Childish Things

PROLOGUE

He felt out of control most of the time now, understandably, since his diagnosis, over six months ago. It, at times, felt like a cruel joke someone would soon admit to. Other times, it felt like a weight pressed on him, as if gravity had somehow increased its pull. But no matter what oppressive feeling he had, it seemed to dissipate this time of day, at least some. A sense of calm spread over him, and everything seemed to be better, if not okay. It was a pleasant, desert evening in Arizona, at least an hour till sunset, and a time of day he had grown fond of. It felt like everything slowed some, about this time, like finding its way to a sense of order amid the chaos that was the rest of the day.

They’d arrived in Parker a few days earlier following the long trip from Oregon in the motor home. They’d towed the pickup and used it for storage as well. This allowed him and Julie to carry everything they owned with them. He figured this was it, the last time traveling the highway with all of it strapped to their backs, the final rodeo, last go-round, the end. Five of them made the trip, Julie, his two buds, Rick and Brian, and the young boy, Gabe. His friends shared the driving as he was too weak to spend time behind the wheel. He considered himself lucky to have them all in his life, considering how little was left of it. While the looming of his demise saddened him greatly, he’d become more accepting of it as it approached. He’d become intent on getting his affairs in order and, in fact, was in a position now to address one of them. Rick, Julie, and Gabe had gone to the local Mexican restaurant to pick up some dinner, leaving him and Brian with some alone time. They were seated under the awning of the motor home on lawn chairs. Several units down from them, a dog was whining, frustrated at being tied up when the neighborhood cats were freely taunting it from the shade of one structure or another. Jake, usually not one at a loss for words, was tentative on how to broach the subject of Gabe with Brian. No wonder as it was a topic that had caused him immeasurable guilt and angst over the years. Jake had pretty much made up his mind, but the gravity of the decision kept him from totally committing to it. He thought it best to wait until now when he was one-on-one with Brian. He knew the others would be back soon, and the clock was ticking.

CHAPTER 1

The man sat on his porch, looking out at the forest and into the past. The sunrise was poking through gaps in the trees, painting strips of ground cover with light. Through the trees, he could see the fog, lying like a blanket over the valley below. It had rained yesterday, so the sun was working its magic, lifting the remaining moisture into the air. He was thankful for the respite from the rain, having endured another wet winter. In the Pacific Northwest, the rain wasn’t as much an event as it was a mood. At times, the Oregon rain wasn’t really seen. There was a high-decibel hissing, more like a vibration than anything else. It was like being underwater without the pressure on the skin. This wasn’t uncommon in other areas throughout the Northwest, but the man had lived here in Oregon for the last fifty years. While the rains had finally stopped last night, the residual effect on him still lingered. He’d recently become aware of a low-key depression as a result of the prolonged wet winters. This hadn’t always been the case. He’d often scoffed at those who found it necessary to vacation south to escape the doldrums. He’d worked and played in the weather for years and took pride in his ability to keep his mood positive while others were complaining and avoiding the raindrops. But lately, he and his wife had talked of becoming snowbirds when they retired. While they treated it as a joke, there was also serious consideration involved.

But today was one of those chilly spring days in the Northwest with a piercing sun magnifying the brilliant color of the woods. His house lay in a small fir forest. It was built during the development boom of the seventies. It’d been logged in the sixties but hadn’t been clear-cut, so there remained some majestic trees that stood sentry on the property. As he looked over the forest, he marveled at the complex shades of green painted on the landscape. The floor of the forest was simple mulch consisting of composted fir needles, wood, and various mushrooms and grasses. This was sprinkled with native ferns of various sizes and the occasional blackberry trying to gain a foothold. Above the ground was a canopy of deciduous trees such as maple, ash, madrone, and dogwood. Above this canopy grew the regal firs.

His thoughts drifted to what dominated his mind of late—cigarettes and squirrels. He hadn’t smoked for several months but craved it often.

And the squirrels, the squirrels had moved in as a result of the bird feeders. It was as if someone or something had distributed handouts or flyers throughout the forest, proclaiming free food for any critters with long teeth and bushy tails.

At first, they were enjoyable, running around on the deck, scrounging the leftovers falling from the feeders, and providing the dogs with a distraction. But then they started finding ways onto the feeders themselves, digging all the seed out and dumping it on the deck, where they could easily access it. The man, over a period of time, figured out ways to make the feeders inaccessible to the critters. But then, it seemed they’d had a planning session and decided to come up with ways to really piss him off, such as digging holes in all the planter boxes on the deck and chewing holes in the railing itself. And then the coup de grâce, they started chewing holes in the drip irrigation system the man had painstakingly installed the previous spring.

The man purchased a live squirrel trap after some investigation into the success and cost of such items and started to systematically trap them and then take them to the forest miles away for relocation. He quickly mastered this art and, before long, had relocated about a dozen of the little buggers when it became apparent to him the forest had an endless supply of squirrels. As soon as he moved one out, another moved in to take its place. He had visions of them waiting in line just out of sight for the opportunity to move into the feeding procession on the deck.

So considering all this, he surrendered and removed the feeders.

It amazed him how quickly things returned to normal in deck world. An occasional reconnaissance squirrel passed through in hopes of finding a handout.

He’d come to the realization he had been stirring up something better left alone. Not that this was new, he’d spent much of his life in chaos as a result. Life had taken a toll on him because of this behavior, yet it still seemed to rear its ugly head. Earlier in life, combined with his drinking, the result had been a slow downward spiral until he found himself spiritually, physically, and emotionally bankrupt. He’d then been hooked up with a group of people that, over time, he came to trust, literally with his life.

He’d recently been channel surfing when he came upon an old Brando movie he’d never seen. It was a Tennessee Williams play brought to the big screen called A Streetcar Named Desire. Along with Brando, the movie starred Vivien Leigh as Blanche. Near the end of the movie, Blanche had a line, saying, I’ve always depended on the kindness of strangers. The man related to this line because of the people who first helped him pick himself up and move forward with his life again. Since then, he’d experienced many amazing moments and events. In his early years, most of his friendships had been of the shallow type, usually existing because of some need or payoff. A few survived the storm. Unfortunately, one of those surviving friendships had ended recently with the passing of a close friend.

CHAPTER 2

The Umpqua River originates in the Cascade Mountain Range in Oregon and empties into the Pacific just south of the town of Reedsport. The tidewater in this system reaches back up to the small town of Scottsburg about twelve miles upstream. This stretch of river holds bounty a fisherman can only dream of and includes Chinook or king salmon, silver or coho salmon, striped bass, steelhead, smallmouth bass, and shad. All these species are great game fish, and fishermen from around the world pay ridiculous sums of money to come try to catch them. For the locals, all that’s required is a small boat and some general knowledge.

The man took in the scene around him. It had that familiarity that comes with doing the same thing at the same time, year after year. The fog was draped over the river like a quilt, creating a stillness that was eerie. The drone of a distant outboard motor tested the quiet, causing the man to wonder how many boats were already on the water. The parking lot accompanying the ramp was almost empty of rigs, but he knew some fishermen came from the ramp at the coast, in Winchester Bay, to fish these upper reaches of water. He loved this time of the morning on the river, especially here in the lower tidewater. He especially loved the anticipation of hooking into a king. There was nothing like the adrenaline rush of hooking one of these magnificent fish. From the explosion of a strike to the scream of the reel during one of many long, deep runs made by twenty to forty pounds of streamlined muscle, an adrenaline-pumping experience was enacted. But the river also held other value for him. The ocean smells were alive in this region of river and reminded him of raw oysters on the half shell. The pesky gulls competed violently for scraps of bait shed by fisherman. The seals were the pirates of the river, more than happy to steal your fish once you had tired it to the point of weakness. This allowed the seals easier access to the fish. Sometimes, they just took a bite, which left you with a bloody, mutilated shred of the once magnificent fish. While he respected the seals’ cunning and determination, he had at times been close to tears at the loss of a fish. At times, he felt guilty, knowing that if he’d not hooked the fish, chances were it would not have been caught by the seal. But it was all part of the experience of king salmon fishing in the Northwest.

His friend was nestled in the front of the boat, smoking a cigarette, waiting for him to finish cutting bait. They’d arrived later in the morning than usual, expecting the usual madness of boat launching but were surprised that the river held few boats. He’d heard that the Coos River run was heating up, so he figured this was one reason. Another being this run was cooling down. The two men shared a long history that was a mixture of very good and very bad times resulting in a brotherly, tight connection.

He handed his friend a cut herring to put on his hooks, then put out his smoke, and tossed the butt into the coffee can in the bottom of the boat, thinking how bad he wanted to quit the nasty things.

Their lines were in the water, and they were finally fishing. Because of the limited number of boats, the river wasn’t rough and, in fact, had a calm rolling effect as they trolled with the current going out at about two miles per hour.

The man heard it before he saw it, the buzzing of his reel’s line going out. By the time he looked over, his rod was bent at about ninety degrees, the fish on a power run. He got the rod out of the holder, stood up, and set the hook. His friend was also standing, reeling his setup in. He reached back with his left hand and shifted the transmission to neutral.

Listen to ’er sing, said his friend. Must be a nice one.

He concentrated on keeping the line tight, reeling when the fish allowed it, but he knew at this point the fish was calling the shots. This was the time you were trying to recall how old the knots and line were. Had you really checked everything well after your last tie-up or fish? If there was a weakness, this caliber of fish would find it.

You got the net ready? he asked although he knew that it was, and his friend was probably bouncing out of his shoes by now.

About ten minutes later, the fish was starting to tire, but they both knew it had more line stripping runs in it. The next one would probably come when it got close to the boat and usually another when the net went in the water. As expected, they got their first look at the fish at about the same time it took off. He thumbed the spool to give a little added resistance to the fish’s run, careful not to use too much pressure.

He had worked the fish into about twenty-five feet from the boat when something caught his eye about twenty feet to the right of the fish. At the same time, his friend yelled, Seal! Oh, shit, seal! The man yelled, Get ready, as he tightened the drag on his reel and started cranking. The seal was no longer in sight, and he knew it was probably heading toward the fish. It was a race to the boat, and with the tightened drag, both men knew the fish might get the best of both them and the seal. When it seemed the fish should be close enough, he positioned himself next to his friend, put both hands on the rod, and pulled back and up over his head. At the same time, the other man lay the net flat in the water, reaching out as far as he could. At the peak of the pull, the fish seemed to float over the net, which was lifted out of the water. With one hand on his rod and the other on the net, the man helped his friend swing the hog into the boat. Neither of them could say they saw the seal by the boat, but the fish had a fresh wound on its tail.

If you were observing the two men through the landing of the fish, you would have noticed a familiarity they had with each other, not unlike two musicians that had played together for a period of time. There was a meshing and economy in their actions that required no spoken communication. The hooking and landing of the fish seemed to have been orchestrated and completed with efficiency.

But between the two men, there had been a noticeable absence, as if a longtime trio had been reduced to a duet. Several times during the trip, they had both found themselves looking at the empty seat in the boat. The pole holder that was mounted on the side rail next to it seemed to announce an absence as well, for these fishing excursions used to consist of three rods bouncing against the horizon, waiting for the moment of hookup, three men that worked as one with that familiarity.

To the two men in the boat, there was a gaping hole in this excursion. But neither man spoke of it during the trip. It seemed enough just to keep noticing the absence.

Later, with the fish in the box and the tag filled out, they continued fishing in a favorite spot up toward Gardiner.

Tomaselli’s was a bakery located in Elkton, Oregon, alongside the Umpqua River about twenty-five miles from the coast. The owner, Marty, was also the main cook and served up excellent food and ambiance. The interior of the restaurant was done nicely with the walls painted a sort of soft orange swirl on the top half and tongue and groove pine on the bottoms. There were creeping ivy plants along sills and rafters with plenty of local art on the walls. There is usually an acoustic station tuned in on the satellite radio. But the main impact you got when you walked in the door was the smells. It always smelled of baking cinnamon and raisins. You may have walked in without a meal on your mind, but by the time you reached the counter, you were thinking pizza or pastry. Marty prepared many dishes but was known for his fire-baked pizzas, and many times, they would call on the way back from fishing at the coast and pick up a pizza when they passed by. On this occasion, they’d stopped for some lunch on the way home. They’d driven to Winchester Bay when they were done fishing and cleaned the fish at a cleaning station there. They wanted to get more ice for the fish so Tomaselli’s was a convenient stop for them.

Once seated, they rehashed their usual topics they hadn’t touched on while fishing. These included football and work. But while they were careful to skirt the issue that hung over the table, it was still planting itself directly in front of them both, demanding their attention.

Death had that effect.

CHAPTER 3

Parker, Arizona, lies on the Colorado River