Backcast (32 page)

The damn umbrella was in motion, sliding all over the deck.

Quinn dropped her pole and crouched down beside them. “What the hell is in there?”

“Goddamn it.” Montana reached into her cargo shorts and pulled out a pocketknife. In one swift motion, she flipped open the blade and sliced the fabric away from one of the wire ribs. Three fat largemouth bass flopped out and writhed around between them on the soggy carpet.

“
That's
what's in there,” Montana proclaimed. “Now let's get them into the cooler, fast.”

“Holy shit.” Quinn grabbed the fattest of the struggling fish and held it up. “This thing is huge.” Her hook and chartreuse worm dangled from its upper lip. She backed the hook out and tossed the line over toward her discarded rod.

Montana had already wrangled the other ones. Marvin thought the two fish hanging from her hands made her look like that statue of Lady Justice.

“Mavis?” Lady Justice was yelling at him again. “Snap out of it and open the damn cooler.”

Marvin was too stunned to do anything but obey.

When the three big fish were safely stowed in the massive, thirty-gallon cooler, Quinn connected the aerator and waited until the
water started to bubble. Then she walked to the Kelvinator and opened its freezer compartment. She pulled out two frozen grape Fanta bottles and held them up for Montana.

“One or two?”

“Hell.” Montana dropped back on her butt and waved a hand at Quinn. “Use 'em both.”

Marvin watched Quinn drop the two bottles into the tank with the fish. Then she closed the lid on the cooler.

“You cannot be serious?” He looked from Quinn to Montana. “There is no way in hell that can be a legal catch.”

Quinn looked crestfallen. “Is it?” she asked Montana.

“Wasn't that your jig I saw you pull out of the mouth of the big one?”

Quinn nodded.

“Then that's a fair catch. The other two must've hitched a ride while you were hauling her in. Nothing in the rules against that.”

“Well I'll be damned.” Marvin shook his head.

“So.” Montana got to her feet. “I'd say our work here is through.” She walked to her grill. A soggy trail of water spread out along the carpet behind her. “We've got about an hour to kill before the weigh-in. Who wants a hot dog?”

Essay 11

If you're reading this, it means you've decided to find me. They told me I wasn't allowed to know your name or attempt to make any kind of contact with you—that only you could ask for communication between us. I understand that. It's a right I surrendered when I gave you away. So the only thing available to me is writing this letter. They said they'd add it to your file, and that if you ever wanted to know about me or find me, you could read it and use the information I made available.

I don't know whether you'll ever want to meet me, but if you're reading this, it must mean you're at least curious about the woman who gave birth to you. I don't know, either, about when you might find yourself holding this letter. It could be next month or next year, or it could be decades from now. I'm writing to you now to tell you about what happened so many years ago in my life, and how you came into being.

For starters, I want you to know that you were made during an act of love. Even though what happened ended up being a big mistake, I'm not sorry about what I did. And I have never been sorry that you were born.

I was very young—only eighteen—and I met the man who would become your father through the part-time job I had after school. I worked afternoons at a local dry cleaning establishment, taking in piles of mismatched and soiled clothing, and returning bags of freshly pressed shirts and suits to people who were always in a
hurry. It was a hot and humid environment, even on the coldest days of the year. I got to know the regulars and memorized all of their special requirements. No starch. Extra starch. Make certain there are no double creases on the sleeves. Replace buttons. Bleach the collars. Some of the regulars made small talk with me, but even that was on the fly. Most people used our drive-up window and never bothered to come inside the store.

But he always did.

I got to know him. He was many years older than me. He was a professional. I could tell that by his suits. They were expensive. His shirts were all monogrammed. And he wore French cuffs. We didn't see a lot of that in our small, Midwestern town. I never asked him what he did, and he never offered any details. He wore a wedding ring, but he never brought anything but his own clothing to us. And no one else ever picked his items up. I knew his name and address, but I never thought about trying to find out more about him. There was no Internet in those days. And no cell phones. So I learned about him in the only way I could—bit by bit.

Everything about our world was changing. President Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, and nothing about the lives we lived seemed safe anymore. The news I listened to on the TV or the AM radio was all about the war. Every night, Walter Cronkite told us the latest about what was happening in Vietnam. Every day we waited to hear about how many soldiers had been killed, and how many more were being sent over. It seemed like everyone I knew at school had a brother, father or cousin in the service.

I think his appeal to me was more than just the exotic nature of the mysterious life I imagined he lived. In my immature mind, he reminded me of my father. By that, I mean the father I never got to know. He died when I was just a toddler. He ran a full service gas station and one
day, a car he was working on rolled off the lift and crushed him against the back wall of the service bay. My mother never remarried, and she raised my brother and me by herself.

But I always had fantasies about my father—great notions about what kind of man he was, what noble and good deeds he performed, how strong and upstanding a figure he was in our church. And even though I didn't realize it at the time, this handsome stranger was exactly like everything I'd been led to understand about my father. So I found myself drawn to him like a moth to a flame. And he liked me, too. I could tell by the way he always teased me and noticed whenever I wore something new or styled my hair a different way. It never occurred to me that there was anything wrong with his attentions to me, or in my responses to him. I was a very young eighteen. Still a virgin, and still very shy in the ways of the world. My mother was very strict, and I did next to no dating.

One day, near the end of my senior year in high school, he came into the store and told me it would be his last visit. He was relocating to another office, out of state. I was devastated and unable to conceal my disappointment—my panic at losing the most important man in my life again. He took pity on me. He offered to come back at the end of my shift and take me out for a soda—just to say goodbye properly. Even in my sadness, I knew that something about this felt wrong—that my mother would be furious with me if she found out. But I didn't care. I agreed to meet him.

I'm sure you can figure out the rest. It only happened that one time. Then he was gone and I was left alone to deal with my guilt and shame about what I had done. I never told anyone, and I never tried to find him. I never thought I'd have to. Everything changed about two months later when I began to suspect that I was
pregnant. I was terrified. I thought my life was over. I knew my mother would disown me, and I was too ashamed to tell any of my friends. But time was my enemy. I knew I'd be unable to conceal my condition for long—I was already starting to show. Understand that this was a different time. Abortions were illegal. Like most girls my age, I had been taught that they were scary and dangerous procedures, performed in back alleys by untrained criminals. And I was Catholic; so even thinking about finding someone to perform one was a mortal sin.

I had to tell my mother.

Her anger and disgust were worse than anything I could have imagined. She told me I was a disgrace to the family. That there was no way she could submit herself, my brother, or the rest of our relations to enduring the shame of what I had done.

She resolved to withdraw me from school and send me away, to a place where no one would know my name. I would stay there until the baby was born, and then the baby would be given up for adoption. I had an aunt who lived in Seattle, and she told my mother about a place where girls like me could go. Within days, I was on a train to Washington. I had only one suitcase containing the things I would need for my stay there. Anything else I required would be provided. I was not permitted to see any of my friends or to say goodbye. My mother would have no contact with me during my absence. She insisted it would be better that way.

I don't know what she told people. Probably some story about a mysterious illness, and that I had been sent to seek treatment on the West Coast. I'm sure that was code language for what most of our friends and relatives already understood. I had fallen from grace and I was paying the consequences for my loose morals and bad conduct. I understood that the shame of my
actions would follow me throughout life like a grim shadow.

I spent several months living in a dormitory-like setting with a dozen or so other young women who were victims of poor judgment, failed methods of contraception, or nonconsensual sexual encounters. On my first day there, I was led by the administrators to sign a stack of papers without any advice or counsel. The girls in the home used first names only. We didn't know anything else about each other's backgrounds or family situations. Our mail was read and censored. We were only allowed visitors from an approved list. We had only one payphone in the building, and had to get coins from the front office to use it. We shared a common living area where we could watch television, play games, or read from donated books and magazines. We were only allowed out of the home for short walks—and always had to be in pairs. We were taught very little about what to expect when our delivery dates came. One by one, after their babies were born, the girls would return to their lives away from Flossie's—that's what we called the Florence Crittenton Home where we each waited out our pregnancies.

You came into the world during the early hours of a Thursday morning—on my father's birthday. I remember feeling panicked and terrified. We weren't told anything about what to expect when this event finally happened. But when I got to the hospital, I was taken immediately to a room where I was heavily sedated. I remember next to nothing about my labor and delivery—but I do remember hearing you cry. It's an experience I'll never forget. Even in my weak and hazy state, I recognized the sounds you made like I'd known them my entire life. I knew you were mine.

After you were born and declared healthy, we were taken back to the maternity home from the hospital. We
stayed together in a special ward with several other mothers and newborns for most of a week. You were brought to me during the daytime for feeding, but I never saw you at night or at any other times.

Ten days after you were born, I was taken to a different room and permitted to spend a few minutes alone with you. I held you and marveled at how small and perfect you were. How alert. How vital. How fresh and sweet you smelled. How much your wispy red hair looked like mine. I held you close and prayed that what was happening was
right
—that the best of your life was all ahead of you—even though the best of mine was about to end. When they took you away from me, I understood that I would never see you again. The pain I felt at letting you go was unlike anything I'd ever felt before. I didn't have words to describe it then. I don't have words to describe it today. I don't think any language has words for something like that. At least, mine never has.

I left that place and moved on to try and remake the rest of my life. I returned home for a short time, but I knew that I would never be able to live there again. The war had finally come to our house. My brother was in the army and had been sent to Cambodia. Every day, my mother went to Mass and lighted candles for him. But I was still an outsider. There were no candles for me. My relationship with my mother was changed forever. We moved around each other in the cold house like strangers. I was an empty shell, and it was impossible for me to return to the same life I had lived there before. I knew that I had to leave and find my own way someplace else.

I left, but the emptiness I carried away with me has never abated. Believe me when I tell you that the purest and happiest experience of my life occurred during those few minutes when I was left alone with you inside that small, plain room. As I held you close for the first
and only time in my life, I understood the power of what it meant to love profoundly.

I want you to know that I never married, and never gave birth to any other children. I worked hard, and I spent my life trying to help other people deal with their own lives of pain and suffering. I found ways to be content, but I've never lived a single day without wondering where you were, if you were well, and if you were happy. I pray that you are all of these things.

The only selfish hope I allow myself is to believe that one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me for not being with you in any of the ways I have spent a lifetime learning to understand—and to long for.

12

Ghost of a Chance

“I'm not making this shit up. That weigh bag was so heavy she had to use both hands to carry it from the boat to the judges.”

Barb was staring at Mavis with an open mouth. “How many did she catch?”

“Three. That's the limit for each day.”

“And she's in first place?”

Mavis huffed. “Damn skippy. They said her official total was twenty-six point two pounds.” Mavis took a couple of long swallows from her beer before holding the frosty bottle up to the sky to catch some of the last rays of the setting sun. “I sure could've used a few of these out there.”

Barb was still having a hard time taking in the news. “Quinn's in first place?”

Mavis looked at her. “Something wrong with your hearing, woman?”

“I'm just . . .” Barb shook her head. “I don't know what to say.”

“I do.” Mavis slid her empty bottle into the six-pack carrier that sat on the ground between their chairs and pulled out a fresh one. “There's some kind of weird-ass, woo-woo shit going on up here. Being out on that water with her is like sailing into the Bermuda Triangle.” She pointed toward Barb's canvas bag. “Hand me that opener.”

Barb picked up the metal opener. It was stamped with a Backcast Ale logo. She turned it sideways and ran her fingertip over the embossed outline of a jumping fish.

“Do they really look like this?”

“Does who look like what?”

Barb handed her the opener. “Bass. Do they look like the drawing on that thing?”

Mavis turned the opener over in her palm. “Yeah. Pretty much. Only a lot uglier.”

“I wouldn't say they're ugly. Maybe noble?”

“Noble?” Mavis popped the cap off her beer. It made a sharp, whooshing sound. Barb loved the way the metal opener clattered against the side of the glass bottle. Simple juxtapositions like that were the mainstays of her work.

Mavis handed the opener back to her. “You need to see one of them up close and personal.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let's just say none of them is ever gonna win any beauty contests.”

“Beauty is subjective—Marvin.”

Mavis glowered at her. “Don't start that shit with me.”

Barb chuckled. “I still think they're noble creatures.”

“Well, if being covered in slime makes you a candidate for nobility, I'd rather be common.”

“Come on.” Barb shifted in her chair to face Mavis. The movement made her wince. She was still sore from her tumble earlier in the day. “You can't deny that there's something epic about this entire enterprise.”

“Yeah? Well there was something ‘epic' about every episode of
The Twilight Zone
, too.”

Barb shook her head and sipped from her bottle of beer.

She noticed that Mavis was staring down at her legs.
Shit.
Her pant leg had hitched up when she changed position in the chair. The bruise on her ankle was really starting to show.

“What the hell is that?” Mavis pointed at her feet.

“It's nothing.”

“It doesn't look like nothing.” Mavis leaned forward. “Your ankle is swollen.”

“It's nothing. I tripped over a cord in the barn and banged it when I fell.”

“You
fell?
”

“Will you relax? It's
nothing
. I'm fine.”

“You need to get some ice on that.”

Barb held up her leg and examined her ankle. “Probably.”

“You want me to go get some from the kitchen?”

“No. I'll ice it later in the room.”

“How much later?”

Barb shrugged. “Later. I have a little project I need to finish up after dinner.”

“What kind of project?” Mavis sounded suspicious.

“Just something little. A favor. It's not a big deal.”

“You're working too much. You need to take it easier.”

“I will.”

Mavis rolled her eyes. “I mean like tonight.”

“No. Not tonight.”

“You are one stubborn woman.”

“Kind of you to notice.”

“Here.” Mavis grabbed a fresh beer from the six-pack. “At least lean this up against it.”

Barb took the beer from her and propped it against the outside of her ankle. It felt pretty good. She looked at Mavis.

“Stop worrying. You're like an old mother hen.”

“Somebody needs to worry about you. You don't take care of yourself.”

“I disagree. I picked you to be my travelling companion.”

“Is that what I am? I thought I was your driver?”

“You say tomato—”

“Whatever in the hell we are, we're one odd, damn couple.”

“You know? I'm okay with that.”

Mavis shook her head.

“What is it?” Barb asked.

Mavis waved a big hand to encompass the inn, the lawn, and the lake that spread out before them. “I just have to say that I never would've predicted how all of this would end up.”

Barb smiled. “Is that your backhanded way of finally agreeing that I knew what I was doing when I got this whole group together?”

“No. I still think they're a bunch of wackos.”

“But you admit that the work we've been doing here is starting to make sense?”

Mavis took her time answering. “I think your little fish statues work pretty well to represent the different stories they wrote.”

“How about yours?”

“Mine?”

“Yes. You thought I wasn't putting yours in the show?”

“No. I didn't know I
had
one.”

“Of course you have one. You wrote an essay, didn't you?”

Mavis scoffed. “I suppose my fish is wearing a dress?”

Barb smiled. “Not even close.”

“Well, as long as it's better looking than one of those damn bass, I won't complain.”

“I really appreciate what you're doing.”

Mavis looked at her. “What are you talking about?”

“Riding along with Quinn on the boat—and going as Marvin. I know that wasn't something you relished doing.”

“You got that part right.”

“It's heroic.”

Mavis squinted at her. “You're crazy.”

“Not about this, I'm not.”

“You'd be better off if you quit believing in heroes. There aren't any. There's just a world full of confused and disappointed people fumbling around in the dark, trying not to trip over shit.”

“Well, I agree with you about that falling part.”

“That isn't what I was talking about, and you know it.”

She didn't reply. They lapsed into silence and drank their beer.

Barb never grew tired of watching the purple martins. They were fixtures at this place. In the late afternoons, they would glide out over the water on warm currents of air, searching for insects. Gwen told her that mature Martins would feed their nestlings up to sixty times a day. She found it incredible that any species could be that dedicated to parenting. She never ceased being amazed at how much humans could learn from animals if they just cared enough to pay attention.

“It wasn't as bad as I thought.”

The voice startled Barb. She nearly dropped her bottle of beer.

“What?”

“Being Marvin again. It wasn't as bad as I thought.”

Barb was intrigued. “What did you expect it to be like?”

“Like it always is.” She shrugged her broad shoulders. “Not right.”

“But you didn't feel that way out on the boat?”

“No. I didn't feel any way about it.”

“You mean it felt normal?”

“No. I mean it didn't feel any way.”

Barb smiled at her. “I think that
is
the definition of normal.”

“Maybe for you.”

“No. Not lately. For me, the definition of normal is pretty much a moving target.”

“Yeah? Well I don't much like this falling thing.”

“Trust me. I don't much like it either.”

Mavis sat watching her for a moment. “I'm glad this trip is nearly over.”

“Why? So you can get off the boat?”

“Well. That, too.”

“Why else?”

“I think we need to get your ass back to San Diego.”

Barb sighed. “It's true. I don't want to run out of time on this project.”

“Fuck the project.”

Barb looked at her. “Mavis?”

“What?”

“Don't start that shit with me.”

Mavis actually smiled. It was such a rarity that Barb felt oddly victorious—like she'd won some unspoken contest of wills.

They stayed out on the lawn, making small talk in their matching white chairs, until they ran out of beer and daylight.

“Why do you keep staring at them? It's rude.”

Viv gave Towanda a dismissive look. “The last person who needs to lecture me about rude behavior is
you
.”

“Well, clearly, somebody needs to do it.” Towanda looked across the table at Gwen and Linda. “Don't you think the way she keeps staring at them is rude?”

Linda glanced across the restaurant at the couple in question. Darien and V. Jay-Jay sat at a window table, and seemed engrossed in conversation. They were leaning toward each other over their plates and glasses. They did not look unhappy.

“They do seem awfully chummy.”

“See?” Viv slapped Towanda on the arm.

“I agree.” Gwen broke off a piece of ciabatta bread and dipped it into the plate of herbed olive oil that sat at the center of their table. “I saw them out walking along the shoreline earlier today. They were in intense conversation about something—and they were holding hands.”

Viv leaned forward. “I have it on good authority that V. Jay-Jay hasn't slept in her room the last two nights.”

Gwen was surprised. “How do you know that?”

“How else? I asked one of the White Tornadoes.”

“The who?”

“Duh.” Viv rolled her eyes. “The housekeepers.”

Gwen was still confused. “They told you that V. Jay-Jay hadn't slept in her bed for two nights?”

Viv nodded energetically. “It's confirmed.”

“Who cares if she hasn't slept in her room for two nights?” Towanda rolled her eyes. “You haven't either.”

Linda choked on her water.

Gwen patted her between the shoulder blades. “Are you okay?”

Linda continued with her coughing and waved a finger back and forth between Viv and Towanda.

“You didn't know about them?” Gwen was still patting her back.

Linda shook her head.

Gwen looked across the table at the two culprits. “She didn't know about you.”

Viv seemed oblivious. “Maybe if she spent less time in the bar she'd have more of a clue about everything that's going on around here.”

Towanda elbowed her in the side.

“Hey!” Viv recoiled from her.

“What's the matter with you?” Towanda hissed. “You're acting like an asshole.”

“It's okay.” Linda had recovered from her coughing jag. “Apparently, I
am
pretty clueless.” She gave Towanda a half smile. “And Viv always acts like an asshole.”

“It's true.” Viv drained her glass of wine. “I see no reason to buy into all those petty norms of ‘polite' social behavior that stymie authentic interaction.”

Gwen laughed. “There is something refreshing about your point of view, Viv.”

Towanda
tsk
ed and rolled her eyes. “I think she's possessed.”

“Oh, yeah?” Viv gave Towanda a good once-over. “And just how many times have I heard you scream that you wanted to be possessed?”

Towanda flushed. “I never said that standing up and you know it.”

Viv stuck out her tongue and wagged it from side to side.

“Oh, that's really mature.” Towanda huffed. “I honestly don't know why I keep allowing myself to get drawn in by you. It's a classic example of repeat circumstance neurosis.”

“Girls.” Gwen bent forward and lowered her voice. “Dial it back a bit. Those people at the next table keep looking over here.”

“Who?” Viv cast about the dining room. Her gaze landed on a pair of portly diners who quickly looked down at their plates when they realized she was staring at them. “Oh, good god.” She nudged Towanda. “It's the damn
frogs
.”

“The who?” Linda asked.

“She means the Canadians,” Towanda explained. “They have the room next to mine.” She tipped her head toward Viv. “We have a tendency to keep them awake at night.”

Gwen chuckled.

Linda looked baffled. “I don't get it.”

Viv looked at her with wonder. “Do you ever bother to
read
any of the articles you publish in that lesbo magazine?”

“Of course I do. I'm the editor.”

“Well it might be time for you to get out of the office and garner a little practical experience.”