“No,” says Braedon. “It’s really far away. It would take days to drive there.”
“Days to drive somewhere in the same country?” says Emily. “How’s that possible?”
“The States are huge. Like as big as a whole bunch of countries over there. Kind of weird.”
“If you ever go to California, maybe you’ll see the Kardashians.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know who they are.”
“Really?” says Emily. “They’re super famous. On the telly all the time.”
Braedon shrugs.
“Oh, hey,” says Emily. “Got to go. Family meeting. We’re going on a trip tomorrow.”
“Where to?”
“Scotland. I wanted to go to Spain but me da says it’s too hot in the summer. But I’ll talk to you from Scotland. And good luck. Hope your uncle shows up and he didn’t do anything bad.”
They end the call, and Braedon heads back up and into the house. Grandpa Judd’s watching one of his World War II showson the History Channel. He turns off the TV and sets breakfast on the kitchen table. Pancakes and bacon and glasses of orange juice. It’s all kind of perfect except for the worry Braedon sees on his grandfather’s face. The lines around his eyes look deeper than usual. And like they’ve been there for a long time. Lines that were made by Teddy because Judd always worries about Teddy. That’s what Clay told Braedon. Judd has worried about Teddy since they were both babies. Because they have that special bond twins have.
“Smells sick,” says Braedon, hoping to cheer up Judd.
“Sick?” says Judd, a sour look on his face.
“Delicious,” says Braedon. “Sickmeansgood. Great, even.”
“Okay,” says Judd. “My breakfast smells sick. Glad to hear it.”
CHAPTER 6
Clay has hooked over a dozen fish but only brought seven into the net. He could catch more, he knows, if he weren’t such a dry-fly snob. The dries are the flies that float on the surface. Some fish come up for them but most feed on flies in their larval stage toward the bottom of the stream. Too many dangers near the surface. Especially birds. Osprey, eagles, hawks, herons, and kingfishers. And it’s especially difficult today. A thunderstorm blew over before sunrise, dumping rain, the runoff creating a stain on the water. That makes it harder for the fish to see a fly on the surface. But Clay likes the challenge of catching trout on dry flies. Loves the take on the surface of the water. The purity of it.
Dry fly-fishing takes more focus, and that’s something Clay is having a hard time maintaining. His mind keeps going to Teddy and where his uncle might be. Clay struggles to sight hisfly in the water’s foam and to mend his line to ensure the fly dead-drifts with the current.
A branch snaps. Not a twig. Something thicker. Louder. Clay reaches for his pistol but neither it nor its holster is there. He left the gun locked in a safe box in his truck. He stands thigh deep in the middle of a river, unable to run. Unable to hide. How could he be so careless? His only possible escape is to go under, let the current take him as far as it will before he has to surface for air. He scans the riverbank. He sees no one. Nothing. Then a wild parsnip plant shakes. Clay follows the stem down toward the ground and there he sees it.
A deer staggers and stumbles into the river only twenty yards downstream. If it were hunting season, Clay would guess that it had been shot. If they were anywhere near a road, he’d guess that it had been hit by a car. But neither of those seem possible.
The doe collapses onto the far bank, and Clay wonders if she’s suffering from chronic wasting disease. But the deer is hardly wasting away. She is round in the middle, and Clay realizes she’s pregnant. Very pregnant. And something has gone wrong.
When asked why he fly-fishes, Clay says it’s to be part of nature. Certainly the beautiful part. But he also has to admit that he becomes a player in nature’s cruelty. Its brutality. Both as a witness and as a participant. Clay understands this whether he’s hooking trout in the lip then letting them go or harvesting them for meat. He has hooked a trout with every intention of releasing it, but an otter saw the struggling fish and took it for itself.
And it’s rare to hook a fish deep in its mouth with a fly, butit does happen. Clay cuts the line as close as he can to the fly, hoping the trout’s saliva will dissolve the fly, metal hook and all. That’s what is supposed to happen, but there’s no way of knowing for sure if the fish will survive.
The juxtaposition of beauty and death are everywhere on the river. And now, surrounded by wildflowers and blooms of all sorts, impossible greens, the ever-changing currents of the stream, he watches the doe take its last breath. And almost as if nature’s first job is to clean itself, the current dislodges the deer’s body from the bank, and away she goes, floating like a fallen log.
It’s all a bit too much for a founding member of Lads Without Mums, and Clay decides to call it a day. On his way back to his truck, he knocks on the front door of Deb and Teddy’s doublewide. Deb answers and Clay sees the same question in her eyes that lingers in his own:Any word from Teddy?The answer is no.
“I’m sure he’ll show up later today,” says Clay, trying to sound confident and reassuring.
“I’m sure he will,” says Deb. Her gray hair falls to her shoulders and her fashion sense is modern peasant. Flowing earth-tone dresses that have more layers than a foot-tall cake. She looks like she hasn’t slept in twenty-four hours because she hasn’t. “How did the trout treat you this morning?”
“They were somewhat cooperative.”
“Good,” says Deb. “I’ll see you tomorrow night. I have to admit—I’m kind of nervous to meet your dad’s girlfriend. Thought that would never happen.”
“Me too and me too,” says Clay. “And when Teddy shows up, tell him he’s doing all the dishes tomorrow night for making us worry.”
