by Dave Balcom
“Really?” I wondered out loud as I looked at the tannin-black water oozing along.
“No kidding. The last week of the traditional trout season, in September, you can catch some real monsters. I was granted permission by the owners of this place – it belongs to a group from Detroit that maintains it as a deer lodge. They don’t give a rip about birds or fish.”
“How’d you receive the permission?”
“Oh, I looked ’em up on the plat map and contacted ’em. They’re nice people; serious people. They were honestly impressed that I had taken the time to ask permission.”
“They’d probably never have known if you’d just ventured in...”
“Well, yes; they would have. They have hired hands – caretakers – who patrol all the time. They’ll check my truck out and know it’s me; if it was someone else, they’d be waitin’ when we returned. They’re serious people.”
As we prepared to hunt, Greg urged me to be cautious. “Don’t wade in still water, Jim. Walk around it; there are sink holes in here – lots of ’em.”
We hunted north along both sides of the stream, and as we neared the lake proper, the footing became swampier even as the stream appeared to be running gin clear over the whitest sand on earth.
“This is pretty much the end of it,” Greg said as he walked across a log that spanned the stream as it broadened into a deep hole. “Come over here slowly, Jim.”
I walked towards him as he cautiously stepped down off the log on my side. “Your sun glasses handy?”
I pulled my glasses case from my pocket, and put them on.
“Take a gander at that,” he said, pointing to the downstream end of the pool.
The polarized lenses made the spawning brook trout visible in the shimmering water as it flowed out of the deep pool across a gravel bed.
“I’m always amazed at how big fish look in the water,” I whispered.
“That’s a big trout, Jim.”
“It’s beautiful. How big?”
“Six, seven pounds.”
“Wow!”
“Ever caught a brookie that big?”
“Never. Twenty inches was the biggest I’ve ever caught; in Oregon.”
“Oregon? There’s brookies in Oregon, or are they cutthroats?”
“It’s a long story; don’t listen to me start on a rant.”
He laughed. “I’m betting that’s a state record fish right there, and I’m just as sure that there are more that size out there,” he was pointing to the lake. “They’re tough to catch.”
“Do you or your guests ever catch brookies like that in the lake?”
“Nope. That guy may have come all the way from Torch, through the river, to here.”
“Torch deep?”
He nodded. “Deepest lake in Michigan.”
We hunted west a ways, found another feeder stream, and hunted it back to the road the truck was on. We had picked up our limits of woodcock as well as a pair of grouse each.
“Good hunt,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand.
“It was at that. Let’s head home for some lunch.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
When the birds were processed and I’d had a shower, I found a note from Jan saying that she was in Stoney.
I wandered over to the lodge and found Greg and Fran on their veranda. Greg too had cleaned up, and he jumped out of his seat when he saw me walking up.
“Beer?”
“I’d rather have tea,” I said. “I start on beer and I’ll be asleep before Jan gets home.”
He laughed. “Iced or hot?”
“Whatever.” I saw Fran was drinking iced tea. “Iced, I guess.”
He disappeared into the house, and came back directly with a tray carrying a glass of iced tea and a plate covered by a napkin.
“We had this waitin’.”
I sat down with them and found a beautiful salad under the napkin – a variety of greens, garden veggies and smoked salmon with a wonderful dressing with a hint of lemon in it; a piece of French bread on the side.
“Wow!” I said after savoring my first bite. “This is just perfect.”
“That’s what Fran calls it,” Greg said with pride ‘“Perfect Lunch’ salad.”
We ate in silence, paying appropriate attention to the setting, the food and the company. The sun was warm enough, but sitting in the shade, I was wishing I’d grabbed a sweater when I left the cottage.
When I’d finished, I waited a few minutes, and then stood up and started stacking up empty plates, silverware and napkins. “Jim, you don’t bus the table; you’re a guest.”
“And I’m not going to insult you, but I’d like to at least show my appreciation by pitching in a bit.”
“Put them on the sideboard by the big sink, thank you; and can you bring back the tea pitcher from the fridge?”
And I did.
“What’s Jan up to today?” Fran asked when I came back and poured refills for her glass and mine. Greg was nursing what was left of a beer.
“I really don’t know,” I said. “She left a note that she was in town, but it didn’t say why. Probably doing more reading in the museum.”
“What’s with that?”
“She’s curious about some of the classmates who have disappeared over the years – you know, Dave Boyington, Marci Evers, Frank Forest. She thinks it strange somehow...”
Greg was fussing with the label on his bottle, and didn’t look up, “Sometimes that kind of wondering can be a problem, you know?”
“How?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t really know, but take a guy like Dave Boyington. He was a quiet, private guy – true gentleman and all; somebody gets to digging around in his life, and what if they end up finding him? How would he feel about that? If it was me, I’d be pissed, I think.”
“I don’t think I would be, pissed I mean. I think I’d be somehow gratified that someone cared enough to look for me.”
“There’s that,” he said with a nod. “But I think if Dave had wanted to be found, he’d have made sure someone knew where he was.”
I decided to drop it there, thinking that perhaps Boyington had let someone know, but that up ’til now nobody had found out.
“I’ll bet an old news hound like you or Jan just can’t resist the hunt can you?” He said, looking up at me with a grin.
I shrugged, “There’s that, too.”
CHAPTER 20
Judy and I were dozing on the porch when Jan came home. I opened one eye and saw that the sun was sending long shadows across the yard. I heard the truck door slam, and her step seemed to be lively as she hurried to the cottage.
“Are you awake?” I heard her say.
“Mmmm hum.”
“Great, I’ve a lot to tell you.”
I didn’t say anything, but stretched and wondered if going back to sleep was any option.
“Jim, please?”
I cracked an eye and saw her standing over me, a bright smile illuminating her face. “What’s up?”
“Come on; you be.”
“Me be what?”
“Up, silly.”
I groaned and stretched again, adding a yawn that made my jaws creak. “I must be getting old. I turned down a drink at lunch just so I wouldn’t be sleeping when you came home.”
“You didn’t count on it being after six when I arrived.”
“Wow, what have you been doing all day?”
“That’s what I want to tell you. I think there’s something going on ... well, actually, I think it went on for years and it’s probably done now.”
“Give me a minute,” I said as I headed to the rear of the cottage. “You have dinner plans?”
“There’s a pizza ready for the oven; it’s something Annie’s doing now; you can eat it there or take ‘n’ bake; I took. We have salad stuff...”
When I came back into the kitchen, she had the oven heating and the salad stuff out on the counter. I turned to making sure Judy was fed,
then I poured a glass of wine for Jan as I took over making the salad.
“Tell me.”
She sipped her wine and leaned back against the sink. “First, I went to see Angela Ritter at the bank to find out how things stand for this weekend.
“She was working on that just as I walked in, and she showed me all the names of the people who have committed to attending from our class.”
“How many does she have?”
“Interestingly enough, it’s pretty good, I think. Of the 83 grads, we know that 28 are dead; and from the remaining 55, we have 38 coming, 12 who have sent regrets so there’s only five we’ve heard nothing from.”
“Cool. Of course you have the list of those who can’t be found.”
“Margie Philips, Dave Boyington, Marci Evers, Frank Foster and Diana Sweeny.”
“That’s pretty amazing, I think.”
“I think it’s because there won’t ever be another chance; you know, that’s probably why so many people go to their fiftieth. Sure, they’re glad to be among the survivors, but they also know there may not be another chance to touch base... no matter how we might feel about our high school years, they were formative and most everybody feels the pull.”
“Check with me in 2020, and I’ll let you know if you’re right. So how is Angela? She strikes me as someone who will be in an emotional tizzy by Friday.”
“It’s not that bad. Tony Ralph has been in touch with her a lot; he was class president. He’s a big shot lawyer down state, and has assigned an intern to help Angela with printing name tags, putting together ‘welcome home’ bags for the grads and their guests, and that kind of stuff.”
“Where will everyone stay?”
“Oh, most of them still have family in the area; others will camp; and yet more will stay in Rapid City, Bellaire, Kalkaska and even Traverse City.
“The big deal is the banquet on Saturday night, and that’ll be at the High School cafeteria, but it’s being catered by Annie’s. There’s a post-party at Annie’s too, a kind of ‘off the record’ tradition. I bought our tickets for that today.”
“A post-party?”
“After the banquet. The keynote speakers will be Tony Ralph, and the Superintendent of Schools Alan Baker who is overseeing the end of the SHS era. Angela says he’s a great guy and a good speaker who’ll put the whole era into perspective for the grads.”
“What about the other classes? Won’t there be representatives from them too?”
“Oh, yes; they’re expecting about two hundred in total. The Class of ’65 is celebrating 50, but there were only 42 grads in that class. Thirteen of them are coming. The class of ’70 had 51 grads, and half of them will be there celebrating 45 years. It’s going to be pretty cool.”
“What did you do after that?”
“Well, I went through the list of registered attendees with the yearbook in hand, and then I went to the museum to read. Angela came over with lunch and we had a nice chat.
“She’s really devoted to this place, Jim. I like that about her. She’s been here since 1990; she never takes a vacation and travels; she just lives here and loves it.
“But you wouldn’t believe how much that woman has in the way of information on our old classmates. She’s like a walking encyclopedia on the lives and times of the Class of ’80.
“And there are a couple of stories that are just too good to not share, like Ron Forrester and Mary Franklin – they’ll both be here this weekend, and according to Angie, it’ll be the first time since 1990 for both of them.
“But more to the point, these two are an item!”
“In high school, too?” I asked.
“No way; I don’t think Ron ever had a date in high school. He was popular in the hallways and all, but he could never raise his eyes up to our faces; you know?” She giggled a second. “He was tall, all elbows, knobby wrists hanging out of his sleeves and Adam’s apple – but from what Angie told me, he’s matured well.”
“There seems to be a lot of late bloomin’ going on in Stoney,” I added.
“Well, Ron played sports, ran around with Tony and Mark and the boys, went off to MSU and studied fisheries biology – ichthyology – if you’re wondering. Angie said he’s now considered one of the country’s top men in the field of hatchery-raised fish.”
“Good field,” I nodded. “Without those pen-raised fish, most Americans would never know the thrill of hooking a trout, salmon or steelhead in our rivers. Native fish would be priced out of reach for average Joes.
“I look forward to meeting him.”
She continued, and I realized she was referring now to some notes in her tablet. “Ron’s life has left him a spectator to some bizarre family behavior, but he seems to have weathered it well.
“He took a job with the DNR after he earned his Masters, and came home from time to time and then his folks up and divorced.”
“That happens.”
“Maybe, but the story on his dad, Frank, is that he moved to California with a woman half his age he had met in a diner in Oklahoma while on a hunting trip with his brothers.”
“That must have caused some friction at Thanksgiving,” I agreed.
“It wasn’t the end of it, though; his mom, Diane, had remained, working in the business office for the Northland Trucking Co. as she had for 30 years until she sold the home place, and moved to Alabama with a young truck driver named Alice.”
I stared at her until she realized it, and looked up from her notes to make eye contact. “I’m not joking. That’s not a punch line,” she said. “Around these parts, that’s the stuff of scandal.”
I let it ride for a few seconds, and then said, “I’m really looking forward to meeting Mr. Forrester now.”
“Me, too. And I’m really excited about seeing Mary after all these years. Her story is every bit as spectacular, but not nearly as bizarre.
“Mary’s father, Ben, was the local State Farm Insurance Agent in Stoney. Her mother, Ruth, was the kindergarten teacher. Mary was the little girl in elementary school who was shy to the point of cute, and was in crush at least for a while by every boy in our class.
“Angie and I both remember her well. She never had a cross word from any girl. All of her teachers must have looked forward to the conferences with Ben and Ruth, knowing that there would be nothing but love and support for this perfect little girl.
“As we grew older, she remained everyone’s friend. Mary went off to school at Central Michigan where she majored in business. Angie said she met up with Mary several times during college years, and it seemed she was still very popular and well-liked, but she never seemed to find Mr. Right. The only bachelors she won over in her four years was the degree she took off to grad school at Michigan State.
“I remember summers she worked at Shanty Creek Lodge in Bellaire, waiting tables and immersing herself in her life-long hobby of sketching anyone and everyone she encountered. She had a knack of capturing the look of a person in a just a few strokes.
“We all kidded her that she should have majored in art rather than business, but she never shared these drawings with anyone, especially the subject.
“She told us over and over how she would have been mortified if any of the subjects she drew, while they were at dinner in a restaurant, sitting in the park with a friend, or reading in the library, had become aware of her practice.
“But something changed over the summer before she entered the MBA program at MSU. It was probably the first glimmer of a passion that had never shown itself before.
“Angie told me that at MSU Mary applied herself to the study of marketing, but took the time during the year to learn to sew.
“She took undergrad classes in art. Now it’s urban legend, and any woman interested in fashion knows the story.”
“Really?” I asked. “Is she famous?”
“Oh, yeah. During her final summer in Bellaire she began compiling a portfolio of original designs for what she thought women should be wearing when
they could afford to spend a week at Shanty Creek trolling for one of the “eligibles” who were attending some sales convention or corporate retreat for which the resort was so famous.
“When she graduated with her MBA the following spring, she took her savings and bought herself a one-way ticket to New York City. She had done her research. She found a “roommate wanted” ad, and moved into an inexpensive apartment for the summer. She had developed an exhaustive list of movers and shakers in the garment district, and she haunted office after office asking for the opportunity to show her designs to one of those trend setters.
“I read about it in Vogue. Her roommate, a native New Yorker dreaming of stardom on Broadway, observed this fresh-faced zealot and finally stepped in. ‘You’re crazy.’ The article quoted the roomie. ‘The work you’re peddling is far superior to anything on a runway right now, but those blue noses you’re trying to impress have too much invested in their world to ever consider an unknown. You need to make a statement.’
“After a weekend in consultation, on Monday Mary found herself ensconced in Washington Square Park, in the heart of NYU and Manhattan, surrounded by the funky and insane; musicians playing to the pigeons, magicians practicing their skills for anyone who might pass by, and weirdoes of every shape and size screaming political rants. She had an easel where she sat drawing volunteers who sat or stood before her, and a card table with her portfolio open for review.
“Her design work earned a lot of comments, and one day a writer for Women’s Wear Daily happened by, took a few notes and a photo; Mary’s future was launched.
“Local legend has it that she came home to Stoney that fall wearing one of her own ‘casual’ summer outfits, shared the excitement of the future with her folks, and then caught a ride to Traverse City for a flight to Los Angeles on Monday. This will be her first visit to Stoney since then.”
“Whew!” Was all I could say. “A national star from Stoney’s Class of ’80?”
“International, actually,” Jan said as she rose and left the room. She came back a few seconds later with a beautiful blue dress on a hanger.
