“I am a fine fisherman,” he said.
“I’ve never seen you catch a fish in my life,” I said. “Nor have I ever seen a picture of you with a fish in hand.”
“Watch your mouth, missy,” he said. “I am well known across three counties for my expertise and skill as a fisherman and have likely slain more steelhead than any man you have ever met personally in the flesh. I caught two, I repeat two, twelve-foot sturgeon in the summer of nineteen and eighty-eight.”
“You didn’t catch any sturgeon.”
“I surely did.”
“That seems like something I would have seen a picture of. Maybe in the newspaper, even. But I have seen no such pictures.”
“This was before the advent of digital technology,” he said. “People could not take pictures with their goddamn phones. So while it is true that there are no pictures to commemorate those victories I implore you to go down to John Parlee’s bait shop and ask him who caught the two biggest sturgeon he’s ever seen. He will say the name Portis Dale.”
“John Parlee sold the bait shop and moved to Florida,” I said. “It’s a realty office now.”
“That is a vile lie.”
“It is not a lie,” I said. “John Parlee met a woman on the Internet and moved to be with her in Lakeland, Florida. They were matched on eHarmony and he has been baptized as a Christian on her request and conditions.”
“You may cause my death,” he said. “Right here in this shanty I may finally give out and die of pure sadness.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “But it’s true.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I fish with actual bait, which means I frequented Parlee’s. We spoke often. He knew of my association with you and yet never mentioned a single sturgeon, let alone two in the same summer.”
“Go ask Big John the Indian then. Find him over there on the Bear River Bridge this fall, when the salmon run. He was there the day I caught the first one. He will also speak to you about the second one, which he undoubtedly knew of through hearsay.”
I propped myself up on an elbow and tried to ignore the sound of the water boiling, tried to pretend my eyes were not watering from the terrible burning inside my boots. I had touched a sensitive nerve with Portis and was beginning to feel badly. I began to apologize in my roundabout way, but Portis cut me off before I got to the part where I said I was sorry.
“Shut up and take off your shoes,” he said. “That water is long boiled and I’m through with your distractions.”
He put his gloves back on and went to the stove, then picked up the pot and set it on the floor. I sat there and watched it steam while he pushed open the shanty door and grabbed a few handfuls of snow. He dropped the snow in the pot and then looked at me.
“Get on the floor,” he said. “And don’t debate me on this.”
“What are you going to do?”
“You’re a smart girl,” he said. “I think you can deduce the basics of the process.”
“Why’d you boil it, then put the snow in?”
“I boiled it to sterilize it. The snow’s to bring the temperature down a bit. You don’t treat frostbite with boiling water.”
Portis took the papoose off the woodstove and walked over to set it on the cot.
“This is nice and toasty now,” he said.
He took Jenna from my arms, put her down in the carrier, and then pushed the cot up against the wall. He nudged my shoulder and told me it was time.
I eased myself onto the floor and sat with my legs stretched out in front of me. I turned away while Portis unlaced my boots, then jerked when he went to remove the first one. It hurt like hell and I tried to wriggle free, but he grabbed my knee and held it to the ground while he pulled the boot clear off.
I clenched my teeth and grunted. There was sweat beading on my face already and I felt a flutter of nausea rise. He tugged the second boot off and when he peeled the socks away I pounded the floor with my fists.
“I know,” he said.
“Do you!”
“I can imagine. Let’s just rest now for a second.”
I breathed out, looked down, and saw my toes were so purple-tinted and swollen, they looked like some damn eggplants. I let a whimper go and closed my eyes.
“It’s like a picture in a medical book,” I said.
“Bad as it may seem,” he said. “This is still a before version of that picture. There’s something worse comes after this.”
“Is it frostbite?”
“Yeah,” he said. “This qualifies.”
“Am I going to lose my toes?”
“No,” he said. “Not if we get them in this water.”
“How hot is that water?” I said.
“What’s it matter if your toes already burn?”
“Just tell me.”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Hot. But we’ll let it sit for another minute.”
“How bad is it going to hurt?”