The Squatsnfishes’ lake-country cottage included seven well-appointed bedrooms (all waterfront), a cozy two-bedroom guest cabin that featured a hand-laid stone fireplace, and ample accommodation for crews-quarters—neatly tucked away on the back-forty.
Sally’s mother, Sanda, was surprised by an earlier phone call. Forty-five minutes prior, to be exact. This was her daughter—her youngest—whom she had not seen or heard from in the past several months. Informing her, “I’ll be home today.”
Father Glenn, with two n’s, was ecstatic about the news of his daughter’s surprise visit. Now, if he could just keep peace betwixt mother and daughter and avoid a Fifth Avenue Freeze Out.
Sally took a hard right at Fifth Ave… She was home. Five generations of Squatsnfishes lived, and or were currently living behind these gates.
In the rental car she peered through the fenced entrance and waited to be buzzed in. Behind the gate she could see Glenn clapping his hands and pumping his fists. Sanda stood next to him, arms firmly crossed.
Meanwhile, inside the boathouse at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters, there was also some arm crossing—complemented by head shaking—going on. “Rusty, you’re gonna need to pull it together. We have guests arriving,” said Cosmoid.
“I know, I know,” replied Rusty. “But I found a flannel shirt in my bunkhouse this morning—one that belonged to Sally.”
“Rusty, here’s the deal… WE. Meaning, YOU, ME, LINK, EVERYONE here at this camp is moving on. And I’ll tell ya something else—if it’s meant to happen—she’ll be back. That’s how true love works my friend, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.”
“Alright-alright, Cos. You’ve got my word… I’ll do better.”
“Good! Now take your hand out of that bench-vise and let’s get ready to show our new visitors what true adventure is all about on Lac des Bois. Besides, what the hell do you have your hand in that vise for, anyway?” he questioned.
“Just trying to feel something, Cos,” he replied.
It seemed as though Rusty was not the only one down in the proverbial dumps on this day. Minister Nev was called away for some actual parishioner duty and this had Celine spinning herself like a top on a Lazy Susan.
Nev left the island that morning at o-dark-thirty. Something about a Jesuit who needed assistance converting a Russian Atheist who was also an aspiring musky angler. According to the note left on Rusty’s bunkhouse, the Atheist was also illegally harvesting excessive amounts of northern pike.
The rumor mill stated he was claiming to witness hordes of pike purposely overtaking prime real estate. Specifically, long rock-rubble points. Allegedly he had assigned himself the job of thinning the herd and thus allowing the musky to return to their preferred habitation.
Rusty was fully aware of Nev’s religious obligation requiring him to leave. It was one thing to be a non-believer. But it was unfathomable for a man to overharvest gross amounts of gamefish in God’s country. Celine could not have agreed less.
“He left me, Rusty… Rusty, he took off without my blessing,” said Celine.
“Well, he did leave a note,” replied Rusty. He was tiptoeing on eggshells in this territory of being the comforter and not the previous comfortee.
Celine wiped a tear from her eye. The pointy end of the fillet knife she was using to dice peppers came extremely close to her left eyeball.
“What time are the new guests arriving today?” Celine asked. “I hope they like cookies without sugar. I’m in no mood to sweeten anything. And they’d better not question my entrée.”
Rusty braced himself. As managing partner, it was his responsibility to make the ask. He could not allow Celine the freedom to sabotage meals, strictly based on her current mood.
“Um… Yeah… I’m just making my way over to Raker’s Marine now. Our guests should be arriving soon. It’s a couples group from Indiana,” Rusty said.
“Indiana, huh. Maybe they like cake. I think I’ll make angel food. More than I can say for Nev. He’s the devil. But they are not getting sugar.”
To comfort… Rusty reached out a hand and placed it on Celine’s shoulder. She jumped eight feet in the air and screamed, “What are you doing! I have a knife in my hand!”
“Whoa—whoa—whoa,” replied Rusty, “I was just trying to…”
“Try nothing, boss. I’m Nev’s girl. Back off, freak,” she blurted.
Then she continued, “But let’s say, for example, he comes back and he smells like pike slime—then maybe I would show you these…” and started to lift her double-breasted chef’s top.
“Celine, NO! No—no—no. I was just trying to… Hey, what’s for supper tonight?”
“Oh, I’ve got some beautiful ribeye slayed,” she replied, pulling her chef’s top taut and twirling her shiny knife in the air.
“Great, I’d better be going,” Rusty stated.
On his way out the door he heard her mutter something about being lucky to find a fallen deer on the back side of the island. He quickened his pace away from the lodge.
Link was on board Hooked on Poutine before Rusty could even loosen the ropes from the dock. “Yeah boy, me and you, a little break from this island, eh.” It was Rusty’s first slip into Canadian vocabulary.
The word eh was a potential rabbit hole for new islanders and this was officially Rusty’s first experience. It was awkward for him. Like attending his first junior high dance, not knowing what to do with himself during the slow dances.
“Here, let me help you with that, ma’am,” said Rusty, holding the boat near the passenger dock and simultaneously reaching for her waterproof Patagonia duffel.
The reach was arbitrary… Where it landed was to be rebuked.
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Feathers,” said the middle-aged woman with Rusty’s right hand on her breast. “Just what sort of camp are you taking me to?”
After Rusty turned fifty-three shades of red, he said, “My sincere apologies, ma’am. I—I—I…”
“I’m sure your girlfriend would be jealous,” the lady teased.
“I’m sure she would,” Rusty replied. There was now a dagger sticking in his back, right between the shoulder blades, exactly where he could not reach it.
Every which way he turned he seemed to be reminded of Sally. This was exactly how Cos had instructed him not to be. Then holding his chin high he bucked up, gave his passengers a glimpse of his award-winning innocent smile, and backed away from the pier.
With the boat barely on step the touristy questions came full force: How long you been doing this… Are those all islands… Do you ever see animals out here… Do they catch fish on your island… Are you going to be one of our guides…
Rusty went into detail when speaking of his lead guide Tawny Bishop. “Each of you will get a chance to fish with Tawny. She was here when they put water in the lake and knows exactly where every fish lives. That’s saying something for one million acres of water. Especially if you want to catch the Grand Slam (walleye—musky—bass—pike). She can make it happen.”
Then suddenly, halfway back to the camp, Rusty leaned toward the boat’s windshield glass. At a distance there was a reflection coming from a bullrush weedbed. He steered the skiff toward the port side to get a closer look. “Oh no,” he thought.
–To Be Continued—
Rusty Flathers 