the car, rigging up their rods and tying on flies. “Attractor patterns today,” said Phil. “And death to all streamside entomologists.”
“
D’accord
, sport. I’m putting on a royal Wulff tied with me own pinkies.”
“I long to feel that creek push in on my waders.”
“I long to hear the Pflueger opera as I drag the first hog to the gravel.”
“I doubt there’s any hogs up here. Not enough water.”
Frank suddenly thought about Boyd Jarrell. Boyd hated people who fished, although he spent plenty of time watching television or sitting in bars. Sometimes after he’d been in a bar for two days and spent every cent he’d made that week, Boyd would tell people, “I’ve lived next to these cricks all my life, but I’ve never had time to fish.”
“Walk down about half a mile and I’ll fish behind you,” Phil said. “We can hopscotch.” He was pulling on his beard and looking through the willows into a small pool. “I can see about nineteen of the fuckers from here,” he said in an enraptured voice. “Time to rip some lips.”
Frank started along the stream bank at a brisk walk. A covey of partridges took to the air in an ivory rush, brown terrestrial birds against the blue of outer space. After a bit he looked back and watched the heron-like figure of Phil Page forming a bow of line in midair over the stream, a slight breeze lifting his black beard from his chest. A meadowlark stood atop a Canadian thistle and poured out its song, barely pausing as Frank passed by. The prairie grass rolled away to the north. About halfway to the horizon, a sandstone seam made a long wavering line in the silvery grass. The sun dilated toward noon and Frank felt breathless to be in this very spot.
The line straightened and fell, and the bright speck of fly soared on the current. It lifted into the air again, then returned to teeter along the quick water on its hackles until it disappeared down a small suction hole, and the trout was tight, vaulting high over the water again and again. The rod made a live arc in Frank’s hand, and in a minute the fish splashed in the shallows at his feet. He grasped the fly and the trout wriggled free. Frank let out a deep sigh and looked down the meander of wild water; it spiraled away forever.
He could see Phil fishing behind him, hovering on the stream bank and probing with his fly line like an insect. Every so often his rod tightened in a bow and Phil scrambled down the bank to grab a trout. Frank caught three in a row from a flowing pool. Milesand hours went by and it was time for lunch. Frank stretched out on the stream bank, his fly rod crossed on his chest, the sun warm on his face, and waited for Phil to catch up. Ants were crawling on his forehead. He was drifting off, thinking how easy friendship could be.
“Good grief,” Frank said and sat up. “I’m suddenly starving.”
“I’m afraid we’re talking PB and J here, sport.”
“That’ll do just fine.”
“Doesn’t really go with beer, but who really gives two shits what goes with beer when you got beer?”
“Not me,” said Frank, pulling the top and smelling the spray of hops on his face. “Oh, boy.”
“The little creek’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol today.”
“I lost count.”
“So did I.”
They ate and watched the stream as though something very important could happen there at any moment. Some jelly leaked into the palm of Frank’s hand and he licked it out. A band of antelope drifted over the top of the sandstone seam and began to graze toward the west. The clouds climbed like a low ladder toward the west and a darker blue.
“You been going out?”
“Some,” said Frank. “No one special.” He thought about it: was that true?
“Anyone I know?”
“You know Lucy Dyer?”
“Wasn’t Jerry Caldwell fucking her?”
“I really don’t know.”
“I’m pretty sure she was fucking Jerry. This’d be a year or so ago. But what’s the difference? The only thing that’ll
“
D’accord
, sport. I’m putting on a royal Wulff tied with me own pinkies.”
“I long to feel that creek push in on my waders.”
“I long to hear the Pflueger opera as I drag the first hog to the gravel.”
“I doubt there’s any hogs up here. Not enough water.”
Frank suddenly thought about Boyd Jarrell. Boyd hated people who fished, although he spent plenty of time watching television or sitting in bars. Sometimes after he’d been in a bar for two days and spent every cent he’d made that week, Boyd would tell people, “I’ve lived next to these cricks all my life, but I’ve never had time to fish.”
“Walk down about half a mile and I’ll fish behind you,” Phil said. “We can hopscotch.” He was pulling on his beard and looking through the willows into a small pool. “I can see about nineteen of the fuckers from here,” he said in an enraptured voice. “Time to rip some lips.”
Frank started along the stream bank at a brisk walk. A covey of partridges took to the air in an ivory rush, brown terrestrial birds against the blue of outer space. After a bit he looked back and watched the heron-like figure of Phil Page forming a bow of line in midair over the stream, a slight breeze lifting his black beard from his chest. A meadowlark stood atop a Canadian thistle and poured out its song, barely pausing as Frank passed by. The prairie grass rolled away to the north. About halfway to the horizon, a sandstone seam made a long wavering line in the silvery grass. The sun dilated toward noon and Frank felt breathless to be in this very spot.
The line straightened and fell, and the bright speck of fly soared on the current. It lifted into the air again, then returned to teeter along the quick water on its hackles until it disappeared down a small suction hole, and the trout was tight, vaulting high over the water again and again. The rod made a live arc in Frank’s hand, and in a minute the fish splashed in the shallows at his feet. He grasped the fly and the trout wriggled free. Frank let out a deep sigh and looked down the meander of wild water; it spiraled away forever.
He could see Phil fishing behind him, hovering on the stream bank and probing with his fly line like an insect. Every so often his rod tightened in a bow and Phil scrambled down the bank to grab a trout. Frank caught three in a row from a flowing pool. Milesand hours went by and it was time for lunch. Frank stretched out on the stream bank, his fly rod crossed on his chest, the sun warm on his face, and waited for Phil to catch up. Ants were crawling on his forehead. He was drifting off, thinking how easy friendship could be.
“Good grief,” Frank said and sat up. “I’m suddenly starving.”
“I’m afraid we’re talking PB and J here, sport.”
“That’ll do just fine.”
“Doesn’t really go with beer, but who really gives two shits what goes with beer when you got beer?”
“Not me,” said Frank, pulling the top and smelling the spray of hops on his face. “Oh, boy.”
“The little creek’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol today.”
“I lost count.”
“So did I.”
They ate and watched the stream as though something very important could happen there at any moment. Some jelly leaked into the palm of Frank’s hand and he licked it out. A band of antelope drifted over the top of the sandstone seam and began to graze toward the west. The clouds climbed like a low ladder toward the west and a darker blue.
“You been going out?”
“Some,” said Frank. “No one special.” He thought about it: was that true?
“Anyone I know?”
“You know Lucy Dyer?”
“Wasn’t Jerry Caldwell fucking her?”
“I really don’t know.”
“I’m pretty sure she was fucking Jerry. This’d be a year or so ago. But what’s the difference? The only thing that’ll
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