Peter Heller - The Painter

It was a real hole, a burst of lime-green old cottonwoods with high rock walls sheltering a run of dark smooth water. The water reflected the tall reeds and cattails, the willows and box elders along the banks. On the other side of a big gravel parking lot was a low building with blue river rafts stacked on trailers.

I parked and pushed open the glass door. A bell on the door tinkled. It was dim and cool inside. Polished wood bar with high stools, fishing shop behind. They had their priorities. A Discovery Channel fishing show was on the two TVs, a handsome guide directing the casts of a pretty celebrity into a wide blue river. The sound was up and I got from the guide’s accent and the helicopter on the gravel bar that this was New Zealand. I thought that was funny: this was Gold Medal water, fishermen came from all over the country to fish here, and they had New Zealand on the TV. Behind the bar a guide with a gray waxed handlebar mustache, and a cap stuck with flies, dunked two tumblers in rinse water and gave them two shakes and placed them in a row of others. His eyes were on one of the TVs while he did it. He finally turned to me.

“She sure can fill a pair of waders, huh?” He took a tug from a sweating green beer bottle, put it back down on a cardboard coaster. The coaster was stamped with BELGIAN CREAM ALE and a picture of a cow. His eyes were blurry. Well. It was after five and it was hot out.

“Your shop open?”

“Sure. What can we do you? Need some flies?” He let himself out a low stall door on the shop side and came around. Stuck out his hand. “Ben.”

“Jim.”

“Jim Hemingway? You look like Hemingway, anybody ever tell you that? Really. The eyes, the beard.”

“Thanks. You have rods?”

“Sure.”

Judging by his breath that wasn’t the first or second beer of the day. Well. He stepped back, gave me a quick once-over. Touched his stiff mustache. He seemed to perk up. A rod was a big sale. I wasn’t just some dude coming in to ask what was hitting and buy a dozen two dollar flies.

“Leroy’s not here,” he said. “But I can sure sell you a rod. Follow me.”

“Great. You have light waders?”

He stopped. Turned around with some effort, reminded me of a boat moving in uncertain currents. “Waders, too?”

“Yah. And boots and vest, flies, tippet, forceps, Gink, lead, strike indicators, leaders. Oh yeah, and a reel and backing and maybe let’s try some of that snakeskin fly line.”

“Sharkskin? You mean Sharkskin? Scientific Anglers.” He swayed a little where he stood, and now he reminded me of a tree.

“I guess that’s it. Yeah. Or maybe it makes too much noise. I’ve heard it makes a real zing as it goes out.”

He studied me, his biggest catch of the week.

“Maybe,” he said. “Yeah, some people say that.” He squinted his eyes at me and thought about it. “Can cast a lot longer though.”

He said it like he was confessing something.

“Distance,” he said and lifted one hand, palm up. “Noise.” Lifting the other, making a balance in the air. Stood there, balanced himself in the middle of this conundrum. He seemed to forget we were on our way to the rod section.

“You all have time to wind the reel? Like to go fishing tonight if I can.”

“Oh sure sure, we can do that. Take just a few minutes. Jake is back there. Jake can do it. He’s just a kid.”

“They still name kids Jake?”

He was walking ahead of me, walking like into a stiff wind, he put his chin back over his shoulder, barked, “Ha!”

I tore through the store like a contestant in one of those shopping game shows. Pretty quick it was Ben who was following me, murmuring, “Sure, sure, Good choice, That’s a good one, Pretty much the best you got right there, Hemingway knows what the hell he’s doing, Nope this ain’t Hemingway’s first rodeo no it isn’t,” trying to keep up with me, carrying one of the shopping baskets he decided at one point to haul out of the back. I really really wanted to go fishing. The more time I spent in the dim store that smelled of beer, with the running commentary of the fishing show blatting in the background the more the pressure mounted inside my chest to blow the fuck out of there and get on the dark flowing river.

I bought a Winston rod, a five weight. I’d always wanted one. I hefted a nine footer, gave it three false casts careful not to tangle with a steel beam above, and handed it to Ben who raised his eyebrows, said, “That right there is the best there is, no doubt about it.” Then he muttered, “I think Leroy has that at eight hundred dollars, lemme check. Ah, how were you thinking of paying for all this Mr. Hemingway?”

Trotting after me as I tore through the vests, fly boxes, flies, me thinking: I’m paying for it with a painting of a fish gobbling up houses and another of two little girls in polka dots and probably a chicken, how else?

And then we got to the waders and sticky rubber soled boots and I had to stop the flow of picking and gathering which had really become like some harvest dance and sit and try them on, the boots. I pried off my sneakers and was pushing my big bony foot into the unlaced top when Ben spilled my gear into a pile on the floor and sat on the wood bench beside me with a bleary sigh and said, “This is just like Christmas. Should call you Santa Claus instead of Hemingway, ha. Wait, I should get that reel started so’s you don’t have to wait.”

He got up again, fished the reel out of the pile and a box of expensive yellow fly line and disappeared into the back. Came out again a minute later and sat down, this time holding a new green bottle of sweating beer. It looked very good to me, could taste my own mouth watering. Good sign to get into the river pronto.

He said, “You hear they killed a man up on the Sulphur last night?”

I wedged in my foot.

“I think someone mentioned it.”

“Cold blood. With a rock is what I heard. Went to piss in the creek and someone crushed his head in.” Ben shuddered dramatically and took a long pull from the bottle.

“Dellwood Siminoe. The outfitter. Hate to say this, but not a lot of folks will be crying.”

“Don’t say.”

“Nope. Even his daughter-in-law has a restraining order.” He shook his head. Pulled from the beer, gave a meditative twist to the end of the waxed mustache.

“Anyways, they say they know who did it.”

“Don’t say.” I shucked the boot, said, “These’ll work.” Stood, said, “Can’t think of anything I’m forgetting.”

Ben was tugging at the leg of my khakis. He wanted to tell me something. I wanted to swat his hand away.

“It was a fisherman,” he said real solemn. “A fly fisherman. Got in a big fight with Dell just Thursday right at the creek.”

“Yeah, really?”

“Yup. Big guy, I heard. Newcomer from New Mexico. Big guy with a white beard, a painter they say. Paints naked ladies. Now that’s a great job, don’t you think? That’s a job I’d like. Think I’ll try that one.”

He grinned lopsided, took a long drink from the bottle, then his eyes seemed to settle and focus on the colored spatters on my pants. I could almost hear the gears clicking in the wash of beer inside his brain. He looked up at me. He blinked. His mouth opened just a little under the mustache. For a second I could see a little kid, the kid he had been, trying to make sense of all the things that overwhelmed his understanding.

“You paying with a credit card?”

“Yup.”

“You got ID?”

“Sure.”

“Is it from New Mexico?”

“Yup.”

He was sitting on the bench and he looked up at me. This time he swallowed hard with no beer. He blinked. Then he shook his head.

“Gimme a minute,” he said.