“Going someplace?” Rusty asked.
The wind outside exhaled and shook the windows of the bunkhouse. Sally exhaled as well. “Rusty. We need to talk.”
“Why? What’s there to talk about? Unless you’re going someplace,” he responded.
Clearly, she was. Unless a person jamming clothes into a Patagonia Black Hole backpack is just practicing the art of organizing a carry-on bag.
“You know I’m going someplace. I’ve asked you a million times to go and fish this Kariba International Tiger Fish Tournament with me,” she replied.
Rusty stared down at his toes—carefully—attempting to choose the correct response. “Oh really? Is that why I just heard you on the phone with Ben T., your agent?”
Sally’s spine stiffened and her jaw thrust forward. “What are you talking about, Rusty… Were you standing outside listening to me talk on the phone?” she snapped.
Rusty folded his arms across his chest—bracing against her tone. Then he cast a rebuttal. “You know what, Sally… Go ahead and leave… You obviously want your career more than you want me.”
Sally shook her head from side to side. Her taut shoulders lost their tension and dropped. “Why are you saying this… Am I not proving that I want to be with you… What’s wrong with both of us having our careers?” she asked.
Now, refusing to back off the throttle, Rusty took one step forward and glared—wide-eyed. “Two words—Jackie!—Loonsuckle!” he replied and then unfolded his arms and punched a closed fist into the palm of his hand.
Sally’s face ignited with three shades of anger. The first shade—you had popped the top. The second—there was an uncontrollable force released from the bottle. And the third—the explosion went from ground zero to full-on nuclear.
“Get out!” she screamed. Then the lamp on the nightstand became a victim as she picked it up with her throwing arm, cocked it back, and breezed it past Rusty’s ear. The base missed him by less than an inch, and the ceramic body shattered against the wall. “How dare you!” she shrieked.
Rusty had sidestepped the lamp and retreated to a neutral corner. His index finger may as well have been a Colt revolver as he pointed directly at her heart. “How dare me what—I heard what I heard—and if it’s Jackie Loonsuckle you want, then go for it!”
The slightest raindrop of a tear began to form under Sally’s right eye. And then the current began to flow. It was Too Little Too Lake, and for the first time in their relationship Rusty had thrown a dagger. Speechless and sobbing, she turned her back to him and wiped with her sleeve.
“Just leave me alone, Rusty,” she pleaded.
Rusty stood statue straight—legs frozen—feet glued to the floor. He had never witnessed Sally being anything more than hard-natured—impenetrable—dominant. Then an overwhelming sense of regret washed over him like a waterfall dropping a million gallons of water from a hundred feet above.
He took two steps forward, and with palms up extended his arms to her. “Sally, I’m sorr…”
Her eyes burned as she turned to face him. There would be zero chance he finished his apology. “Goddammit, get out of here, Rusty!” she screamed.
With his entire being shaken, his feet popped loose from the flooring, and he turned for the exit. “I’ll have Cos give you a ride to the mainland,” he whispered.
Outside the bunkhouse, all appeared to be normal. Cos was busying himself staining a picnic table… Tawny was standing near the outdoor fish cleaning table down by the boathouse, getting rods and tackle ready for tomorrow’s arriving guests… Link was swimming around the harbor chasing a beaver who had a birch limb in his clasp.
No one seemed any the wiser per the verbal exchange that had just unfolded indoors. Or at least they gave the appearance of not being aware.
Rusty was deflated. Enough so that he could not muster the strength to yell at Link and tell him it was a bad idea to try and take a stick away from a beaver.
He wanted to immediately sit on the steps of the deck outside the bunkhouse. He was feeling nauseous as though his body was going to collapse. But he had to make himself sparse—tough to do on an island.
Then came the hum of a Yamaha outboard. It was Celine and Nev returning from their morning adventure. They pulled into the slip nearest the boathouse, and Rusty could see they were carrying a cooler toward Tawny and the fish cleaning table.
“This blow-up wasn’t my fault,” Rusty tried to tell himself, and got off his keister and made his way down the hill toward the crew. Even Cos was meandering his way over to see what the catch was.
“Hey, you guys, look at these!” Celine announced with glee. “Nev says they’re one-eyes, even though to me that seems odd, because they have two.”
“No, dear, wall-eyes, walleyes,” he corrected.
“Nope, pretty sure you said one-eyes. Did I ever tell you guys about the one-eyed goat I tried to use when making Cretons? Anyway, it was too lean, and I couldn’t get it to thicken,” Celine rattled.
“It was a glorious morning on the lake, my friends,” added Nev. “We even had a surprise visit from a musky.”
“Yeah, no… Thing almost swallowed the boat, hey,” added Celine. “Speaking of swallowing things, I’m hungry. Where’s Sally at, Rusty?”
“Oh… She’s uh… She’s uh… packing,” Rusty confessed.
Eyebrows in the crowd were raised. Even Link exited the lake after overhearing this announcement. He trotted down the shoreline of the beach, brought himself to a halt to shake twice, and then barked in succession, “What’d you do to our girlfriend, Rusty?”
“Well, her loss,” continued Celine. “Nev knows better than to leave me. HA! Right Nevvy?”
Just then, Tawny, who had been whacking the fish into fillets, stabbed a complete carcass with the point of her knife and flung it toward Celine. The bulk of the bloody entrail hit her spot on in the chest, with a portion of the filleted skin wrapping around her neck. “Celine, why don’t you put a wrap on your piehole,” she stated, “and stay out of Rusty’s business.”
“Cos, did you see what she did to me? She’s a bully,” replied Celine. “Oh my, this one-eye skin would make the perfect scarf to go with my monofilament shawl, eh Nev?” And then she fluttered her eyes and gave him an inviting wink.
Suddenly, amidst the conversation—overwhelmed with emotion—Rusty collapsed on the dock. Eighteen hundred and twenty-three miles away, a handsome flyfishing bum got up to take a phone call from an outdoor fashion model’s agent. Jackie.
Rusty Flathers 