Read an Excerpt
Hostages to Fortune
A Novel
By William Humphrey OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1984 William Humphrey
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0630-9
CHAPTER 1
PART ONE
He stood with his eyes shut tight and covered by his hand, holding his breath while the icy insect repellent dried on his skin. He had sprayed himself down to the waist, avoiding the palms of his hands, for the stuff could take the varnish off a bamboo fishing rod. He was allergic to the sting of bees, wasps, and hornets and to the bite of deerflies, of which, now in June, the woods were full. Unlike other people, he did not absorb and shed the venom; in him it accumulated, and he had been stung so many times now he was full of it. More stings, maybe just one more, could prove fatal to him, his doctor had warned. After all he had come through, that would be a senseless way to go. The doctor's advice was that he not take up fishing again.
Anointed against his enemies, he opened his eyes and breathed deeply, and with things just assuming form from out of the gray morning mist, it was like regaining consciousness, waiting for your faculties to return to you. He had begun the day before the day had begun. That way you sometimes got the jump on it. There was not a sound, near or far. The world seemed to be just emerging from the primal void and he was alone in it, as solitary as Adam on his first day—more so, for Adam had not known then that he was alone.
The rain that had come in the night, beginning at half past ten, had stopped at half past two, not to come again. He had been awake to hear it come and go and not come again, although in the old days just to imagine he heard it pattering on the sheetiron roof of the clubhouse along with the trilling of the frogs had been enough to lull him to sleep, no matter where he was. Now the earth slumbered on under a blanket of gray ground fog. Vapor overhung the river, and the trees lining its course were trunks with neither roots nor tops. He plucked a tuft of dead grass and loosed it. Straight to earth it fell through the windless air. It was a good day for fly-fishing.
He opened the trunk of the car and took out the rod case. From the partitioned cloth sack inside the case he took the butt section and one of the twin tips of the rod. He lubricated the male ferrule of the tip by rubbing it on the wing of his nose, introduced it into the female ferrule of the butt and, sighting down the rod, rotated the sections to align their guides, then pushed them together. They mated easily, rather too easily, and giving the rod a flex, he detected a slight wobble in the joint. The fit of even the finest of them loosened with time and use. He would have to have the ferrules replaced during the winter, out of season. That was, if he did take up fishing again. Assembled, the rod came alive, became an extension of him, an antenna, its sensitive tip aquiver, amplifying the steady tremor of his hand.
He seated the reel and threaded the line through the guides. He clipped off the old leader and replaced it with a new one, gratified to find that despite the tremor of his hands he could still tie a blood knot.
"How we doing?" he asked himself.
"Doing all right but it's better not to ask," he answered himself.
Come what might, for now, the fussy little ritual of readying for a day's fishing reined in the mind, kept it in a channel between narrow banks. He attached his landing net to its ring on his vest and slipped into the harness of his creel.
From the transparent plastic holder pinned to the back of his vest he took his last fishing license. According to it he was Benjamin Curtis of Blairstown, New Jersey, Age 48, Height 6-1, Weight 205, Eyes Brown, Hair Black. He tore it in pieces and let them fall. From between the folds of his wallet, as he spread it to get his new license, fell the unopened letter given to him last evening at the club. He picked it up and replaced it and returned the wallet to his pocket. The new license gave his address as Stone Ridge, New York, Age 50, Weight 170, Hair White.
Both licenses had been bought in the same place, Kelly's Sporting Goods Store in Chalfont, the nearest village to the club. His every fishing license for twenty years had been bought there. It had signaled the opening of trout season, stopping at Kelly's on the way in to buy their licenses. The occasion was made all the jollier by the sight of the Kelly brothers' faces, for twins tickle something in us, perhaps elating us with the feeling that for once nature has been tricked out of her stern rule that a person shall have but one lone self. There were two Kellys, but like the twin tracks that make a railroad, the brothers were indistinguishable and inseparable and their lives ran parallel. Rotund, redheaded, white-faced, they were as alike as two radishes. Time in its countdown did not differentiate them; the winter that had passed since you last saw them had put identical marks on both. Either of them could have gotten away with murder, his friend Tony had once said: no witness could have sworn which of them had done it. They made you feel like you were riproaring drunk and seeing double.
That was how it used to be, but those two licenses of his told how long it was now since he had last seen the Kellys, and told something of what the interim had done to him. The brothers were together behind their counter when he stopped at the store late yesterday afternoon. Their double-barreled smiles were for some stranger.
"It's Ben Curtis," he had had to say.
It had taken them only a moment to recover themselves but for that moment they were aghast. Aghast: it came from the same root word as ghost, and that was what they both looked as though they were seeing. And so they were. He had become an embarrassment, a scarecrow, a specter. He frightened people, reminding them that not even the bond between two who had developed from the same egg could bridge over life's intrinsic loneliness. That image of himself mirrored in people's faces he had grown accustomed to in these past months; it was seeing it in duplicate that was so unsettling, hallucinatory. It was as though his eyes would not focus, like looking at a stereo picture whose halves refused to merge.
With one voice (on a tape recording they themselves could never tell which of them was speaking) the brothers exclaimed, "Ben Curtis!" trying to make their discomposure seem like unexpected pleasure. Ben Curtis, of course! It was the beard that had put them off. Then came their quick, their too-quick recovery: the facial readjustment, the forced smiles, the loss for words—the marks of illness-at-ease he had seen so often but now was seeing double. In their confusion the brothers sought each other out of the corners of their eyes. It was as though they were trying to become one again.
They could not know this, but the Kellys were as much of a shock to him as he was to them. There had been a time—the very time he was here now to try to forget—when everybody was twins to him, and, before that, a time when he himself was.
His reception at the club was the opposite of this, for having phoned ahead and been told that his membership had been kept active even though his dues had gone unpaid, he was expected there, and when he appeared downstairs in the bar it was evident that Eddie, the manager, had warned the other members what to expect on seeing him. Eddie would have done this with no more than an expression of the face accompanying the words "Ben Curtis is back," or at most with a shake of the head, for the club's motto, etched in the mirror behind the counter, was "Thumbs Up!" and it was considered bad form to bring your troubles here with you or to remind others of theirs. A fisherman's luck was bad enough without some unfortunate bringing more. To this temple of the fish and the fly, people came for the weekend as though to a religious retreat, leaving behind them all worldly cares and concerns. "Think Trout," said their bumper stickers. They spent their days alone on their own sections of the stream and when all assembled at the clubhouse in the evening the talk never strayed far from the sport. Touchy topics were avoided or were quickly dropped or were broken up by others. Should a dispute over politics, for instance, erupt at the bar, the disputants were served one on the house, and as he set them down Eddie pointed both thumbs up. It was a reminder and something of a reprimand, and it was all that was ever needed. Sometimes friendships developed that extended beyond the club, sometimes love affairs originated there, but for the most part members knew, or cared to know, little about one another except as weekend fishing companions. Perhaps the cheerful atmosphere of the place was owing to the superficiality of their involvement with one another. This was not a bar at which to pour out your troubles at home to the bartender or to the patron on the stool next to yours. Of him, most of his fellow club members knew little more than met the eye. To be sure, that in itself was enough now to put a momentary damper upon the customary conviviality of the place, but in keeping with the motto in the mirror it was also enough to stop them from inquiring into its causes. No condolences here. Sympathy could be taken for granted; meanwhile, a stiff upper lip was expected of all. Whether he could keep his stiff now remained to be tested, but the club's house rule, its code of conduct, had been a factor in his decision to risk a return. Studiously unnoticed, he felt like a ghost come back to the scene of its former life.
Time was when Eddie would have served him his usual without waiting for an order. But now Eddie had either forgotten what his usual was or he was leery of anticipating the wishes of a man so changed from what he remembered. It was as he served him his drink that Eddie gave him the letter. A year's yellowing and dust it displayed. He took a glance at the postmark and the date and put it away in his wallet unopened. That was the spirit! Eddie signified by giving him the old club sign.
Most members, like him, up for the weekend, had arrived within the hour and were still dressed for town, but now as day waned others dressed for fishing came in. There was a drifting in and out to the porch where, as their owners drew off waders and cranked wet socks through the old clothes wringer mounted on the rail, fish were laid out and admired. This was the season for the big hatches of mayflies, a different variety every few days, rising from the water at dusk as thick as the mist that would rise from it later, and these members had stayed out to fish the evening rise. The dinner hour was set late for them.
The talk at the bar was of the hatches, the water conditions, of which sections of the stream had been most productive lately. The Pale Sulphur Dun was the fly for twilight these past several days. Last Thursday in Section Eleven a catch of thirty-four, five of them keepers, fish over a foot long, had been recorded. Yet another member had hooked and lost the big brown trout that lived in the pool behind farmer Frank Kemp's house.
While he pretended to listen to all this he stole glances through the doorway into the sitting room. Nothing had changed since he last saw it. Nothing had changed since he first saw it twenty and more years ago. Not just the mounted fish hung on its paneled walls but the entire place had undergone a kind of total taxidermy that stopped its clock at the date of its founding: 1900. Grand Rapids chairs of stamped wood from the Sears, Roebuck catalogue of that year furnished the barroom. Over its doorways hung the same trophy trout that had always hung there and on the wall beneath a mammoth bamboo rod, the tool with which the grandfathers of today's members had subdued such monsters, hung the same placard of snelled flies, their tinsel tarnished, the colors of their feathers faded, in gaudy, bygone patterns that had fooled a simpler generation of trout than today's more heavily fished and warier ones. A crazy, cranky old place it was, determinedly anachronistic, proudly run-down—what Tony used to call classy discomfort.
It was the sitting room that was the picture gallery, and without doubt the photographs on the walls were still the ones that had always hung there, with some additions since he last saw them, for life goes on, but with no removals, for that was not permitted. "Thumbs Up!" was their common theme, too, and sooner or later, if this test he was putting himself to was to be a test and prove anything, he would have to take a look at them. For now, having taken advantage of moments when heads were turned so that the shaking of his hand would not be noticed, he had drunk his allotted martini and was as ready as he would ever be for the terrace.
It was just as it had been on another June evening long ago, except that he was alone now and that made all the difference. Introduced and proposed for membership by Tony Thayer, whose grandfather had been one of the club's founders, he had belonged to it for only a couple of years then. He was still living in the city, still doing newspaper work, and taking every opportunity to get away to the country. The Thayers' daughter, Christy, his godchild, had been weaned and could now be left with others, so Tony and Pris and he and his guest, Cathy Warren, had left the city at daybreak and driven up, breakfasting by the roadside on the way. It was a Monday and they had the clubhouse to themselves.
Now it was the evening of their first day. They had come in earlier and had hung their waders and their rods in their racks, had entered their catch in the club's record book, had cleaned their fish and had a drink, then gone upstairs to change and now they were down again for another drink before supper here on the terrace overlooking the stream. Then as now the rays of the setting sun turned the water to molten gold. In the shadows fireflies flickered and the chorusing of the first frogs of the evening was like the tinkling of innumerable tiny bells. The ladies were sitting, Tony and he standing at the parapet looking out, and when together they turned around he had felt that the moment, with these people, here in this place, was one he wanted to prolong for life.
He said, "Cathy."
She had looked up at him and it was like a flower lifting its head to the sun and, with her smile, blossoming.
"Marry me, will you?"
"Just name the day," she said.
"Be quick, Ben!" said Tony. "Before she has second thoughts."
"Yes, Ben, be quick!" Cathy said. "But as for second thoughts, I've had them already."
She had not minded his proposing to her publicly like this, for the public was Tony and she knew the depth of their feeling for each other. She was as proud to proclaim her acceptance as he was to claim her. She knew that this was not entirely the impulse of a moment. She had been kept waiting a good while for this and she had not minded that either. She knew he wanted to be sure of himself and of her, for he meant to marry only once.
Tony led them inside to the record book. Scratching out the 6 that he, Ben, had entered as his catch for the day, he made it 7. When he laid down the pen Cathy took it, scratched out her 3 and made it 4. This was preserved in the book for that year along with the others on the shelves going back to 1900.
They had all four been on the steps of the county courthouse before it opened its doors the following morning to buy the marriage license. They fished away the days of waiting. Here on the terrace Cathy and he had vowed before a local minister to love and to cherish one another till death did them part. Champagne had flowed like the stream below, and full of it, Tony, the best man, brought a blush to the bride's cheeks with his supplication, "Lord, bless this union of thy servants Benjamin and Catherine, and send them, we pray thee, an evening rise."
In just a week and a day their silver wedding anniversary was coming up.
Where was she now? he wondered as the bell summoned him to supper.
"Lazarus, come forth!" the bell cried to him with a loud voice.
"Lazarus stinketh, for he hath been dead four days," he said to himself.
He tarried on the terrace to give his fellow club members time to drain their drinks and go to the dining room and seat themselves without having to feel that they must invite him to join them at their tables.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Hostages to Fortune by William Humphrey. Copyright © 1984 William Humphrey. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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