After the Great Muskie Hunt
Page 3
* * *
David woke to the sound of voices arguing. Water shimmered in the moonlight outside the window, and for a moment he was sure the lake had frozen over in the night. It certainly felt cold enough. The Franklin stove glowed in the corner of the cabin but the air was crisp and cutting. David glanced across the room and saw his father’s bed was empty. The arguing grew louder. “Shit,” he spat. David pulled a sweater on and stumbled out the door.
From the porch, down the path that ran between the cabins, David could see the outline of the Trading Post. The front door was open and Fritz Yeager stood in the entrance, illuminated by a light which flickered from within. He was shouting at someone, or at something in the night but – from the cabin – David thought the jetty looked deserted.
Who’s he shouting at? Then he saw his father on the path only a dozen yards away.
“What is it?” David asked him. “Dad? Dad, what’s going on?”
“It’s Yeager. I think he’s drunk,” said Joseph. “Go back to sleep.” He started down the path.
By the time Joseph reached the Trading Post, Yeager had descended to the jetty where the fishing boats were tied up to a line. He was staring at the lake, his hands set deep within his pockets. Joseph idled up beside him. “Good evening, Mr. Yeager,” he said casually, as if he’d just passed him on the way to supper.
David could see Yeager spin about. His hair hung loosely in his face. “Who’s that?” he said.
“It’s me. Mr. Widmark.”
“Oh, the Widmarks. Yes. I know.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Never mind.” Yeager paused and looked back out across the bay. “It’s the lake,” he said. “It was always her idea. Eagle Lake, I mean.”
Joseph stamped his sides. “It’s a little cold out here, don’t you think?”
Yeager laughed. The moon appeared between the clouds, translucent as a lollypop. “I don’t know why,” he said, “but Sarah just hates me.”
“Mrs. Yeager? How can you say that? I’m sure that isn’t true.”
“It was always her idea. They all were. I just wanted to build houses.”
“It’s late, Mr. Yeager. Why don’t you go back up to the house, try and get some sleep?”
“It’s the lake. You just don’t see it.”
“That’s right – the lake. It’ll still be here tomorrow.” Joseph took Yeager by the arm and led him up the jetty toward the house.
When they had reached the porch, Yeager turned on his heels without warning. He put a hand on Joseph’s shoulder, leaned forward, his mouth to Joseph’s ear, and whispered, “It was here. Before we came, long before.” The words came slowly from his mouth. “All of those dreams. Under the water, in the stones and trees. At the bottom of the lake. Waiting for us.”
“Go to bed, Mr. Yeager,” Joseph said. He pushed him gently through the entrance. Then he let the screen door slam, and made his way along the path back toward the cabin.
David was still standing on the porch when he returned.
“Drunk,” said Joseph, entering the cabin. “Dead drunk.”
“And we’re paying for his poison.”
“No, you are,” Joseph said.
David didn’t answer. He closed the door. They undressed and got back into bed. Neither of them spoke for several minutes. David could hear his father shivering in the bunk nearby. “Cold out there, huh?” he said at last.
For a moment Joseph didn’t respond. Then he said, “What I don’t understand is why a man like that would drink. I mean, he has everything. He was a Premier, for Christ’s sake. He’s rich. His wife is charming and attractive.”
“And a good cook to boot,” said David, trying to lighten the mood.
“He almost ran for Prime Minister,” Joseph continued, ignoring him.
David turned over onto his back and tried to fall asleep. He thought about his work, the paintings yet undone, the showing his dealer had set up for January. If sales continued as they had, by spring he would finally have enough to buy that loft in SoHo. Just barely, anyway. David pictured his easel by the windows, the southern light exploding through the glass.
But then, of course, there was his father. If his mother’s fears were justified, everything would change. The money would be needed to support his parents, and the loft would have to wait. Maybe a year or so, at least until his father found a job. But what if Joseph didn’t take the money? No, thought David. He’d have to. What choice did he have? It was just a question of positioning the offer. David would say it was a loan, an investment in his father’s new consulting practice. Damn his old-fashioned pride. Why could they never talk directly? Why did it always have to be oblique, so many metaphors behind symbols behind words?
David looked over at his father’s bunk. It was almost dawn. He could hear birds singing outside all around them. Joseph was lying on his back, his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. “Can’t sleep?” David said.
“Just thinking.”
“Not about that damned muskie, I hope.”
“No, about Yeager. He kept going on and on about the lake. He kept saying . . .” Joseph turned onto his side and looked over at David. “He was talking about dreams,” he said. “He just wanted to build houses.”
“Then, why didn’t he?”
“I don’t know. Why does anyone try living other people’s dreams? It’s different for you, David. You’re another generation. But, in some ways,” Joseph added, “I’m just like Mr. Yeager.”
“You’re not a drunk, Dad.”
“Not yet, you mean.”
“Not ever.”
The old man looked up at the ceiling once again. “I want to be a producer, David. That’s all. Do you understand? Not a consumer. I just want to make something.”
“You will, Dad. I know you will.” David tried to think of something else to say, but the words seemed to float above him, out of reach, brittle as ice, like the sounds of the birds in the trees.
* * *
From the inlet on the muskeg side of Eagle Lake, near the stretch of water where in 1938 the old man had begun his journey, David heard the calling of a loon, a mournful echo of remembrance, a sound as solitary as the muskellunge his father hunted. They worked the shoreline quickly, their casts meticulous and true. But with each flick of the wrist, the sun slipped closer to the burnished lip of the horizon, the termination of their holiday, and the onset of their journey home.
Joseph was using the Torpedo. He was casting it again and again, across the inlet to the stump where they had raised that fish before. David watched him from the corner of his eye as he tossed his own plug through the twilight. The stars were beginning to glow. A gust of wind disturbed the surface of the lake, chilling his bones. As they fished, David sent up a silent prayer for his father to succeed, if only to relieve the gnawing hunger which that first fish, years before, had planted deep within him like a seed. But he knew that it was finished. Joseph would have to wait another year, another fishing season to find whatever he was looking for.
David put his rod down in the bottom of the boat and lit a cigarette. The taste was bitter and delicious.
As if sensing his impatience, his father said, “Five casts.”
David counted them off in his head, the last one landing on the water with a splash so loud, so ominous, that they both sat up and stared into the darkness. It was nothing. The fishing trip was over.
Joseph slipped his rod beneath his seat and David started up the motor. Across the lake, the green light of the jetty glowed rhapsodically. “I don’t imagine Daisy Leech will take it back,” the old man said with a half smile.
“There’ll be another trip.”
“Could be. Probably. It doesn’t matter.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Not really. It was worth it just to be here. With you, I mean.”
David smiled. “Is th
is the same guy who defined the difference between fishermen and muskie hunters?”
The old man stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared across the darkling surface of the lake. “Almost,” he said.
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