Trout Quintet

by Steve Raymond

  By then two police officers had arrived. They looked around and asked me what happened. I told them what I knew. They asked me to describe Lyle, which I did, but when they asked his last name I realized I didn’t even know it.

  The officers conferred quietly, then one said I would have to go with them to the station and give a formal statement. “You might not be coming back here, so you’d better get some things together and bring them along,” he said.

  I didn’t like the sound of that, but I did as he said, finding a shopping bag and stuffing it with some of the few clothes I had. I also picked up my lucky hat, which had been knocked off when Lyle hit me. There were fresh spots of blood on it, probably mine, but I stuffed it into the bag along with everything else.

  At the station, they put me in a small room with a table and three uncomfortable chairs and left me there. After a while the door opened and the officers came back in and started questioning me again. They wrote down my answers, but it was obvious writing wasn’t their strong suit; there were frequent pauses while they argued questions of spelling or grammar. My story was short, but it took them a long time to get it down. When they were finally finished they had me read over what they’d written. I suggested several corrections. Those were made and the officers left to have the statement typed for my signature, leaving me alone again in the room.

  A few minutes later a young policewoman came in. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Jan. I’ve been assigned to keep you company while they’re typing up your statement.” She looked at me closely. “You look hungry,” she said. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  She was a perceptive cop. “I’m starving,” I said. “I had a banana for breakfast. That’s all I’ve had all day.”

  “Well, there’s not much around here at this time of day, but I’ll see what I can find.” She left and returned ten minutes later with a candy bar and a small carton of milk, both probably from vending machines. “Sorry, this is all I could find,” she said. I accepted it gratefully, thanked her, then wolfed down the candy bar and drank all the milk.

  After that we sat and stared at each other. I wondered why it was taking so long to type my statement, and figured it was probably because the two cops had gone out to get something to eat.

  “So, what are you studying in school?” Jan finally asked.

  “Just the usual.”

  Silence. Then: “So what sports do you like?”

  “Pretty much all of them.”

  At that point she got the idea I wasn’t interested in having a conversation, so we both sat quietly until the door finally opened and one of the officers came in with the typed copy of my statement. We went over it together and I made a couple of final small corrections, initialed the changes, and signed the document. “Now can I go home?” I asked.

  Jan and the officer exchanged glances. “Not yet, I’m afraid,” the officer said. “We’re waiting for a social worker. She’s over at the hospital now, checking on your mother and little brother. She should be here before long.” He took the signed statement and left, leaving Jan and me sitting in silence again. I was still hungry and getting very sleepy, so at last I put my head down on the table and tried to take a nap, but the chair and table were so uncomfortable I despaired of ever getting to sleep. Every once in a while I would discreetly open an eye to see if Jan was still there. She’d found a magazine somewhere and was reading it.

  At some point I actually did fall asleep, but woke up when the door suddenly opened and the fattest woman I’d ever seen filled the doorway. She weighed at least 350 pounds and was dressed in some sort of all-black garment that fit her like the skin on a sausage, displaying a mountain range of bumps, mounds, and bulges. Her hair looked like a swarm of black gnats hovering around her face, which also bulged with bloated cheeks, several chins, a bulbous nose, and baggy eyes. Her lips were covered with bright red lipstick. I thought she looked like a railroad tank car.

  “I’m Mrs. Shockley from State Child Protection Services,” she said, advancing toward me. “You must be Timmy.” I winced; I absolutely hated to be called that, but said nothing.

  Mrs. Shockley took the remaining chair, which groaned and popped as she settled into it, with great folds of fat hanging over either side. “I’ve just come from the hospital,” she said. “Your mother has a broken jaw, a broken nose, a severe concussion, and possible internal injuries, so they’re going to have to keep her there for a while. Your little brother is badly dehydrated, has a fever, and shows signs of malnutrition, so they’re going to keep him too. But I’ve arranged for you to stay with a fine foster family that is accustomed to taking care of children in transition.”

  “Wait a minute!” I objected. “I don’t need a foster family. I want to go home!”

  Mrs. Shockley and Jan looked at each other, as if trying to decide who should speak first. Mrs. Shockley won the silent battle. “I’m sorry, Timmy”—there it was again!—“but you can’t go home. There’s no adult to look after you. Besides, I understand that man who beat your mother and hit you is still on the loose. If you went home, he might come back, and you’d be in danger.” Jan nodded agreement.

  “I don’t care. I want to go home!”

  Mrs. Shockley was trying to be what she thought was nice, but she had obviously been a social worker a long time and had developed an invisible, impermeable, turtle-like shell that kept any emotion from getting in or out. “I’m sorry, Timmy”—arrrrrgh!—“but you have to understand you’re in the state’s custody now, and I’m responsible for your welfare. You’ll be quite safe and very comfortable with Mr. and Mrs. McGillis, and it’ll be for only a short time until we get everything straightened out with your family.” She glanced at the shopping bag I’d brought, which was under the table. “I see you brought your things with you. That’s good. If you’ll get them, we can be on our way. Mr. and Mrs. McGillis are expecting us.”

  I looked at Jan. She nodded again, signaling I had no choice. Reluctantly, I picked up the shopping bag and walked with the two women to the elevator, where Jan said goodbye. I was glad she did, because I thought if she got into the elevator with me and Mrs. Shockley, the combined weight would send us all plunging to the basement.

  Outside the police station Mrs. Shockley led the way to a huge black Buick, which could have been her twin sister, and we headed for the home of my foster parents-to-be.

  I stayed at the home of Mr. and Mrs. McGillis for what was probably a month, but seemed an eternity. Three other kids “in transition” were already staying there, a boy named Roy, who was fourteen, another named Nathan, eleven, and a girl called Nancy, who was nine. I never did learn any of their last names. As the new arrival, I was greeted with cold resentment by all three. Nancy had her own room and Roy and Nathan shared a room with bunk beds. The only other bed was a fold-out sofa in the recreation room, and that’s where I ended up. The rec room also housed the television set, and that’s where the other kids clustered and watched TV until they finally wandered off to bed, so I had to wait until the last one had gone before I could fold out the bed and climb into it.

  School was out for the summer so there wasn’t much to do. Roy, Nathan, and I tossed around a football in the yard a few times until we got tired of it, but mostly we watched TV or read old comic books left by previous inmates. If the state was paying the McGillises for being foster parents, it was obvious they weren’t spending the money on food; our diet consisted mostly of cold cereal for breakfast, peanut butter sandwiches for lunch and macaroni and cheese for dinner. There was absolutely no privacy, except I was sometimes able to gain a little solitude sitting on the front porch in an old-fashioned porch swing.

  It wasn’t long until I began to think I was losing my mind. All the underpinnings of my childhood, fragile as they were, had been shattered. I didn’t know exactly where I was, or what was going to happen to me. Nothing was certain. All I knew for sure was that I desperately missed Lofton Creek and my old Wonderod—not that there was anywhere I could have
used the rod if I’d still had it with me. At night, while lying awake in the uncomfortable fold-out bed, I would think up elaborate plans to escape, then realize each plan was a fantasy because I had no place to go.

  After about ten days, Mrs. Shockley came to pick up Nathan. Some sort of legal procedure had run its course and a decision had been made to place him in a permanent foster home. While waiting for him to get his stuff, she told me my mother was out of the hospital but was now in jail, charged with child neglect and unable to raise bail. Adrian also was out of the hospital and in a temporary foster home. Lyle was still on the loose, “so you’ll have to stay here for a while longer.” I was ready to get down on my knees and plead with her to get me out of there, but realized it would be useless.

  After Nathan left, I was invited to take his bunk bed in the room with Roy. Much as I hated the fold-out bed, I opted to stay there because I didn’t like Roy. I didn’t like anybody in that household, probably because I just didn’t want to be there.

  It must have been another three weeks before Mrs. Shockley came again. I was sitting alone in the porch swing, thinking again about how I might escape, when she drove up in her enormous Buick, extracted herself with difficulty, and waddled up to the porch. “Hello, Timmy,” she said, as I winced. Without asking, she sat down beside me in the swing. The chain immediately broke on her end and the swing fell to the porch floor with a splintering crash. My end was still up in the air, and I slid down into the endless folds of Mrs. Shockley’s fat. Horrified, I managed to break free and run to the porch railing, where I turned and saw her lying amid the wreckage like a beached whale. She struggled to rise and gave me a baleful look as if she expected me to assist, but I could no more have helped her up than I could have lifted her Buick. With great effort, accompanied by dramatic groans, she got to her knees, then regained her feet and moved to an old wooden ladder-back chair next to the broken swing. She sat down gingerly. The chair squealed loudly and I thought I could see the legs spreading farther apart, but somehow it kept from collapsing.

  She brushed herself off and eyed me coldly. Without preamble, she said “Your mother’s still in jail. Her trial won’t be until next year, and she’ll probably stay in jail until then. There’s been a hearing”—to which I obviously hadn’t been invited—“and a decision was made to place you in a permanent foster home situation. Lucky for you, a delightful couple has stepped forward and volunteered to be your foster parents, a Mr. and Mrs. Briggs. I think you might even know them.”

  “Harry Briggs?” I asked, disbelieving.

  “Why yes, I think that’s right.”

  That sneaky bastard! I never expected he’d go that far to recover his precious hat. But that had to be his plan. I was angry and about to object, but then thought better of it. Harry was a fly fisherman and loved trout, so he couldn’t be all bad. And even as underhanded as this turn of events made him seem, I had to admit I had developed a perverse sort of liking for him. Not to mention the fact that almost anyplace else would be better than where I was. So when I finally did speak, it was to say “Okay.”

  That surprised Mrs. Shockley, who was obviously expecting an argument. “Okay? Well, that’s great, Timmy. (Ouch!) I have to see Mrs. McGillis to get her to sign a release and talk to her about this dangerous furniture,” she said, gesturing at the splintered wreckage of the swing. “Why don’t you get your things and I’ll take you to Mr. and Mrs. Briggs?”

  I needed no urging and went to retrieve the shopping bag with my clothes, which I’d kept hidden behind the fold-out bed. A sudden inspiration made me take out the old fishing hat and put it on.

  Mrs. Shockley objected when she saw it. “You don’t want to meet your foster parents wearing that old thing,” she said.

  “Yes, I do.”

  She said no more. Having avoided one argument with me, she apparently didn’t want to start another.

  Harry and a woman I presumed was his wife were waiting on their front porch when Mrs. Shockley parked the Buick in front of their home. I got out first, anxious to be out of the car, which smelled bad, and started up the sidewalk. Harry immediately noticed I was wearing the hat and a little smile flickered across his face. I expected him to say something about it, but the only thing he said was, “Welcome home, Tim.”

  For the first time in my life I had plenty to eat and new clean clothes to wear—except, of course, for the hat, which I hardly left out of my sight. Harry taught me to cast, and once I had mastered that skill we fished together as often as we could. He also taught me to tie flies, and I vividly remember the first trout I caught on a fly I’d tied myself. What a thrill that was!

  I wore the hat every time he and I went fishing together, which was often. Each time he saw me put it on I waited for him to make another bid for it, but he never said a word; he just got that sly little smile on his face.

  There was one exception. Once, after an especially great fishing day on our favorite stream, the Braxton—which everybody called “the Brax”—I got a little too puffed up over my success, which, as usual, had been greater than his. “Don’t let it go to your head, boy,” Harry said. “You know damn well the only reason you caught so many trout is because of the hat.”

  Early on, I decided I wanted to try to duplicate the experiences Harry had related when he told me the story of the hat. We did duplicate many. We went to the same stretch of the Henrys Fork where Harry had lost his original hat in the thunderstorm, and I had a sensational day, landing a twenty-six-inch rainbow and many smaller fish. Harry worked hard for a half-dozen trout, the largest only nineteen inches, but as usual he didn’t complain.

  On the same trip we fished the Yellowstone for cutthroat and the fascinating Firehole for rainbows and browns.

  We fished the Deschutes, too, where Harry had fallen in the river recovering the sacred hat that I now wore. Fortunately, history did not repeat itself, and I caught three steelhead. Harry got one.

  I never had to fight anyone to retain possession of the hat, as he once did, nor was I ever invited to appear on a television show, as he once was, but I had no desire to have either of those experiences.

  Once, when we were fishing deep in the canyon of the Wilderness Fork of the Fremont, I hooked an enormous steelhead. It looked so big that I briefly thought of Mrs. Shockley. I fought it a long time while Harry watched and cheered me on, and when I finally got it to the beach we weighed it in Harry’s net at a little more than eighteen pounds. That was a mere fraction of Mrs. Shockley’s weight, but the fish was certainly better looking than she was, and I chalked it up as another victory for the hat.

  Harry’s wife’s name was Laura. She had been raised in South Carolina and still had the accent, which made it literally impossible for her to pronounce her own name. Whenever she tried to say “Laura,” it came out sounding like “Law.” She was a petite, well-designed woman with faded blonde hair, blue eyes, small features, and a perpetually startled expression. Never having had a child of her own, she wasn’t certain how to deal with the sudden presence of a twelve-year-old boy in her household, so it was a learning experience for both of us.

  As Harry had said, she was totally preoccupied with researching her family’s history, with a vague goal of writing a book about it. She’d managed to trace her ancestors all the way back to the early thirteenth century in Britain. “What did they do?” I asked, curious how she’d respond. “They were herdsmen,” she said.

  We got along awkwardly at first, but after a while “Law” warmed up and eventually a kind of affection developed between us.

  Once in a great while I thought about my mother, and even more rarely about Adrian. Sometimes in my dreams I would hear him screaming. But I never had any special desire to see either of them again, and I never did.

  Middle school and high school went by almost in a blur, although I remember the day when I was still a high-school freshman when Harry came home and told me he’d just raised the price of beer at the tavern he owned. “That’s so you can
go to college,” he said. “I expect you to work as hard as you possibly can in every class and get the very best grades you can so you’ll be able to make something of yourself someday. Homework and grades come first. Then fishing.” I knew he meant it, and I always tried to follow his rules. I also got a summer job as a grocery stock boy to earn some money so his customers wouldn’t have to pay even more for their beer. The job took lots of time, but we still got away for fishing whenever we could.

  At some point during those years—I don’t remember exactly when—I stopped calling him Harry and started calling him Dad. If he noticed, he didn’t say anything.

  I continued following his rules during four years at a local university. That cut deeply into my fishing time, but since the school was close to home we still managed to get out from time to time. During my junior year I acquired a girlfriend, which cut even further into our fishing time. I dated her almost a year and I thought it was serious, but it turned out she didn’t. That was hard to bear, but I found that in addition to its many other attractions, fly fishing for trout is wonderfully therapeutic in such situations. I also discovered that trout are always trustworthy, which is more than you can say for some girls.

  When I got my degree, I posed for a photo with Dad on one side and “Law” on the other, my arms around both. Judging from their expressions, they felt my graduation was as much their accomplishment as mine—and they were probably right.

  Midway through my senior year, I applied and was accepted for Navy Officer Candidate School following graduation. I still remembered those imaginary dogfights in the front seat of the rusty old Dodge behind the trailer, and hoped OCS would be a first step toward becoming a jet fighter pilot for real.