few there are who know it fully.
—Kabir
The first hint that his Tuesday might not go according to plan was the call from Ray at five forty-five that morning: “Hey, Doc, how’s it goin'?”
Osborne cleared his throat. “Other than the fact you just woke me up?”
“Sorry about that. Had to catch you before you headed into town. How … would you like … to earn … a few buckaroos today, Doc?” Ray vested each word with the importance of a winning lottery ticket.
“Okay—what’s wrong?” asked Osborne, not a little cranky and clutching the cordless to his ear as he stumbled toward the porch to let the dog out. The fishing guide, so chronically short of cash that he dug graves to make ends meet, had something up that crisply ironed khaki sleeve of his. No one in their right mind pays a retired dentist to dip minnows and hook leeches. Six years living next door to the guy, Osborne knew all the red flags: an offer of cold cash as opposed to a string of fresh bluegills was not good news.
Gazing west through the porch windows while he listened, Osborne checked the conditions on the water. Sixty-three years into life, and fishing made him a better weather predictor than any of the jokers on TV.
Now that he had Osborne’s attention, Ray spoke fast. “Doc, these gals are paying a hundred fifty each plus very nice tips, I’m sure. I have no problem giving you seventy-five and, brother, do I need the help. Five lovely ladies on one pontoon learning to cast? No way I can handle that all by myself. Not without someone getting hooked in the ear.”
“Hold on there, big fella,” said Osborne with a chuckle. “Am I not talking to a man who’s been known to juggle half a dozen close female friendships simultaneously?”
“Not the same thing, Doc. These are five adult women about to be let loose with multihooked muskie lures after mainlining way too much coffee. This … could be … a safety sit-u-a-tion and … it worries me.”
Osborne said nothing. This was classic Ray: exaggerating words and pauses until his listener would plead for a punch line. Only this time Osborne owned the punch line. He relished the moment.
“Please, Doc … Seventy-five … buckaroos.”
It had all started when a reporter for the Loon Lake Daily News, researching a Sunday feature on local fishing guides, decided to pick up on a comment Ray made on how single women could meet more guys if only they knew how to fish. “Think about it,” he quoted Ray as saying, “hundreds, maybe thousands, of single guys rich enough to own their own boats up here in the northwoods every weekend all summer long. Now that, ladies, is opportunity.”
By the end of the interview, egged on by the reporter, he had decided to offer a two-day seminar: “On catching fish, not guys. I’ll call it … umm … ‘Fishing For Girls.'”
This mushroomed into a sidebar to the main story that detailed not only what Ray would teach but included his home phone number along with a color photo of the thirty-four-year-old single white male wearing a stuffed trout on his head and holding a forty-eight-inch muskie.
Osborne suspected it wasn’t the muskie that prompted the deluge of phone calls. And it wasn’t the fish on his head. It was Ray. Tall, lean, tan Ray Pradt with his dark-brown curls just visible under the brim bearing the stuffed trout. It was the easy grin, the friendly eyes, and the flash of white teeth framed by the beard, curly and flecked rust and gray.
Ben Kaupinnen, one of the McDonald’s coffee crowd that Osborne met with most mornings around six thirty, summed it up when he said, “You give that razzbonya (meaning Ray Pradt) just two dimensions (meaning a flat photo), and he can charm the living daylights out of a gal. Not to mention her pocketbook.”
The Sunday that the newspaper story ran on the front page of the “Outdoors” section, Ray’s phone never stopped ringing. Two calls were from teenagers who got a kick out of pretending they thought Ray’s clinic was all about trolling for babes—the rest were from interested babes.
The story had legs all the way into the next week as three irritated readers peppered the Loon Lake Daily News’ “Monday Mailbag” with anonymous letters complaining that the name of the seminar was tasteless. That it implied Ray was offering tips on Internet dating or how to find websites with unsavory content: “Not suitable for a family newspaper!”
Once Osborne’s daughter, Erin, assured him that “any publicity is great publicity,” Ray relished every call and complaint even as he signed up a total of twenty-four women for seminars to be offered midweek over the next six weeks. The fact that he had never done this before didn’t faze him. Nor the local merchants: Ralph’s Sporting Goods agreed to let his students sample their rods and tackle; the local marina said they would provide a boat.
“All right, all right, let me check my calendar for the day,” said Osborne, taking his time as he picked up his mug of hot coffee and walked back through the living room to the porch. He bent to look through the window once more.
The lake was serene, streaked with muted shades of rose and lavender stolen from the clouds overhead. Early summer breezes teased the curtains. He watched Mike chase two chipmunks across the yard. Hard as he tried every morning, the black lab never won that race.
Osborne inhaled. If you counted the promise in the air, this could be a very good day to be on water. And the evening looked good as well. He had plans to wade the weed beds off his dock, fly rod in hand. His favorite fishing partner had promised to give him some pointers on fly-fishing for muskie. Nope, life didn’t get much better than this. He could spare a little of his good humor.
“Okay—looks like I can put a few things off. But forget the cash. How ‘bout one of these nights, you sauté up some walleye cheeks with a side of that wild rice casserole of yours for Lew and myself?”
“Deal. Can you be here by seven-thirty?”
“Sure. How many women did you say there are?”
“Five. I had four booked and squeezed another one in at the last minute. All beginners. Never touched a spinning rod before yesterday. And, hey, Doc, just for fun I got a pop quiz for you. You get it right, and I’ll enhance your little dinner party with a thimbleberry pie.”
“Forget it. I said I’d help you out and that’s enough,” said Osborne, wincing as he poured himself a second mug of black coffee. He hated Ray’s guessing games. Everyone hated them. Like Mike with the chipmunks, you never won.
“You gotta listen, Doc, this is right up your alley. Just take a minute. Ready?”
“No, I am not. Forget the quiz. Let me drink my coffee, get showered, and see you in an hour. I like to start the day happy.”
“C’mon. You’re the father of two daughters. You’ll ace this. Now here’s the deal. Yesterday we spent the day studying fish and their habitat, basic equipment, yadda, yadda. The usual stuff, right?”
Osborne sipped from his mug, eyebrows raised, waiting.
“However … I decided we would begin with … a little philosophy. Kinda Zen-like, y’know? Some thoughts on why we fish.” Osborne rolled his eyes.
“So first thing yesterday I had each one write on a slip of paper why she signed up for the class. Tonight, after we’ve had fun all day, I’ll cook up our catch, and when we’ve eaten, I’ll read each little slip. The ladies will have to guess who wrote what … and….”
“And?” asked Osborne, anxious to hurry the story along.
“And whether or not the writer still feels the same way about fishing. These two days could change their lives, doncha know.”
“Ray, the ladies signed up for a fishing seminar—not rehab.”
Ray ignored Osborne’s remark. “Let me tell you what they wrote, then later this afternoon after we’ve taught them how to cast, you tell me who you think said what.”
Osborne sighed, wondering if the thimbleberry pie was worth it.
“Ready for the first one?”
“Please—and can we do this fast?”
“'Since I don’t golf, I need some outdoor sport I can do with clients.'”
“Okay … ne
xt?”
“Number two: ‘I want to show my father that I can run a boat and catch a fish every bit as well as my brother might have. Get a little more respect.'”
“That’s it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hmmm.” Never having raised a son, Osborne wasn’t sure what to make of that one. “Number three: ‘The only reason I’m here is because someone else was afraid to come alone.’ ”
“Is that someone who even wants to fish?”
“See what I mean, Doc. I could be changing some lives—”
“Hit me with the last two. It’s getting late.”
“Number four is easy: ‘I’m here because my friend said it would be good for our business.’ You’ll guess that one right away. But then … number five, Doc….” Ray paused before he spoke, then enunciated each word with care: ‘I need some way to avoid my husband … and I know he hates water.’
“Doc, you won’t believe this girl. She is such a sweetheart. Very quiet, pretty as a forget-me-not. Can’t be over a day over thirty. Can you … imagine … being so unhappy so early in a marriage?”
“That’s too many clues, Ray—you’re giving away the pie.” By this time, Osborne knew the quiz had nothing to do with pie. Ray was looking for approval to misbehave.
“Seriously, Doc. What do you think of that last one?”
“I think you should mind your own business. An unhappy married woman? You’re asking for trouble—you know that.”
But Osborne had another thought that he kept to himself, one laced with guilt. How often had he gone fishing during his thirty-plus years of marriage just so he didn’t have to listen to Mary Lee. A habit honed in desperation within three months of their wedding and two years short of his thirtieth birthday.
four
I’m not saying that all fly-fishing, yes, even bait-casting, is not a fine art …, but I do think that there are far too many people who are satisfied to accumulate tackle and terminology, rather than to fish.”
—Negley Farson
Osborne ambled down the pine-needle path that passed for Ray’s driveway. Nearing the small house trailer, he paused to take a long look around. Wow. No doubt the sunshine helped and the fresh air helped and the lush white pines gracing the sky overhead helped—but wow. Ray had outdone himself. Either that or a miracle had taken place.
Whether it was a heaven-sent downpour or a plain old garden hose, something had blasted the thatch of dead pine needles and dried leaves from the top of the rusting trailer—and splashed across the windows, too. They gleamed squeaky clean in the morning light.
Even the garish green muskie that Ray had painted across the front of the trailer seemed younger, livelier, greener. Osborne suspected a touch-up. The old “shark of the north” had been positioned so that its gaping jaws framed the entrance to the trailer. Today those raked spears glittered more ferociously than ever: thanks to a painterly piscatorial dental hygienist. By the name of Ray Pradt.
Backed in tight to one side of the trailer was the battered blue pickup, fenders peeling paint where rust had taken over. But even that managed to look spiffy, its leaping walleye hood ornament so polished and shiny it might have been made of sterling.
Osborne glanced at his watch as he strolled past the trailer towards the lake. It was not quite seven thirty, and the women weren’t due until eight. But Ray must have been up since dawn. Over a dozen spinning rods rested side by side on the picnic table near the dock, price tags fluttering in the breezes. Five tackle boxes stood open on the table benches, their contents sorted into plastic trays as carefully as if they were spices in the pantry of a French chef.
At the sound of the screen door opening, Osborne turned. Ray descended from the jaws of the muskie, a happy grin on his face, a mug of hot coffee in one hand and his stuffed trout hat in the other. He was so freshly showered that the wet curls clustered across his forehead still glistened. Crisp khaki shorts and black Teva sandals exposed long, tanned, well-muscled legs and his shirt, sleeves rolled up, was freshly ironed to match the shorts.
“Hey, Doc. Whaddaya think?”
Walking over to the picnic table, Ray brushed at some invisible dirt before setting his hat down. Osborne could swear that trout was sporting new stuffing, and the silver on the lure crisscrossing its chest sparkled from a recent polish.
“Looks like you got everything under control,” said Osborne. He paused to study the contents of the tackle boxes. “Using some of your custom tackle?”
Ray liked to paint his own lures, deliberately reversing traditional color schemes. Since he caught more walleye and muskie than anybody else Osborne knew, he was probably on to something. But it was tough to say.
Could be the custom paint job, could be the poaching on private stocked lakes (Ray never said where a fish was caught nor was he expected to), or it could be the penchant for fishing out of season. Whatever it was, no one had better stats than Ray Pradt on the numbers of fish caught and mounted, fish caught and eaten, fish caught and released. Assuming you believed everything he said, which some folks found difficult. Not Osborne. He could always tell when his friend was exaggerating.
“Yeah, a couple of these are mine,” said Ray, bending over one of the tackle boxes. “I want the ladies to try spoons, poppers, jerkbaits, crankbaits, surface baits. Some live bait, too—got plenty of minnows and leeches on the pontoon all ready to go. Speaking of which,” he turned and pointed off to the left, “did you see the We B Miss B Haven?”
“No, I did not,” said Osborne, noticing for the first time the surprise bobbing at the end of Ray’s dock: a brand-spanking-new pontoon boat, the platform white with creamy leather seats and forest-green carpeting.
“Now, Ray, where the heck did you get this?” Osborne walked onto the dock. Ray followed. “This isn’t yours….”
“Heavens, no. This is forty thousand bucks’ worth of boat and motor. Borrowed it from the marina. Brusoe said if I can sell it to one of the gals, he’ll give me a commission.”
Ray stepped into the boat. “Look here,” he flicked a switch near the steering wheel, “it’s got a state-of-the-art locator/GPS system. You can see structure at the same time that you can pinpoint exactly where you are on the lake. Or zoom back and see where you are in the county, for God’s sake. It’s amazing.
“And here,” he raised the lid of one of the seats, “LED lights to illuminate the livewells from the bottom up. Up here on the throttle—here’s a button that’ll raise and lower the prop without so much as a whisper. And that’s one big outboard, too—you can pull a skier with this boat.”
Osborne was beginning to think Ray wanted him along, not so much to help out but so he could show off these temporary toys of his. “The ladies will like the leather seats,” he said, brushing his hand across one. It might be vinyl but it looked expensive.
“My ladies like everything,” said Ray with a wink as he sipped from his mug.
“Your ladies, huh? You had a good first day, I take it.”
“Great day. Doc, I’m on to something. I’ll tell you, I’m a darn good teacher—and you won’t believe the money these girls got to spend. I may not sell the boat, but you wait and see how many rods and all the tackle they’ll buy—which they should if they want to fish with decent equipment. I’m not selling them anything they don’t need, y’know.”
“And you make a commission on everything, right?”
“You betcha.” “Well, who knows Ray, if you’re having fun with the teaching…. Nice people, these women?”
Whatever his cash-flow crisis of the moment, Ray had standards. More than once he had refused to guide clients who were rude, too demanding, or just plain unpleasant.
He paused before answering. “Nice enough. Their answers as to why they signed up got me thinking though.” His face tightened as he took a final sip of coffee then tossed the rest into the lake. Osborne caught the change of expression.
He shook his head as Ray walked back up to the trailer. It was going to be
interesting to find out which of the five women was “pretty as a forget-me-not.” Osborne was not going to be surprised if the poor husband who hated water found himself at risk of going overboard.
five
Beauty without grace is the hook without the bait.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Five minutes before eight, the first of Ray’s students appeared on the horizon. She came by water and she came full-bore, not cutting the motor on the big outboard until the last second.
“Show-off,” said Ray, hands thrust into his pockets as they watched the boat drift towards the dock. The high performance black Skeeter bassboat sparkled with the brilliance of a billion sequins: a dais befitting a lake queen and her entourage.
Make that two imperial images, thought Osborne, at the sight of the women on board. One sat watching from a rear seat—arms folded, legs crossed, eyes hidden beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat tied down with a scarf and dark glasses. Aloof, if not haughty. Not so the one behind the wheel: she was waving with all the enthusiasm of a Dairyland Princess in a Fourth of July parade.
And wearing a lemon meringue pie on her head. As the boat neared the dock, close enough for the driver to toss Ray a line, Osborne could see it wasn’t a pie after all. The woman, who couldn’t be more than five feet tall, had short hair, streaked blonde and swept back and up into a kind of pouf guaranteed to add at least two inches to her height.
“Doc,” Ray ducked his head so his words wouldn’t carry, “check out the name on this Skeeter.” Along the side of the watercraft, custom-painted in silver edged with scarlet was one word: boatox.
“Ray, hoo-hoo! Good moorning!” As the woman continued to wave, she hollered at a decibel level six times louder than necessary.
“Ouch—is she always that loud?” asked Osborne, voice low under the throttle of the idling engine as Ray nursed the boat towards the dock.
“Yep, lives at the top of her voice.”
As Ray stood by to help the driver up onto the dock, Osborne got a good look and all he could think was, “Please, Lord, don’t do this to me.”
Dead Jitterbug Page 2
