Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [100]
“Rain does that.”
Waist-deep, she peeled the line and stood, drying the fly. She waved it through the air like a lasso, then released it, letting it roll across the top of the water. She started a slow retrieve. Whenever she fished, she bit her bottom lip. If she fished all day, she’d rub it raw. The water swirled with a flash of bronze and red, followed by the quick sound of suction, and the fly disappeared. I closed my eyes and waited. The reel wound backward, the drag singing just a bit. Abbie howled and let the fish run. She lifted the rod tip and followed it to deeper water. Gently, she pulled it in and laid it on the beach. The perch, also known as red-breasted bream, lay flopping on the sand, its gills opening and closing like an accordion.
I pulled out the fly, slipped the fish back in the water and held it while the river filtered through its gills. Spurred by cold water and oxygen, it jerked loose and shot toward the bottom. Abbie had moved on, slowly wading upriver, casting into a dark hole on the opposite bank.
She fished through lunch.
By three in the afternoon, I’d released forty-seven bream and eight smallmouth bass. Finally, she laid down the pole, sat down and dug her toes into the sand. Her face was flush so I handed her a cup of water and one of her lollipops. A bald eagle flew upriver and perched in a tree above us, some fifty feet away. White head and gold beak shining in the sun. It scanned the water, jumped off the limb, shot toward the water and sank its claws beneath the surface. Its huge wings slapped the water, cut the air and pulled it higher. He reached the treetops, circled and returned to his limb, where he began methodically tearing at the fish. Abbie closed her eyes and smiled. “That takes care of number six.”
“Yup.”
“That’s five down.”
She lay back and closed her eyes. The finger-sized vein in her neck told me her heart was beating fast. “What’s next?”
Bob buzzed the trees overhead, circling his runway before landing. Abbie clung to me—breathing deeply but not catching her breath. I helped her up the bank, laid her in bed and walked out onto the porch, where the rain was smacking the palmetto fronds with an irregular rhythm.
BOB’S PLANE TOUCHED DOWN in the field. Minutes later, he, Rocket and Petey appeared on the riverbank. He climbed the stairs and found me sitting in the artist’s chair, staring at an empty canvas. It was dusty and I’d done a poor job of stretching it across the frame.
He carried a canvas bag slung over one shoulder. He set it on the ground and pulled out two bottles of red wine. He popped the cork on one and then pulled two Styrofoam cups out of the bag. He filled both and offered me one. I took it. He didn’t say anything, but stared downriver, occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Abbie lying in the bed just a few feet away.
He gulped from the cup—taking half. “How is she?”
“She fished through lunch, and now she’s sleeping it off. That much activity takes a toll on her.”
“She catch any?”
“Fifty-five.”
He nodded approvingly. “The media is starting to whisper words like assisted suicide and mercy killing followed by questions to the senator if he’d consider unleashing the National Guard.” Another gulp. Cabernet dripped down the right side of his mouth.
“I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“Your story is filling all the networks. Actually”—he sat back and crossed his legs—“her story is. Yours is simply thrown in to give the viewer someone to hate. Pretty girl, riddled with cancer, lot of pain, taken from her home and family when she needs them most.”
“I know how it looks.”
He raised both eyebrows. “You sure?” I nodded but didn’t look at him. “I doubt it,” he said, “’cause if you did, you’d hightail it home.”
“Perception is not reality.”
“You don’t have to convince me, but you’re swimming up current.”
“Tell me about it.”
He sloshed his glass at me. “More?”
“Yeah.”
We sat in the dark awhile. The only light was the red tip of his cigar. He placed