I thought about that. “No. Sometimes, the worse something is, the more likely it’ll happen.”
“That’s kind of how I feel, too. If the money’s right, if Leonard can convince them this will bring new jobs to the area, people will go along with anything.”
“But then again, I could be wrong. I mean, look around. Because there is so little development on this lake, and a huge resort would have such an impact on it, maybe the people in charge will show some sort of common sense, some concern for the environment.”
Bob hooked a lure to the end of his line, what looked like a four-inch fish with froglike coloring and three sets of hooks dangling off it. “How about something like this?” he said, lifting out of the tackle box a similar lure, but it had more yellow in it.
“Looks good,” I said, and he handed it over. I struggled, taking a couple of minutes to open the clip at the end of my line and attach it to the lure. I nearly jabbed myself twice, but did my best to keep Bob from noticing. Bob whipped his pole back over his shoulder, then cast out, the plug landing in the water thirty to forty feet away.
“We’ll drift this way”—he pointed—“so cast out the other side.”
I was worried about how this was going to go, but surprised myself when the pole whipped back over my head, I released the tension on the line, and the plug went sailing through the air, plopping nicely into the water not far from where Bob’s had gone.
“Juanita would’ve loved a morning like this,” Bob said.
“Juanita?”
“She was my wife. You’re thinking, a name like that, what was she? She was from Mexico, originally. She loved to come out here, especially early in the morning, with the water smooth as glass, the mist still not all burned off. At first, years ago, when we first started coming up, I thought she did it just to keep me happy, which made me feel sort of bad. Didn’t want to think she was sitting out here for hours just tolerating it, you know?”
“Sure.”
“So one year, I decide, without telling her, to book something different for when we usually come up here. Put aside some money, to take her to San Francisco. Ride the trolley cars, see the Golden Gate, that kind of thing. Well, she finds out I’ve done this and doesn’t talk to me for two days. All she wants, she says, is to come up here and sit on a lake with me. Made me cancel the Frisco trip.”
“She liked fishing?”
Bob Spooner shrugged. “Liked it okay. It was sitting out here that she liked most. Sometimes, she’d bring a book, curl up right there, on the floor by the front seat, and just read while I fished. One time she read one of your books.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, your dad had a copy, she borrowed it. About these guys, they go to another planet, they’re like missionaries, only backwards? They try to spread the word that there’s no God, but then something awful happens to them. That one.”
“How’d she like it?”
Bob pondered. “I don’t know. She didn’t finish it.”
I reeled in, cast out again. “You miss her,” I said.
Bob nodded. “Awful thing, that cancer. Took her a long time to go. Didn’t want to lose her, but at the same time, wished I could have ended it for her sooner.”
For a long time, we said nothing. We sat there in the stillness of the morning, watching the last of the overnight mist burn away. I understood what had drawn my father up here to stay, how up here, there was much less to worry about, much less to get your shorts in a knot about.
Except, maybe, for the Wickenses.
“I’m thinking,” I said, breaking the silence, “of taking Dad into town to see a lawyer, see what he can do about those people renting his farmhouse. Maybe he could get them evicted. Look what they’re doing to the place.”
“Worth checking into,” Bob said, studying where his line disappeared into the water. He turned his reel a couple of times, then let it back out again.
“A lawyer could at least let Dad know where he stands, tell him what his options are regarding—”
And then my line took off. The reel started spinning.
“Jesus, what the hell’s that?” I said. “I must be caught on a log.”
“That’s no fucking log,” Bob said. “You’ve got hold of something.” He began reeling in his own line so he could concentrate on what had hold of mine. “Just play it,” he said gently. “Keep him busy.”
I pulled back on the pole, then eased it forward again, turning the reel furiously to pick up the slack and bring the fish closer to the boat.
Something dark and oily looking broke the surface of the water. Something long and slender and black, and at least three feet long. With a broad fin toward one end.
“Whoa,” said Bob.
“What? What is it?”
“It’s a muskie, that’s for sure. Probably go four feet, maybe more.”