Sarah Weinman - Sex, Thugs, Roll, and Rock & Roll

“Money,” my father said. “Drugs. Booze.”

“Is he ready to clean up?” I said.

“He says he is,” my father said.

“Does he need money?” I said.

“No.” My father shook his head. “Having extra money is part of his problem right now.”

“Are these the type of money problems that are likely to follow him up here?” I said.

“There’s a chance of that,” he said. “Anything can happen.”

We let the conversation sit, because he’d hooked a fish. Rich and I watched him bring it to the boat, as the pole he was using bent around. Rich got the net and we wrestled a good-sized striper to the deck. The fish had bright-colored scales and a white belly. After we removed the hook, my father tossed the fish back into the Hudson.

“You want him to stay in one of the little houses?” I said.

“Yeah,” my father said. “That’s a good plan. He kicked heroin there one summer, so he knows he can get clean there.”

“I never knew that,” I said. “I just thought he was visiting us.”

“He was,” my father said. “But he was having some problems at that time too.”

“Why do you guys keep helping him?” I said.

My father sipped his coffee. Rich shrugged.

“You can’t turn your back on people when you know what they’ve seen,” Rich said.

My father nodded. “War loves young men,” he said. “Those aren’t my words, somebody else said them first, but I don’t remember who. Anyway, Vietnam got hold of Bob and hasn’t let him go yet. We’re lucky”-he motioned at Rich and himself-“that we don’t have the problems Bob does.” He drank another mouthful of coffee. “I can’t watch TV anymore except baseball. The war coverage makes me think about those men and women overseas and how, even if they make it back and with all their limbs, it could still ruin their lives. I can’t stand people-ordinary, average, everyday people-suffering the consequences of politicians. Bob is like that. He’s nobody special, he’s just special to us.” My father finished his coffee and Rich nodded as he watched the water.

“And this time,” my father said, “Bob’s problems seem a little tougher and different.”

“These new problems,” I said. “Gun-type problems?”

“Yes,” my father said. “He might need some help watching his back.”

“I’ve got a brand-new shotgun,” Rich said.

“I’ve already got a shotgun,” I said.

“I meant for Bob,” Rich said. “Do you have a dog?”

“No,” I said. “I work too much to take care of one.”

“I used to have a good German shepard named Shane, but he’s long gone. I can’t help you with a dog,” Rich said.

“Okay,” I said. “When should I expect Bob?”

“Soon,” my father said. “Tonight.”

We caught another striper north of Hudson-Tom had been right-and headed back to the Catskill dock. After we moored the boat, Rich brought a gun case out of the backseat of his truck, along with three boxes of shells. I put the stuff on the backseat of my truck and shook hands with both of them before driving off.

I stopped and picked up some groceries on the way home. At the farm, I got things ready to have a guest. I cleaned out the cabin and put some food and a jug of water out there. I put a bar of soap and shampoo in the shower, a razor, shaving cream, toothbrush, and toothpaste on the sink. I put the gun case Rich had given me and the boxes of shells on the bed. Next to the gun I put a case of cigarettes, two plastic lighters, four bars of chocolate, and a couple candy bars. I started a fire with the coals and after it died down and the coals went white hot, I put some burgers on. I loaded my own shotgun, checked the safety, and leaned it inside the screen door. I sat on the porch and ate.

The sun had gone down when Bob pulled up. He was driving an old beat-up station wagon with fake wood paneling and Florida plates. The passenger’s-side front tire looked low. When I got close to the car I could see a long jagged crack in the windshield.

“Hey,” he said. We shook hands. He wore his long hair in a ponytail with gray in it. He looked tired and thin. He was wearing a long-sleeve shirt that he’d sweated through. “Well, hell, John,” he managed. He was carrying an old tan suitcase and a blue gym bag. He set the bags on the ground.

“Good to see you,” I said. “Do you want a hamburger?” I pointed at the grill, still glowing in the twilight.

“That sounds great,” he said. “No beer.”

“Yeah,” I said. “My dad told me. No problem.”

“I just need to relax a little,” he said. He shook a cigarette out of the pack and lit it. “We need to hide this car.”

I walked over to the big barn and swung the door open. “Pull it right in here.”

He guided the station wagon into the empty space between an old Jeep under a tarp and a pickup truck. He shut the engine off and took out a big screwdriver.

“Got to get these plates off,” he explained.

“Sure,” I said. He was sweating. “Can I help you?”

“Work on that back plate,” he said.

I lay on the rough concrete floor and sweated, using an oversized screwdriver to get the screws out of the license plate. I skinned my knuckles. We finished and put the plates on the front seat. I made Bob a burger with a roll and gave it to him.

“This is your cabin right here,” I said. I pointed at the middle cabin. “Hasn’t changed much since your last visit.” I carried his two bags up to the small porch.

“I really appreciate your help,” he said. He had taken a couple bites out of the burger.

“If you need anything, lift that phone next to your bed. It calls me in the house.”

“Okay,” he said.

“See you in the morning,” I said.

“Thanks,” he said.

I gave my father a call when I got back in the house.

“Bob’s here,” I said. “He ate and went to bed.”

“Good,” my father said. “Let’s try some fishing again tomorrow. Bring him with you.”

“Sure,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”

I shut the lights out and sat in a chair looking out the window. I could see the end of the driveway and the road and I watched for an hour. Cars passed in the dark, but nobody slowed down or stopped. I slept with my shotgun on the floor next to my bed. I didn’t know how big Bob’s trouble was and I wanted to be ready.

I drove Bob to the Catskill dock the next day. He didn’t look well-he was wearing a light blue jacket despite the heat-when he got in the truck, but we stopped at a gas station and I bought him a coffee. It was good to watch him drink something.

“That’s good coffee,” he said.

“Nice,” I said. “How’re you doing?”

“I’ve been better,” he said. “I’ve been much worse. This will pass.”

“Sure,” I said.

It smelled like gas and oil and fish at the dock. My father and Rich were already on the boat. Bob and I got on. Rich gave us all rods, all rigged up. My father and Rich shook hands with Bob and they both gave him a hug. Rich piloted the boat into the Hudson and nobody said anything. We were busy fishing. We were headed slightly south today. One of the large Hudson mansions sat on a hill on the east bank and we all looked at as we passed. Rich hooked a nice striper, brought it up into the boat, and released it.

“I remember the last time I visited,” Bob said. “We fished then too.”

“I remember we caught a couple good ones,” my father said.

“We ate those fish, didn’t we?” Bob said.

“We did,” my father said. “Things have changed in the river.”

“That’s too bad,” Bob said. Less than a minute after that, he hooked one and fought it to the boat. After he released it, a large hawk took off from a dead tree close to shore. The hawk gained altitude and floated high in the blue and the clouds.