I stopped and picked up some groceries on the way home. At the farm, I got things ready to have a guest. I cleaned out the cabin and put some food and a jug of water out there. I put a bar of soap and shampoo in the shower, a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and toothpaste on the sink. I put the gun case Rich had given me and the boxes of shells on the bed. Next to the gun I put a case of cigarettes, two plastic lighters, four bars of chocolate, and a couple candy bars. I started a fire with the coals and after it died down and the coals went white hot, I put some burgers on. I loaded my own shotgun, checked the safety, and leaned it inside the screen door. I sat on the porch and ate.
The sun had gone down when Bob pulled up. He was driving an old beat-up station wagon with fake wood paneling and Florida plates. The passenger’s-side front tire looked low. When I got close to the car I could see a long jagged crack in the windshield.
“Hey,” he said. We shook hands. He wore his long hair in a ponytail with gray in it. He looked tired and thin. He was wearing a long-sleeve shirt that he’d sweated through. “Well, hell, John,” he managed. He was carrying an old tan suitcase and a blue gym bag. He set the bags on the ground.
“Good to see you,” I said. “Do you want a hamburger?” I pointed at the grill, still glowing in the twilight.
“That sounds great,” he said. “No beer.”
“Yeah,” I said. “My dad told me. No problem.”
“I just need to relax a little,” he said. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. “We need to hide this car.”
I walked over to the big barn and swung the door open. “Pull it right in here.”
He guided the station wagon into the empty space between an old Jeep under a tarp and a pickup truck. He shut the engine off and took out a big screwdriver.
“Got to get these plates off,” he explained.
“Sure,” I said. He was sweating. “Can I help you?”
“Work on that back plate,” he said.
I lay on the rough concrete floor and sweated, using an oversized screwdriver to get the screws out of the license plate. I skinned my knuckles. We finished and put the plates on the front seat. I made Bob a burger with a roll and gave it to him.
“This is your cabin right here,” I said. I pointed at the middle cabin. “Hasn’t changed much since your last visit.” I carried his two bags up to the small porch.
“I really appreciate your help,” he said. He had taken a couple bites out of the burger.
“If you need anything, lift that phone next to your bed. It calls me in the house.”
“Okay,” he said.
“See you in the morning,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said.
I gave my father a call when I got back in the house.
“Bob’s here,” I said. “He ate and went to bed.”
“Good,” my father said. “Let’s try some fishing again tomorrow. Bring him with you.”
“Sure,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
I shut the lights out and sat in a chair looking out the window. I could see the end of the driveway and the road and I watched for an hour. Cars passed in the dark, but nobody slowed down or stopped. I slept with my shotgun on the floor next to my bed. I didn’t know how big Bob’s trouble was and I wanted to be ready.
I drove Bob to the Catskill dock the next day. He didn’t look well-he was wearing a light blue jacket despite the heat-when he got in the truck, but we stopped at a gas station and I bought him a coffee. It was good to watch him drink something.
“That’s good coffee,” he said.
“Nice,” I said. “How’re you doing?”
“I’ve been better,” he said. “I’ve been much worse. This will pass.”
“Sure,” I said.
It smelled like gas and oil and fish at the dock. My father and Rich were already on the boat. Bob and I got on. Rich gave us all rods, all rigged up. My father and Rich shook hands with Bob and they both gave him a hug. Rich piloted the boat into the Hudson and nobody said anything. We were busy fishing. We were headed slightly south today. One of the large Hudson mansions sat on a hill on the east bank and we all looked at as we passed. Rich hooked a nice striper, brought it up into the boat, and released it.
“I remember the last time I visited,” Bob said. “We fished then too.”
“I remember we caught a couple good ones,” my father said.
“We ate those fish, didn’t we?” Bob said.
“We did,” my father said. “Things have changed in the river.”
“That’s too bad,” Bob said. Less than a minute after that, he hooked one and fought it to the boat. After he released it, a large hawk took off from a dead tree close to shore. The hawk gained altitude and floated high in the blue and the clouds.
“The sky is part of the color of that bird,” Bob said. “In a blue sky, the bird looks a certain way and in a gray sky, the bird looks another way. The bird doesn’t pick the color of the sky, he just lives in it. He doesn’t try to change it. I remember my grandfather telling me that.” He was crying now. My father and Rich sat close to him and I watched the boat. I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Rich stood up and took over, heading back to the dock. My father stayed close to Bob until we were getting off the boat.
“It’s hard to be off drugs,” Bob said. We were headed towards my truck.
“Everything’s hard,” my father said. “You can do it.”
“Good luck,” Rich said.
Bob and I drove back to the farm and when I came out of the house, he was sitting on the porch, looking at the sky. I fixed us some dinner and we both went to bed. I got up at 2:00 a.m. to take a look around. To be safe. The house phone rang and I picked it up.
“Hey,” Bob said. “Are you awake? I thought I saw a light.”
“Yes,” I said. “Checking things out.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” he said.
“See you late tomorrow,” I said. “I’ve got to work.”
“Sure,” Bob said. “I’ll fix dinner.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
We went fishing as much as we could that summer. We went out on the river with my father and Rich. One time, Bob’s pole bent so much, we all thought he’d hooked a sturgeon. It would have been a once-in-a-lifetime catch. Whatever it was spat the hook before he could land it. The next weekend, we were out on the river again.
“What did you do?” I said. Bob had been staying on the farm for five weeks and we were sitting on the porch, eating sandwiches.
“I counted cards at the high-limit table,” he said. He finished his sandwich. “More than once. At more than one casino, all along the Gulf Coast.” He scratched his head. “I learned I could count cards when I was in the Army,” he said. “Wish I never had.”
“How much did you get away with?” I said.
“Not enough to be worth this,” he said. He inhaled his cigarette. “That’s for sure.” He took another drag and then went on. “It used to be like I couldn’t tell if I was awake or dreaming. I had this big pile of chips and I’d cash out and the money would pile up.”
I nodded. The sky was night-dark except for the stars and on the edge of the mountains, we could see the static charges of heat lightning, flashing.
Bob seemed like he was talking to himself. “I had that money and off I’d go, on a bender. I shot dope again. I drank all the time. I did everything I could get my hands on. Until it was like I wasn’t real anymore. I came home to my house at one point and thought people had broken in, that’s what a wreck it was.”
“That sounds bad,” I said.
“Then the pit boss at the one casino, he must have seen me doing something because the next time I went to play, they wouldn’t let me sit at the table. So I went down the street and counted cards there and took them for all they could handle.” He shook his head. “Men followed me out of the casino and tried to beat me up, but I got away. I realized they must have put a price on my head. That’s when I decided to come up here.”