Read Online Close to the Bone by William G. Tapply - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: William G. Tapply
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He kept it in his garage or driveway. Paul’s boat would be in the water only if Paul was on it.
“I told them something happened,” said Olivia. “He went out in that storm.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“I gave them your name,” she said. “Was that all right?”
“Sure, Olivia. Anything I can do to help…”
“You are our lawyer.”
“Yes, I am.”
“So now what? Now what’m I supposed to do?”
“What did the Coast Guard tell you?”
“They said someone would be in touch. I guess they’re… they’re looking…”
“There’s nothing else you can do,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s hard. But all you can do is wait.”
“He never wore a life jacket,” she said. “He loved to go out alone at night. Especially when it was stormy. He said that a storm would churn up the bait, get the fish excited. It’s so dumb.”
“Hang in there, Olivia. Call me when—”
“When they find his body.”
“Anytime. Call me when you hear anything. Or even if you don’t. Whatever I can do to help, call me.”
“Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “Thank you, Brady.”
I hung up the phone. Alex mumbled, “Everything okay?”
“No,” I said. “Paul Cizek took his boat out this evening. The Coast Guard towed it in. Paul wasn’t on it.”
8
I LAY THERE FOR A WHILE with Alex’s cheek on my shoulder and her leg hooked over both of mine, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. So I slid out from under her, pulled on my jeans and a clean T-shirt, and padded into the kitchen. I plugged in the coffee and leaned against the counter until it finished perking. Then I poured myself a mugful and took it out onto the balcony.
The storm had swept the air clean, and the sky was turning pink out on the eastern horizon. I didn’t need a wristwatch to tell me that it was close to 5:00 A.M. , because at that time of June the sun rises a little after five, and when I’m on my balcony I can see it happen.
Olivia Cizek, I figured, had called around four.
I imagined her sitting somewhere in her house sipping coffee and staring out the window waiting for the phone to ring. She and Paul had separated. But being separated wouldn’t stop her from caring.
I remembered the last time I’d seen Paul. It had been at Glen Falconer’s victory party. He’d asked for my help, and I’d tried to give it to him. But as far as I knew, he hadn’t accepted it. Maybe I could have tried harder.
No. I’d done what I could. I was not responsible for his leaving Olivia.
The sun cracked the horizon on schedule, a sudden flare of light in the clear morning air. “Daybreak,” it’s called, and the word applies literally when it happens over the ocean.
It took only a few minutes for the earth to rotate far enough to reveal the entire circumference of the sun. The color quickly burned out of the sky, leaving it pale blue and cloudless. It promised to be a perfect Saturday in June.
Ideally I would spend a perfect June Saturday at a trout river. Mayflies of various species hatch from April through October on New England rivers, but their name is no coincidence. They hatch most prolifically in May and June—big, smoke-winged Hendricksons; March Browns and Gray Foxes, which look like miniature sailboats on the water with their barred wings unfurled; little yellow sulphurs and big yellow Light Cahills; and green drakes, which are really more cream-colored than green and look as big as sparrows when they lift off a river.
Mayflies are among Mother Nature’s most graceful and beautiful creations, and I think I’d believe that even if trout didn’t gluttonize on them when they ride on a stream’s currents to dry their wings.
But trout do gluttonize on mayflies, and when they do, they can be fooled into eating an imitation made of feathers and fur and hair wound onto a small fishhook, provided, like the real thing, it drifts freely and naturally on the surface of the stream.
Selecting the best imitation to
“I told them something happened,” said Olivia. “He went out in that storm.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“I gave them your name,” she said. “Was that all right?”
“Sure, Olivia. Anything I can do to help…”
“You are our lawyer.”
“Yes, I am.”
“So now what? Now what’m I supposed to do?”
“What did the Coast Guard tell you?”
“They said someone would be in touch. I guess they’re… they’re looking…”
“There’s nothing else you can do,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s hard. But all you can do is wait.”
“He never wore a life jacket,” she said. “He loved to go out alone at night. Especially when it was stormy. He said that a storm would churn up the bait, get the fish excited. It’s so dumb.”
“Hang in there, Olivia. Call me when—”
“When they find his body.”
“Anytime. Call me when you hear anything. Or even if you don’t. Whatever I can do to help, call me.”
“Thank you,” she said in a small voice. “Thank you, Brady.”
I hung up the phone. Alex mumbled, “Everything okay?”
“No,” I said. “Paul Cizek took his boat out this evening. The Coast Guard towed it in. Paul wasn’t on it.”
8
I LAY THERE FOR A WHILE with Alex’s cheek on my shoulder and her leg hooked over both of mine, but I couldn’t get back to sleep. So I slid out from under her, pulled on my jeans and a clean T-shirt, and padded into the kitchen. I plugged in the coffee and leaned against the counter until it finished perking. Then I poured myself a mugful and took it out onto the balcony.
The storm had swept the air clean, and the sky was turning pink out on the eastern horizon. I didn’t need a wristwatch to tell me that it was close to 5:00 A.M. , because at that time of June the sun rises a little after five, and when I’m on my balcony I can see it happen.
Olivia Cizek, I figured, had called around four.
I imagined her sitting somewhere in her house sipping coffee and staring out the window waiting for the phone to ring. She and Paul had separated. But being separated wouldn’t stop her from caring.
I remembered the last time I’d seen Paul. It had been at Glen Falconer’s victory party. He’d asked for my help, and I’d tried to give it to him. But as far as I knew, he hadn’t accepted it. Maybe I could have tried harder.
No. I’d done what I could. I was not responsible for his leaving Olivia.
The sun cracked the horizon on schedule, a sudden flare of light in the clear morning air. “Daybreak,” it’s called, and the word applies literally when it happens over the ocean.
It took only a few minutes for the earth to rotate far enough to reveal the entire circumference of the sun. The color quickly burned out of the sky, leaving it pale blue and cloudless. It promised to be a perfect Saturday in June.
Ideally I would spend a perfect June Saturday at a trout river. Mayflies of various species hatch from April through October on New England rivers, but their name is no coincidence. They hatch most prolifically in May and June—big, smoke-winged Hendricksons; March Browns and Gray Foxes, which look like miniature sailboats on the water with their barred wings unfurled; little yellow sulphurs and big yellow Light Cahills; and green drakes, which are really more cream-colored than green and look as big as sparrows when they lift off a river.
Mayflies are among Mother Nature’s most graceful and beautiful creations, and I think I’d believe that even if trout didn’t gluttonize on them when they ride on a stream’s currents to dry their wings.
But trout do gluttonize on mayflies, and when they do, they can be fooled into eating an imitation made of feathers and fur and hair wound onto a small fishhook, provided, like the real thing, it drifts freely and naturally on the surface of the stream.
Selecting the best imitation to
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