“That tackle box looks pretty heavy. How about letting me lug it inside?”
He hesitated, then let me take it. “Dad’s got a lot more junk in there than I remember.”
“Lead sinkers, feels like.”
“Some of those, yeah, no kidding. He’s had junk like that since he was my age and he won’t get rid of it.”
“Sentimental, your old man.”
“I guess.”
We went up into the house and set Pat Dixon’s gear in a corner of the living room. “Where’s your mom?” I asked. “Still at the Ostergaards’?”
“Yeah. She called a few minutes ago, she’ll be back pretty soon. She said you went over there to see Mrs. Ostergaard before she did.”
“Just for a few minutes.”
“How come? You hardly knew Mr. Ostergaard.”
“I knew him well enough to like him and want to pay my respects to his widow.”
“I oughta go see her, too,” Chuck said. “But I can’t make myself do it, not yet, anyway.” His mouth tightened; the moistness that came into his eyes made him turn away from me. “Shit. Why’d a thing like that have to happen? Mr. Ostergaard, he was… I dunno, he was like my grandfather or something.”
“Bad things happen to good people, Chuck.”
“I know. Never to the bad ones, the assholes.”
“Them, too. Sooner or later.”
“Somebody like Mr. Ostergaard… you think he’s gonna live forever, you know? I mean, he was old but he seemed kind of…”
“Indestructible?”
“Yeah. He was always here, every summer, and you think he’s always gonna be here, that things’ll never change.”
“Nothing stays the same, Chuck.”
“Sure, but when something crazy happens…”
“You deal with it, hard as it is.”
“Life’s hard and then you die,” he said. “I saw that on a T-shirt once. I thought it was funny.”
“But you don’t think so now.”
“No. Not anymore.”
“That’s good.”
“Why’s it good?”
“You’re growing up,” I said. “Kids look at things one way, adults another. The way you feel now is the way a man feels, a man who has compassion for others.”
He was making eye contact again. He said, “I guess you know all about stuff like this. I mean, you’ve lived a long time, too, seen a lot…”
“More than my share.”
“Does it still bother you? When people die, people you want to keep on living?”
“Always has, always will.”
“So how do you deal with it?”
“By trying to keep it in perspective. There’s nothing wrong with hurting or feeling sad or angry or confused, as long as you don’t let those feelings control you. Life goes on, you have to go on, too. Focus on the good parts, on being good yourself, and you can get through anything bad that comes along.”
He took a few seconds to digest that. Then, “You know something? You’re a lot like my dad. He says stuff like that, not the same but stuff that makes me feel better because I know it has to be true.”
“Your dad’s a good man.”
“You’re pretty cool, too,” he said shyly. There was an awkward moment, as there must be between father and son when they have this kind of talk. A grin, then, and some of the natural animation was back in his voice when he said, “Hey, you want a beer? We’ve got some cold in the fridge.”
“Sure. I can use one.”
“I’ll get it.”
He hurried off into the kitchen, and I decided I’d handled the situation about as well as I could. I hadn’t said anything profound, but the sense of the words were what he’d needed to hear. The male bond, as Marian had called it. I was glad the session was over, but it hadn’t been as difficult as I’d expected and it had left me feeling better, too — and a little ashamed at the bitterness I’d felt earlier. I wondered if I’d have made a good father and thought, yeah, I probably would have. It was a comforting thought, one mixed with a certain amount of regret.
Chuck came back with a long-necked Bud, watched me take a pull on it before he said, “How about tomorrow? You want to go fishing at Chuck’s Hole again?”
I hated to disappoint him, but there was only one answer I could give. When you’re through with an activity, you’re through with it; I would not put myself through any more pretense even for him. “I can’t, Chuck. I’ve got some business to take care of in the morning.”
“Can’t it wait until after noon?”
“I’m afraid not.”
He took it in stride. “Hey, that’s okay, I understand. Maybe—”
He broke off at the rising whine of a boat’s engine, windblown through the open doors to the deck. I followed him over there, saw a dark green rowboat with an attached kicker angling in toward the Dixons’ dock. The man bent forward from the tiller was Jacob Strayhorn.
Chuck said, “Wonder why he came back?”
“Back?”
“He was here a while ago, before you came over.”
“What’d he want?”
“Nothing much. Just to talk.”
“About Nils?”
“Mostly, yeah.”
Strayhorn bumped the rowboat’s prow against the float, shut off the panting kicker. Chuck got down there in time to wind the painter around one of the cleats. The expression on Strayhorn’s face, I saw as he climbed out, was oddly intense. His features seemed harder, less bland, under a thin film of sweat.
“Saw you two carrying fishing gear,” he said. “Planning to go out before dark?”
“Nah,” Chuck said, “we were just moving my dad’s stuff inside the house.”
“Just moving it, that’s all?”
“Yeah.”
“Not because he’ll be here tomorrow?”
“Well, he still hasn’t let us know, but I sure hope he will.”
I said, “You an evening fisherman, Strayhorn?”
“I can take it or leave it. Why?”
“Just wondering why you should care whether Chuck and I were going out before dark.”
“I don’t, particularly. Thought I’d go along if you were.”
“I like fishing at dusk myself. Rivers more than lakes. You ever go after bass in the San Joaquin sloughs?”
“Where? Oh, the San Joaquin River. Once or twice.”
“Venice Island? Potato Slough?”
“That general area.”
“How about the Delta?”
“How about it?”
“Favorite spot in there?”
“One’s as good as another.”
“I’m partial to Dead Man’s Slough. You know it?”
“No.”
“Sycamore Slough? Hog Slough?”
“No.”
“Where do you go for crayfish? Channel cats?”
“Crayfish?”
“Delta’s full of ‘em. Or didn’t you know that?”
His eyes, pale and squinty, flicked over my face. It was like being strafed by bugs. There was none of the low-key smarminess about him today; he seemed both hyped and irritated. It was plain that he didn’t care for the kind of questions I was asking. That made us even: I didn’t care for his answers.
I said, “I guess you don’t do much fishing close to home.”
“That’s right,” he said flatly, “I don’t. I prefer the mountains. Trout streams.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And I know what to do with one when I catch it.” He turned his attention to Chuck. “Maybe you and me’ll go out one of these mornings. What do you say?”
“Well…” The boy glanced at me and then said to Strayhorn, “Tomorrow’s about the only day. Unless my dad doesn’t drive up until Wednesday.”
“Tomorrow’s good for me. What time?”
“Earlier the better. Five-thirty?”
“Five-thirty it is.”
“I know a good spot. Don’t I, Bill?”
“One of the best,” I said.
“Chuck’s Hole. I named it after myself because I’m the one who found it.”