I'd awaken with my heart boxing my chest, my hand jammed in my mouth to stifle a yell. After a few minutes I'd go into the kitchen and let the water run a long time, splashing some of it onto my face to make certain I was good and awake. Then I'd just listen awhile and hear a train off in the distance, and I'd think, yes, that's the three-eighteen night freight coming to the trestle. And even though I knew by then it was just a dream, I sometimes smelled kerosene on my hands after I awoke, and I washed them until they smelled like the lemony dish soap we kept in the kitchen.

  I was glad none of these episodes woke my mother, for she was a heavy sleeper most of the time. Some nights I'd stand at the doorway to her bedroom, listening for her steady breathing and gentle snore, watching the easy rise and fall of bedcovers. Then I'd return to my bedroom hoping everything was all right for now but knowing Riley could show up at any time. And wondering, too, who was setting fire to those barns all across the West with no regard to property or life, imagining someone out there as wild and unhinged as Riley, maybe not a bad man, really, but one who was pushed by circumstances beyond his limits.

  Later, the fires got worse—not bigger, but more horrible. When part of the hobo jungle under the railroad trestle east of town burned, the wind carried a foul smell like charred tennis shoes, and greasy ashes clung to my skin and clothes, leaving a dark smear as I tried to brush them away.

  A couple of fellows from the Gateway volunteer ambulance squad told my uncle the story in lowered tones that gave me shudders. A recent shantytown resident had finally drunk himself to death, and his buddies stuffed the body into a fifty-gallon barrel and attempted a do-it-yourself cremation with gasoline siphoned from tourists' cars. The fire got away from them and several were burned badly enough to be taken to the hospital in Central. No one wanted to deal with what remained in the barrel, especially the coroner, who just put "posthumous immolation" on the death certificate.

  Every evening after supper I'd check and recheck the stove knobs, making certain the burners were off. And when my mother finished ironing her blouses for work, I'd see that the iron was unplugged.

  Some evenings my mother stood in the doorway to catch a faint breeze. Touching her fingers to her throat, just above where the robe gapped, she'd say, "So many fires. That's all they could talk about at work. When I think of all those poor animals in Montana burning up..."

  "Maybe we'll get some early rains," I offered, although I doubted we might.

  Her nose wrinkled as the smoke smell grew stronger. "In the office they mentioned an Indian woman who makes masks of all the animals. Raku masks, I think they said. Deer and elk, foxes and wolves. This woman carries them out to the scorched land and leaves them to put the animal spirits back." She took a breath. "That's a beautiful and remarkable thing to do, don't you think, Culver? Imagine how wonderful things could be if everyone made such a contribution."

  "It would sure help all right," I said.

  "A truly lovely gesture." She took a deep breath and turned from the door. "It seems as if the entire West might be on fire."

  "The West is pretty big, Mom," I said. I was still thinking about the artist carrying her masks to the woods.

  ***

  The reservation grade school had a broad expanse of green lawn, but it was so hot that afternoon, no children were playing. The sky was hazy from the reservation fires, and the haze seemed to contain the heat and quiet the breeze. Jake pulled the pickup in front of a yellow pumice-block building that said RUB Y'S TRADING POST.

  "I'm parched," he said, handing me a dollar. "Get us a couple Cokes, would you?" His suit coat lay folded on the seat between us. Sweat showed under the arms of his dress shirt, and he had loosened the knot in his tie. The tie was bright and too wide. "And ask the guy how to get to the old tribal church and graveyard. I only half remember."

  Inside, a few young kids clustered around a pinball machine. After passing some turquoise jewelry, moccasins made in Maine, and a dusty display of arrowheads, I took two Cokes from the cooler and returned to the front counter.

  "Live around here?" the man asked as he took the money. He had two thin braids tied with a rubber band and wore a T-shirt that said CUSTER GOT SIOUXED.


  "Gateway," I said. "I'm going to Kalim Kania's funeral."

  "You a friend or something?" Curiosity tinged his voice.

  "I found him," I said trying to keep it casual. "I work for my uncle Jake, help him out on the river."

  He nodded. "I heard something about it."

  "How do you get to the old tribal graveyard, anyway?"

  "That your rig?" He indicated the pickup with his chin, and I nodded. "Turn it around and drive straight past the fairgrounds and Hollywood. Go right at the pink house. It's about four miles."

  "Thanks," I said. "I've heard of Hollywood."

  When I handed Jake his Coke and change, I wanted to tell him about taking the money in Kalim's pockets, but I thought he'd get sore. At home, I had wrapped the money in plastic and hidden it among old school papers in a small suitcase. Kalim must have been gambling, playing the slots at the Stardust. Maybe someone had shot him for his winnings, but he had jumped into the river before they could grab him. It was hard to figure.

  Near the fairgrounds, big circulating sprinklers were watering the lawn and it seemed a little cooler. A teenaged boy kept shoving his girlfriend into the pulsing stream. She laughed, trying to break away, but he held her in the water while they both got soaked.

  "It's a wet T-shirt contest," Jake said. "Too bad I can't see that good."

  A fringe of tepees circled the fairground arena. One had two yellow suns painted above the door flap and a sign in front: WE BUY PORCUPINES. As we passed, an old man came out.

  Jake stopped the pickup and thumped on the door with his fist. "Hey, Yazzie, how do I get to Hollywood?"

  He squinted at Jake and waved. "Get a face-lift."

  Jake laughed. "Go to hell. At first I mistook you for a star."

  Yazzie shuffled toward the pickup, then staggered to the right, widening his eyes. "That tie about blinded me. When will the rest of the band show up?"

  "Yazzie, this is my nephew, Culver. We're just headed out to Kalim's funeral. That's why I'm so decked out. Culver, Yazzie Tapoah here used to be one mean guitar player. Had his own band and toured the West. Even opened for Buck Owens a couple of times."

  "That's going way back," Yazzie said. "Before arthritis bit me." He held up his hands so I could see the swollen joints. "Rheumatoid. I should have been a singer."

  "What's going on here?" Jake asked, pointing toward the tepees.

  "Just hanging around." Yazzie shrugged. "Pretty soon they'll come by with some commodity foods."

  "Take care, Yazzie," Jake said. "I don't want to miss the doings."

  "It's been a regular parade around here," Yazzie said. "Even saw Juniper Teewah looking all citified."

  "So she made it," Jake said as he pulled away. Yazzie half waved.

  "He's going downhill," Jake said, "and it's too bad. Ten years ago he was headlining in Reno. Came back to town once in a cowboy Cadillac, big old bull horns on the hood and six-shooters for door handles. The dashboard was inlaid with silver dollars. He swaggered around town, a showgirl dangling from each arm. That must have cost him a mint. They were all legs and smiles, I remember that."

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Crooked agent, bad luck." Jake shrugged. "Things change."

  "What's he do with the porcupines?"

  "His wife uses them to make Indian jewelry, decorate dancing outfits. If you want a part-time job, they'll buy porkies dead or alive."

  "Forget it, I'm not touching porcupines."

  Crossing the wooden bridge over Kooskia Creek, we entered Hollywood. Ramshackle two-story dwellings and quick-built government houses covered several acres of lowland between the creek and the river. As if defying the leaning porches and sagging roofs, each house was painted bright colors different from the rest. My favorite, a chartreuse house with lavender trim, perched near the riverbank. Broken-down pickups and rusting cars littered the brown lawns and cracked roads. Someone had nailed up a green and white California freeway sign that said ENTERING HOLLYWOOD.

  "If you lived here, you'd be home," Jake said. "Floods carried off chunks of this place a time or two. But now prosperity will sweep it clean. Go figure." He slowed down, shaking his head. "Some people think these Indians have it made in the shade. Ask Yazzie. He needs more than a new place to get back on his feet. Hollywood. What happens to the old stars?"

  ***

  Shaded by a grove of tall cottonwoods, we were sitting at the boundary of the reservation cemetery while inside the weathered church Kalim's service was being held. The church windows were open because of the intense heat, and I heard the words but couldn't understand because they were in the tribal language. The hymns were unfamiliar, too.

  Jake picked a bachelor button and put it in his lapel. Then he hung the suit coat on a branch. "The old man liked these and always brought your grandmother bunches of them. She had milk-bottle bouquets all over the house."

  "Tell me something about him," I said. "I don't know many stories."

  He gave me a quizzical look, then nodded as he realized I had never heard anything about him from my father.

  "The old man was a hell of a fly fisherman," Jake said, "and for a long time he knew the Lost better than anyone else, every hole and riffle. He'd smoke an old crook-stemmed pipe, and each time he tied on a new fly, he'd blow Prince Albert smoke on it, 'For good luck,' he said. In April he fished with Royal Coachmen and Adams flies but that was just practice, although he landed some nice ones. Late May, when the Salmon flies hatched, he started fishing for real, using tied-down Caddis flies. He favored the yellow bodies but he'd use orange, too. He caught lunkers then. And he stayed on the river until it got completely dark and cave bats going after the night hatch chased his flies on the back cast. Those bats made him mad, especially when the hook caught 'em and he had to bring them in. He carried leather gloves so they couldn't bite him when he pulled out the hook with his fishing pliers. But they screeched and hissed and flapped their wings."

  "Did it kill the bats?" I asked.

  He shook his head. "They always veered at the last second, so the hook caught the fur just below their mouths or maybe snagged a wing. When the old man started catching more bats than fish, he headed home."

  "I don't like bats," I said. "There's something creepy about them."

  "I can't stand them myself," Jake said, then went on.

  "The old man was kind of a show-off, but in a good sort of way. After a couple of dudes gave up fishing a nice riffle, he loved to wade out and land a couple nice fish under their noses. He'd clench that pipe between his teeth, trying not to grin, while the dudes shook their heads. Then he'd reach in his fishing vest for a package of Fig Newtons. He'd say, 'Darn tootin', I like Fig Newton."

  "Midafternoon, when the evening paper was finished, he'd grab his fishing gear and head out to the river, flag down a train, and ride upstream eight or ten miles. In the old days, railroaders gave fishermen lifts. Everyone liked the old man, especially when he took them the paper and a bottle now and then. Around eight, when he had enough fish, he'd catch the night freight back to town. Sometimes he'd eat the cold supper your grandmother left, but if she was mad at him and had cleared the table, he'd fry up some fish. Dave and I would sneak downstairs and he'd give us the crackling tails and a couple Fig Newtons, then shoo us back to bed."

  "Sounds good." I was getting hungry and could almost taste it.

  "Delicious." Jake winked. "Some weekends he'd take us with him. If we were staying over on the river, he'd fry those fish in Krusteaz, adding a little lemon. They never tasted so good as when we ate them on the river with the old man.

  "He was devoted to your grandmother. They'd come out from Minnesota together—Stillwater, where the state pen is. After things went bad in the woods, he worked at the state pen about a year but said he couldn't stand to see those boys walled in, so they set out together, and it was damn hard, until he landed a steady job with the newspaper. But she stuck by him and she hardly ever complained. I never heard her gripe, except a few times about
the fishing. Once she got really mad and complained he should keep a fancy woman instead of that river.

  "Then he stayed home two weeks straight. But he told us boys fishing was a little slack anyway. Each night after supper was finished, he'd light his pipe and start reading the paper to see how it looked. Since he'd set the type, he was pleased when he couldn't find any mistakes. 'I do damn good work,' he'd say. Pretty soon he'd start to nod off, and his head would sink lower and lower on his chest. Finally, Dave and I would wink to each other, taking bets as to how long it would be before some of the hot ashes spilled out of the pipe bowl onto his shirt. When that happened, he'd yell and jump, slapping his chest to knock away the smoldering ashes. Your grandmother would come rushing in from the kitchen and scold us for not waking him up sooner. We'd lie through our teeth and say we were so involved in our homework, we didn't notice."

  I laughed.

  "Every shirt he owned was burned through with holes. When we buried him, the funeral director wanted to put a new shirt on him, one without burns, but we said hell no. We buried him with an old shirt, his fishing vest, and that pipe.

  "They were fine people," he said. "And both went too soon. Her heart gave out, and when the old man got throat cancer from that pipe, it spread and riddled his bones. They got so fragile he couldn't walk, so Dave and I carried him from room to room in a blanket."

  The singing had stopped inside the church, and when Jake grew quiet, all I could hear was the rustle of wind high in the cottonwoods and the occasional whir of a large grasshopper sailing across the fields. "I'll bet you miss him," I said.

  "Hell, I miss all of them. Sometimes when I drive up to the house, for a moment, it's like they're all there just as they used to be, but then I look again and they're gone." Jake stood, taking his suit coat from the tree limb. "We've got to do that memorial. Listen, I'm glad you live closer now—your mother, too."