Backcast (27 page)

“So I came here to tell you that I found somebody to take your place on the boat.”

Junior had been shoveling healthy spoonsful of oatmeal into his mouth. He stopped midstream and glared at her.

“Who?”

“It's another one of the guests at the inn. Name's Marvin Pants.”

Quinn thought it was best to keep the details to a minimum.

“Marvin who?”

“Pants.”

Junior shoved another big spoonful of the oatmeal into his mouth. “Never heard of him.”

“He's not from the islands.”

“He know how to fish?”

“I don't know about that. He knows how to drive a boat, though.”

Junior looked down at his bowl of oatmeal. “I guess that's something.”

“I thought you'd want to know. I went over yesterday and got registered.”

“They passed that boat?” Big Boy sounded surprised.

Quinn nodded. “Yes sir, they sure did.”

“Ain't no accounting for taste, I reckon.” He turned his attention back to the TV. Quinn glanced at the screen. It was some old movie.

“What are you watching?”

Big Boy grunted.

“It's that one about falling,” Junior explained. “With Jimmy Stewart and Miss Ellie.”

Miss Ellie?

Quinn looked more closely at the screen. “You mean Barbara Bel Geddes?”

Junior nodded. “And that other blonde one. The Novak girl.”

“
Vertigo
?”

“Yep. That'n. Big Boy likes watchin' these to look for Alfred Hitchcock.” Junior ate another mouthful of hot cereal. “We haven't seen him yet.”

“I think you already missed it. He shows up pretty early on.”

“He does?” Junior looked over at his brother. Big Boy grunted. “Oh, well. There ain't nothin' else to watch until lunch and the stories come on.”

“I wanted to tell you that I'll still fix the Panhead.”

Junior took his time answering. “No call to do that. A deal's a deal, and I ain't holdin' up my end of the bargain.”

“It's not your fault your gall bladder ruptured.”

“We can't pay for it.” Big Boy was staring at Quinn with his owl eyes.

“I don't expect you to pay for it. I said I'd fix it if Junior helped me, and Junior helped me.”

Big Boy lapsed into silence again.

Quinn looked back at Junior. “You helped me.”

“That young girl gonna ride along?”

“You mean Montana?”

Junior nodded.

“Yes sir.”

“Well. I suppose you'll do okay, then. She knows her way around that boat.”

“She does.”

“I didn't have much else to show you, anyway.”

Quinn doubted that was true. She figured she could spend the next twenty years on a boat with Junior and not scratch the surface of all he knew about life and what swam in the waters that surrounded these islands.

“I'll always be grateful to you for taking a chance on me.”

“You just stick to that map I give you. And don't try none of them fancy rigs on your line. And remember to cut the engines and let the boat drift into them best spots. These fish are smarter'n you and they won't respect you if you roar up into their backyards with all your guns blazin'.”

Guns blazing. That made her think about Mavis—
Marvin
. She'd have to tell him to leave his gun in the room.

“Yes, sir. I'll remember.”

“And don't never be late for them weigh-ins. You miss one, and it's sayonara. Them Japanese anglers always have the fastest boats and they ain't never late for nothin'.” He shook his head. “You really have to hand it to them people when it comes to following the rules.”

“I won't be late. I already marked all the spots on the New York side of the lake. I'll make sure I finish up over there.”

Junior held up a fat finger. “Don't plan on nothin'. You just finish up wherever you finish up. The fish'll let you know when you're done.”

Quinn had no idea what that meant, so she just nodded.

Junior was still staring at her.

“Any other advice?”

He shook his head.

“Okay, then. I guess I'll head out.”

“Hold up one more minute.” Junior set his cereal bowl down and pointed at a small metal box that sat between a couple of faded photographs on the dusty shelf behind his recliner. “Hand me that old Lucky Strike box.”

Quinn retrieved the dented cigarette box and gave it to him. Junior wiped off the top of it with his sleeve. He opened it up and showed its contents to her.

“These here are some flies my granddad tied. Ever time I won one of them tourneys, I was using one of these.” He handed the box to Quinn.

The flies were spectacular. Intricate. Precise. Alive with color. They were like small works of art. Quinn couldn't imagine the hands that tied all those delicate little knots.

“These are really beautiful.”

Junior nodded. “You take them and use them when the time is right.”

Quinn was stunned. Nobody had ever given her anything this meaningful before—especially not anything with this much significance. She ran a fingertip across all the fussy, feathered surfaces. There were more than half a dozen flies in this old cigarette box. All of them tied by the legendary angler, Laddie Ladd—the man whose name was synonymous with fishing the Inland Sea.

“You want me to use your granddad's flies?”

“I figure you could use the help.”

Quinn didn't know what to say. She looked up at Junior. “How do I know when the time is right?”

He sat back and pulled on the wooden handle of his recliner. The footrest flew up and came to a stop beneath his feet.

“Nobody else can tell you that. You just have to know.”

Quinn stared down into the box again. She wasn't sure if she'd ever know. Not about flies. Not about fishing. And not about life. She closed the tiny box.

Tomorrow would be soon enough to start figuring things out.

She sat down on a low stool beside Junior's chair and watched the rest of the movie.

Essay 9

“And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name shall they cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; They shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover.”

—Mark 16:17-18

I guess you'd say I was afflicted with a kind of sickness that couldn't be healed by the laying on of hands. My parents were led to understand that some demons were like that. They were told that some demons required more time and focused attention. I don't think it ever occurred to them to wonder if the form the intervention took was a factor in its lack of success.

When the first few prayer sessions with our local preacher didn't succeed at giving me more than a pair of bruised knees, my parents grew desperate. That's when my grandma stepped in and said they should send me to a healer she'd seen work miracles one hot summer night beneath a big canvas revival tent. He was an evangelist, and his special ministry had blazed a trail of fear and repentance across five states. When his dog and pony show set up camp in our small county, my grandma had a front row seat. She went back to hear him every night. And every night, new and even more extraordinary happenings took place. She was a convert—one of many. And her peculiar brand of
religious zealotry infected my young life like a tick-borne virus. Understand that my parents weren't bad people. They were just simple and uninformed. They knew just one way to react when they discovered that their only daughter was a Sodomite. They prayed and asked for God to lead me out of sin, and to plant my feet firmly on the road to righteousness. When their prayers continued to be unanswered, they resorted to more extreme measures.

It isn't that I was opposed to traveling any road that led to a righteous life. I simply didn't think I should be expected to deny who I was to do it. That part didn't feel Christian to me. All of the stories I grew up hearing about Jesus talked about his love and forgiveness, not his judgment and wrath. The way I saw it, God made me the way I was for a reason. I never really
chose
to like other girls—I just
did
. And I especially liked Charlene.

Charlene—we all called her Charlie—was three years younger than me. We met at summer church camp, although I had seen her before at school. Being around her made me feel alive in ways I never thought possible. We spent every spare second together, even though we were in different age groups. It wasn't long before spare seconds weren't enough. We began to sneak out of our cabins after lights out to meet by the lake. It was there, beneath the hazy half-moon, that we began our sweet voyage of discovery. It felt so happy and innocent. So simple. At least, it did until we were discovered by one of the camp counselors.

Charlie and I were separated from one another until our parents could come and pick us up. We were told that our behavior was an abomination to God and that we would burn in hell if we continued along our destructive paths. I knew they were right about one thing: I was burning—but it was with a different kind of fire. And no
amount of isolation, preaching, or prayer would be enough to extinguish it.

Charlie had a different experience from me. She didn't have a mother—at least, not a mother she knew. And her father was not a kind man. His response to the discovery of her transgression wasn't characterized by grief or despair—it pretty much involved trying to beat the demons out of her. Charlie ended up collapsing at school, and when the principal realized what was wrong with her, she called the sheriff. That was the good news. They took Charlie out of the home and put her into foster care, where she stayed until she was old enough to live on her own.

But I was never allowed to see her again. My parents made sure of that. And once my grandma became involved with the orchestration of a plan to ensure my salvation, I wasn't home all that much anymore. They pulled me out of school and shipped me off to Kentucky to “study” with a man who had experience turning young people away from the evils of homosexuality.

It would be an understatement to say that his methods were unorthodox. At first, the snakes terrified me. He kept dozens of them, stacked up in special little, glass-fronted boxes inside a boarded-up porch at the back of his house. They were mostly timber rattlers, but he had other kinds back there, too. It amazed me that his wife and three kids just breezed in and out of that dark, close space to retrieve things like jackets and canned goods. I stayed alone upstairs in another small room. I think it had been some kind of closet because it had no windows. It was at the back of the house, and I knew it was over the porch. Every night, when I'd be locked into my room, I'd imagine I could hear the white noise of the snakes moving around beneath the floorboards. I knew they were awake, too. And I knew that it would only be a matter of time before they figured out a way to reach me.

I didn't have to wait very long.

It was on the sixth night that he finally showed up. I wasn't surprised. I knew he was coming. I could see it in the way he looked at me. I could feel it in the way he touched me—touches that were supposed to be casual, but were tainted with malicious intent. I knew the difference—just like all women everywhere know the difference. When I heard the sound of a key turning in the door lock, I knew my time had come. My education was about to take another path. When his shadow filled up the entrance to my dark asylum, I didn't bother to call for help. I knew it would be pointless. Who would help me? Not the shopworn woman he called his helpmeet. Not his daughters—they had matching sets of empty, unseeing eyes. I was on my own, and I knew it.

The first night, he came alone. But I managed to evade his attempts to turn me from my sinful ways. I didn't cry. I didn't make any sound at all. I hunched myself into a tight ball and withstood the weight of his advances and whispered entreaties. Eventually he grew weary of the struggle. I could feel his anger. His indignation. He got up from my bed and left as silently as he came. But I knew he'd be back. I knew this rite of passage was just beginning.

He made me wait. Many more nights passed—all of them sleepless for me. I grew weak and tired. I was half sick from fear. I could no longer trust my instincts. Night after night, I was forced to attend his revival services. I'd bounce along those backcountry roads on the rear seat of his truck, strapped in beside a stack of wooden crates. I began to hear the voices of the serpents. They'd whisper to me during those long rides through hot summer nights.
Surrender. Let us teach you. Let us show you the power of God's love.

It was two weeks before I heard him at my door again. And this time, he didn't come alone. I saw the shadow
of the box he carried right away, and I knew what it meant. I would be given a choice: I could serve God, or I could face his judgment. When he reached into the box and withdrew the serpent, I knew I was lost. I had watched the snakes writhe and coil their long bodies around his arms enough times to know what was happening. There was no light in the room, but I could sense every moving inch of the threat above me. I begged him to spare me—to show me another way—
any
way but this one.

He relented and showed me a path of mercy. He returned the snake to its box and led my shaking hand to the waistband of his pants, where another servant of God promised release from my torment. Without being told, I understood what to do. I didn't fight him that night—or any of the nights after that.

As the weeks passed, I silently took my place in line beside the others—all those women with the sallow faces and lifeless eyes. I knew I wouldn't last long. I began to fantasize about death, realizing that it offered the only true release available to me. I imagined how it would occur—gloriously—on the altar of one of his makeshift, backwoods churches at the height of their ecstatic celebrations. I believed that a merciful and loving God would take me—would welcome me home and free me from the prison of fear and shame that had become my world. But it didn't happen, and I grew tired of waiting for an intervention that might never come. I knew I didn't have the strength to last much longer. Death was clutching at my insides like a cold hand. It was now or never. I needed to flee while I still had the stamina to run.

In the end, I didn't choose my moment. My moment chose me. We were on our way to a revival service in Gastonia, North Carolina. I was riding alone with him—like always. He stopped for gas at a truck stop, then
pulled over and parked so he could go inside for a restroom break. I knew I only had a few seconds to decide. My heart was pounding so hard I thought it might burst through the thin wall of my chest. I opened the door and got out. But before I ran, I pulled out the boxes containing the snakes and kicked off their lids.

I heard the first screams and yells before I got around the back side of the building. I knew this commotion would flush him out—but I also knew the diversion would give me the time I needed to get away. I just prayed that nobody else would get hurt in the process.

I ran as far and as fast as I could. I had nothing but the clothes on my back. I couldn't go home and I couldn't go back to Kentucky. But I didn't care. I ran. And I kept on running until I was sure I was far enough away that he wouldn't find me. Eventually, I made my way to another rest stop. It didn't take me long to find an obliging trucker who was willing to give me a ride. One thing I was sure about was what it would take to earn my keep. Thanks to my mentor, I'd learned those lessons well. It was another couple of years before I had the wherewithal to take those lessons and weave them into a legitimate line of work that could sustain me. And if, along the way, I could help a few others avoid the same missteps? Well. That would be just fine, too.

I never found Charlie again, but I did find a succession of other Charlies. I learned to embrace the truth of who I was, and I never again subjugated myself to someone else's idea of what I should be. You could say that everything in my life is different now, but two things remain unchanged: I don't look back, and I never stop running.