 
The Fly Caster Who Tried to Make Peace with the World

by

Randy Kadish

Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2007 by Randy Kadish

https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/randyflycaster

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Prologue

THE BEGINNING, FOR ME

Looking back, I still don't know what I was after: A magazine article? A way to compete with Eric, my fiancé? A combination of both? But certainly not the life story of a long-distance fly caster, certainly not what I found.

Where did my hazy search start? I guess before I climbed the steps of the Wall Street station, before I saw the clear sky and again thought of the two-hundred dollar, turquoise Ferragamo shoes I had tried on a week before.

I smelled Ground Zero.

I wondered if it was the smell of death, as some described, or of decay? Or was I, an editor, just being too picky about the use of a word?

I stepped into the sunlight and onto the bright sidewalk. I walked alongside a high, black-bar fence. On the other side of the fence was the Trinity Church cemetery. Gray ash dusted the cemetery like fallen snow. Sprinkled on top of some of the ash were bread crumbs. Pigeons ate the crumbs, disrespectfully, I thought, even though I knew pigeons didn't know anything about the three thousand people who were killed horribly.

I looked through the jail-like bars, at the old tombstones. Time had erased or chiseled off many of the letters—the dead people's last testament on earth. Time was also disrespectful. One tombstone that wasn't erased read: "Here lies interred the body of Katherine, late wife of John Crawler who departed this life."

I asked myself, Could Katherine or John Crawler ever have imagined buildings over a hundred stories high and jet planes crashing into them?

No, of course not. Life was simpler then. God, like the dealer in a card game, held the answers. But was life better then? And what if a person didn't believe in God? Well, at least there weren't big questions, like how the Big Bang or 9/11 could have happened. But back then there were smaller questions, like my question: Should I tell Brad Mac Bride the truth? But don't I want an article?

The shaded, curving Broadway was much narrower than the wide, two-way Broadway of the residential Upper West Side, or of the neon-lit Theater District. This lower Broadway had been changed by 9/11. It was lined with peddlers selling buttons, tee-shirts and photographs. The photographs showed different views of the World Trade Center bathed in bright-white or soft-orange sunlight. The buttons and the tee-shirts showed illustrations of the Center. Below the illustrations were phrases like: United We Stand, We Will Never Forget.

I walked past the peddlers and soon saw Bowling Green, a small park. In front of the park was a big brass statue of a running bull. Tourists took pictures of the bull. One man grabbed its horns and tried to climb onto the bull. But the statue was too big.

I laughed and looked for 26 Broadway. It was an old, white stone building that curved gently with the street and reminded me of the back of an old wooden ship.

I crossed in the middle of the street, walked into the lobby and got on an elevator crowded with "suits," as I called them.

Again I wondered if I should tell Brad the truth; so when the elevator's doors opened on the twelfth floor, I didn't want to step off.

But I had to. Now I faced two glass doors and large gold letters. The letters read: The Law Firm of Miller, Kane & Weinstein.

I pulled open one of the doors. A middle-aged woman sat at a large, beautiful, antique, cherry-stained desk. The desk was right in the middle of an oriental carpet that covered most of the parquet floor. Light reflected off the polished wood. The light came from a large, mansion-like chandelier. Breaking up the light into bright, wide bands and soft, narrow shadows were small pieces of hanging crystal. Breaking up the old-world motif of the reception area were a tan leather couch, a glass coffee table, and copies—at least I think they were copies—of Impressionist paintings: Degas, Van Gogh, Renoir. I was impressed, but then I thought of my firm's modest offices. Maybe there really were too many lawyers in the world.

"May I help you?" The receptionist's upper-class British accent rubbed me the wrong way.

"Yes, I'm here to see Brad Mac Bride."

"Your name?"

"Jennifer Kull."

The receptionist announced me.

I sat down. On the coffee table was a line of magazines, but not the women's magazine I worked for.

"Miss Kull," a man called.

I looked up.

"I'm Brad Mac Bride." He wore frameless glasses. His hair was straight and dirty-blonde. His chin was square and strong. His smile stretched from his lips to his oversized, blue eyes. Yes, he was good-looking, in an Ivy League sort of way, not in my way.

I stood up.

He was smaller than I expected, five-nine or so. All in all, he looked a lot more like a Wall Street lawyer than a long-distance, fly-casting champion.

He extended his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you." His voice was soft and warm. His handshake was firm but not too strong. I wondered if he practiced handshaking as well as fly casting.

He wore a wedding ring.

"After 9/11," he said, "a lot of my clients find it too traumatic to come down here."

I didn't want to seem insensitive. "It's not always good to stay away from what we can't change."

He nodded. My reply impressed him.

"Let's go to my office," he said.

I followed him down a long, wide, oak-paneled hallway. He stopped in front of a doorway. "After you."

His office was almost twice as big as mine. A beautiful oriental rug covered much of the parquet floor. On top of his antique, walnut-stained desk was a bound document, a small bronze statue of a fly fisherman landing a fish, and a photograph of his wife and two daughters, I assumed. His wife was blonde and pretty in a Vassar sort of way. And though I went to Vassar, I hated the look, the way I hated neat desks and men who, unlike Eric, seemed to be Mr. Perfect.

How long will Eric make me wait to have pictures of my children on my desk?

He held up the picture of his family. "Even girls are competing in fly-casting tournaments these days, so I guess I don't have to wish for a son. Please sit."

I sat in a leather winged-back chair and looked at the beautiful impressionist paintings on the walls.

"They're copies," Brad said.

"I assumed."

"Impressionist paintings aren't too modern or too old. They go well in offices, I think."

His answer seemed a little strange, and so did the way his office matched the reception area.

Maybe he is a clone and not Mr. Perfect. I will never be a clone!

He closed the door. Hanging on the wall was a three-piece, bamboo fly rod in a glass case.

"That one isn't a copy." He smiled proudly.

"How old?"

"From the World War I era, which was the dawn of the golden age of American fly-rod building."

I never knew there was such an age. I asked, "How much is a fly rod like that worth?"

His smile dropped faster than a falling stone.

Why did I ask such a stupid question? I asked myself. When will I ever learn?

"I couldn't put a price on it," Brad said. "It's perhaps the only masterpiece built by an obscure rod maker, Billy Reynolds."

"What makes it a masterpiece?"

"Its workmanship, its bamboo, but most of all, its design. By design I mean its taper."

Taper? I wondered. Shouldn't I know what that means? I won't ask.

He opened the case.

I stood up. He took the rod out and handed me the bottom piece. The cork handle, like the one on my fly rod, was shaped like a cigar. It seemed a little too big for my hand. The bamboo was tinted with a deep-orange, glass-like finish. Though orange was my least favorite color, the finish brought out the beauty of the bamboo.

"Even if you use a microscope," Brad said, "you won't see any blemishes in the finish. Now look at the top piece. The tip is thinner than other tournament rods of that era. That's one of the rod's secrets. Another secret is that the middle of the rod widens more quickly than other rods."

He put the rod together and pointed it at the carpet. "Here take it."

I did.

"Now push downward, slowly," he said.

The rod bent easily.

"Push down more."

The rod pushed back.

"Now you're into the power section. With other rods, including those of today, you wouldn't have reached that section so easily. Because this rod is probably one of a kind, its taper has, as far as I know, never been copied, the way Payne and Garrison tapers have. To me a great rod is a merging of great art and great science." His eyes opened wide and seemed to glow with passion.

I handed the rod back.

"Another thing that makes this rod special is that some of the bamboo on the inside is hollowed out. Therefore it's lighter, so when a caster stops his cast, the rod uncoils very fast. Years later other rod makers hollowed out their bamboo, but in 1917 no one else had perfected the technique."

He took the rod apart and put it back in the case.

"Sounds like there's a real story behind that rod?" I said.

He sat at his desk. "You really are an editor."

"Should I take that as a compliment?" I sat down.

"Why not? Miss Kull, you didn't come to talk about fly-rod design."

I crossed my legs but then quickly uncrossed them. "Mr. Mac Bride—"

"Brad."

"Okay. Brad, since more and more women are taking up fly fishing, we keep hearing how they wish they could cast farther. With your credentials—"

"Ms. Kull—"

"Jennifer."

"Jennifer, I knew very little about your magazine, so maybe it was unfair of me to agree to meet with you. If so, I am sorry. Now I've looked through some of your back issues. I noticed the article on how women should act if and when they beat their husband or boyfriend in a sport."

"I edited that article myself."

"Really?" His tone was shaded with sarcasm. "The article you want was written a long time ago, by my grandfather. When it was published in a small, now defunct magazine, it didn't attract the attention he had hoped for. He was disappointed and hurt. Jennifer, what do you think long-distance fly casting is about?"

The question was too simple. It had to be a trap. "Are you saying it's like life in some way?"

"A reflection of life. Your smile tells me you don't believe me."

What should I say? I wondered. I don't want him to see through me even more.

I gritted my teeth and tried to read Brad's blank expression. Finally, I said, "If a person has special knowledge they should share it."

"That's one way of looking at it. My grandfather had help, in the beginning, at least. Jennifer, I owe you an apology for not spending more time with you on the phone. The truth is I'm not ready to sell my grandfather's article."

"I'm sorry if I angered you."

"Angered?" He smiled.

"Disappointed, I meant."

"I have to be in court soon."

I stood up, thanked him for his time and walked down the long hallway, clenching my fist, cursing myself for lying and blowing an opportunity.

I left the building and again smelled death or decay. I looked at my watch. I had time to see the rubble of the World Trade Center, but did I want to get even more depressed?

I didn't.

As soon as I walked into my small office my phone rang. I looked at the incoming phone number. It was Eric's. I wondered if I should tell him that he was right, that I should have told Brad the truth all along.

The phone rang again. I didn't answer it.

An hour later my anger at myself cooled. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that I lay on a beautiful beach and listened to the melody played by gently breaking waves. How can long-distance fly casting be a reflection of life? I wondered. Yes, fly fishing is about a lot more than catching fish—but fly casting? Landing a small fly on the water is landing a small fly on the water, whether you do it thirty or seventy feet away. What am I not seeing?

I opened my eyes and took out my personal stationery. I wrote:

Dear Brad,

I want you to know I respect your decision about not publishing your grandfather's article.

Now that I've had a chance to think about our meeting I realize that I might have been shortsighted. All my life I've been too attracted to the way things look.

The simple truth is, I'm intrigued by what you said. Now, well, I want to be enlightened.

Please call me if you will be kind enough to help.

Respectfully yours,

Jennifer

Day after day I waited for a reply. Finally, I immersed myself in editing and fixing a hiking article. My waiting waned; then my phone rang. Not recognizing the number, I asked my assistant, Leslie, to answer.

"It's a Brad Mac Bride," she said.

I flinched, then picked up the phone. "Brad, what a surprise."

"I'm going to be in midtown later."

I didn't want him to see my small office, but did I have a choice? I invited him to stop by, then straightened up my desk.

An hour later Brad and I again shook hands. He didn't look over my office.

"I don't have any interesting antiques to show you," I said.

"I brought my own, sort of."

"Please sit."

He took out a big envelope from his leather briefcase. "Many years ago my grandfather wrote a memoir. In it, he tells the story of the fly rod in my office and the story of what long-distance fly casting means to him. I made a copy for you." He put the envelope on my desk.

I took the manuscript out and read the title out loud, "THE FLY CASTER WHO TRIED TO MAKE PEACE WITH THE WORLD." I laughed. "You've got to be kidding. There I go again, opening my mouth. I'm sorry."

"The title is supposed to be funny, I think."

"I don't think I ever saw an old-fashioned, manually-typed manuscript."

I turned to the first page. It was a Xerox copy of a photograph of a man wearing a fly-fishing hat and vest. In the man's face, especially in his big eyes and his strong jaw, I saw a partial reflection of Brad. I say partial because unlike Brad, the man's hair was curly, and his cheekbones were high, making him a perfect fit for a Marlboro Man.

"So this is your grandfather?"

"Yes."

"Thanks for dropping this off. I'll start reading it tonight."

"I hope you enjoy it. Sorry, but I have to run."

We shook hands. His big eyes smiled warmly. He said good-bye.

I wondered why most of the really good guys were married, then called Eric and told him I wanted to cancel our dinner date so I could read Ian Mac Bride's manuscript.

He understood, as usual.

After work I went straight home, poured a glass of red wine, ordered in Italian food, changed into pajamas and sat down on my soft, leather couch.

I began reading.

Book 1: New York
Chapter 1

I always ran from the things I didn't like or understand, and maybe that's the real reason—not the random events in my life or, for that matter, in the wide world—I didn't become the man my father, or even I, thought I'd become.

You see, I come from a long, long line of blue-blood lawyers, a line first drawn on the other side of the Atlantic, a line then lengthened across the often rough, often beautiful sea, a line ended generations later at the handle of my H. L. Leonard fly rod.

But the handle, as it turned out, was also the start of a new line: one of anglers and of fly casters.

So even now, as the long, snake-curled river of my life flows closer, and seemingly faster, toward where seconds cannot flow—I'm reluctant to call it death—I again reflect on the dark, dark chapter in the history of my life and ask: If I could wade back in time, would I put down the fly rod and become a lawyer instead of an angler and a fly caster?

Yes is the answer I wish for.

No is the answer I run from. Why do I run? Because a voice inside me, often speaking a language I still can't understand, tells me that, for better or worse, a man who strove to cast farther, who strove to see things differently and to find the courage to make peace with the world, is what I was meant to be.

But like a dry fly dragged by fast water, I am way ahead of my story.

I'll start by focusing on my parents. Both were from well-to-do families that fell from grace, so to speak. My father's family fell because his father's uncontrollable rage led him to punch another lawyer. My mother's family fell because her father's reckless gambling led him to bankruptcy.

My father reacted to his family's fall by turning his back on professional baseball, studying hard and graduating near the top of his class at Columbia Law School. When he didn't get the job offers he deserved, he, along with a Jew and an Italian, kicked convention to the side of the road and started their own law firm in a cramped, one-room office.

Three months later they had a small but steady client list.

Now before I go any further, I should say that, even though my father came from an agnostic, Presbyterian family, somewhere along the road—maybe to rebel against his father—he came to believe strongly in God. Every night before bedtime, he read the Bible. Every Sunday he went to church where, as it turned out, he made important social and business contacts. His most important, ironically, was my mother. I say ironically because my mother was an atheist. Why she played the organ in a church I can only guess: She was looking for a husband.

But let me wade back in my story.

My mother reacted to her family's fall by dreaming of becoming a great pianist and practicing—without a metronome she often told us—four, five, sometimes six hours a day; but when her big audition came, her emotion iced. She played coldly.

She went home, cried, and never auditioned again. Needing money, she gave piano lessons. Then she met my father. Was she drinking by then? Probably. Did my father see it? Maybe. Tall, beautiful, dark-haired women, I guess, camouflage their defects well.

Three months after my parents met, they married.

Nine months later, in 1896, I was born, and two years later, my sister, Rebecca.

By then my hardworking father's law practice thrived and, like the rising sun, brightened our family name. And so in his deep voice I often heard love and confidence, especially when he taught me the techniques of playing baseball. If I threw over his head or booted a ground ball he just smiled and said, "Try again. But not so hard. Ian, you always have to try to stay within yourself."

I once asked, "What does that mean?"

He put his hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes. "It means you should relax and let your body flow. You see, Ian, if we practice enough our body will memorize the right techniques, almost the way actors and singers memorize words. Does that make sense?"

I wasn't sure, but I answered, "Yes."

Sure or not, I loved practicing baseball and being the best player in my class. And I also loved dreaming of being a great lawyer, like my father, and looking into the eyes of jurors and heroically pleading that my poor, innocent client should go free.

And my client always did.

Like most boys, I desperately wanted my father's approval. So when I became a teenager and my father told stories from his large collection of Civil War books, I listened. My father's favorite character in the war was Ulysses "Unconditional Surrender" Grant. Grant, in my father's eyes, was one of the greatest generals who ever lived. Again and again my father told me—my sister wouldn't listen—how Grant never let anything stop him. "To surround Vicksburg, Ian, Grant didn't let the swampy land bog down his army. He simply left his supply lines, lived off the land and crossed the Mississippi way south of the city. You see Ian, Grant was a humble man. He always listened to the generals who served under him, and he never tried to impose his will on the roads, the rivers or the hills. He always let the terrain map out his strategy."

At first I eagerly listened to my father's stories, until he brought home a big book of Civil War photographs. "Ian, let's look at these together." The book's first photograph was of a battlefield covered with bodies twisted like broken dolls. The next photograph was a close-up of dead soldiers seeming to gasp for air and to stare up at the sky.

Wondering if I was going to end up a dead soldier, I said, "I don't want to see anymore."

"Don't be scared. They're only photographs—photographs of history."

"I still don't have to see it."

"Ian, like it or not, history is all around you."

My father turned to the back of the book. "Look, here's photographs of the Wilderness Campaign. Maybe we'll see grandpa."

"How can you believe in God if you believe in war?"

"The Bible is full of war."

"So God likes war?"

"I can't understand all the things in this world. But if it wasn't for the Civil War, the North and South would be two different countries. Colored people would still be slaves. Grant would not have written his great memoirs. And without the Revolutionary War, America wouldn't have become a nation of liberty and of great discoveries."

My mother walked into my father's library-like study, looked at me and smiled.

My father went on, "God didn't create war, Man did."

"But the Bible says God created man in his own image."

"Ian's right," my mother said.

"He's not right!" my father insisted. "He's only twelve. I'll tell you what: no more war stories for now."

I looked at my mother and smiled.

She smiled back.

So let me again turn my story toward her.

My mother's first great joy was raising me and my sister and helping us with our homework. In her soft, beautiful voice she said things like, "Ian you were almost right. You just forgot to carry the zero ... Ian, don't try so hard at writing. Even simple sentences can have rhythm and words that paint pictures. And whenever you can, try to compare things to other things. For example, you might write that the waves crashed and broke and seemed to turn into bubbly, fallen snow."

My mother's second great joy was playing her black, baby-grand piano. When she did, her passion, her spirit flowed through her body and then somehow seemed to change into long, flowing, music waves. The waves bounced off the walls and seemed to give the lifeless air a pulsing heart.

But the waves, I knew, weren't like those in the ocean. I couldn't see them unless I closed my eyes. And I couldn't touch them, even though they often comforted me like a warm blanket.

So did they really exist?

I wasn't sure, and I also wasn't sure how I felt about my mother's drinking. I mean, it wasn't as if my mother yelled and screamed. But as time passed, as day after day I came home from school and saw my mother sleeping on the couch, I wondered why my mother drank when she could instead spend time with me. Was something wrong with me? Or was something wrong with the world?

Whatever it was, I decided to stop my mother's drinking. I searched the kitchen and found her vodka bottle. I unscrewed the cap and started pouring, but then something—maybe fear, maybe a sense of right—told me to stop. I screwed the cap back on, walked into my room and started my homework. Then a strange thing happened: I cried. When I finally stopped, I promised myself that I would never again cry over my mother's drinking.

My father came home from work and smiled like a boy who had just hit a home run. He told us he bought a house on East 76th Street, just west of Park Avenue.

I thought of my friends, Benny, Steve, Mario, then stared at my father. "I don't want to change schools."

"Half the kids in your class barely speak English. In September I'm going to enroll you into the Browning School For Boys. Ian, in this world a person can't get anywhere without going to the right schools. One day you'll thank me, you'll see."

I waited for my mother to take my side.

She lifted her wine glass and drank. I wanted to yell that I wasn't going to a new school, but I was scared of yelling at my father. I looked at my steak and almost cried.

After dinner I went up to my room, rounded up the toy soldiers my father had bought me and threw them into the garbage. Later, after school, I poured my mother's vodka down the sink.

But still I couldn't hold back the days, or the spring from turning into summer. We moved.

At first I hated our new house, especially since I had to climb a high staircase to get to my room, but after a few weeks I sort of liked living in a house with so many rooms and so many electric lights. The lights brightened the rooms more than the sun. Before long I didn't hate walking through Central Park to see my old friends.

But September sneaked up, and my mother took me to a store to buy my new school's uniform: gray slacks, a maroon tie and a blue blazer with a school patch. I looked at myself in the store mirror and wanted to rip the stupid costume off.

My school was on West 56th Street. It looked more like a big home than a school. The classrooms were about half the size as the ones in my old public school.

The first thing I learned was that none of my new classmates spoke with a funny accent. The second was that my class had two sides: a big side of boys and a small side. The big side was friendly. The small side wasn't. It was led by Brett Wilson.

Maybe Brett didn't like that the "new kid" was as tall and as good a baseball player as he was, or maybe Brett was just plain evil. I heard how he shot cats with a BB gun. But in spite of Brett, I made new friends, and as fall turned into winter, I again became happy—then one of my mother's old music-school friends visited.

"Elizabeth, I'm getting married. Would you like to fill in for me at the vaudeville theater?"

"Vaudeville? I didn't learn the piano to play while men watch strippers."

"Some of the comedians are real funny. Besides, it's only for a week."

My mother glanced at me. "I have a family."

I thought, Maybe she'll stop drinking. "Do it mom. It's only for a week."

My mother smiled. "All right, as long as your father doesn't object."

My father did. But my sister and I convinced him to change his mind.

And so my mother stopped drinking. And I didn't mind becoming our family's dishwasher.

The week passed slowly, finally. During dinner, my mother sat quietly, staring at her food, looking lost.

"Elizabeth," my father said, "now that you'll be home after dinner, the house won't seem empty anymore."

My mother didn't look up.

"Won't it be nice to be a family again?" my father asked.

My mother glanced at me and at Rebecca. "My, my friend isn't coming back to the theater. I was offered her job."

"You're not going to take it!" my father stated.

"I've always wanted to play professionally."

"In a vaudeville theater? How will it look?"

"Look? Who'll see? The bright lights shine on the stage, not on the musicians."

"We're supposed to be respectable. What will I tell my clients?"

"Nothing."

"Elizabeth, you have two children."

My mother looked at me. "What do you think?"

Yes, I wanted my mother home, but the job helped her stop drinking.

"Ian?" she asked.

And I wanted my mother's love. "Can you bring home some real-life strippers?"

"Ian!"

"I'm sorry, Mom."

My father jumped up. "Do whatever you want, Elizabeth."

My father gave in, I guess, because he too hoped my mother wouldn't drink again.

But would she?

Chapter 2

My mother took the job and, right from the start, her new musician friends led her around a new bend and into the movement to help low-paid, immigrant garment workers.

One evening, during dinner, my mother asked my father to file a legal motion on behalf of the garment workers' union.

"Elizabeth, my clients don't want me working for the other side, the communist side."

"No! It's the side of people forced to work ten hours a day, six days a week."

"Immigrants deserve better. But they'll have to fight for it, the way I did."

Both my parents made sense. I didn't know whose side to take, so I took mine: I just wanted the arguing to stop.

It did, and I was glad.

Two days later, when I came home from school, two burlap bags filled with groceries were in our hallway.

"Ian, I'm taking the groceries downtown to a family whose father hurt his back and can't work. I'll help with your homework later."

"After dinner you'll have to go to work."

"Do you want people to go hungry?"

I didn't, and I also wanted my mother to know that because I too cared for poor people, she should still care deeply about me. "I want to go with you."

"There are things your father and I think you shouldn't see yet."

"Dad already showed me pictures of dead soldiers. Besides, you shouldn't go alone. There are a lot of bad people in Jewtown."

"Where'd you learn that word?"

"In school."

"I don't ever want to hear you use it again."

"I won't. I promise." I picked up the grocery bags and looked into her beautiful, sky-blue eyes.

She smiled.

We rode the elevated train to the Grand Street station. I picked up the bags of groceries and wondered what made some of the people in Jewtown bad. Did they kill strange people? Or did they just rob them? I wanted to turn back, but I didn't want my mother to know I was scared.

My mother said, "The East River is this way." We walked toward the river.

Grand Street was narrow and lined on both sides with people. The attached brick buildings on one side of the street blocked the sinking sun from shining on the bottom half of the buildings on the other side. Hanging on the front of the buildings were black, ugly fire escapes that looked like the mazes of a pinball game. To the immigrants, however, the fire escapes must've looked more like porches. A lot of people sat on them.

Tied to the fire escapes, sloping across buildings, were clotheslines. Hanging on the clotheslines like big leaves on a vine were shirts, pants, sheets and towels. Hanging below the big leaves were canopies. The canopies shaded big store windows. On the windows were big Jewish and English letters. The English letters spelled store names like Weinstein's Fine Men's Clothing, or Moe Cohen's Fabrics.

I looked at the men on the street and saw yarmulkes and old, too-big or too-small suit jackets. I saw long hair and long beards, and I thought the Lower East Side was a good place for Santa Claus to hide. But soon I also saw derbies and well-tailored suits and faces without beards. In some of those faces I saw dark eyes, dark complexions and dark mustaches. Suddenly I saw the faces of sunburned pirates.

But the men, I knew, weren't pirates. I didn't have to run.

I looked at the women and saw shawls, kerchiefs and faded dresses. I saw wrinkled, sagging faces that looked like the opposite end of beauty, but then I saw smooth, young faces. In some of those faces I saw beautiful eyes and smiling, pretty lips that, for a second, I wanted to kiss.

"Stop staring at people," my mother whispered.

I stared at fat horses pulling old, rattling wagons. I heard people speaking in funny-sounding, foreign languages. Unlike beautiful, dueling piano melodies, the languages clashed. Was I in a present-day Tower Of Babel? Or just on a different planet?

We crossed Allen Street and turned onto Orchard Street and stepped into a flood of people. The flood had two currents: one flowing north, the other flowing south. Parting both currents were two long lines of peddler's carts. The carts were filled with bread, fruits, nuts, vegetables, pots, pans, washboards, books, cloth, shoes, clothing, firewood and even sewing machines. Hanging on the food carts were the same scales I saw in uptown grocery stores. But the peddlers didn't look or act like grocers. They wore old, dirty aprons and yelled loudly—the prices, I guessed. Around the carts were circles of yelling, pushing, arm-waving customers.

I was thankful we shopped in a real grocery store.

Above me someone laughed wildly. Two boys about my age stood on a fire escape and stared down at me. One boy raised his arm as if he was throwing something. "White face," he said to his friend.

I pulled my mother back, and in my mind I suddenly saw a musket ball streaking right at me. The boy opened his hand. It was empty. He and his friend laughed again.

I was ashamed of having been afraid.

"What's the matter?" my mother asked. "Do you want to rest?"

I wanted to get away from the boys. "No, not now."

I walked into the current flowing north and struggled down the street. Finally, I put the bags down. People swirled around me and my mother as if we were boulders in a fast-moving stream. Wanting to go home, I picked up the bags and followed my mother to the middle of the next block.

"This is the building, Ian. Ninety-seven."

It was a red brick building. The building's metal steps led to a big, arched doorway. On each side of the doorway was a clothing store.

My mother and I walked up the steps and into a hallway that was long, dark, and about half as wide as a train. It reminded me of a spooky cave. At the far end of the hallway was a small, bright square of sunlight. The square was a small window.

The air was warm and stuffy, like invisible smoke. It was hard to breathe.

The walls were covered with burlap. Painted on the burlap were two round paintings, one of a house in the middle of a meadow, the other of a country stream.

I followed my mother up a staircase that was so steep and narrow I felt I was climbing a ladder. The steps creaked loudly, like the steps in a haunted house. The bags of groceries bounced off the wall and the railing and hammered my shins.

Wondering if I could make it up to the third floor, I looked at my mother. She smiled.

I told myself, Yes I can make it!

We reached the second floor. The groceries seemed to have turned into lead weights. I gritted my teeth. Though all the apartment doors were closed, I smelled the aroma of cooking food and heard a muffled mixture of people talking in foreign languages. My arms felt as if they were being ripped out of their sockets. I dropped the bags, deeply breathed, and raised my arms above my shoulders. My arms were still in their sockets. The pain dulled. I picked up the bags, staggered down the hallway and saw a bathroom barely big enough for a toilet.

I asked my mother, "Don't they have bathrooms in their apartments?"

"If it wasn't for some new laws they'd still be using outhouses."

It just didn't seem fair that some families didn't have their own bathrooms while others, like mine, had three. Suddenly I didn't want to turn back and go home. I plodded up the next flight of steps, trying to block out most of the pain in my shoulders and arms.

"It's this one, Ian. Number twelve." My mother knocked on the brown door.

I heard footsteps. The door was opened a few inches. I saw a sliver of a woman's face. The woman wore a white kerchief.

"We brought you some groceries," my mother said.

"Who are you?" She spoke with an accent.

"I'm Elizabeth. This is my son, Ian. We help the garment union deliver food."

The woman opened the door a little more. She stared at me as if I were from Mars. Her eyes were blue, like my mother's. She looked over my mother's brown dress. "It's not true what rich women think."

"Think about what?"

"That clothes made down here carry and spread diseases."

My mother smiled. "I never thought they did."

"Are you Christians?"

"We are people."

I said, "The food is kosher."

She looked down but didn't speak.

Wanting to make my mother proud of me, I said, "Ma'am, I'm not schlepping these bags back home."

The woman opened the door all the way. She was very pretty. My mother pushed me inside. I looked left and saw a tiny bedroom. On the bed lay a man with a dark beard. He looked up from his book. His eyes seemed to stab me. He slammed the door shut.

I put the groceries down. I was in a dim kitchen, lit by sunlight that came through something I had never seen before: a window on an inside wall. The light shined directly on a round table. Sitting at the table was a fat old woman and a girl probably a few years younger than I. Like her mother, the girl was very pretty. She glanced at me and smiled. I didn't smile back.

On the table was a small pile of yellow flowers with long, green stems. Next to the flowers were two cigar boxes. One was filled with stems, the other with petals. The girl and the old woman, I realized, sewed fake petals onto fake stems. I was surprised to see that fake flowers came from places like this.

I looked though the window. The small living room was crammed with a couch, a dresser and two neatly-made beds. Underneath one of the beds was a big suitcase. Underneath the other bed were two rolled-up mattresses. The room's green walls looked freshly painted.

I looked behind me. Above the big kitchen sink was a shower nozzle and a pulled-back shower curtain.

I looked to the side. Above a small stove were three shelves. On the top shelf were stacks of books that reached the ceiling. On the middle shelf were stacks of plates, bowls and pots. On the bottom shelf was a bouquet of flowers, a jar of marbles, and a book with a Star Of David on it. The book, I guessed, was the Bible.

Next to the stove was a cabinet with glass windows. The cabinet was empty, except for a silver candleholder. Leaning against the cabinet was a gold-tinted fly rod. Even in the dim light the rod shined like polished gold and looked like a big piece of jewelry in a junk shop. On the rod was a black reel that shined like a polished automobile. I wondered if there was some way I could steal the rod. There wasn't. I glanced at the Bible and remembered that stealing was wrong, especially since I was supposed to be on a noble mission.

"The fishing rod was my brother's," the woman said. "Someone owed him money so they gave him the rod instead. Before he learned how to fish he died. My sons tried to use it but they didn't know how."

"It's a fly rod," my mother said. "My uncle used to practice making the line go back and forth and gently landing the fake insect on the water."

The woman looked at me. "Can you teach them?"

"Ma'am, I wish I could, but I don't know how." I thought of how it wasn't right that so many people had to live in an apartment the size of our living room. I wished the world was fairer.

"In Russia at least we had a house," the woman said. "But when people burned our Torah, my husband brought us to America. For this?" The woman cried. "I try to keep it clean."

"You really have turned it into a home," my mother said. "No one burns Torahs and books in America."

The woman wiped her tears away. "What kind of hope, what kind of faith has the Torah brought us? To sit at a sewing machine twelve hours a day just to buy two hours to sit over holy books? If that's faith, if that's God's will—well, I don't want it for my sons, in spite of what my husband says. Does that make me bad? Does that make me good? How can I know?"

"If you're bad I am bad too," my mother said. "When I was a girl my father lost all his money and we had to move to a small apartment and I had to go to a public school. But I still wanted to see my friends, so one day I walked to our church on Fifth Avenue. One by one my friends came in and sat on the other side of the church. I started to cry, then I looked at the big, beautiful white altar and cursed it. I ran out of the church and told myself I hated religion. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was right, but it's the way I felt. Your daughter is very pretty. What's her name?"

"Ida. My name is Sarah. And this is my mother, Anna. She just baked a banana cake this morning. Would you and Ian like some?"

"I'm sorry," my mother said. "I have to cook for my family."

Sarah walked into the living room. She came back holding a yellow flower. "This is the first good flower I ever made. I want you to have it."

"No, really—"

"Please. Maybe my husband was right for bringing us to America."

My mother smiled and took the flower.

A few minutes later I was glad to step into the fresh air and sunlight, no matter how crowded the street was. I looked into some of the immigrant faces. Surprisingly, I didn't see any sadness. I asked my mother, "Do you think you'll ever believe in God again?"

"I'm scared of using God to help me accept all the bad things in this world."

I thought of how my mother cared deeply for poor immigrants and told myself I had the greatest mother in the world.

I said, "It's amazing how real that flower looks."

"Yes it is."

During dinner, I told my father about our trip to the Lower East Side. His face seemed to turn into stone. I wanted to soften it, so I told him about the beautiful fishing rod I saw.

"I don't want to hear another word about your trip."

After dinner, I went to my room and read some of Mutiny on the Bounty. I closed the book and my eyes, and dreamed I was on the H.M.S. Bounty and was a friend to the courageous, mutiny leader, Fletcher Christian. I looked into the eyes of harshly treated sailors and passionately spoke about justice and our need to mutiny.

A few hours later, I heard the front door being opened. My mother was home. I heard my father's muffled voice. I opened my door a few inches.

"This union thing is going too far," my father stated.

"Why keep him blind to the way poor people live—why when you don't keep him blind to the way soldiers die in wars?"

"There are incurable diseases down there."

"Not in the apartment I took him to!"

"Elizabeth, promise me that you won't take Ian or Rebecca to the Lower East Side."

There was a silence. I didn't want my mother to promise.

"Elizabeth!"

"I promise."

I closed the door and told myself I loved my mother a lot more than I loved my father.

Chapter 3

I was still angry at my father a few weeks later when I opened the sports pages and saw a notice that said: "Come to the Harlem Meer in Central Park and watch the greatest fly caster in the world, B.L. Richards, compete in a tournament."

I wondered who was this B. L. Richards who didn't want a real first name. The image of the fly rod in the Lower East Side apartment flashed in my mind. I showed my father the notice.

"Fly-casting? I don't see any sense in that, Ian"

"I'm old enough to go myself."

"Okay. It's a beautiful day. Let's walk."

We put on white straw hats, stepped into the hot sun and walked to Fifth Avenue. I looked at some of the mansions and thought of the tenements of the Lower East Side. On the avenue, cars and horse-drawn carriages formed two long lines, moving in opposite directions, and reminding me of the lines of carts on Orchard Street. I looked into the faces of the well-dressed people who walked toward us. I didn't see any sunburned pirates.

We crossed the avenue and walked alongside Central Park until we reached the new Roman-looking art museum. The museum was the only building I had ever seen that was as long as a football field. Its windows were bigger than most doors. Its pillars were fatter than most tree trunks. Its concrete steps were wider than most streets and seemed to flow down from the pillars like a long, low waterfall.

To me the pillars imitated the legs of a giant bird. The steps imitated webbed feet. The windows imitated bright feathers. The rest of the long museum imitated outstretched wings.

But the giant bird in my mind, I knew, couldn't fly.

We passed the museum. On the other side of the avenue, the long wall of mansions was interrupted by a mansion-wide wall of unpainted plywood. The wall, I knew, guarded an empty lot.

We walked uptown, and the walls of plywood grew longer and longer, while the walls of mansions grew shorter and shorter. Then the walls ended, revealing empty, hilly lots, and for a few seconds I thought I was walking across a Civil War battlefield.

We reached 100th Street and the beginning of what looked like a cowboy town. The town was made up of dilapidated wooden homes. Surrounding most of the homes were unpainted, plank fences. I wondered how it was that on a perfectly straight avenue, and in such a short time, I walked through three different worlds—a rich one, a deserted one, a poor one.

"Dad, do you think one day there will be mansions up here?"

"Maybe not this far up."

"I'm glad the poor people won't have to move."

We reached the park entrance at 106th Street. In front of us was a long cove that fanned out into the Meer. The cove was shaped like a person's neck. Strangely, the Meer—or rather what I could see of it—resembled the profile of a person's head. Around the neck, like a necklace, was a gravel path. Overlooking the path was a steep, stone hill.

We walked around the cove, then around a bend that led to a second cove. This cove was short and shaped like a narrow triangle. The triangle was lined with trees that blocked my view of most of the Meer.

We reached the end of the cove and almost crashed into the end of a long line of people. The line, I saw, was divided by a long, narrow dock. At the end of the dock was a rowboat. In the boat sat two men wearing straw hats and white suits. Tied to the side of the dock were two parallel lines of rope that stretched out of my view. About seventy feet from the dock, short lines of rope crisscrossed the long lines like the steps of a ladder. The short lines were evenly spaced about five feet apart.

I said, "Let's get closer."

We walked behind the line of people, and I saw that part of the Meer was shaped like a tilted pear, and that the long lines of rope stretched all the way across the pear, to a bushy triangle of land. We walked on and I saw that the land was really a small island.

I saw a narrow space in the line of people. I squeezed in. My father stood behind me.

The dock formed part of an upside-down, capital T. A table and two benches formed the other part. Sitting at the table were two men. One wore a derby, the other a straw hat. Both wore dark suits. On the table were a big megaphone and a big gold trophy. Next to the trophy were two silver fly reels. Hanging on the front of the table was a grocer's or peddler's scale.

I wondered why a scale was needed at a fly-casting tournament.

Sitting on two benches were eight men, holding long fly rods. The men wore suits and looked more like lawyers and bankers than like fishermen. I tried to guess who was B. L. Richards. I picked the caster with deep-set eyes. I wondered if he used wax or glue to keep the ends of his black handlebar mustache as round as dimes. He looked a little evil, like a gangster from the Lower East Side.

The man wearing a derby held up the megaphone. His derby looked too small for his long, potato-shaped face. His eyebrows were so bushy they looked like little canopies. "Ladies and gentleman, I'm Howard Tucker. Welcome to the Angler's Club annual, long-distance, fly-casting tournament. Here are the rules. Each caster will use the same kind of reel, line and fly, and will get three casts. Only the longest cast will count, but only if the fly lands between the long ropes. George M. L. La Branche, last year's runner-up, is first up."

The spectators clapped. I wondered why Mr. La Branche had not one but two middle initials, and why he wanted both announced at a fly-casting tournament. He was on the small side. He had a black mustache and a cleft chin. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, a black tie held in place by a small, ivory brooch, and a shirt with a standup collar that looked so stiff I wondered if it would cut into his neck and draw blood. Mr. La Branche looked like a dandy.

I decided to root against him.

He walked to the table and put one of the reels onto his fiery-orange rod. He pulled white line from the reel and fed it through the rod's silver guides. Howard Tucker gave him a small fly. He tied it on, walked to the end of the long dock and pulled more line from the reel. The reel spun and clicked loudly. The man in the back of the rowboat grabbed the line. The other man in the boat rowed away from the dock. The reel clicked louder and faster and seemed to neigh like a wild horse. When the boat was about a hundred feet from the dock, the man holding the line dropped it between the long ropes.

Hand over hand, Mr. La Branche retrieved about fifty feet of the line and piled it on the dock. He breathed deeply and crossed his heart. He moved his right foot behind his left, as if he was going to throw a ball, then bent his knees, leaned forward and pointed his fly rod toward the water. He cast the rod back, moving it somewhere between perpendicular and parallel to the water. The water, however, didn't seem to want to let go of the line. As if in a tug-of-war, the water pulled back and bent the top half of the rod into a half-circle, so that the whole rod took on the shape of a giant question mark. Mr. La Branche stopped the rod suddenly. His casting arm was behind his body and, along with the rod, pointed to about 2 o'clock. The line sprayed water as it flew off the surface like a bird. The rod snapped straight. The front of the line formed a narrow loop. The top of the loop was much longer than the bottom. The loop rolled backward like a wheel, the top getting shorter and shorter, the bottom getting longer and longer, until the top and bottom were the same length—but only for a split second. Soon the rolling loop resembled a sideways candy cane.

Mr. La Branche cast the rod forward, then stopped it when it pointed to about 10:30. The front of the line formed another loop. The top of this rolling loop also got shorter as the bottom got longer. Mr. La Branche let go of the line and stabbed the rod forward. The loop streaked like an arrow, then unrolled. The straight line splashed down on the water, right in the middle of the long ropes.

The man in the back of the boat counted the crisscrossing lines. He put a long ruler on one of the long ropes. "Ninety-eight feet!"

We all clapped. Mr. La Branche didn't move. He glared straight ahead like a zombie cut off from the rest of the world. He retrieved his line, finally.

His next cast was 96 feet, his last 94. He shook his head disgustedly and reeled in his line. Looking down as if he were disappointed, he walked back to the table. Though I didn't know anything about fly-casting, 98 feet seemed like a heck of a long cast to me.

The next caster stood up, and one by one the fly casters, including the one with the handlebar mustache, used the same casting stance as Mr. La Branche and tried to cast farther than 98 feet.

None did.

The last caster stood up, finally. Tall and thin, his arms were as long as a gorilla's. He was clean-shaven. His skin was almost as white as a cloud. He wore wire-rimmed glasses. To me he looked like a Sunday-school teacher. I wanted him to beat Mr. George M. L. La Branche.

Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. "Ladies and Gentlemen! Our next and last caster has won this tournament five years in a row. He is probably the greatest long-distance fly caster on the planet, B. L. Richards."

Again we clapped.

B. L. Richards put a reel onto his fly rod, tied on a fly, and marched down the dock like a soldier. When he was ready, he bent his knees but didn't cross his heart. He cast back and forth, back and forth. He stopped the rod and let go of the line. The rolling loop tightened and turned into a pointy wedge. The wedge, however, still rolled like a wheel, until the top got real short and then flipped over. The straight line floated down.

The fly landed outside the long lines.

"Damn!" B. L. Richards yelled.

"No cursing!" one of the spectators insisted.

B. L. Richards didn't apologize, as I thought he should. He retrieved some line and cast again.

The fly landed between the lines.

"One hundred four feet!" the man in the rowboat yelled.

Wildly, we clapped.

B. L. Richards, however, didn't smile or nod. He cast again.

"One hundred two feet!"

B. L. Richards stomped his foot.

Mr. Tucker held up the megaphone. "For the sixth year in a row, our champion is B. L. Richards."

"Maybe!" someone shouted. A young man carrying a fly rod stood on the top of the stone hill. He wore a long white shirt and faded, baggy pants. His hair was brown and wavy and combed straight back.

He climbed, then slid down the hill and walked right past me. He was average size. His eyes were small and close together. His nose was long and a little hooked. In his face, therefore, I saw the face of an eagle.

He walked up to the table. "I'd like a chance." He spoke with a slight Polish accent. I wondered if he came from the Lower East Side.

"The tournament is only open to members of casting clubs," Mr. Tucker said.

To me the rule didn't seem fair, the same way it didn't seem fair that immigrants had to live in tiny apartments that didn't have bathrooms.

"But I've been practicing all year," the young man said.

Mr. Tucker grinned. "Are you saying you can beat the greatest fly caster in the world?"

"I'd sure like to try."

"Have you ever cast in a tournament before?"

"No."

"Where'd you get your rod?"

"The rod is legal. It's eleven and a half feet."

"Let him cast!" a spectator demanded.

"Rules are rules," B. L. Richards stated.

"What are you scared of?" another spectator shouted.

"Only God," B. L. Richards insisted. "The young man can join my club, but he'll have to pay five dollars, like everyone else."

The young man reached into his pocket and took out money. He uncrumpled two bills. "All I have is two dollars."

"Sorry," Mr. Tucker said.

I pulled my father's arm. "Dad, can I have my next two weeks allowance?"

"He's a stranger who probably won't ever pay you back. Are you sure you want to give up your allowance?"

I thought of all the baseball cards I wouldn't be able to buy; and how I still craved the card of the greatest shortstop of all time, Honus Wagner. "Yes, I'm sure. Please?"

"All right." He gave me three dollars.

I took the money and ran up to the young man. "Sir, here." I held out the money.

He glared at me, and in my mind I saw long claws coming out of his eyes and trying to grab me. I stepped back, looked at his red fly rod and wondered if it was tinted with blood.

"I'm not a Sir, and I'm not a beggar," he stated.

"Whatever you are, do you want to cast or not?"

He closed his eyes, then opened them and grinned. "Thanks, kid." He took the money and walked away from me. He turned back. "What's your name, kid?"

"Ian Mac Bride. What's yours?"

"Izzy."

"Are, are you from the Lower East Side?"

"What do you know about the Lower East Side?"

"I was there. My mother took me."

He smiled. "Good for her. Where'd you get those freckles, Ian?"

"I don't know."

Izzy put the money on the table. "My name is Izzy, with two z's, Klein."

Izzy set up his rod. Hunched over as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, he walked down the dock, but then the world must've lightened because, step by step, he straightened up and seemed to grow taller and taller, until he reached the end of the dock.

I walked back to my father. He put his hand on my shoulder and smiled warmly. I thought that maybe I still loved him.

Izzy bent his knees, but unlike the other casters, his right foot wasn't far behind his left. I crossed my fingers, but not wanting anyone to see, I stuffed my hands into my pockets. Izzy moved the rod back, perpendicular to the water. He stopped the rod at about 1 o'clock. His casting arm, I noticed, pointed straight up and hadn't passed his head. Izzy, for whatever reason, cast differently than the other competitors.

The line rolled behind him. He cast the rod forward, then back again. This time as the loop rolled, he pointed his fly rod a little lower, then he rotated his hips and whipped the rod forward. He straightened his arm all the way in front of him, stopped the rod and raised the handle about 6 inches. The rod pointed in the direction of the streaking fly line. The front of the line tightened into a wedge; and I was sure Izzy was going to win the tournament.

I yelled, "Go!"

The top of the wedge dropped down and tangled with the bottom. The whole line crashed onto the water. People groaned. I looked at B. L. Richards. He grinned. I wanted to punch him. I wondered if I was stupid for believing Izzy could win.

Izzy smiled, surprisingly, and retrieved his line.

My father said, "I think this guy is going to do it."

"Why?"

"The way he rotated his hips and transferred his weight. Remember what I taught you about throwing and hitting a baseball?"

"But Dad, this is fly casting."

"The same principles apply to many sports."

I hoped my father was right.

Izzy cast again, and again the line formed a wedge. I wanted to yell, but I was afraid of jinxing the wedge, so I didn't. The wedge kept its shape and unrolled.

But the fly landed outside the ropes. Izzy smiled again.

I looked at B. L. Richards. His mouth hung open, as if he had just seen a ghost.

"The cast will not count," Mr. Tucker stated. "Klein has one more cast."

Izzy looked right at me. I held up my crossed fingers as high as I could. He nodded, retrieved some line and got into his stance. He didn't move, as if he were an insect trapped in amber for all eternity, but then he looked up at the sky and said something.

I wondered what. The ground seemed to tip over. I felt I was back on the H.M.S. Bounty and seasick. I closed my eyes, and even though I didn't believe in God, I whispered, "Land between the lines. Land between the lines." I squeezed my crossed fingers. Suddenly I felt numb and light, as if I had turned into a hot-air balloon.

But the gravel path was still beneath me. I opened my eyes and watched the line roll. Maybe the line hypnotized me. It seemed to roll slower and slower. Finally it straightened. Izzy cast the rod forward; and in my mind I saw a man waving a magic wand and making a snake circle back and forth.

Izzy stopped the wand and raised the handle. The snake seemed to turn into a long-winged bird. Then the bird disappeared into a straight line. The line floated down and landed right between the long ropes!

People cheered and clapped wildly.

"I think Izzy did it!" my father said.

The man in the back of the boat measured the cast. "One hundred eleven feet!"

"Check his rod!" B. L. Richards demanded.

Izzy marched down the dock and laid his rod on the table.

Mr. Tucker took a measuring rope out of his pocket and measured Izzy's rod. "Eleven and a half feet!"

"Weigh it!" B. L. Richards demanded.

Izzy pulled off the fly, took off the reel, and pulled apart his rod. He placed the two pieces on the scale. The scale's long black needle jumped upward.

"Five and three-quarter ounces," Mr. Tucker stated. "The rod is legal."

B. L. Richards stared down the long line of people. He closed his eyes. I wondered what he would do. He opened his eyes suddenly and looked at Izzy. "Congratulations. I don't know where you came from, but wherever you did—heck, it doesn't matter. You were the better caster, today." B. L. Richard held out his hand.

Izzy shook it and smiled. The other casters formed a line, and one by one they shook Izzy's hand.

"Ian, you got your wish," my father said. "It's late. We'd better get home for dinner."

"I want to talk to Izzy."

I ran through the scattering crowd. Izzy was surrounded by a circle of people, but unlike the people circling the peddlers' carts on the Lower East Side, no one waved his arms or yelled.

I stood outside the circle, feeling lost and hoping Izzy noticed me and pulled me into the circle.

He saw me, finally. "Ian, I owe you."

"No. Just tell me: Where did you learn to cast like that?"

"Everywhere."

I wondered what he meant, but I didn't want to seem stupid, so I didn't ask. I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned around. My father said, "We'd better go."

"Wait."

Izzy talked to Mr. Tucker and seemed to have forgotten about me.

"Ian!"

I turned away from Izzy. My father and I walked toward Fifth Avenue. The gravel path was clogged with people. We all walked slowly, slowly enough so that Izzy could easily catch up to me.

But he didn't.

I stepped off the path and looked back. Izzy climbed up the stone hill. He carried his fly rod but not his trophy. He reached the top of the hill, walked into the woods and disappeared. I looked at the table. The trophy was still on it.

"C'mon Ian," my father said.

"Izzy didn't take his trophy."

"Maybe he just forgot it."

No, he didn't, something told me. But I couldn't explain that something to my father, or even to myself. I walked out of the park, hoping, praying that, somehow, somewhere I would see Izzy again.

I suppose I did—in my mind, I mean, because during the next few days I kept seeing him make the long, beautiful, tournament-winning cast. Then I saw myself making the cast. More than anything, I suddenly wanted to become a great fly caster, but since I didn't have a fly rod, I soon went back into make-believe time and dreamed of helping Fletcher Christian lead his heroic mutiny. But I guess make-believe time isn't meant to last, because soon I dreamed of going forward in real time and becoming a great baseball player or a great lawyer, like my father.

Suddenly I realized I should be proud of my father, especially since instead of choosing to play baseball in crowded stadiums, he chose to argue right and wrong in small, half-empty courtrooms. Maybe his choice was his way of also leaving a trophy behind. And maybe my choice was to love him for at least trying to do what, for him, seemed right.

So even though the tournament didn't change my father, he looked different. Strangely, what the tournament did change—the course of my life—looked the same.

Chapter 4

You see, things were going so well. My father was making a lot of money and becoming a famous lawyer. My mother was playing piano professionally and getting more and more involved in the garment workers' movement.

As for me, I was hitting a lot of home runs and feeling very accepted by my private-school classmates—except by Brett Wilson and his two close friends, Parker and Jim. I guess Brett had a hard time now that I, not he, was the best baseball player in our class.

As for the world, things also were changing for the better.

More and more people, for example, bought cars, including my father. On the day he did, he took me, my sister and my mother for a drive down Fifth Avenue, to Madison Square. He parked in front of the new, white, fifty-story Metropolitan Life Building, the tallest in the world. We got out of our new Ford. I tilted my head all the way back. My eyes followed what looked like a bright stone road leading up to a big, round clock. The face of the clock seemed to have a cartoon character-like hairline. But the hairline was really a row of pillars. Above the row, the building formed a green pyramid. The pyramid had big windows. The windows looked like the four eyes of a monster. The monster was probably a king, because on top of his head was what looked like a crown.

"Ian, in a few years," my father said, "one of my new clients, The Woolworth Corporation, is going to build an even taller building."

I asked, "Do you think buildings will ever be a hundred stories high?"

"I don't think they'll ever go that high."

Besides more cars and more tall buildings, there was more of something I couldn't see or understand: electricity. Suddenly, almost overnight, electric lights shined everywhere: in homes, on streets and on signs.

Things were changing for the better in the world, not just because there were more things like electric lights and cars, but also because there were less of some things like typhoid, cholera, diphtheria and yellow fever.

"Man's goal," my teacher said, "should be to end all disease and all war."

He certainly made sense to me, more than I could know—until the first real cold day of December. I came home from school and was surprised to see my father. He had left work early. He sat on the couch and held my mother's hand. She cried.

I asked, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," my father answered.

"Michael, Ian and Rebecca are our children. We have to tell them the truth."

I asked, "What truth?"

"Your mother is going to be sick for a while."

"Sick? What do you mean sick?"

"They found a lump," my mother said. "We didn't want to tell you, Ian, until we knew how serious it is. I have—" My mother closed her eyes.

"You have what?"

She opened her eyes. Tears streamed down her face. "I have women's cancer."

I knew she meant breast cancer. "But you're too young for cancer."

"Children get cancer," my father said.

"Cancer is never fair." My mother wiped away her tears. "It isn't fair to children. It isn't fair to young women. But why me, Ian? What did I—justice can be cruel. I tried so hard to make right, to become a great mother. Maybe with, with my—I failed at that."

"Elizabeth, it's a lie that people bring cancer upon themselves," my father insisted.

"Maybe I should've raised my children to believe in God."

"They'll believe in God if and when they want to."

I asked, "So what's the doctor going to do?"

"He's going to perform a radical mastectomy."

Whatever it was, a radical mastectomy didn't sound good. "What's a radical, whatever you call it?"

"It's a new procedure," my father said. "Dr. Halsted believes that cancer spreads outward along specific pathways in the body. Therefore, if he cuts out the tumor and the pathways he'll stop the cancer's flow. You see, Ian, just the way engineers are getting better at building taller and taller buildings, doctors are getting better and better at stopping disease."

The next day my mother went to the hospital. My sister and I waited up late for my father to come home.

"Do you think mom's going to die?" my sister asked me.

"No. She's too young and too good to die."

"But good people die."

"Don't talk like that, Rebecca. Dad says she has the best doctor."

Finally, my father came home. He hugged me and Rebecca. "Everything went fine," he said. "Perhaps the real reason God blessed me with success is so that I can get your mother the best and latest medical treatment."

I asked, "How can you still believe in God?"

"Now is when we need God more than ever."

I didn't think so, but I kept my mouth shut.

"When can we visit her?" my sister asked.

"Tomorrow," my father answered.

The next day we walked went to the hospital. My mother lay in bed. She was as white as snow. She opened her eyes and smiled. Her eyes shined joyfully. Rebecca and I ran up to her.

She grabbed our hands. "Let me kiss you," she whispered.

We leaned over her.

She kissed our cheeks, again and again. "No more cancer. Dr. Halsted cut it out. I'm so blessed to have two beautiful children." She cried suddenly, then squeezed my hand.

I cried too but only for a second. I swore to myself that I wasn't going to let my mother die.

We visited my mother ten days in a row, but we never saw Dr. Halsted.

I asked my father, "Doesn't the doctor come around?"

"Only for a few minutes a day. He has so many patients to see."

A few days later my mother came home; and I was sure she was going to be all right, even though she was too weak to read or to play the piano. My sister and I, therefore, often played her favorite records on the gramophone and read parts of her favorite books to her.

Looking back, I now know those days and evenings in our living room were some of the happiest of my life, even though I was often sad that none of my mother's old friends visited. But her new friends from the theater did; and my sadness was balanced by happiness. I remember one day I came home from school and saw about twenty people sitting in our living room, singing along with my mother's piano playing. My mother's big blue eyes beamed right at me. She smiled and looked more beautiful than ever. I thought, Maybe she's not sick anymore. And maybe there really is a God.

That night I asked my father why my mother's old friends deserted her.

"Ian, I wish I could give you an answer, but if I did I'd be lying."

"Maybe people think cancer is contagious."

"They know it's not."

"Should I tell some of my close friends at school that my mother is sick?"

"If you want."

I told Steve and Rudy, then said, "Please don't tell anyone else."

But Steve or Rudy did, because one day during lunch Brett Wilson grinned. "I read that women who do bad things sometimes end up with cancer. Isn't it amazing how God works?"

"Yes, it is," Jim Miller, Brett's best friend, answered.

I stared down and said nothing. I didn't want everyone to know my mother was sick. But that was only half the truth. The other half—a half I couldn't hide from myself—was that I was too scared to stand up to Brett.

Later, I walked home enraged at myself—then I saw my mother staring out the window as if she were in a haze. She didn't even look at me.

Scared, I asked, "Why don't we go to the park? It's a beautiful day."

"I'm too tired."

"But you've been feeling better."

"Well, not today." She cried.

I said, "The doctor cut out the cancer. Why are you crying?"

"Sometimes I get so scared of death, of the nothingness, of not being with my children. Maybe there really is something beyond. Maybe your father is right."

I held her hand. "I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you."

She forced a smile. "I guess it's up to, to nature."

"Nature is supposed to be good."

"Who really knows what nature is supposed to be."

A week later my mother started sleeping a lot. Suspecting she was drinking again, I looked through the kitchen cabinets and found a half-full bottle of vodka. The next day I showed it her. "You promised us."

"I know, but, but look at my hand. It's swollen. Some nights it's like a fire is burning down my shoulder and my arm. How could a God do this to me? Was I ever really evil? Haven't I tried to live a good life?"

I put my arm around my mother. "I love you, Mom. You're the best mother in the whole, wide world."

"I love you so much, Ian. I'm so scared of leaving you." She cried.

I hugged her and fought back tears, but the tears were stronger than I was. I ran up to my room, lay on my bed and surrendered to my tears. I cried and buried my face in my pillow and thought, Damn you, world! I hate you. What kind of world are you when good people, like my mother, get really sick? And you, God, if you really existed you'd get rid of all disease and not let good people die. I'll never believe in you! Never!

Later, I went into my mother's room to wish her good-night. She lay in bed, reading my father's Bible.

Surprised, I said, "I thought you didn't believe in God."

"I never said—I mean there were times I wondered. Besides, your father is right: some of the stories in the Bible are so beautiful, like when Esther marries the Persian King to save her people."

And so my mother turned from drinking to reading the Bible and to going to church. One day she asked me to come. I didn't want to, but to please her, I did. I guess the only thing I liked about sitting on a wooden pew was looking at the red, yellow and green stained-glass windows and thinking how electricity could never make the windows shine more beautifully than the bright sun.

Now all during this time something beside my mother's cancer ate at me: my shame over not standing up to Brett Wilson. Brett sensed that I was scared of him; and I sensed that he was scared of me—not of me fighting him, but of me making the varsity baseball team instead of him. During tryouts, Coach Collins divided us into two teams. Though I faced the varsity's best pitcher, I hit a home run and a double. In the seventh inning Coach Collins told me to get on the mound. Knowing I'd get a chance to pitch to Brett, I ran onto the mound and blocked out everything except the catcher's mitt and my father's words: "When you throw a ball you must relax and let your body flow and do the work."

I threw fastball after fastball and struck out the first hitter. Big Billy Thompson, the team's best hitter, stepped up. I threw a curve. He popped it up and cursed. Finally, Brett stepped into the batter's box and glared at me. Ignoring him, I stared at the catcher's mitt and decided to challenge him with a fastball. I placed my fingers across the seams of the ball. Slowly I wound up. I pushed off my back foot and shifted my weight forward, moving my arm faster and faster. I snapped my wrist straight down, as my father taught me, and pretended I skimmed a stone off the top of the water.

Brett swung late and missed. One strike ahead, I decided to really intimidate Brett. I threw a fastball high and inside. Brett froze. Coach Collins called the pitch a strike. Brett stepped out of the batter's box. I stared into the catcher's mitt and waited. Brett stepped back in. Two strikes ahead, I decided to throw a curve. I placed my fingers on top of the seams and tightened my grip. Again I wound up and threw, this time sharply twisting my wrist. The ball zoomed down the middle of the strike zone. Brett swung. The ball seemed to fall off a table. Brett missed. The ball bounced on the plate. Brett flung the bat down.

After the game Coach Collins came up to me and shook my hand. "Ian, you're on the big team."

Feeling redeemed, I proudly walked back to school and into the locker room. Brett walked in behind me. I took my uniform off.

"Is it true, Ian, your mother once worked in a strip show?" Brett asked.

I bent down, untied my shoelace and wondered which one of my friends had revealed another one of my secrets.

"Ian, didn't you hear me!"

"Brett, why don't you lay off," Billy Thompson warned.

"Why don't you let Ian fight his own battles," Brett insisted.

"We're a team," Billy stated. "We fight together."

I untied my other shoelace and wondered if a fight with Brett would be like hand-to-hand combat, then I saw myself punching Brett in the face. But the punch happened only in my mind.

Brett laughed.

Chapter 5

Without looking at anyone, I took off my dirty, baseball uniform and put on my clean, school uniform. I thought of my old west-side friends: Benny, Steve and Mario. Suddenly I wanted to see them and hear about my old neighborhood.

I walked out of the school, up Sixth Avenue and into Central Park. The trees, I noticed, were sprinkled with small, green buds that I knew would soon blossom and turn into flat, hanging leaves—leaves that would change from green to orange and gold. It seemed sort of unfair that leaves became so beautiful right before they fell. Nature, I thought, would be better off if autumn leaves hung for another month or two. But at least trees blossomed; so I told myself I should take the good with the bad, unless I didn't have to. And I didn't have to be a part of fights.

Or did I?

I walked alongside the park road, outside the flow of automobiles and horse-drawn carts. I wondered, If I'm really a person who, like my mother, doesn't believe in fighting, I shouldn't feel so much shame—unless I'm a coward. Damn me! Maybe I should take boxing lessons. But disappoint my mother when she's so sick? More than anything I want to be a good son.

The road curved sharply north. I followed it up to 72nd Street. Up ahead, a man cast a fly rod on a narrow strip of lawn.

I wondered if the man was Izzy. I marched faster and faster.

The caster lifted the line off the lawn and moved the rod back and straight up. He cast the line backward, forward, then backward again. The line unrolled behind him. He lowered the rod, then cast it forward. The front of the long line formed a narrow wedge.

The caster had to be Izzy. I ran toward him. "Izzy!"

He turned and smiled. "Ian."

"You remembered my name." I walked close to him. Suddenly I felt ashamed of my stupid, rich-school uniform. I took off the jacket and folded it over my arm.

Izzy looked down, suddenly, shamefully. "I can't pay you back."

"You can pay me back with fly-casting lessons, sir."

"I told you I'm not a sir. And I'm not a teacher."

I wondered if I asked for too much. "I can pay you."

Izzy retrieved some line and piled it on the ground. "I'm not about money."

Though his accent wasn't strong, to me it sounded a little out-of-tune. I thought of asking Izzy where exactly he was from, but my gut told me instead to ask, "What are you about?"

"I'm about—I, I like to try to cast right between those two trees. Having a target is good."

"So you're going to give me a lesson?"

He nodded.

I said, "That rod looks shorter than the one you used in the tournament."

"My tournament rod is too heavy to practice with."

"What's the fly line made of?"

"Silk. Connecting the fly to the silk line is a thin, clear line called a leader. Here. Take the rod."

"Is there a fly on the end of it?"

"Just a piece of string." Izzy held out the rod.

Afraid of making a fool of myself, I looked over the rod. Sunlight reflected off its smooth finish and seemed to turn the rod into gold. I thought of the beautiful rod in the Orchard Street apartment.

"Ian, you asked to learn. Don't be scared."

"I'm not scared!" I curled my fingers around the cigar-shaped handle. The handle seemed to fit my hand better than the handle of my favorite baseball bat. The rod was decorated with red and gold bands of thread. Near the rod's handle were gold script letters that read: J. B. Abraham.

"Who is J. B. Abraham?"

"He's a very good rod builder few people know about. Ian, I'm going to explain some of the basic principles of fly casting. But I don't want you to try to remember them all today. Eventually, as we go over them again and again, they will all sink in. Also, I don't want you to try to understand all the principles of long-distance fly casting, because I don't. I'm not a scientist; but I don't have to know how electricity works to turn on an electric light.

"Our first lesson will be about how power is transferred from our body to the rod, and finally to the line. I'll start by saying that the fly rod acts as a spring, or like a bow. The more we get the rod to bend during the cast, the more tension or power we will store in the rod, and therefore the farther we will cast our fly. To shoot an arrow, an archer lets go of the line at once. We, in a sense, have to do the same thing by stopping the rod at the end of each cast as abruptly as possible."

Izzy spoke calmly but passionately. I wondered how two different emotions could be in his voice at the same time. I stared into his dark eyes and thought that he looked a lot more like a person than an eagle.

"It's important," he went on, "we use a stance that helps us both stop the rod abruptly and rotate our hips, shift our weight, and transfer the power of our body into the rod. To do both, I've discovered my long-distance, casting stance. Facing the target, I point my left foot at the target and move my right foot back so that my toes are even with the front of my left heel. Next, I point my right foot outward about thirty degrees from the target. Let me see you put your feet in that position."

I did as he asked. Two well-dressed men walked by. They looked at us and laughed. I felt a little foolish. Izzy, however, didn't seem to notice the men.

"Great, Ian. Now bend your knees a little."

"Like a batting stance." I bent my knees.

"Yes. I love watching baseball. I wish I had played it, but I didn't come to America until I was twelve. When I tried to play the other boys laughed at me, so I stopped. When we cast a fly rod our arm movement is more like cracking a whip than throwing a ball. We must abruptly stop our arm. When we crack a whip the lash moves in the direction the top of the whip moved. When we cast a fly rod the line moves in the direction the top of the rod moved. We therefore must move our casting hand in a straight line. This, Ian, is a lot harder than it sounds. After two years of practicing long-distance fly casting, on some days I would cast really well, but on other days I would mysteriously cast ten feet less and often hit the rod tip or myself with the fly. So I went to libraries and read every book I could on fly casting, but I didn't find the answer I was looking for. I was so frustrated I almost gave up long-distance fly casting, but then a miracle happened: Almost by accident, I discovered one of the biggest secrets of long-distance fly casting—not pulling my elbow back during the back cast. You see, when I pulled my elbow back I couldn't abruptly stop the rod. The rod tip therefore lowered."

Suddenly, I didn't hear his accent anymore, only his well-pronounced words. I asked, "Why didn't you give up?"

Izzy smiled. "I'm really not sure why. Here's a secret: to keep you from pulling your elbow back during the cast, don't cast with your elbow all the way out from your body. Now, since the fly we're casting, unlike a fishing lure, has very little weight, we have to use the weight of the fly line to pull on the rod and bend it. To do this we must start our casts slowly, then accelerate, and finally reach maximum speed only at the very end of the cast. But the more line we're casting, the faster we have to accelerate. Ian, let me explain the cast from start to finish. Watch." Izzy held up his forearm and pretended he held a fly rod. He bent his knees slightly. "I start the cast with the rod tip about an inch from the ground. Next I slowly cast the rod straight up and back. When the rod points to about one o'clock, I abruptly stop the rod without breaking my wrist. Without turning my shoulders, I look back. When the loop formed by the fly line has almost unrolled and is in the shape of a horizontal candy cane, I slowly start my forward cast, then accelerate faster and faster. Finally I break my wrist halfway, as if I'm hammering a nail. I stop the rod when it points to about ten thirty."

"How come you break your wrist halfway at the end of your forward cast, but not at the end of your back cast?"

Izzy smiled. "Good question. Breaking my wrist halfway will lower the rod tip at the end of the back cast, but not at the end of the forward cast."

That didn't make sense to me, but I remembered what he said about not having to understand everything.

"Ian, I want you to hold the line against the handle with your finger and try your first cast."

"Now?"

"Yes, now."

Nervous, I cast the rod up and back, faster and faster. As abruptly as I could, I stopped the rod. The fly line lifted off the ground and flew behind me. I looked over my shoulder. The line formed a wide loop. Just before it unrolled, I moved the rod forward, faster and faster. I stopped the rod. A wide loop unrolled in front of me.

"Great!" Izzy yelled. "Cast the rod back again, but this time start a little slower. Finish a little faster. Remember: hammer the nail."

"Okay." The fly line formed a tighter loop. I was proud. I cast the rod forward.

"Great!" Izzy yelled. "What you're doing is called false casting."

I false cast back and forth. My loops tightened even more.

"Okay, stop," Izzy said. "I see you're a natural. I'll be here the same time next week. If you want, come by."

"Do you want me to?" I handed the rod back to Izzy.

"It's what you want, Ian."

"I'll be here."

He reeled in the line.

I didn't want to say good-bye, so I just stood there, staring at him as if he were a famous baseball player, like Ty Cobb.

"Good-bye, Ian," he said, finally.

I turned away and strolled across the park, feeling as if I had acquired some sort of special, almost magical power. Again and again I saw myself standing at the end of the long dock and making a tournament-winning cast. Hundreds of people applauded. Triumphantly, I raised my fist, looked at the people and smiled.

I walked down the steps to my front door, and in my mind I saw myself asking my father if I could go back to public school.

I walked into our dining room.

My father looked at me. "You're late."

"I made the varsity baseball team."

My father smiled. "That's great."

I sat down. My mother served me roast chicken. As I ate, I again saw myself making a tournament-winning fly cast. The image, I guess, helped me find courage. I told my father I hated the Browning School.

My father stared at me. "Ian, you just made Varsity as a sophomore. Besides, education is important in the real world. One day you'll see that. I want the best for you. Is something going on in school you want to tell me about?"

I looked down and muttered, "No."

"Ian, what's wrong," my father asked calmly.

"Some of the real rich guys are jealous that I'm a better baseball player than they are."

"People will always be jealous. You have to stand up to them."

I didn't reply.

"Fighting is never the answer to anything," my mother said.

"Sometimes fighting is the answer," my father stated.

"No. It's not!" my mother shouted.

"Ian will have to find out things for himself. Ian, do you want boxing lessons?"

I stared into my mother's blue eyes, then insisted, "No!"

My mother smiled proudly.

The next morning I woke up afraid to face Brett and his friends. More than anything I wanted the day, the sun, to stop so I could stay in bed.

But they didn't.

I faced Brett and his friends, but they didn't say a word to me, surprisingly. Soon I figured out why: Coach Collins had heard about what happened and had told Brett to back off.

A part of me, however, regretted he had because I felt a coolness from most of my friends. They saw me as a coward, I knew. So again I looked into my mind and saw myself punching Brett. But seeing things in my mind, I soon realized, didn't bring real redemption.

Some of that came in our first game of the season when I hit a home run and a game-winning double. That night, as I sat at my desk, I looked backwards in time, but instead of seeing myself hitting the home run and the double, I saw myself casting Izzy's fly rod. I was thankful the next day was Friday. But then I wondered why Izzy didn't seem eager to teach me about fly casting. Was it because he saw me as a rich kid? As a Christian?

I decided that no matter how he saw me, I was going to the park.

After baseball practice, I left my tie and school jacket in my locker and put on my old gray sweater. I jogged back to Central Park and all the way up to West 73rd Street.

Izzy practiced on the lawn. Breathing heavily, I watched the fly line roll back and forth. As I did, I saw ocean waves rolling to the shore, then breaking and turning into flat, foamy water.

I slowed into a walk and caught my breath. I wondered how Izzy would greet me.

He turned and saw me. He smiled. Relieved, I marched to him.

"Last time, Ian, I told you that, during the cast, the rod will begin to bend, or as we say, load, when the unrolling line pulls on it. Now let's say we have forty or even thirty feet of line lying on the ground or floating on the water. And let's also say there's waves, or what we call slack, in the line; then if we begin our back cast we'll have to pull the slack out of the line before the line pulls on and bends the rod. Therefore, it's important that before we cast, we retrieve line until all the slack is out. Okay, Ian, ready?"

Afraid of not casting right, I wondered if learning how to fly cast was such a good thing. Then I remembered how, after hours and hours of practice, I had learned to throw a curve ball. Suddenly I grabbed Izzy's fly rod and cast it up and back. A tight loop unrolled behind me. I cast the rod forward. A tight loop unrolled in front of me.

"Great!" Izzy yelled. "Okay. Stop."

I did, then asked, "How'd you get interested in fly casting?"

Izzy looked over my shoulder for a few, long moments, then back into my eyes, finally. He smiled, slightly. "I was walking along the Hudson River and I saw someone casting a fly rod, and I thought, maybe that's something I can become better at than every other boy, something I can do and won't be laughed at. Now I want to show you a technique to help you increase the length of your cast. As we false cast we must let out—or shoot as we call it—more and more line. So when I stop the rod at the end of my forward, false cast, I let about five more feet of line slide between my thumb and finger. But keep in mind, if we shoot too much line we'll add slack, unless we accelerate the rod faster. So how do we know when we shot five feet of line? Simple. We count: one, two, then we squeeze the line again. Ready?"

"I don't know."

"You're ready, trust me."

Again I cast. The line flew out of my hand.

"Ian, shooting line takes practice."

I again cast. This time I felt the line slide between my thumb and forefinger. I counted: one, two, then squeezed the line.

"Great!" Izzy yelled.

I was proud.

For about twenty minutes I practiced what Izzy had taught me.

"Ian, that's enough for today. Since I'll be away for a while, I want you to practice on your own, with my fly rod. I'll see you here in two weeks, at the same time."

"You trust me with your fly rod? It's so beautiful!"

"I'm sure you'll take good care of it."

I handed the rod back to him. He reeled in the line, screwed off the reel and handed it to me. Then he reached into his pocket and took out a long, brown cloth sack. He slid the pieces of the rod into the sack. "I have the case at home."

I looked into his close-set, dark eyes.

"Take the rod," he insisted.

Gently, I wrapped my fingers around the cloth sack.

"Ian, I have a feeling you're going to take to fly casting real quickly, so before I go a few more things: In archery we increase the bow's power by pulling the arrow back and bending the bow as much as we can. In fly casting, we bend the rod as much as we can partly by increasing the length of our casting stroke. Here's how." He held up his forearm in the 12 position. "After you stop the rod on your last back cast, wait until the line unrolls at about three-quarters of the way behind you, then lower your forearm to about one o'clock, slightly break your wrist back and lower the rod to about two o'clock, like this." Izzy demonstrated again. "Now we can start our presentation cast."

"I don't think I can remember everything you've taught me."

"We'll go over everything in two weeks, after I get back." He turned abruptly and walked uptown, alongside the road.

I yelled, "Izzy!"

He looked over his shoulder.

"Where are you going?"

"Not far." He smiled and turned away.

I watched him turn off the main road and disappear behind a hill. Suddenly I felt alone and lost. I pulled the bottom piece of the rod out of the sack and wrapped my fingers around the smooth, cork handle. Something told me I didn't deserve to hold such a valuable treasure. I pushed the rod back into the sack and strolled home, dreaming about being the greatest long-distance fly caster in the world. When I reached my block I wondered just how big the world really was. Was I, therefore, the greatest caster on earth, or in the solar system, or in the galaxy?

Or did it really matter?

The next day when I came home from baseball practice I quickly changed clothes, took Izzy's rod, marched to Central Park and searched for a long strip of empty lawn. Finally I found one behind the art museum. I put the rod together, screwed on the reel and walked off about 70 feet of line. Trying to shut out everything around me, I false cast, then shot line and counted: 1, 2. My loop opened wide. I cursed out loud, then remembered Izzy saying I had to accelerate the rod faster when I shot line.

Following his words, I again cast.

My loop was tight. Proud, I decided to try to lengthen my stroke and to cast farther.

"Catch anything?" someone yelled.

I ignored him and again false cast, shooting more and more line. Abruptly I stopped my back cast, then lowered the rod and slightly broke my wrist.

The line sagged. The loop opened wide. I again tried to remember everything Izzy had taught me. But again and again my results were the same: wide loops. Frustrated, I stopped casting, looked up at the sky and wished Izzy was there to help me. But then a voice inside me said I should try to figure out my casting mistake by myself. I wondered: Since the loop was opening when I lowered the rod, was I lowering it too far or too fast?

Again I false cast, then abruptly stopped my back cast. The line unrolled about three-quarters of the way. Slowly, I pointed the rod lower.

My loop stayed tight. Ecstatic, I cast the rod forward and let go of the line. It streaked over the lawn like a bird, then unrolled and floated to the ground. I put the rod down. Using my feet as a ruler, I measured how far I cast.

About 65 feet, I figured.

Tomorrow, I told myself, I'll cast 70.

But I didn't.

Nor did I the next day, nor the next.

I wasn't dejected, though, because I knew when Izzy came back he would teach me new casting techniques. Feeling on top of the world, I strolled across the park. Suddenly I saw my mother lying in a hospital bed. I asked myself, How can I let fly-casting make me feel so good when my mother is so sick? Am I a bad son?

I trudged home and opened the front door. My father glared at the fly rod. "Where'd you get that?"

I told him.

"So now you're going to become a fly caster instead of a baseball player?"

"A person can do both."

"Not very well when you also have school work. I just don't see any sense in fly casting as a sport."

Shamefully, I lowered my head.

"Ian, shouldn't you spend more time home with your mother?"

"Yes. I'm sorry." I told myself, I guess I really am a bad son.

The next morning after my father left for work, my mother put her hand on my shoulder.

"My uncle Clark used to go upstate to fish the Beaverkill River. He often told me fishing stories and promised to take me fishing, but my father said girls weren't supposed to fish. Clark's wife was foolish for trying to make him give up fishing."

The rest of the story, I knew, was that Clark took his fly rods, packed up, headed west and disappeared into the rivers of Idaho and Montana.

I looked into my mother's eyes. "I should spend more time with you."

"Ian, you're not going to be a boy much longer. Now's the time for you to learn what you really love. We'll keep your fly casting a secret. Now where did you get that rod?"

I told her about Izzy and about how I was determined to become a great fly caster like him.

Maybe fly casting changed me, because suddenly I just had to get back at Brett. What I wanted to do was to break his legs with a bat, but knowing I wouldn't, and knowing he just got a new, expensive baseball mitt, I took my mitt to store after store and finally found a small jar that tightly fit into one of the mitt's fingers. I went home, filled the jar with honey and stuffed the jar into the mitt's finger. The next day, when Brett stepped up to the plate for batting practice, I slid the jar out and dropped my glove next to Brett's. I kneeled down and pretended to retie my shoe laces. I unscrewed the small cap and poured the honey inside Brett's mitt.

A few minutes later, Brett picked up his glove. "Damn!"

I gritted my teeth and stopped myself from laughing. I felt vindicated, at least a little.

Finally it was Friday. After school I went home, walked straight into the living room and kissed my mother and said, "Would you like me to read to you?"

"Aren't you supposed to meet your friend Izzy today?"

"Yes, but—"

"Ian, just make sure you're back before your father."

I thought, Maybe I'm really not a bad son.

I ran up to my room, grabbed Izzy's rod and reel and jogged to the west side of Central Park. Izzy wasn't there. Breathing heavily, I sat on a bench and waited.

And waited and wondered if something unexpected kept him away. I started practicing by myself, often looking around and hoping Izzy appeared out of nowhere, the way he did at the fly-casting tournament.

But he didn't; and I just couldn't concentrate on fly casting. I took the rod apart and went home. My mother asked how practice went.

I lied, "Good."

She put a record on the gramophone. We sat on the couch and listened to one of Chopin's melodies. I held her hand, and she smiled. I told myself that maybe I was meant to spend the afternoon with her. After all, I had Izzy's fly rod, so I was sure that Izzy would show up the next Friday.

But he didn't. My disappointment turned into a river of questions: Did something bad happen to Izzy? What? Or did he just desert me? Why? Was deserting me his way of giving me his fly rod and reel? But they're worth a lot more than the money I gave him.

The questions flowed so strongly that I couldn't pull myself out of their current and concentrate on fly casting. I wandered home, feeling lost even though I knew the way.

"Ian, how far did you cast today?" my mother asked.

I lied, "Seventy-five feet."

"Wow! I'm so proud of you."

"Mom, when I learn how to fish maybe we'll go up to the Beaverkill together."

"I'm too old to start fishing, but maybe I'll just watch you."

She wore a pink dress I hadn't seen before. I asked if it was new.

"Girls from the Garment Workers' Union brought it as a gift."

"I'm glad you're going out tonight."

"I'm not, but I wanted to wear the dress anyway. Ian, I have my books and my music. With the gramophone I can even play some of my favorite Mozart concertos along with an orchestra. Mozart was such an optimistic composer. We're lucky he lived during the Enlightenment."

"What was the Enlightenment?"

"It was a time when Man thought he could understand and solve the problems of the world through science and reason."

"What happened to it?"

"Napoleon's horrible wars ended it and started an era of great doubt and stress, feelings that Beethoven reflected in his great music."

It didn't seem right that wars could change music.

My mother cried.

"You're going to be all better soon, mom."

"Ian, you're old enough that I can tell you this: I don't want to go out with a part of me missing."

I didn't know what to say, so I put my arm around her. "I love you, mom." Then I said to myself, Please don't die. Please live and be my mother forever.

Chapter 6

During the next two weeks I often practiced fly-casting on the lawn near West 73rd Street. Izzy, however, never came. One afternoon I stared at his fly rod and felt it had become a part of me, a part that I loved and didn't want to give back.

I wondered, Should I make up a story and tell Izzy the rod was stolen? No! I shouldn't even think of stealing from Izzy. He'll come back and teach me how to become a great fly caster. Yes, I'm sure! But will I ever be so sure that my mother will become healthy again?

I almost became sure. My mother got her appetite back and gained weight. Soon she started going to museums, big department stores, movie theaters, and music recitals. But she always went alone, and she never went to the vaudeville theater to see her friends. I wondered why.

One morning I saw her reading a newspaper story about garment workers picketing the Triangle Waist Company. I said, "Why don't you go?"

"I don't think your father wants me seen at a union demonstration."

"There'll be a crowd of people. No one will notice you. I'll go with you."

"Ian, you have to go to school."

"Are you feeling tired again?"

"No, not really, Ian."

I wondered if I should believe her and if the cancer was still in her.

That night my mother sat at the piano and played a Chopin Scherzo. She stopped suddenly and opened and closed her hand. She winced.

"What's wrong?" my sister asked.

"It's nothing. My hand will be better tomorrow."

The next day her hand swelled up. The cancer, we knew, was still inside her.

My father took her to see Dr. Halsted. As I waited for them to come back, I tried to do my math homework but couldn't concentrate. I closed my book, put Izzy's rod together and laid it on my bed. Staring at it, I became sort of hypnotized. The rod seemed to glow, brighter and brighter, as if electricity ran through it. Wondering if I were losing my mind, I closed my eyes, but instead of seeing darkness, I saw and heard my mother playing the piano. I opened my eyes. The rod still glowed. Its light warmed me and, surprisingly, burned off my fear of losing my mother like the rising sun burning off mist.

The front door was opened. I ran downstairs. My father was by himself.

"Mother is, is spending the night in the hospital. The doctor—why did this happen to her? Why, Ian!? I love her so much. But God—maybe you're right, Ian. Maybe there really isn't a God. Come close, Ian, Rebecca. You're my children. I want to hug you."

The next day my mother came home. I hugged her and told her she was going to be all right.

I don't think she believed me. You see, from that day on, the only book she opened was the Bible. When she was too tired to read, she handed it to me. "Read to me, Ian. It doesn't matter where. All the stories in the Bible are so beautiful."

"But what about the war stories?"

"I skip over them."

I read the Book Of Job. Before I finished the second page, my mother fell asleep. I kissed her cheek and whispered good night.

A few weeks later, the pain in her arm and shoulder got so bad even the pain-killing medicine couldn't stop her crying; but then the pain stopped suddenly, almost magically, so again I was sure she was going to be all right—until the pain came back, this time for good. My father, my sister and I took turns holding her hand and reading the Bible to her.

It was my turn. My mother sat up in bed and smiled warmly. Her black hair was combed perfectly. Her cheeks and her lips were colored with soft-pink makeup. She looked as pretty as ever. On the night table was a mirror and a brush.

She smiled. "The pain is gone, Ian."

"See, I told you you're going to get better."

"How far are you fly casting?"

"I haven't been practicing lately."

"Well you should. Sit down here."

I sat next to her. She held my hand and said, "I'm sorry for not always being there for you. I guess there were times I, I did have too much to drink. And maybe I shouldn't have taken the job in the theater."

"You're the greatest mother in the whole, wide world."

"I keep thinking of how you insisted on coming with me and carrying those heavy bags of food to that poor Jewish family. Ian, I know that you'll always try to make things better for others and that you'll always try not to fight. But what I don't know is—can you promise me something?"

"Sure."

"Promise that you won't be like me, that you won't have to get really sick to be comforted by God and to have faith in the world?"

"But mom—"

"Promise me, Ian."

"I wish I could believe in God."

"You can. Just look at all the beautiful things in the world: the flowers, the birds, the art."

In my mind I saw horrible photographs of the Civil War.

My mother squeezed my hand. Looking into her blue eyes, I wondered, To make her happy, should I lie and promise to believe? But if I do, won't I have to keep lying? Besides, the Ten Commandments, God's law, say lying is wrong. Maybe, however, I don't have to lie. There are so many achievements in the world: electric lights, tall buildings, automobiles, new medicines. Yes, good is in the world. That's why most other people, including my father, believe in God. Shouldn't I also?

"Yes. I promise."

"I love you Ian. In the morning I'm going to cook breakfast. What would you like?"

"French toast."

"Now kiss me good night."

I kissed her cheek, then went to bed, sure that my mother was going to live to watch me fly cast over 100 feet. Thankful, I pulled the blanket over my head and drifted into sleep.

"Elizabeth!" my father screamed.

I ran into my parents' room. My mother lay in bed, facing up, sleeping peacefully.

My father looked at me. "Ian, she's, she's passed away."

"No. Look at her! She's alive! She's just sleeping."

"Why, God?" my father yelled. "Why her? Wasn't she good enough for you? And aren't my children good enough? Don't you care about them?" My father cried like a little boy.

I didn't cry until the next morning. When I finally stopped, I cursed the world and wished I could hold it like a egg and throw it against a wall and break it. Then I cursed God and told myself I would never believe in him, no matter what I had promised.

I won't trouble you by telling how hard the next year was for me, my father and my sister; so let me just say that my father turned into a stiff-faced zombie. Every night he brought home a stack of legal papers. As soon as we finished dinner, he went into his study, sat at his big desk and read legal papers and law books. He always, however, left the door open. I guess that was his way of not cutting himself off from me and my sister. Often I peeked into his study. His eyes focused on his books and his papers, so he didn't see me usually; and that was good, because I'm sure he didn't want me to see him cry. But once he caught me. "Ian! Please don't spy on me. I'm here if you want to talk."

I should also say my father changed in another way: He stopped reading Civil War books.

As for myself, I rarely cried. Sometimes, therefore, I wondered if something was wrong with me, or if I really was a bad son after all.

And like my father, I too changed. When I opened my books, instead of seeing pages filled with words or numbers, I often saw myself hitting game-winning home runs, or making tournament-winning fly casts.

My grades fell. At first my father understood. He signed my report card and told me calmly I'd have to do better next time.

My batting average also fell. Strangely, I didn't care. In fact I was happy when the baseball season ended and the leaves turned orange and gold, and fell and swayed to the ground. Finally I had more time for the one thing that took my mind off my mother's death: long-distance fly casting. Day after day, I experimented with different casting techniques, like how high I should hold my casting hand, and how far I could lower the rod tip after my back cast without adding slack.

People often watched; and sometimes I felt like a famous baseball player, especially when someone asked about fly casting. On Fridays I walked to the west side of the park and practiced on Izzy's old spot, always looking around, always hoping Izzy appeared out of nowhere.

He didn't. And so, on my own, I discovered more casting techniques, like not rocking my shoulders.

Finally, I cast almost 80 feet, but almost wasn't good enough. I wondered how I could false cast even more line. It started raining. The rain wasn't cold. I looked up at the thick, dark clouds and thought that, since I lengthened my casting stroke by lowering the rod tip as my back cast unrolled, maybe I should also lower the tip as my forward cast unrolled.

I false cast. The line rolled in front of me. I lowered the tip about a foot. The line sagged. I yelled, "Damn!"

The rain fell harder. The park, I noticed, was dark and eerie. I prayed, "please sky, no thunderstorms. Give me time. Am I lowering the rod tip too much?"

Again I cast. My forward cast unrolled three-quarters of the way. I lowered the tip about 6 inches. The line didn't sag! I cast about 82 feet!

Lightning flashed behind a gray cloud. Thunder exploded and echoed, even though the sky didn't have walls that I could see.

I wondered, Maybe my mother is here with me. Maybe the lightning and thunder were her way of congratulating me. But does that seem possible?

I ran home, again feeling I was on top of the whole, wide world. Later, I got an idea how to make my mother even more proud: I'd go down to Orchard Street and ask Sarah's sons if they wanted to learn how to fly cast.

The next day, after school, I put on a baseball cap to hide my blonde hair and put on my oldest clothes to hide my father's money.

Orchard Street looked just as I remembered it—flooded with funny-looking immigrants. I stepped into the flood. No one seemed to notice me. My clothes blended me in. Grateful, I reached 97 Orchard Street and walked up the metal steps, then into the hallway. It was darker and narrower than I remembered but still filled with heavy, heavy, smoke-like air. I went back in time and saw my mother right behind me. She wore her blue dress. I wondered, Is the cancer already inside her? Is she really dead? Am I seeing a ghost?

I asked, "Mom, is that you?"

She didn't answer.

I dragged myself up two flights of creaking stairs. Softly I knocked on Sarah's door. It was opened. A heavy, dark-haired woman stood in the doorway. She stared at me.

"I'm looking for Sarah."

The woman answered in German. I looked over her shoulder, through the inside window. The small living room was furnished differently.

"Do you know where Sarah and her family had moved to?"

The woman answered again in German. I realized Sarah and her family had probably moved to a bigger apartment. Happy for them, I headed home.

My father was home early. His eyes burned like coals. "I was at your school today. Your principal showed me your next report card—a seventy-five in English! Ian, do you want to end up in a city college, full of immigrants?"

"Mom always tried to help immigrants."

"That's not the point. Immigrants are starting at the bottom, the way I did—the way you don't have to."

"I told you I want to go to a different school."

"And I told you standing up to people is part of life. From now on you'll do better at school, and until you do, you'll do no more fly casting."

I nodded. I climbed the stairs and walked into my room. Izzy's fly rod was on my bed. The pieces were broken into halves.

Not feeling anything, I picked up the pieces and fit them together as if they were pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. The pieces joined perfectly, and for a few seconds I was sure the rod wasn't broken. I lay it on the bed. One of the pieces came apart.

I told myself, Damn him! I'll get back at him!

I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and found the small jar filled with my savings. I took the money out. Wanting my father to know I ran away, I left the jar on the bed, took my gray wool coat and quietly sneaked out of the house.

The sky was clear. The air was cool but still. I had no place to go. I thought of Izzy and the fly-casting tournament. Even though I knew the bare trees looked like eerie spiders webs, I walked to Central Park, then to the head-shaped cove of the Meer. The rippled water reminded me of small sand dunes. I walked around the coves and saw the end of the long fly-casting dock. The ladder-shaped ropes—the casting lane—weren't on the water. In their place was a long, sun-paved road of a thousand, small shimmering stars. The stars hurt my eyes.

I decided to walk down the dock and to pretend I was fly-casting in a tournament, but as I walked along the Meer's bank I saw a high, metal fence in front of the dock. The fence was locked. I kicked it, then pressed my face against it and stared through it. Again I saw Izzy on the end of the dock, in his casting stance.

I wanted to cheer him on but knew cheering for something I saw only in my mind was stupid. I wondered what I should tell Izzy about the rod. I'd be too embarrassed to tell him the truth. Would I be better off, therefore, if Izzy had never climbed down the stone hill?

But still my mother would be dead. And I would know nothing about fly casting.

I sat down on a bench and looked up. Hundreds of faint stars speckled the dark-blue sky. I told myself, Pretty soon the sky will turn black, the park dark. Will God protect me, the way he protected the Israelites by parting the Red Sea? But if the Bible story is true, why didn't he protect my mother? She was as good as the Israelites. And why didn't God stop all the wars and protect good, young boys from dying? Soon I'll be old enough to be a soldier. Will my father still believe in war? I hate him for breaking Izzy's rod!

I looked at the stars on the water. They had dimmed and no longer hurt my eyes. They floated on the rippled water like fallen leaves, then they started to sink and disappear—or so I thought, because the stars, like a thousand needles, pierced the surface of the sky, then bulged and brightened.

I wondered, Is the sky somehow stealing the stars from the water? If so, it's all right because in the morning, when the sun rises over the tops of the trees, the water will steal the stars back again.

The lights on the lampposts came on.

Are the lampposts also stealing light? No. Their light comes from electricity. But where does electricity come from? How could something so invisible turn into something so bright? Imagine if the ancient Greeks came back to life and saw electric lights. They would probably think the lights were a sign from one of their gods—a god they can't see or hear.

Maybe the ancient Greeks and I aren't so far apart. After all, we saw the same stars—stars that live for millions and millions of years, then die, like people. But do stars just go away? Will I die and just go away? If only I too could live for a million years and see the end of wars and of sickness. Then I will believe in God. But how long will I live?

Seventy years? Eighty? Maybe I'll live for the same number of years as the number of feet I can fly cast; and during that time millions and millions of people will be born. But how many stars? And how will they be born? It seems impossible that something can come out of nothing, and that with so many stars in the sky they don't collide and break into millions of pieces. Maybe there are traffic lights and stop signs in the sky. Just how many stars are there? Millions? Billions? And if each star is a sun, just how many planets are there? How many earths? How many gods? But the Bible says there is only one God. If so, why did he choose just our earth? And how does he see us? The stars might be his eyes. Or his eyes might be much closer—maybe even in the park. But can his eyes be in the stars and in the park at the same time? Or am I just trying to fool myself into believing there is a God and, therefore, into fulfilling the promise I made to my mother?

I lay down on the bench and started counting stars. I got up to fifty, then realized I had lost track of where I had started from. I started over again. Again I lost track. I decided counting stars was hopeless; so I sat up and instead counted the people sitting around the Meer.

I counted only four and realized that soon I would be in the park all by myself, God or no God. And I would get hungry. After all, I was human. And the park would get cold. After all, it was still April. Where can I go to? My old friends? But they haven't seen me in so long. They'll see me as a traitor. I have no place to go but home. I should, however, stay out for as long as I can and stand up to my father as a lesson.

I walked to a restaurant and ate a big, juicy hamburger. Afterwards, I went to a bookstore that I knew was open late. I scanned rows and rows of books and—in my mind, at least—I suddenly saw books I had written, even though I had no idea what they were about.

My father waited in the living room. He pointed right at me. "Don't you ever!"

I pointed back. "One day I'm going to become the greatest fly caster on earth, and then I'm going to teach others. You're not going to stop me!" I turned and marched up the stairs.

Chapter 7

The next morning my father left the house early, before breakfast. That evening, during dinner, he picked up a newspaper and stared at it until my sister served dessert. Since he never read newspapers at the dining table, I suspected he was too ashamed to look at me, but he did finally.

"Ian, when's your next baseball game?"

I lied, "I'm not sure."

"What did you learn in school today?"

"Triangles."

"What about triangles?"

I still looked down. "That all triangles are made up of lines forming angles adding up to one hundred eighty degrees."

"You must've learned more than that."

"There isn't too much to learn about triangles. They're just shapes."

There was a silence, long and uncomfortable. I didn't want to break it. I wanted to hurt my father as much as he had hurt me. So all during the week, I rarely spoke to or looked at him.

One afternoon I jogged in from the outfield and saw him standing behind first base. Surprised, I lowered my head. The next inning I stepped into the batter's box.

"C'mon, Ian. Give it a good ride!" my father yelled.

I ripped a double into the left-center gap. Standing on second base, I still didn't look at my father.

He came to some of my next games and propelled my rage to the surface. My batting average soared. One game I hit a long home run and went four-for-four.

As for my grades, they also soared. On the last day of my sophomore year I showed my father my final report card. He smiled. "Ian, Columbia Law School will put out a welcome mat for you."

I wasn't sure I wanted one. You see, my English teacher had made us read one of my mother's favorite books, The Last of the Mohicans. Almost from the opening page, the beautiful descriptions of nature and the exciting adventures of Natty Bumpo and his Indian friend, Chingachgook, captivated me; so in my mind, as I walked in the wilderness of Cooper's world, I walked with my mother. James Fenimore Cooper, I felt, had brought my mother back to me. Again I wanted to please her, this time by becoming what she had wanted to become: a great artist, a great writer who would create a make-believe world where good people didn't die unfairly, and where poor immigrants lived in nice homes; a make-believe world that lived on in the minds of readers for as long as the sun rose and fell.

Yes, I wanted to become a writer, but did I have the courage to tell my father?

No. So I studied hard, earned very good grades and let my father believe that, down the road, I would enroll in Columbia Law School and follow in his way and become a great lawyer.

I hated living a lie.

I read in a newspaper a fly-casting tournament was going to be held during the Sportsmen's Exposition at Madison Square Garden. Would Izzy compete? Hoping he would, I decided to go to the exposition and tell Izzy the truth about my father breaking his fly rod.

But Izzy didn't compete or even watch. Disappointed, I watched the casters, one by one, step up to the casting platform. And in my mind I stepped up too and won the tournament with a cast of 110 feet. The spectators cheered wildly.

In reality, however, B. L. Richards cast 105 feet and won.

A week later I walked into my room. On my bed was a 3-foot-long, round metal case, a fly rod case. Eagerly, I screwed off the cap and slid out a brown sack. Inside the sack was a 3-piece rod, with an extra top piece. The rod was glass-smooth and orange-tinted. The varnish seemed to bring out the bamboo's long grain lines. Dark-purple thread-wraps decorated the rod. The guides, joints and the short butt cap were polished silver. Carved on the cap were fancy, script letters that read: H. L. Leonard, Rod Maker.

I put the rod together. It was a little shorter than Izzy's. I held the cigar-shaped cork handle. The rod was lighter than Izzy's. Though I knew little about fishing rods, something told me what I held was very special.

"I have something else for you," my father said. He stood in the doorway, holding a silver fly reel, a pair of rubber hip boots, and a straw creel. His smile fell, suddenly. His eyes turned red, as if he was about to cry. "Ian, I'm, I'm so sorry for what I did. Losing your mother, well I guess turned me into a, a monster. Please understand."

I didn't. Again I wondered if I was a bad son.

"Ian, let's go to the park so you can show me how well you cast."

"I haven't practiced for so long."

"We'll go when you feel you're ready. The man who sold me the rod told me you can take the railroad up to Hawthorne and fish the Saw Mill River."

"I don't know anything about fly fishing."

"That's why there are books."

The next day I went to the big library on Fifth Avenue and took out two fly-fishing books. That night, as soon as I finished my homework, I eagerly opened one of the books and read about different kinds of flies—wets, nymphs, dries, caddises—and about how each kind was fished differently. Fly fishing seemed terribly complicated. I wondered if I really wanted to become an angler, especially because, even if I caught a trout, a crowd wouldn't cheer for me.

Three hours later, long after my bedtime, I finally put the book down.

The next night I again opened the book. This time I read and took notes about the different parts of rivers and streams—lips, tongues, mouths, tails, runs, pools, banks, riffles—and about how to read them. Rivers and streams, I learned, hid trout almost the same way good poems hid meaning. The job of the angler, therefore, was to read and interpret the water and to unmask it.

So as winter stepped toward spring, I stepped toward becoming an angler, but then I wondered if real anglers could be born from just books. If not, would the real anglers on the Saw Mill River laugh at me?

Night after night, I studied my notes and counted the days to April 1.

Six more days to go. It was a beautiful spring Saturday. Downtown, someone working for the Triangle Waist Company tossed a cigarette into a bundle of cotton; and a spark turned into a flame, and a flame turned into a fire, and a fire turned into an inferno—and for some workers the only choice was to burn to death or to jump. Many chose to jump. From the ninth floor bodies fell like rain, crashed on the sidewalks, and lay like broken, twisted dolls.

Eighteen minutes after it started, the fire and a hundred and forty-six young lives were extinguished. And so would have another hundred or so lives if the elevator operator, Joseph Zito, had not risked his life and acted so heroically.

The next day my father walked into the office of the Ladies' Garment Workers' Union and offered to file legal motions for free.

I was proud of him and knew my mother would be too.

And I wanted her to be proud of me; so when April 1st finally arrived, I showed respect for the garment workers who had died, and I left my fly-fishing equipment in my room and waited, day after day.

The trees and flowers bloomed. It was time for me to become an angler. I went to a fly shop and asked the clerk to pick out some flies.

"In America most everyone fishes wet flies," he said.

A few days later, during Easter recess, I rode the railroad up to Hawthorne. Nervous, I walked to the stream. I didn't see another angler. I was thankful.

The Saw Mill River was straight and about twenty-feet wide. It slowly flowed and softly gurgled, as if it whispered foreign words I couldn't understand. The stream's banks were about as tall as I. They were lined with short bushes and tall trees. The bushes seemed to float on the water. The trees seemed to form a dense, leafy roof and to shape the stream into a long, green tunnel, especially because the trees closest to the high banks tilted forward. The flowing water, I realized, was whittling away the banks.

The leaves on the top of the trees shined like pieces of stained glass in church windows. But unlike glass, the leaves blocked most of the light, so the leaves lower down on the trees looked like small, hanging shadows. Yet somehow enough light filtered to the stream to turn the riffling water into a shattered mirror. The mirror distorted and twisted but didn't completely break the images of the trees and the bushes.

I put on my hip boots, set up my rod, tied on a Hare's Ear wet fly and told myself, read the water.

Parallel to the bank, slow and fast moving water met and formed a long seam. I decided to listen to the books and cast downstream and fish the seam.

Stepping sideways, grabbing branches, I climbed down the steep bank and stepped into the water. I looked straight down. Almost as if by magic, the reflected images disappeared. The shattered mirror seemed to turn into a glass cabinet top. At the bottom of the cabinet, instead of jewelry or trinkets, were worthless rocks.

The water was almost up to my knees. I waded toward the middle of the stream. The water pushed hard against my legs, as if it tried to knock me over. I didn't let it. Looking down, making sure I had good footing, I slowly waded on. My foot seemed to go through the stream's bottom. I was falling. My arm crashed into the water. The water was cold. It stung me. My foot landed, finally. I didn't fall. Thankful, I stood up straight. The water was almost up to my waist. I looked down and realized the stream's depth was hidden by water acting like a big magnifying glass.

I thought, The fly-fishing books hadn't warned me about deep holes hiding in streams, hiding like trout. I could fall and break my leg and—but the river just taught me an important lesson about wading. I don't want to be scared of wading.

Downstream, a big, fat tree lay across the stream. The tree still had leaves and therefore probably life. I noticed parts of dead trees littering the banks. Suddenly the stream looked spooky, like a haunted house where, instead of evil ghosts, the river chopped down and killed big trees. Was shapeless water more powerful than big, wooden trees?

It didn't seem possible, and yet my eyes told me it was.

I waded to the middle of the stream, stepped on gravel and felt safe. I pulled off about 40 feet of line from my reel. The water grabbed the line and snaked it downstream. Suddenly the long tunnel brightened. Slanted columns of sunlight, looking like hanging sheets of glowing smoke, poured through the trees, crashed onto the water and broke into clumps of small, bobbing flames. But unlike the flames of the Triangle Waist Fire, these flames, I knew, were frozen in size and wouldn't turn the Saw Mill into a long, horrible inferno.

I remembered my mother telling me nature, not Rembrandt or Michelangelo, was the world's greatest painter. Was my mother's spirit also pouring through the trees?

The gurgling water suddenly sounded like a gentle piano melody. Was my mother somehow playing the melody? Or did nature have its own music? If so, was Man's music really an attempt to reflect Nature's?

I closed my eyes and listened. For some reason, I saw the image of broken, garment-worker bodies strewn on the sidewalk like dead Civil War soldiers strewn on a battlefield. I tried to fit the image of the beautiful stream with the image of the bodies. But unlike pieces of a puzzle, the images didn't fit.

Is it because, I wondered, streams are made by nature while sweat shops are made by man? But isn't man part of nature?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Again I closed my eyes and listened to the gurgling water. I heard the same notes over and over. My mother wasn't playing them. I was alone. I cried, only for a few seconds. I retrieved about 6 inches of line and paused. My line straightened and pulled against the rod tip. I cast the rod back. But the water, unlike a lawn, didn't want to let go of the line. Feeling I was in a tug of war, I pulled the rod back harder, and harder. The rod bent into a half circle. Suddenly the water let go. The line and the fly flew off the water and streaked past me. The line unrolled quickly. Off guard, I didn't cast forward.

Realizing I had too much line out, I reeled in about 5 feet and again cast. This time the water didn't pull back so hard. I lifted the line off the water. A tight loop unrolled behind me. I cast forward, then let the line slide through my thumb and finger. The Hare's Ear turned over and floated down like a falling leaf but landed 3 feet to the left of the long seam.

I cursed, "Damn!" Again I cast. A breeze carried the line and the fly close to the far bank. Frustrated, I realized landing a fly on a small target was a lot harder than throwing a strike. I reminded myself to relax and to listen to my father's words and to let my arm and my body flow like the stream.

I again cast, this time a little faster. The tight loop cut through the breeze and unrolled. The fly landed in the slower water just outside the seam—a strike! But I wasn't satisfied. Again and again I tried to cast three strikes in a row.

Finally I did! Proud, I told myself it was time to try to catch a fish.

I watched the fly drift in the slower current near the bank. The faster water in the middle of the stream pulled the line and shaped it into a wide loop. As the loop floated downstream it got longer and tighter and looked like a giant U. The U, I saw, pulled the fly faster than the slow current. Trout, the books said, won't take a fly drifting faster than the current. I had to mend the line. Scared I wouldn't do it right, I pointed my rod up and lifted much of the line off the water. Pretending to flip a pancake, I flicked the line, but not the fly, upstream. The fast water turned the wide U into an M. The fly drifted downstream at the same speed as the slower water.

I didn't get a take. When the fly was directly below me, I lifted the rod tip and waited, as the books said I should.

Three more times I cast to the front of the seam.

Still no take. I remembered the books said an angler fishing a small stream should keep moving and keep casting to different targets. Slowly I waded downstream, looking for a new target.

I found one: the mouth of a long, smooth pool. The mouth funneled the water, then spit it out faster and foamier. The pool caught the water and slowed and smoothed it. I cast straight downstream. The fly and the line moved at the same speed. I didn't have to mend. I shook the rod back and forth, pulling line off my reel and feeding the line to the hungry current. The fly drifted into the foamy mouth and into the tongue. I stopped feeding line and raised my rod.

Again no take. Disappointed, I lowered my rod, retrieved about 10 feet of line and again cast to the mouth. I watched the fly drift downstream and I wondered if not catching a fish would mean I still wasn't a real angler.

Not sure, I waded close to the mouth and looked for a new target.

I cast to the bank, just below an overhanging branch. The fly landed on the branch. I tried to pull the fly free but broke if off. I cursed, tied on another Hare's Ear and waded into the pool, making small waves. The water was up to my waist. I waited for the waves to weaken and to merge into the smooth surface. The reflections of trees and bushes were put back together. For some reason I thought of Humpty Dumpty and wished a stream could've put him back together again. But characters in fairy tales, I knew, existed only in imagination and couldn't be fixed by real streams.

I cast to the middle of the pool and retrieved line, 6 inches at a time and wondered, When was the Saw Mill River born? A hundred years ago? A thousand? How was it and other streams born? And will streams, like stars, like me, one day die?

How? Will they dry up? Or will this beautiful river live and welcome anglers forever?

No. Not even this earth will last forever.

The leaves on the top of the trees now looked like hanging shadows. Nature's long painting had turned darker and gloomier. It didn't look so beautiful. I became lonely. Downstream of the long pool was a stretch of riffles, then a run, then, just past the fallen tree, another pool.

I wondered, Are all rivers and streams a series of riffles, runs and pools? If so, are all rivers and streams connected in some way?

A loud, shrieking chorus of birds pierced the sky and hurt my ears. I looked up but saw only one black bird. The rest of the flock, I knew, hid in the trees and seemed invisible.

I waded downstream and cast to the tail of the pool. The line straightened, then slid towards the bank.

I thought, That's strange—fish on! Set the hook!

I lifted the rod. It pulsed, as if it were alive, then seemed to get heavier. It throbbed. The throbs surged down the rod and jolted my arm. I almost dropped the rod. I squeezed the handle. The rainbow jumped out of the water, shook its head and dived. The rod went dead. The line hung limply.

The fish was off.

I yelled, "Damn!" Feeling as if I struck out with the bases loaded, I wondered what I did wrong.

Yes. When the trout jumped I should've lowered the rod and not given him slack line.

Though my rod no longer throbbed, something inside me did: a shapeless feeling that expanded and contracted like a lung. Was the feeling an instinctive obsession to erase my failure? Or was it something animalistic? Predatory?

Quickly, I pulled slack out of the line and again cast to the pool's tail.

I retrieved the line, faster and faster.

No take.

I slowed my casting and retrieving, but still no takes.

Angry, I deeply breathed. The tunnel, I saw, was dark green. The sinking sun was leaving me in what would become a pitch-black tunnel—an almost real-life, haunted house. My throbbing obsession weakened. I caught my breath, looked downstream and wondered what the Saw Mill looked like past the fallen tree. I reeled in all the line, then waded downstream and ducked under the tree.

The stream curved sharply to the right. Unable to see beyond the bend, I wanted to wade farther; but supposing I couldn't find a way out of the stream? Supposing it got too dark for me to wade back?

A sharp breeze chilled me. Was the breeze the river's way of telling me it's time to go?

I turned and waded upstream, against the pushing current. I climbed up the steep bank, knowing, feeling I had changed in some way, though I wasn't quite sure how.

Was it by becoming a predator?

Was it by becoming close to nature?

I walked to the train station and waited. The train pulled in. The sun still hadn't set. As I rode home I became angry at myself for not wading around the bend and into the unknown.

What would have happened, I wondered, if I had been the elevator operator at the Triangle Fire? Would more girls have died? Maybe. I swear I'll go back to the Saw Mill and wade around the bend, the way a real predator would. But will that mean I'll become more like the bosses who locked the doors of the Triangle Waist Company?

The train pulled into Grand Central Station. I stood up, grabbed my rod and my waders, and reached for my creel. I pulled my hand back and stood still.

I thought, I don't want to become a predator!

Abruptly I turned and walked off the train.

Chapter 8

Two weeks later I went back to the Saw Mill, even though I still wondered if I really wanted to be an angler.

Someone fished about fifty feet upstream of the fallen tree. He was tall and thin and wore what looked like a blue baseball cap. Hooked in the cap were about twenty different flies. The cap looked like a miniature birdcage. The angler lifted the line off the water. The line unrolled perfectly. The angler cast the rod forward, smoothly, effortlessly. The fly kissed the water near the bank. The man, I knew, was a real angler. He glanced at me and smiled. He was elderly. His long hair and thick mustache were gray.

I yelled, "I want to fish downstream of you."

"Wade slowly. If you spook a fish—well at this point in my life, catching one more fish isn't going to matter."

His beautiful voice resonated like bass notes. I waded toward him. His hat, I noticed, was a Union Civil War hat. Had he been a soldier in the war? He wore a green sports jacket. The jacket was old and dirty. The front pocket was torn. The angler didn't carry a creel.

"Are you new here?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I'm just learning how to fish." I stopped wading.

He cast about 45 degrees to the right of straight downstream—or three-quarters, as the books said. "Welcome to the club." He fed line through the guides. "I've been fishing this stream for forty years. I guess that makes me the senior member of the club."

"Were you in the Civil War?"

He seemed to read my fly rod as if it were a book, then he looked downstream. He retrieved slowly. "Is that a Leonard?"

Was resentment in his voice? Did I deserve such a good fly rod? "Yes, it's a Leonard."

"How did you get interested in fishing?" he asked.

"I saw a fly-casting tournament."

"I guess we all get here from different roads."

Did we? "Sir, may I ask: What road did you take?"

He shook his rod side-to-side. "I've always wanted to cast a Leonard."

I waded close to him and held out my rod. He smiled. His big blue eyes and his big, square jaw seemed too big for his narrow face and small nose. His face looked put together from parts of different faces.

He took my rod and handed me his. Its finish had several varnished-over chips. The new varnish was a little darker than the original. The red thread-wrap that held one of the guides didn't match the other wraps. I reeled in all his line.

"What do you have on there, a wet?" he asked.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you caught any fish with the rod yet?"

"No."

He pulled line off the reel and, at the same time, false cast, letting out more and more line. He let go of the line. The fly landed just behind a big rock. I was impressed. He smiled. "This rod feels like it casts on its own. Guys around here call me Doc. I fish mostly streamers. At my age I like to keep things simple."

"My name is Ian. Are you a doctor?"

"Yes."

We shook hands. Since he was a doctor, why didn't he have a better rod and a better jacket?

"And yes, Ian, I was in the Civil War."

Again I was impressed; maybe because instead of looking at a photograph of a soldier, I was looking at a real, live one. "My father used to collect and read books on the war."

"Used to?"

"Yes, when my mother got cancer he stopped."

"How's your mother now?"

"She passed away."

"I'm sorry. I despise cancer." The fly floated downstream and away from the bank. Doc kept the rod pointed at the fly and fed line through the guides. "Do you read about the war?"

"Only for school."

The fly floated under the fallen tree. Doc pointed the rod tip up but didn't say anything. The long silence between us became uncomfortable. The chirping birds sounded as if they were screaming. I wondered if they, like me, were angry at the world. Finally, I said, "My father thinks Grant is one of the greatest generals who ever lived."

He laughed; sarcastically, I thought. Wanting to know how he had found the courage to fight in a real battle, I asked, "What's it like being in war?"

"What's it like?" His eyes seemed to go blank.

I cursed myself for asking the question.

Doc looked downstream again. "Sometimes this stream looks like a road to me, a road where things flow one way. I like it that way. For me the start of this stream is the dry, dusty road that led to the battle of Cold Harbor." He again cast three-quarters downstream. "Ian, when I was about your age I loved two things: drinking and fighting. When conscription came in 1863, I was only eighteen. Since I was too young for the draft, me and my friend, Jim Mullen, decided to get three-hundred-dollars drinking money by going to a bounty broker and taking the place of rich guys who just got drafted. As soon as we were paid we got good and drunk and stayed that way until the money ran out. Then we reported for duty. We were assigned to Eighth, New York, Artillery Regiment. Our job was to guard Washington, D.C. So we were known as just dress-up regiment. But our commander, Colonel Porter, wanted his chance to prove that we were real soldiers, soldiers of honor and courage who believed in the ideas of a preserved Union and liberty for all. And most of the men in the regiment wanted to prove it too. I, however, just wanted to get back home and start drinking again, but I guess feelings, even good ones, are like diseases: they spread. Soon I became infected with honor and courage and the Union cause. When Porter drilled us hard, day after day, I stopped cursing him and started respecting him. So in the summer of 1864 when we were ordered to march towards Richmond I was happy."

Doc stopped feeding line. He pointed the rod tip up and waited. "And so we marched under the hot sun, on desert-dry roads. The dust was as thick as fog. It dried and burned our throats. At every river we came to—The Rappahannock, The Mattapony, then finally the Pamunkey—we kneeled down and drank like wild animals. We crossed the Pamunkey and heard cannon fire. Suddenly we stopped singing, but the birds, I remember, didn't. I'm not sure what I felt. I guess a part of me looked forward to the fight, but another part—the part that wouldn't speak in my mind—was scared. The sun rose higher, blazed down on us like fire, as if it wanted to punish us and burn us into ashes and then into wind-blown dust.

"The sound of the cannons got weaker, so we thought the battle was dying down, but soon we saw the truth: we were lost. When Porter finally figured out the right way, he marched us all night so that we wouldn't lose our chance to fight the Rebs.

"When the sun rose we were surrounded by thin trees that looked like giant pencils. The leaves on top of the trees shaded us like umbrellas. We were grateful for the shade but exhausted. Porter ordered us to rest, not realizing that as we rested the Rebs were digging deeper trenches. On top of the trenches they built defensive breastworks of dirt and long logs; so looking back, I often wonder if Grant should have realized that the tactics of the war were about to change."

There was another silence. Doc stared downstream. He didn't move the rod or retrieve line. I wondered if he was lost in his story.

Doc reached for his canteen and drank. "Still to this day I wonder, and I guess I always will. Ian, as my regiment waited, some men read the Bible for the first time, surprisingly even Jim. Other men reread letters from home or wrote new letters. As for myself, I just wished I had some whiskey. Finally the day turned into night. I lay on my back and looked up at the stars. Somehow I just didn't believe that the next day I would die. I fell asleep and was woken by rain, a warm, comforting rain. Many of us took the rain as a good sign from God. But the Rebs, I knew, got the same rain."

Doc lowered the rod, finally, and retrieved line. He cast almost straight downstream.

I wasn't sure I wanted to hear more of the story, but I knew it was too late to ask him to stop what I had started.

"Ian, at first I thought I might sink and drown in the mud, but soon I got used to the mud. It almost felt like a soft bed. Finally, the rain stopped. The sun rose and we were covered with a heavy, wet fog that blocked our sight like a wall. Half-blind, we formed a long, long line and marched straight towards the Rebs.

"Through the fog I saw a long dotted line of about a hundred small flashes. Then I heard a long, rolling explosion that sounded like thunder. No one in our line fell. The Rebs' first volley was too high. We marched on in a perfect straight line. The Rebs' rifles flashed and thundered again. A bullet whizzed right past my ear. I heard a loud pitter-patter of thuds and a thunder of screams. The thuds were the sound of bullets tearing into flesh and knocking men to the ground. Some men fell straight back, others circled like tops. The fog, I saw, still hid the Rebs. 'Hold your fire!' we were ordered. 'March on!'

"Like good soldiers, we did. I saw more flashes and heard more explosions. Thinking back, the explosions sounded like the loud, fast clicking of a fly reel. Above the Rebs' line I saw small puffs of smoke. The puffs hung like balloons, then expanded and blended into the white fog. The deepened fog seemed to cancel out the sun. More friends screamed and fell. I glanced to my left, then to my right. Our line was full of gaps instead of soldiers. Since some soldiers attacked faster than others, our line had become a long, irregular wave. I saw the Rebs' rifles sticking out from their breastworks.

"'Fire!' one of our officers called out. We fired, then quickly reloaded. More friends screamed and fell. I guess the only thing protecting us from the lead bullets were the weightless fog and smoke.

"I thought of turning and running, but I knew if I did, everyone back home would know. Shame seemed worse than death; so I ran forward, yelling, 'One Union! Liberty!' And suddenly it was as if the explosions and the screams weren't real, or as if a steam engine inside me burned and melted my fear and molded it into anger. I ran right at the Rebs. Again I fired and reloaded. The smell of gun powder burned my nose and throat and seemed to choke me. I sucked in air and coughed. All of a sudden the soldiers leading our attack turned and ran towards me. 'Retreat!' they yelled.

"I turned and ran too, straight back to our officers who sat on beautiful horses. The officers ordered us to stop. Like good soldiers, we obeyed and reformed our line. Again we attacked, and again friends screamed and fell. This time, however, we got so close to the Rebs we saw the outlines of their faces.

"But again we retreated. We ran and ran, then stopped and frantically dug a long, wide trench with our bayonets. Someone yelled out that Colonel Porter was dead. When the trench was about a foot deep, we lay down, reloaded and waited for the Rebs to attack.

"And we waited. And the fog and smoke lifted. And we looked at hundreds of our fallen friends, who covered the field like the rocks covering the bottom of this stream. But even worse than looking, we listened to their loud, shrieking cries and pleas. Some of the pleas were for water, others for their wives. One eighteen-year-old, Johnny Briggs, pleaded, 'Mom, please, come get me. Please take me home. Please don't let me die!'

"In the trench, a few men prayed to God to end the nightmare. But God didn't seem to hear them because the sun rose and burned, and the battlefield seemed as hot as an oven. Suddenly I felt like the reality on the ground was spinning like a tornado and sucking me up into it.

"I got real dizzy, Ian. The cries and pleas got louder and louder. But the Rebs' sniper fire pinned us down, so all we could do was listen. Without thinking, I prayed that Jim was alive, but then I realized that praying was stupid because, even though I didn't believe in God, I now believed in Hell. I cursed myself for joining the Union Army to get drinking money, and I told myself that if I survived the war, I would never drink again, because after experiencing Hell, nothing, nothing would ever be worth drinking for."

Suddenly the fly line tightened. The rod bent. A rainbow jumped out of the water and shook its head. The line sagged.

I said, "He got away."

"I didn't set the hook, Ian. This is your fly rod. You're going to be the first one to catch a fish with it."

Doc retrieved line and cast straight downstream.

I waited for him to continue telling about Cold Harbor.

Doc didn't. He stared downstream. I looked into his eyes. He seemed to be in some sort of trance. I hoped he didn't come out of it because I wanted to hear only the gurgling stream and the singing birds.

"Ian, where was I? Yes, nothing would ever be worth drinking for. We waited and waited, and we urinated and defecated right where we lay. And we wondered why the Rebs didn't attack. For some reason I thought back to how my father only cared about card playing, and how he always yelled at my mother and me. At first I got really angry at him and blamed him for my drinking and for my lying in the stinking trench. But then a strange thing happened: my hatred drifted away like the morning mist. I felt sorry for my father. Suddenly I wanted to see him again, not to hear him apologize, but to tell him I still loved him, in spite of everything.

"I began to cry, but I didn't want anyone to see, so I rested my face on top of my arm and lost track of time. Then the sun, I realized, didn't feel so hot. I looked up. The sun had slid behind the trees. If the Rebs were going to attack, I knew, they had to do it soon. Looking down the barrel of my rifle, I stared across the body-littered field. Finally the sun set. I was grateful because I knew I would live another precious day.

"I tried to sleep but couldn't. Instead I stared at the black, star-filled sky and wondered how the sky could be filled with such awesome beauty while the earth was filled with such bloody slaughter. Then all of a sudden, one by one, the stars seemed to brighten, then dim, brighten then dim; and soon it was as if the stars beat with life, or signaled to each other in their own way. Could it be possible, I wondered, that the stars, like we Americans, speak the same language? If so, would the stars, like we Americans, ever try to extinguish each other? I couldn't answer; so more than anything I prayed that the stars would go on beating and not fade into a brightening sky, and that the blackness of night would keep the slaughter from resuming. But somehow I fell asleep.

"The rising sun woke me to the chorus of crying and pleading men. But the chorus wasn't as loud as it had been. Many of the singers had died. Trying not to see the dead, I again stared down the barrel of my gun, across the blood-painted battlefield. The sun rose higher and burned brighter. We smelled rotten eggs. But the eggs, we knew, were really the dead. The sun inched to the top of its arc and scorched my back. I cursed the sun and took another gulp of water from my half-full canteen. Maybe, I thought, we're all going to just die of thirst.

"The sun inched down its arc. I was grateful, until the smell of the dead got stronger, then turned into a putrid stench. To stop the smell, we tied kerchiefs around our faces, but the stench came right through the cloth. I wondered if the Rebs would attack and kill us all, or if we would retreat. Grant, I knew, hated retreats.

"So I waited and wondered, until finally the sun retreated behind the trees. The Rebs didn't attack. I would live another day; so even though the stench grew even stronger, and my throat burned as if the sun were inside it, I was grateful. I treated myself to one gulp of water.

"And so, Ian, for three long days we waited, until finally the chorus of pleading and crying men burned out like a melted candle and turned into a stench so bad I had to force myself to breathe. I drank the last gulp of water in my canteen."

Doc cast toward the bank, then stared at the fly as it drifted slowly downstream. He didn't say anything. I was disappointed. I guess in spite of the horror in his story, his soothing voice had sort of hypnotized me, like my mother's piano playing. Now I wanted him to go on, but knowing I shouldn't force him to relive his past, I said nothing.

"Even in Hell, Ian, there are miracles. Grant, to his credit, called a truce. A few volunteers collected our canteens and filled them with water that tasted better than wine or beer. My thirst finally quenched, I walked up and down the line, looking for Jim. I didn't find him. Jim, I knew, was dead, and so was almost one-third of our regiment. And so we did what we had to: dug big mass graves. We walked onto the battlefield and picked up the rotting corpses that once breathed life and lived with us like brothers. Many of the dead had their mouths and eyes wide open as if they died gasping for air and looking up at the sky. One poor soldier had a gaping bullet hole in his stomach. Through the hole his intestines crept out like a snake. But the soldier hadn't died right away, because his bloody hand held a bloody harmonica in his mouth. I tried to pry the silver instrument out of his stiff fingers, but suddenly, even though no one was looking, I felt ashamed of my greed. I carried the poor soul to the mass grave. I covered his face and harmonica with dirt.

"We spent most of the day burying our friends and turning the battlefield back into a meadow, in spite of the blood. Then something real strange happened: Many of us, including me, walked across the meadow. The Rebs waved to us. We waved back. They got out of their trenches and met us halfway. We shook hands and shared cigars, cigarettes and stories of the war. Except for the color of their uniforms and their accents, they didn't seem any different from us, especially because none of us talked about the politics of the war. I guess for that hour or so we all felt we were on the same side: Hell's.

"One of the young Rebs had a baseball and asked if I wanted to have a catch. As we threw the ball back and forth he told me his name was John Turner and that his family owned a big farm in Arkansas.

"I told him my name and that I was from Lockport, New York.

" 'Are you a farmer?' he asked.

" 'I'm really not much of anything,' I answered shamefully.

" 'Yank, I'm a man of the soil and of the lakes and the rivers. I can't wait to plant seeds and to fish. Yank, do you like to fish?'

" 'Never have.'

" 'When I fish I feel close to God.'

"Now Ian, the idea of fishing and being closer to God seemed real strange. So I hoped the Reb would explain it. 'If the good Lord is willing,' he said, 'after the war, when the blood has flowed out of these rivers, I'm going to come back up here and fish. What are you going to do, Yank, when you get home?'

" 'Don't really know yet.'

" 'Soon I reckon you will.'

"Suddenly we were ordered back to our trenches. I carried the ball to the Reb, shook his hand, looked into his eyes and thought of how strange it was that in another hour he might kill me or I might kill him. We turned and walked away from each other.

"We lay in wait in our trenches for five more long, endless-like days.

"Finally, before the sun rose on the sixth day, we were woken and ordered to retreat down a narrow, dusty road. A few days later, we figured out the road led towards Petersburg. Grant had changed his plans and also his tactics. You see, from that point on, Ian, he didn't order any more frontal attacks.

"Now because my regiment was so battered, we were moved to the rear of the army, and luckily didn't come under any heavy fire during the next nine months of the war.

"One more thing I should tell you. During our march towards Petersburg, I wrote to my father and told him that I couldn't wait to see him. I waited for his reply. It never came. When I got home I learned why. My father had been killed when he was caught cheating in a card game. My uncle then told me that, over the years, my father had invested all his winnings in railroad stocks. My uncle gave me the certificates. They were worth a small fortune. I thought of selling them, but instead I took a job on the Erie Canal. But no matter how hard I tried to stop them, the cries and stench of the dead soldiers, their frightened stares, kept going through my mind. Often I lay awake all night, scared that the sun would rise and that the killing would start all over again. Then one morning I got a notice from the post office. I answered it and was handed a long, thin package. The young Reb I had the catch with had mailed me one of his handmade fishing rods. Luckily, I worked with a guy who taught me how to fish, and on the first day he did, I forgot about Cold Harbor. So I fished almost every day; then I landed a big fish and I looked into his eyes and realized that, after seeing so much death, I wanted to save life. I released the fish and decided to become a doctor. I sold some of my stock, thanked my father and went back to school."

Doc looked at me. He smiled suddenly, turned and cast three-quarters upstream.

I turned with him. "How do you feel about the war now?"

"On one side of the scale are three hundred thousand dead boys, robbed of the most precious thing on earth: their lives. On the other side of the scale are the Emancipation Proclamation and a preserved nation. Who knows which way the scale will tip a hundred years from now. But what I often wonder about, Ian, is who really knows why in war one man lives while another, perhaps even more moral, dies. Is it because of where they kneel in a battle line? And who knows why a battle is won or lost? Is it because an officer misreads a map and gets lost? Or is it because a pouring rain slows an army's advance?

"And who knows if the fate of a battle, and maybe even the whole war, will turn on some small act, and if this act is random or the will of an unseen God." He stared at my fly rod. He ran his fingers over its smooth finish. "Leonard gave up making guns so he could make rods. He was an artist. Thank you for letting me use his rod."

"Sir, thanks for the story."

"I hope you always will."

I wondered what he meant, but I didn't want to sound foolish. I didn't ask.

Doc reeled in the line, reached into his pocket and took out a small tin box. The box was full of flies. The flies were about an inch long and rainbow-colored. "I tie these streamers myself, some backwards; so when I drift them downstream, they swim headfirst. My streamers may look strange, but they're my secret weapons. Take four. On a narrow stream like this, fish the backwards ones like a wet fly, except move the rod tip side to side. When the fly swings directly below you, jiggle the rod side to side, wait, then retrieve. Now when you get downstream, just past the long pool, you'll see an opening on the west bank. Take that opening and you'll be two blocks south of the train station."

"Maybe I'll see you next time."

"Ian, my wife had a stroke, so I really don't get out here much anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Hell, we're just happy to be alive." He smiled. His teeth were crooked and yellow.

"Doc, did you ever come to believe in God?"

He looked into my eyes and smiled. "Ian, in my office I have notebooks with the names and the weights of the 2,011 beautiful babies I brought into this world. And with each birth I am awed by the magnificent, complex make-up of every living creature. It defies imagination. So every time I am awed, I thank a power, whether I call it God or not." Doc put his hand on my shoulder. "Ian, it's time for you to find your fishing way."

We again exchanged rods. I didn't want to leave someone whom I suddenly saw as a real friend, but I knew he wanted me to. I waded downstream, ducked under the fallen tree, and thought of how strange it seemed that I learned more about the Civil War on a stream than in a classroom or from my father. But I wondered about Doc's old coat and his old, chipped fly rod. Weren't fisherman supposed to be great tellers of tall tales? Maybe Doc hadn't really fought at Cold Harbor.

I waded around the bend and into what looked like a different stream. This stream's banks were low and lined with mushroom-shaped bushes. The sun, unblocked by overhanging trees, burned a narrow trail all the way down the long, smooth pool.

Squinting, I looked for seams to cast to but didn't see any. I decided to follow the instruction of the fly-fishing books and fish the deeper, cooler water. Stepping on the flat, gravel bottom, I waded toward the middle of the pool. When the water was above my waist, I stopped wading and pulled line off my reel. Way downstream the river seemed to shrink into a circle that got smaller and smaller, then disappeared into the meadow. Suddenly, in my mind I saw and heard Union soldiers attacking, and falling, and crying out to their loved ones. Maybe, I realized, it doesn't matter if Doc made up some of his story. It seems to have enough truth to be real. But what about me? Do I have the courage to attack in a bloody battle like Cold Harbor?

I don't, probably. Do I deserve to hold this beautiful rod and to fish when so many boys fought and died in wars? Maybe not, I decided. But I'm here. And maybe I really was a good son to my mother and, therefore, should just forget about wars and enjoy what's left of the day.

I fished for two hours without a take. Discouraged, I thought of turning back, of wading toward Doc and fishing some of the broken, shaded water. But I didn't want Doc to think I gave up so easily, especially now that the sun was sinking, and the bushes shaded the water along the west bank.

I took out Doc's fly and wondered if it really worked. I tied it on and cast toward the shaded bank. My fly drifted slowly downstream. I raised the rod tip up and down, then side-to-side.

No take.

I waded five feet downstream and again and again cast toward the shaded bank.

Still no takes. Maybe I was foolish for believing Doc.

Again I cast. The line slid away from the bank. It snapped tight and pulled on the rod tip.

A fish was on!

I raised the rod and quickly reeled in line. Electric-like surges pulsed down the rod, my arm and through my body. The fish bolted downstream. I squeezed the rod handle. The fish pulled line off the reel. The reel clicked, faster and faster, then shrieked.

I pulled my elbows in and pressed them against my chest.

The fish didn't let up. The rod throbbed. The reel shrieked like a frightened pig.

Slowly, I raised the rod tip and put more pressure on the fish. I tried to retrieve line, but the fish fought back hard. Afraid he'd break the thin tippet, I quickly lowered the rod tip and reeled in slack line. I again raised the rod.

The fish slowed. The line and the rod went dead, suddenly. I held the rod still, hoping to feel a pulse. I didn't.

Damn! I thought. I lost him. What did I do wrong?

I reeled in line.

Bang! The line snapped tight, jolted me like lightening and bent the rod into a half-circle.

The fish jumped out of the water, shaking its head. It was a huge rainbow. It dived.

The line sagged like a loose clothesline.

Reeling as fast as I could, I wondered if the rainbow was still on. I stopped reeling and stood still. The rod pulsed weakly.

The rainbow was still on!

Slowly, I raised the rod tip. The rainbow bolted downstream again, this time toward the east bank.

Keep him away from the bank, I remembered. Don't give him any slack.

The reel shrieked again. I tried to pull the rod tip and point it toward the middle of the stream. I couldn't. The rainbow seemed to weigh a ton. My heart seemed to hammer the inside of me. I fought to hold the rod tip up and wondered, Is this what it feels like to be in battle?

Deeply I breathed, waiting, hoping for the fish to tire. Was the rod, I wondered, throbbing in sync with my heart? Were the rod and the line some sort of umbilical cord connecting my spirit, at least, to the rainbow's?

Again I tried to turn the rainbow. Again it fought back hard.

My arms felt heavy and tired. The rainbow pulled my elbows out from my body. He was winning the tug of war. Fighting back, I pulled my elbows in.

I was bent over.

Slowly, I straightened up, wondering, Will I ever get him in? Keep the pressure on him! Keep the rod tip up!

The reel shrieked. The rainbow pulled my elbows out again. I closed my eyes. My back ached. The rod seemed to turn into heavy lead. I thought, Is this why I became an angler—to be in a small war? Don't I hate war?

The rod felt lighter, I realized. The rainbow was tiring too!

I inched the rainbow away from the bank, then lowered the rod and reeled in line. The rainbow broke toward the other bank.

Surprisingly, I easily turned him. My rod pulsed weakly. It was time, I knew, to try to bring the big fish in.

Holding the rod tip high, I slowly, steadily reeled in line, expecting the rainbow to bolt again.

He didn't.

Finally, I brought him close to me. He swam to my right. I easily turned him. He swam to my left. Again I easily turned him. I reeled him close to my feet. He was over a foot long.

I kneeled down and grabbed his tail. He seemed to look at me.

I wondered, Did he ever see a person before? And what do I look like to him? An evil monster?

I said, "Don't worry, Mr. Rainbow. I'm not going to hurt you. After a fight like that you deserve to live. And so do I."

I tucked the rod under my arm and pulled out Doc's fly. For about a minute I pushed and pulled Mr. Rainbow back and forth to get water through his gills. Finally Mr. Rainbow tried to break free. I let go, expecting him to swim away.

He didn't. Scared, I wondered if I hurt him. I splashed water. He darted away and disappeared into the pool. Grateful, I stood up. My heart still beat fast and hard. I told myself, Now I'm a real angler! But I'm alone. Will anyone beside Doc and my father believe I caught such a huge rainbow? Well I believe it. For now, I guess, my belief will have to be enough.

Strangely, I didn't feel like fishing any more but instead wanted to tell Doc about Mr. Rainbow. I reeled in the line and waded upstream.

Doc wasn't there. Disappointed, I told myself I again would see Doc. I climbed out of the stream.

As soon as I got home I told my father about Mr. Rainbow. "And I met this old guy who told me about, about—"

"About what, Ian?"

My father, I realized, probably didn't want to hear about the Civil War. "About how he loved my Leonard fly rod."

Later, I went into my father's study, picked out a Civil War book and started reading about the battle of Cold Harbor. Suddenly I didn't care if the book's version matched Doc's. In my mind Doc's version would always be the true version; and after hearing it, I was now sure I really wanted to be an angler as much as I wanted to be a long-distance fly caster.

I closed the book and started counting my father's Civil War books. I counted 57. I told myself that, even though I still hated war, I would keep all the books until the day I died.

A week later I went back to the Saw Mill River. I didn't see Doc, but I met another angler who showed me how he was experimenting with fishing dry flies.

"Because dry flies float," he said, "they take a lot of trout on the slower, less-riffled streams in England. But on a fast, riffled stream like this, well so far I haven't had much luck, in spite of what I read in an article written by a guy named Theodore Gordon."

"Keep trying and good luck." I waded downstream, feeling as if I had made another fishing friend.

During the rest of the fishing season, I often went back to the river, always hoping to see Doc.

But I never did, and I became scared that something bad happened to him, as well as to Izzy; so sometimes when I thought of them I became sad, but other times I became grateful that at least I had crossed their paths.

As for my fly-casting practice: I wondered if I could apply some of the baseball techniques my father had taught me to fly casting. He had told me if I wanted to hit a baseball with all of my body's power, I should keep my head down for a split second after I made contact, and therefore keep my hips and shoulders from rotating ahead of my arm. So I wondered: during the fly cast, how could I keep my casting arm in sync with my body?

By watching my rod hand during the fly cast, I finally discovered.

I cast over 70 feet! Thrilled, I again was sure I would become the greatest fly caster on earth.

Suddenly I was grateful to have a father who knew so much about playing baseball. Maybe I would be able to forgive him for breaking Izzy's fly rod.

The end of trout season was closing in. I couldn't stop it, but I could fish the Saw Mill two, sometimes three times a week. And when I did, I often experimented with all sorts of flies; but the fly I caught the most trout on was Doc's secret streamer.

One afternoon I climbed out of the river. An angler stood on the bank. He wore a tweed jacket over his rubber waders. "You're some caster," he said. "Your loops are so perfect they look like an artist drew them. Maybe you can help me. When I try to make a long cast I often get hit by the line or the fly. No one has been able to explain why."

I watched him cast. The line hit him. I suggested that he stop pulling his elbow back and stop rocking his shoulders. He cast again. The line didn't hit him. He smiled. "My name is Parker Roberts. I'm blessed to have run into you."

Gratified, I told him my name.

"Ian, have you ever fished the Beaverkill?

"No."

"Would you like to?"

A part of me did, but the Beaverkill seemed like the major leagues of fly fishing. Was I ready for it? Besides, I didn't know anyone up there. Wouldn't I feel lonely and out of place?

"Of course you'd like to," Mr. Roberts said. "Next week is the end of trout season. Unfortunately I have a wedding to go to; so you can go to Penn Station and take the train up to Roscoe, New York and stay in my room in the Antrim Lodge. From the lodge you can walk to the Forks where the Willowemoc meets the Beaverkill and forms swirling currents that trap some monster trout."

I lied, "I'm not sure I can make it next week."

"The Beaverkill and the Catskills are one of God's most perfect places on earth. I'll telephone the lodge and tell them you might be coming."

I might see Izzy on the river, I thought. But maybe he doesn't want to see me. Besides, what will I tell him about his rod? Shamefully, the truth. Then I'll have to offer him my Leonard to make things fair—if I decide to go.

"Mr. Roberts, do you know Doc?"

"Sure. His wife took a turn for the worse and recently died."

Sad, I thought of how Doc, like me, lost someone he loved. Suddenly I felt as if Doc were family and not just a friend. I thought of how my mother had wanted to fish the Beaverkill.

I told myself, If the Beaverkill and the Catskills are so perfect, maybe they'll help me come to believe that the whole world isn't so bad, and that there is some kind of a God. Maybe a trip to the unknown is a risk worth taking.

Interlude

JENNIFER AGAIN

I put down Ian's manuscript and looked at the clock. It was almost midnight. I was surprised at how I got so lost in the story and in time. In other words, I liked the script, especially the writing; more specifically, the way Ian used metaphors.

I was sure that the next time I shopped on Orchard Street, I would see the street differently.

Ian's memoir, I felt, was leading somewhere, even though it sometimes meandered. For example, Doc's story at first seemed out of place, but by the time he tasted battle, it didn't matter to me if the story were out of place or not. Nor did it matter if the story were all true. For me, as well as for Ian, Doc's version of the battle would be the one that really mattered.

As for stories not being all true, was the story of Izzy coming down the mountain and winning the tournament true, or was that just the way Ian remembered it?

Ian, after all, seemed honest.

But back to the memoir's meandering. Why did Ian include so many references to new advances in science and technology? And why did he also include so many techniques about fly casting?

Something told me he did it for a reason.

The next morning, I called Eric and told him I wanted to finish Ian's memoir and couldn't see him that night. Eric understood, as usual. I thanked him.

After work I went straight home, changed into jeans and an old, denim shirt and ordered in Chinese food. I sat on my couch and picked up Ian's manuscript.

Book 2: The Beaverkill
Chapter 9

I decided the risk of going to the Beaverkill was worth taking, and that if I saw Izzy I would tell him the truth about his fly rod and offer him mine.

A week later I carried my fly-fishing equipment and a small suitcase and walked into Penn Station. The white, marble station was about as long as a football field and about half as wide. The arched ceiling was so high, it reminded me of a low, dusk-gray sky. Cut into the sky were decorations that looked like an upside-down stack of bigger and bigger, eight-sided plates. As I looked at the decorations I told myself plates or steps could never hang in the sky; so instead I saw the decorations as wide, flat stars that, ironically, were made more visible from sunlight pouring through the big, arched windows. The sunlight reflected off the marble floor and walls. The marble, however, didn't shatter the light the way riffled water did. Maybe marble liked the sunlight and therefore wanted to keep it intact.

The ceiling sky was held up by thick, round pillars. Suddenly I felt I was in a Gothic cathedral and back in the Middle Ages, but I was thankful I didn't have to ride a horse 120 miles to the Beaverkill! To me, even though Penn Station was formed out of marble cut by men using modern machines, the station was as beautiful as anything I had ever seen, including the Harlem Meer and the East River. It didn't seem possible, therefore, that the Catskill Mountains and the Beaverkill River were as beautiful as Penn Station.

I bought a train ticket, walked through one of the arched passageways and boarded the O. & W. Train. I took my Leonard rod out of its case and ran my fingers over its gold-like finish. Could a fly rod be a work of art, I wondered, that will one day hang in museums like great paintings? Or are fly rods really works of science, like electric lights?

I wrapped my fingers around the rod's cork handle. I whispered, "Isn't this a beautiful rod, mom? Sometimes a person doesn't have to go far to see beauty. Isn't that what you tried to teach me?"

I saw mountains all around me. But not the mountains I saw in pictures or in my mind. Those jagged-sided, snowcapped mountains looked like beautiful weapons that stabbed the sky and made me feel small.

The Catskill mountains didn't fight the sky. Maybe because these wide, tree-covered mountains looked squashed down, as if they had been defeated and turned into giant hills that flowed into each other at different angles and formed a giant maze.

The train sped through the maze. Some of the walls of the maze were the bottom of mountains that had been amputated to make way for the railroad.

I wondered if mountains were a way of joining the earth to the sky, or a way of adding variation and beauty to the earth. Or were mountains just there for the heck of it and not really a way at all?

I looked at my watch. Roscoe was only a half-hour away.

I saw a change in the face of some of the mountains. Many had big clearings that looked like strange, zigzagged haircuts. Some of the haircuts had cut away the monotony of the mountains and added to their beauty, but other haircuts had left tree trunks looking like blemishes or fat whiskers. To me it seemed strange that man had redesigned the face of nature and left some of it looking worse.

The train pulled into the Roscoe station. The station, a single platform covered with a long, low roof, was a very distant relation to Penn Station.

Across the street was a three-story wooden building that would have dwarfed most of the unique-faced, Fifth Avenue mansions, but only in size. Had it not been for the green shutters and long canopy, the building would have seemed lost in its own whiteness.

Sitting in the shade of the canopy were three men wearing wading boots and smoking cigars. Next to the doorway were two small signs. The black sign stood out and named the building: The Beaverkill House. The white sign blended in but spoke for the building: We have a good Christian clientele.

Maybe, I thought, I won't find Izzy up here.

I was at the end of a one-block, dirt street. On the other end were two small white buildings that looked like peering eyes. Behind the eyes was a mountain that—at the risk of stretching my description—looked like a high, egg-shaped forehead. The mountain was steeper than the ones I saw from the train. Maybe it had been lucky and escaped being squashed down, or maybe it had somehow changed to the winning side.

The street, Main Street, was a mishmash of wood and brick buildings. Some of the buildings had canopies. The street's long sidewalk was made of narrow planks. Because I had never been in a small town, the street seemed out of a different world, out of the wild west, maybe.

I wondered, Do I really want to cross into this new world, especially all by myself? But Izzy crossed into it.

In the middle of the street stood two men, carrying fly rods. A trickle of five people walked up and down the street. Their light-skinned faces looked more like the faces I saw on Fifth Avenue than those I saw on Orchard Street. Maybe my crossing wouldn't be so rough, after all.

The first building on Main Street was a wide, three-story, red-brick building. On the ground floor were two stores. The first was L. Sipple's Meat Market. In the store window was a handwritten, cardboard sign: Live Worms.

Believing real fisherman used only artificial flies, I didn't want any worms.

Next to the meat market was W. E. & O. P. Sprague's grocery store. I wondered why the store owners, like some of the competitors in the fly-casting tournament, used initials instead of first names. Personally, I wanted to be an Ian rather than an "I."

A well-dressed man walked toward me. I asked where the Antrim Lodge was.

He pointed. "Two blocks that way."

The Antrim Lodge wasn't as big as the Beaverkill House. The lodge's yellow sides shined like a weak sun. Its two porches—one for the roof, one for the wrap-around porch—seemed riffled with blood. But the riffles, I knew, were really red shingles. Hanging over the porch's railing were two pairs of waders.

Would I ever see waders hanging on the clotheslines of the Lower East Side?

Hoping I would, I walked up the lodge's steps and into a big dining room. About twenty round tables covered with white tablecloths filled the room. The walls of the room were dark and paneled. Two of the walls had rows of windows. Sunlight poured through the windows, but not enough of it to make the room seem bright, unless I compared it to the hallway of 97 Orchard Street. Like the hallway, the dining room was decorated with paintings of streams and forests, but also with paintings of trout, deer and birds. In the far corner of the room two men sat in front of small vises and tied flies. On the near side of the room was a wide staircase. Two waiters wearing white jackets and carrying trays full of glasses came out of the kitchen.

No one noticed me.

I smelled sweet smoke. I put my suitcase down and peeked into the adjoining room. Two men wearing sports jackets and ties smoked pipes and read books. They sat in red winged-back chairs. The chairs were on opposite ends of an oriental rug. The men and the chairs looked like bookends. No one sat on the brown leather couch or the wooden rocking chair. Hanging on the room's walls were more paintings of trout, deer and birds. To me, the room felt warm, like a real living room.

Loud, muffled laughter broke the quiet of the lodge. The laughter came from downstairs.

"And that's the damnest thing!" someone yelled.

Feeling lost, I wondered if I should leave and go home. I looked at one of the waiters. "Excuse me. Who do I see about Mr. Roberts room?"

"Ralph, the bartender. Downstairs."

I walked down the staircase and into a big, dim tavern, crammed with about ten round wooden tables. High up on the paneled walls were small windows. Below the windows were small electric lights that gave off about as much illumination as candles. Four men stood at the bar that stretched from one end of the tavern to the other. The men wore hip boots and sports jackets.

Was fly fishing, I wondered, a semiformal affair?

Above the bar was a long row of stuffed trout. About a foot above my head was a white ceiling that made me feel closed in. The ceiling was supported by four square pillars. Hanging on the pillars were mounted deer heads. I wondered how fake eyes could seem to shine with so much life. Behind the bar, Ralph cleaned glasses.

"I told you, Clay," a potbellied man said, "you're using too light of a leader."

"Wallace, hell no!" a tall man insisted. "I just didn't play him right. Had I been completely sober, I wouldn't have forgot to wade downstream of the fish." The man had combed his red hair to hide a big bald spot but hadn't done a very good job of it. To me, his combed-over hair looked more comical than the cartoon-like hair of the clock on the Metropolitan Life building.

"Clay, you're stubborn and you'll always be stubborn."

"Well a man's got a right to be."

The men laughed wildly, like hooligans, even though Clay's answer didn't seem funny to me.

Ralph noticed me, finally. I told him who I was. He opened a drawer and took out a key. "Room 7, second floor."

"Hey kid," Clay said, "that looks like a Leonard rod case." Clay grinned stupidly. He was drunk, obviously.

"It is."

"What's your name?"

I told him.

"Would you like to make some money?"

"How?"

"My new bride expects me to prove that I was fishing instead of drinking. I'll pay you a buck for every fish you catch."

"Sir, thank you, but I don't keep the fish I catch."

The hooligans laughed again.

I wondered if the fly-fishing world overlapped the hard-drinking world.

I hoped not.

"Kid, Ian, are you religious or something?" Wallace asked. "Even preachers kill fish."

"I'll tell you what," Clay said. "If the fish is over two pounds, I'll pay you two bucks."

"No thank you, sir."

"Where are you from?"

"New York."

"You're a city boy. With curly hair like that you must be Irish, or Scottish."

"Maybe Jewish," the short, bald man said.

Clay laughed, louder than before.

In my mind I saw myself punching him.

"Does he look like a Hebe to you?" Clay asked. "Besides, Hebes don't fish."

"Weren't Jesus' first disciples fishermen?" the bald man asked.

"That was a long time ago," Clay said. "Kid, what are you?"

"What you're not: a sober fly fisherman."

Clay glared at me.

I glared back.

"Kid, whatever you are," Clay said, "you took more of a ribbing than I could. You see, deep down inside, most of us drunks break like glass. You're all right with me."

The men were silent, suddenly, as if they waited for me to thank Clay for his compliment.

I said, "Well, I came here to fish."

"Do you know how to get to the Beaverkill?"

"No."

He gave me directions to the closest pool, the Forks, then said, "But just be careful, the bottom of the pool is real steep. We don't want to lose you. Ian, sometimes I'm a jerk, but to show you I'm not bad I'm going to share one of my secret holes. It's near the tail of the Forks, about twenty feet in front of the island. That's where this monster trout lives. If you land him, please take out my fly, for the fish's sake and for mine. It's my lucky fly, a Green Drake."

"For a buck I will."

Clay laughed. "A buck for a fly? Maybe you are a Hebe."

"You said it was your lucky fly."

The drunks laughed wildly.

I picked up my suitcase, walked upstairs and found my room. It was tenement-sized, with barely enough space for the bed, dresser and small table.

I sat on the bed and wondered, What kind of place am I in? A lodge? A nut house? A bad dream? Why did my mother die while obnoxious drunks lived? Yes, she too was once a, a drunk but—damn you God!

I cried.

Ten minutes later I wiped my last tears away. I stood up and told myself, I came to fish the Beaverkill and maybe find out what happened to Izzy—and that's what I'm going to do. And maybe I'll hook Clay's monster trout and do what Clay couldn't: land him.

Chapter 10

I put on my waders, took my Leonard rod and my fly box, walked outside and turned onto Bridge Street, a street lined with small, wood buildings. I felt as if I stepped back into the Wild West. But instead of gunslingers I saw a piano store. I went inside. The clerk welcomed me.

I said, "I'm surprised to see a piano store up here."

"We're people too."

"I'm sorry." I pointed to the baby grand. "Is that a Steinway? My mother had one."

"Do you play?"

"I never wanted to."

"What a shame."

"At least fly fishers, unlike aspiring musicians, didn't really get their hearts broken."

The clerk flinched. Abruptly, I left the store, walked to the fork in the road, bore left and marched toward the small, metal railroad bridge.

I walked faster, then marched onto the bridge and right above the upper Beaverkill. From bank to bank the gurgling river was fast, riffled and rocky, and about twice as wide as the Saw Mill. The trees that lined the banks had trunks that seemed too thin to support their dense layers of branches. The trees didn't look like the tall, umbrella-like trees I pictured at Cold Harbor but instead like overgrown Christmas trees. Their short branches didn't come close to forming a leafy roof and to closing out the blue sky.

To me, the Saw Mill was prettier than what I saw of the Beaverkill.

Below me a fly line shot out and unrolled. The leader swung left, as if the caster had moved his elbow too much. The fly landed gently, upstream of the line and just outside a swirling eddy. The fly drifted about two feet, then was retrieved. The angler below me wore a black suit, hip boots and a gray cap. He cast again, pointing the rod out at an angle of about 45 degrees to the water. The leader swung again, and the fly landed just outside the eddy.

I walked off the bridge and down the road. Following Clay's directions, I turned onto a narrow road and into a rocky clearing. The clearing, I quickly saw, was the north bank of the Beaverkill. Across the river, the far bank was about six feet high and tiled with big, flat rocks. Above the bank was a big corn field.

The angler under the bridge wrote something in a small notebook. He looked familiar. Could he be—yes he was, George M. L. La Branche!

I walked to him. "Mr. La Branche?"

He glanced at me. "Yes?" he said coldly.

"I saw you cast in a tournament."

"I cast in a lot of tournaments." He stuffed his notebook and pencil into his pocket.

"The one in Central Park that Izzy Klein won. Do you know what happened to Izzy?"

"Happened? I never saw or heard anything about him again. I'm very busy right now."

Busy? He was fishing. I was stupid for starting a conversation with a man with two middle initials.

I walked downstream. The river widened into the shape of a huge funnel. The funnel, I knew, was the Forks. The stem was the Willowemoc Creek. Like the upper Beaverkill, it was riffled from bank to bank and reminded me of a marching army.

Why, I wondered, did images of armies, instead of beauty, pop into my mind? Was it because I felt I was in foreign, hostile territory and about to do battle with the Beaverkill?

If so, at least I was glad the Willowemoc and Beaverkill armies didn't collide. Both slowed, surrendered and merged into a large plain of what seemed like neutral territory. The plain, however, was wrinkled by swirling eddies that soon changed directions, as if they were lost and couldn't find their way.

What formed the eddies?

The biggest eddy disappeared, suddenly, then popped up a few feet downstream.

Did eddies, like stars, form out of nowhere and then disappear?

Way downstream of the big eddy was a big, round island, covered with tall, uneven grass. The island looked as if it needed a haircut; then I remembered the tree trunks that blemished so many mountains.

Maybe nature was better off not having Man as a barber.

I walked to the pool's tail. Two currents flowed in opposite directions, like the lines of immigrants strolling up and down Orchard Street. Near the end of the tail, the upstream current about-faced and merged into the downstream current, and the whole river seemed to smooth into a football-field-long pane of sliding glass. At the end of the field, in the end zone, the river sloped sharply, sped up and reformed into a riffled, roaring army, more powerful than either of the armies flowing into the Forks.

Why was it, I wondered, the Beaverkill presented so many different faces of water? Was the Beaverkill like an exposed army donning different camouflages?

But the river had no real reason to feel exposed. A mountain protected it like a fortress wall and enabled the river to quickly surround the island; but instead of storming and sacking it, the river widened and gave way to it, then marched out of my view, without saying good-bye.

How could it? Did the Beaverkill, the sky or the mountains care about me? Wasn't I like an unloved insect trapped in the vastness of the world? Or was I just trapped in one small world? If so, how many different worlds were there on earth? As many as stars in the sky? Could people go from world to world and not get lost or trapped? After all, less than thirty yards away was my eventual way out of the world of the Beaverkill: the railroad tracks. But for better or worse, for the next two days I had no other world to go to.

I set up my Leonard and tied on a Green Drake wet fly. I decided, however, to go after Clay's monster trout later on. I walked back upstream, pulled line off the reel, and cast over the neutral plain. The eddies grabbed the line like a thief and wouldn't let go. I pointed the rod up and tried to mend. The eddies pulled more strongly. I pointed the rod lower and fed line through the guides. The fly sank.

No take. I retrieved and cast a few feet downstream. The eddies left the line for dead, surprisingly. To give life to my fly, I slowly pointed the rod up and down, up and down.

Again no take. Again I cast, landing the line between two eddies. The smooth water grabbed the line.

An hour later I still hadn't induced a take. Discouraged, I walked to the pool's tail. The sliding water glowed brighter than a sun-reflecting marble floor.

Was the Beaverkill, or at least what I saw of it, more beautiful than Penn Station?

Not sure, I waded into the tail. The rocks on the bottom were flat, as if the moving water had shaped them so people could walk on them. The water rushed gently around my legs. Instead of trying to push me back or to knock me over, it seemed to caress and welcome me.

A cloud blocked the sun. The water's glow faded and, like a chameleon, turned into the upside-down reflections of trees and the mountain. I thought it strange that less light brought out more images. The reflected trees and mountain looked as if they were sinking into the earth. Suddenly I didn't know if I was in the bottom of a wide valley or at the top.

Or was I in both places at once?

I wished every time something bad happened, I could look at a reflection and the world would be upside-down. And then if I could also change the river's direction maybe I could bring my mother and all the dead soldiers back to life.

But unlike flowing water, the reflections seemed cemented in place.

I looked at the rushing tail. Instead of a marching army, I saw shattered, foamy glass.

A take! I snapped the rod up and back. The line went limp. I had jerked the fly out of the trout's mouth. I cursed myself, again cast, then thought of how the Forks was made up of four different faces: the marching armies, the eddies, the two-way avenue, the sliding glass. Did the Beaverkill have as many faces as Fifth Avenue had mansions?

Probably not. Still, the river was as beautiful as the avenue. And yet I still felt so alone. Was it because I had no one to talk to or listen to?

I listened to the world of the river. The wind-rustled trees sounded like the cymbals of an orchestra. Downstream a bird sang but only the same two notes. On the near bank a bird shrieked, out of key with everything else in the river world. A third bird sang a soft note at different tempos. The notes sounded like Morse Code. If it was code, the bird surely wasn't signaling the other two birds because they didn't seem to answer. Unlike the blinking stars in Doc's story, different birds didn't seem to be on speaking terms.

I waded downstream. Though I knew I couldn't, I wanted to try to cast all the way to the far bank. I false cast, shooting more and more line, then cast forward and let go of the line.

The fly landed about a quarter of the way to the bank. Not even Izzy could have come close to reaching the bank. The fly drifted downstream. The sun shined down again, the reflections on the water faded back into a glow, and the small world was right-side-up again. I pointed the rod up. The line tightened, then glided toward the far bank. A take! Smoothly, I pulled the rod up, piercing the hook into the trout's soft mouth. I reeled up slack line, then pointed the rod lower and let the fish run. The reel clicked, then shrieked like a bird. The trout's will to fight surged through the line. My beautiful Leonard seemed to throb with the heart of a beast. I clenched the rod handle. The trout slowed, finally. I tried to point the rod up but couldn't raise the tip more than a few inches. I tried to point it to the side. Surprisingly, I could. The trout broke for the near bank. Again I tried to point the rod up. I couldn't. Gently, I inched the rod tip to the side. The trout turned suddenly and broke for the far bank. I tried to turn the reel's handle. The trout yanked back, bending the rod into a half circle.

Back and forth he swam, never jumping, never taking more line, never letting me point the rod higher and bring him closer.

So he had a strategy: to not fully fight and tire himself out. Somehow he knew to do this. How many fights had he been in before?

I decided to match his strategy and not exert all my energy. In effect, we were in an extra-inning tie, with neither of us trying to hit a home run. Inning after inning I turned the trout. He swam bank to bank and, seeming to acknowledge the standoff, he pulled back steadily. My Leonard rod seemed to throb in sync with my beating heart.

Was I in a game without an end? But in fishing, games weren't called because of darkness. I had to gamble and try to win.

Or lose.

"Need help!?" someone yelled out.

I glanced back. An angler stood on the bank. He had long gray hair. He was stocky and of average height. He wore a green jacket and what looked like a gray baseball cap.

I answered, "Sure."

The angler jogged downstream. I turned the trout toward the near bank. The angler stepped into the river, held his net just below the surface, waited, then lunged. The big brown trout was in his net. The tie was broken. But I had help; so did I really win?

I waded to the bank. The trout had two Green Drake flies in his mouth.

"Thanks, mister." The man's cap wasn't a Confederate hat.

The angler pulled out my fly. "A monster brown."

"Someone told me he likes Green Drakes."

The angler held up the trout. "He's one for the wall."

The trout opened and closed his mouth, as if gasping for air.

"I'd like to let him go."

"A fish like this?" The angler had a creel.

"A fish like this deserves to live." I pulled out Clay's Green Drake and put it in my fly box.

The angler held the trout underwater, then let him go. "I'm Ray."

He looked a little older than my father. His shallow, grayish eyes didn't seem to have sockets. His round face was as flat as a frying pan. He looked like the man in the moon.

"I'm Ian."

"I watched you. You're a hell of a caster." His voice was rough, as if sandpaper lined his throat. He glanced at my Leonard rod. "You from New York?" he asked coldly.

At least he wasn't drunk. "Yes, I am. The rod was a gift."

"Welcome."

His top teeth were as white and as straight as a picket fence, but his bottom teeth were stained and crooked.

His top teeth, I assumed, were fake. "Sir—"

"Ray."

"Ray, I'm looking for an old friend of mine. His name is Izzy." I described Izzy, then added, "He's the greatest fly caster I ever saw."

"No, I don't think I've ever seen him."

"Do you know the man upstream, wearing the dark suit?"

"Mr. La Branche? I'm a carpenter. I once worked on his fishing club's house. He's a strange bird, a rich guy who's in love with trying to prove that you can take trout on fast, riffled water with dry flies."

"Can you?"

"In England the rivers and streams are slower and smoother. But here, how can trout see a dry through riffles? To me, La Branche's theories are profane. And so is buying up land and closing it off from the public. This river is God's. What if a minister bought pews and closed off part of his church? That too would be profane, damn it!"

He spoke forcefully, as if possessed. To be fair, however, not as possessed as a vote-hungry politician or a devil-fearing preacher.

If he is so against the fishing clubs, I thought, he shouldn't work for them and accept their money. And I should hide that my father is sort of rich.

I asked, "What about the lower Beaverkill? Has anyone closed off parts of that?"

"The Barnharts. Their long pool is probably the most beautiful pool on the whole river. When I was younger I poached it a few times."

"Were you ever caught?"

"Once. They threatened to have me locked up, so a week later I poached it again." He laughed, but not as loudly as Clay and the drunk hooligans.

"Where does the Beaverkill start?"

"It starts from rain water as a tiny brook about two thousand feet up between Graham and Double Top mountains."

Maybe, I thought, mountains were created to form rivers.

"Twelve miles later," Ray went on, "the brook meets Alder Creek and becomes a little river. The little river meets more creeks and gets bigger and bigger. I guess that's why the Lenni-Lenape Indians, who lived near these very banks and fished for shad, called the river the Whelenaughwemack, which means the river that washes itself clean."

"What happened to the Indians?"

"Some were killed by the first white settlers. Then the Indians and the settlers made peace and tried to become friends. Ironically, the friendship killed even more Indians. You see, Ian, the settlers didn't bring just guns, they also brought germs and diseases that the Indians couldn't fight. Since the Indians had no way of knowing why they were dying, many assumed their gods had cursed them for becoming friends with their enemies; so they sold their land to a fellow named Hardenbergh, and they moved up into the mountains. Over the years more and more Indians migrated to the West, where their ancestors came from. Besides an untarnished forest, the Indians left behind the names of some of the rivers and creeks. In 1751 Hardenbergh broke up the land into lots and sold them. After the Revolutionary War, white people, including my grandfather, were drawn to the region's beauty and settled here. But the beauty, or maybe the Indians the settlers killed, was also a curse that attracted timber companies. The companies cut down much of the beauty, poured sawdust in the river, and floated the timber on rafts down to the Delaware River. Before long most of the usable Hemlock near the banks was gone, so the timber companies started closing down, especially when the railroads came. My father may have been the last rafter thrown from his raft and killed when he hit his head on a rock. That happened right there in those rapids." He pointed to the rushing water at the end of the tail. "The next day I came here to say good-bye to him. A man was fishing right here. I told him what happened to my father. Then he gave me a quick casting lesson and let me fish for a while. I've been fishing ever since; and after all these years, every time I fish this tail I feel close to my father, as if the rushing water is really him talking to me."

I thought of how I too often wondered if my mother was with me when I fished. Maybe my wondering wasn't so crazy after all.

Ray stared at the rapids. He seemed hypnotized.

I wanted to know more about the Beaverkill, but not wanting to break Ray's spell, I too stared at the rapids and listened for voices.

I didn't hear any.

"And so, Ian, the rafters left, but the curse remained. The tannin in the young Hemlocks along the feeder creeks attracted a new industry. Tanneries popped up like measles and polluted the river with chemicals. Like vultures, the tanneries ravished the hemlocks. Starving for tannin, the tanneries also had to leave; and we anglers were sure the river would again wash itself clean, but I guess it couldn't wash off the curse's stain. Today we have these damn acid factories that many of us wish would burn to ashes and leave things the way God made them."

No wonder, I thought, he doesn't like haircuts. But if it wasn't for treecuts, he wouldn't have wood to build things. But I didn't come to the Beaverkill to take sides, even though I find it hard to believe in the curse.

I wanted to change the topic. "What's the next pool downstream like?"

"Ferdon's Eddy. Even though it's private land, the family lets anglers fish it."

"How can I get to it?"

"Walk. I'll show you."

We left the Forks and turned onto the dirt road. The densely packed trees blocked most of the sight of the river, but little of its roaring sound. The marching army comforted me like music, maybe because I knew that, instead of flesh and bone, the soldiers were made of riffles and foam and would never get shot.

We walked down a steep, narrow road and into a dirt clearing. In front of us was Ferdon's Eddy. The pool was narrower than the Forks. The far bank was the bottom of a long, curving mountain. Way downstream, the top of the mountain sloped down, like a line of a giant triangle.

The roaring water marched into the pool, slowed but never surrendered completely. From mouth to tail, the water was riffled gently. Ferdon's Eddy, unlike the Forks, wore only one long face.

"You can take the best water," Ray said. "Just below the mouth."

I waded into the pool. The water, suddenly up to my waist, didn't try to knock me down or, for that matter, to caress me. It seemed neutral about my being there.

"Don't worry," Ray said. "It doesn't get much deeper."

I waded farther out. The dirt-brown water was the color of tea but not dark enough to hide the small rocks on the river bottom. The rocks weren't dissolving like cubes of sugar. Streaks of reflected sunlight flowed past me. The streaks looked like an invasion of electricly-lit caterpillars.

Ray waded directly downstream of me, about thirty yards away. At the same time, we fed line into the current. Ray cast with the rod pointing out, like B. L. Richards. The line formed a wide loop and unrolled behind him. He cast the rod forward, smoothly and effortlessly, and landed his fly across and slightly downstream, about 35 feet away.

I didn't want to show up Ray and try to cast all the way to the far bank. Instead, I duplicated his cast and also landed my fly about 35 feet downstream. Because the pool was one current, I didn't mend as my fly swung downstream.

I retrieved and cast, again and again. No takes. I watched Ray. Almost by magic, we cast in unison. When Ray waded five feet downstream, I did too; so though Ray and I didn't speak, I felt our motions did.

The Beaverkill no longer seemed so big or scary.

I looked at the riffles. Though made from flowing water, the riffles were locked in place, as if an unchangeable form, some sort of cookie cutter, shaped the water.

Ray's line tightened. He swung the rod up and back, smoothly. A rainbow jumped about three feet. Ray lowered the rod and reeled in slack line. The rainbow shook his head, plunged and broke toward the far bank. Ray waded downstream, pointed his rod at the trout and let him run. As soon as the whirring sound of the reel slowed, Ray, still wading downstream, turned the trout and reeled in line, then again let the trout run. Ray repeated his fish-fighting tactic, again and again. Though he didn't speak during the fight, his calm motions told me he had fought and beaten hundreds of trout.

The rainbow was at Ray's feet. Ray landed the rainbow in his net.

"That one is for my wife!" Ray pulled out his fly. Using his net as a hammer, he banged the trout right between the eyes. The trout lay still. Ray put it in his creel.

"Three more to go!"

A half hour later, Ray landed a second trout. "That's for my daughter."

The sun, I noticed, had retreated behind the mountain. The water was now mud-brown, the color of coffee. The electric caterpillars had vanished. Taking their place were thousands of small flies in close formation. The flies' opaque wings stood straight up. Like the riffled water of the Beaverkill, the flies also looked like an army, or maybe I should say a miniature, floating navy.

How was it all the ships appeared at the same time? Did they have a way of talking to each other, of signaling each other?

The flies seemed glued to the water. They weren't ready to fly. To me it didn't seem right that nature, in effect, made them sitting ducks—that is, if Mr. La Branche was right.

I looked for trout rises. I didn't see any. Ray, not Mr. La Branche, was right.

A trout grabbed my fly. Calmly, I swung my rod up and set the hook. Wading downstream of the trout, I turned him several times, bringing him closer and closer. This fight, I knew, wasn't going to be a standoff. A few minutes later, I landed a sixteen-inch rainbow in my hand. I pulled my fly out of his mouth and thought, Don't trout eat living things? Why shouldn't I give him to Ray? I owe him for welcoming me. Feeding his family can't be wrong. But look how the trout gasps for air. To him, am I uglier than the four-eyed monster?

I let the trout go. A few minutes later, Ray caught a third rainbow, then reeled in line and waded toward the bank.

The flies were still stuck on the water. A trout rose and sipped one. I reeled in my line and saw another rise. Mr. La Branche was right, after all. Nature, it seemed, was unfair, unless it formed riffled water to make it harder for trout to see flies.

I waded to the bank.

"Three fish ain't bad for an hour's work," Ray said. "Especially since fishing sure beats sawing wood."

"I guess you have two kids?"

"Two girls. One can't fish for a damn. You fishing tomorrow?"

"Yes."

"I'll meet you at the Forks, say about nine?"

"Sure."

"Where you staying?"

I told him.

"You're gonna eat there?"

Was he inviting me to dinner? Even though Ray wasn't an immigrant, I knew I would feel out-of-place eating with his family, especially without my mother. Besides, what if Ray asked if my father was rich?

I decided to lie. "Yes, I'm meeting someone at the Lodge."

"Their Shepherd's Pie is real good."

We walked up to the dirt road.

"Well, I go that way." Ray pointed behind him.

"Thanks, Ray."

"For what?"

"For, for making me glad I came to the Beaverkill."

"Don't get soft on me. The Beaverkill has a way of growing on people. Don't know why, but it always has and always will."

I walked back to the lodge, wondering if I should keep Clay's lucky fly.

Chapter 11

I didn't see Clay in the dining room. Thankful, I sat by myself at a corner table and ordered dinner. Feeling out of place, I opened Huckleberry Finn and read. Huck was walking with Buck, who, for no apparent reason, shoots at Harvey Shepherdson. Huck is surprised. Buck says that his family and the Shepherdson family are trying to kill each other off, even though no one remembers how the feud started.

The waiter served my Shepherd's Pie. The creamed potatoes were heavy and spicy, the way I liked. The meat was sweet. Again I read, but soon, instead of hearing the words of Mark Twain, I heard the words of the people sitting near me.

"Whirling Eddy is really fishing well right now. ... Those dry flies aren't worth a damn. ... There ought to be a law against these worm fishermen taking so many fish. ... I don't care what the law says. I fish on Sundays. ... With all these women fishing nowadays, pretty soon women will want to play in the major leagues. ... "

One by one, the other diners finished eating. Many went downstairs to the tavern. A few, however, went to the living room. When I finished, I went to my room, opened Huck Finn, then closed it. I didn't want to be alone.

Maybe I should go down and see what's going on in the living room. After all, it's filled with anglers, like me.

I went downstairs. Six men sat in the living room. A man wearing a tweed jacket and smoking a pipe looked at me. He had a big nose and a narrow face. If Ray's face was on the moon, this man's was on the pointy end of a football. Ray, I thought, got the better end of the deal. There was only one moon and it didn't get kicked around. Luckily, the man didn't have the cauliflower ears of the old man sitting in a winged-back chair. Had he, he would have looked like a mouse.

"Come in young man," the pointy-faced man said. "We're trading stories."

I walked in and sat on the floor.

"Get a chair from the dining room," the man said. "I'll wait."

I got a chair. The men introduced themselves. The pipe smoker was John. The old man was Gus. The others were Hank, Colin, Steve and Thomas.

"Tonight my story is a short one," John said. "Once upon a time there was a farmer married to a beautiful woman he loved to show off, but one day the woman left him for another man, and the farmer became the butt of jokes. He was so angry, he stopped people from fishing the long pool of the upper Beaverkill that ran through his farm. Then one day a beautiful woman rode up on horseback. She carried a fly rod and told the farmer that her husband had left her with two children to feed. The farmer, intoxicated by her beauty, invited her to fish his pool. As she fished, he couldn't take his eyes off her. She landed three big trout. Later, she offered the farmer one. The farmer told her to keep all the fish for her children and invited her to come back whenever she wanted.

"She often did, and the farmer fell more and more in love with her. Soon he began to wonder where she lived, so one day, after she rode away, he got in his buggy and followed her. He was surprised when she rode to Ferdon's Eddy, got off her horse, and walked to a man who was sitting on the bank. The man was drinking whiskey out of a bottle. The beautiful woman kissed him, opened his creel and put her trout inside. The woman then got on her horse and rode off. The drunken angler got up and staggered to the Antrim bar right downstairs. The farmer followed him. The drunken angler put the trout on the bar and boasted that he was the best angler the Beaverkill had ever seen.

"Crushed, the farmer rode back to his farm. A few days later he saw the beautiful woman fishing his pool. And that was the last time anyone saw her alive. Later, the farmer told the police he found her floating face down. Since there was a big bruise on her head, the police had no choice but to accept that the woman fell and hit her head on one of the big rocks.

"Did she? Well, before long the farmer began drinking heavily. One day he got real drunk and went out and fished. A week later his brother found him floating on his back and looking up at the sky. But he really wasn't looking at anything at all. He had drowned.

"About a year later someone bought the farm and opened the pool to all anglers. But soon the only anglers who came were ones who didn't know the story, because to this day anglers swear that at night they see two ghosts fishing, a man and a woman, but always at opposite ends of the pool. And so the moral of the story is—"

"John, wait," Henry said. "The moral should explain itself."

"John, Henry's right," Colin said.

"All right," John said coldly. "I won't say anything more."

"I think the story is missing something," Gus said.

"Gus, you're always complaining," John said. "What's missing?"

"I don't know. Besides, no one believes in ghosts anymore. We're not kids."

"And no one believes in your talking fish," John insisted.

"It depends on how you define believe," Gus said.

Personally, I didn't mind the business about ghosts. After all, a ghost played a crucial role in Hamlet. Though I wasn't a critic, I felt the story was contrived and would never make it into the annals of American literature. But I wasn't going to tell John that, especially because his telling the story was such a spirited effort, like that of the travelers in the Canterbury Tales.

I wondered if I was back in the world of the Middle Ages.

John looked at me. "What about you, Ian?"

"Me? I don't have any stories."

"Everyone has stories," Hank said. "They just don't always know it."

Did I? I closed my eyes. I remembered Doc's story. But could I tell it as well as Doc? I didn't think so, but didn't I want to be a writer? Yes, but not an actor.

"He does have a story," Thomas said. "I can see it in his face."

I pleaded, "I've never told a story before."

"Well, there's nothing to be scared about," John said.

A hundred pair of eyes seemed to stare at me.

"I, ah, I, ah—well, the only story I know is about how a man became an angler, but I don't even know the man's real name, so I'll use his nickname: Doc."

"And the story—does it have a name?" John asked.

"No."

"Make up one."

I thought for a moment. "'An Angler From The American Civil War.' How's that?"

"Fine," Gus said.

"Now when Doc was a young man he cared about only one thing: drinking ... "

And so, feeling nervous, I retold Doc's story. The funny thing was, the deeper I got into the story, the less nervous I became, maybe because I seemed to remember every one of Doc's words, maybe because I saw fascination in my fellow anglers' faces. It therefore became easier and easier for me to look into their wide-open eyes.

" ... He used the money to go back to school and eventually became a doctor and got the nickname Doc."

The room was silent. Some anglers looked down, others looked right at me. I tried to read their expressions but couldn't. Had I messed up Doc's story? If so, I wanted to apologize to him.

"Now that was the damnedest fishing story I ever heard," Hank said, finally.

"Damn right it was," Thomas said.

"You boys shouldn't be cursing after hearing a story like that," Gus said.

"The old man is right," John said. "I'm sorry, Ian."

"But to me," Gus said, "it was really a war story."

"A story can be about both war and fishing," John said.

"No," Gus stated. "Fishing and war don't go together."

"Well, evidently you're wrong," Hank said. "Right Ian?"

"I never really thought about it."

"You should've before you told your story," Gus insisted.

I said, "I'm sorry."

"Ian, you don't have to apologize to me," Hank said.

"Me too," John added. "Well, I think now I'm ready to sleep like a baby."

We said good night and went up to our rooms.

I got into bed and wondered if I would ever be able to write a story as good as Doc's, especially because I would never volunteer to go to war. I closed my eyes and dreamed about being a famous writer, but the next thing I knew, morning sunlight shined through the window. I got out of bed, dressed and went downstairs.

John, Hank, and Gus sat at a table. They waved to me and invited me to eat breakfast with them. I sat down and felt like I was a member of their club.

They asked about me. I told them where I lived and where I went to school. As I did, I glanced around the room. I didn't see Clay. Hank asked what I wanted to be. Afraid they would laugh if I told them I wanted to be a writer, I answered. "A lawyer, like my father."

"Being a lawyer is good," John said.

"I think there's already too many lawyers," Gus said.

I smiled. "Yeah, maybe. By the way, I'm hoping to find someone." I described Izzy.

No one recalled seeing him. Disappointed, I finished eating.

"Where are you off to fish, Ian?" John asked.

Was he inviting me to fish with him? If so, I could invite him to fish the Forks. But John was well-dressed and well-spoken. Ray, therefore, would think he was well-off and probably wouldn't like him. I wished I could be in two places at once.

I said, "I'm meeting someone at the Forks."

Ray wasn't at the Forks when I got there. I set up my Leonard rod and cast over the swirling eddies. The eddies, however, weren't as strong as they were the day before; and neither were the armies flowing into the pool. Unlike the stone faces of mansions, the faces of the river had faded closer to anonymity, but I still recognized them.

Twenty minutes later, Ray still hadn't arrived.

Had he deserted me, like Izzy? If so, why? Had I said the wrong thing? Or had he just assumed that I was a rich kid from New York?

A fly line unrolled upstream. Was it Ray's?

I walked upstream. Mr. La Branche stood in the river. Tucking his rod in his armpit, he wrote something in a small book.

I yelled out, "I think you're right!"

"About what?"

"Dry flies and fast water."

"Dry flies and fast water. I like the ring of that."

I told him about the rises I saw on Ferdon's Eddy.

"Right now," he said, "I'm trying to create my own hatch of flies by casting to the same spot over and over again."

Though I didn't know if he wanted me to, I walked to him.

"Watch," he said.

He cast. Again the loop curved downstream. "I'm sorry," he said. "Did you tell me your name yesterday?"

"My name is Ian."

"Ian, you see, according to my theory, closely matching artificial flies to hatched ones isn't crucial. I've cut open trout and found little sticks and different insects in their stomachs; so I think what's crucial to catching trout is landing the fly gently on the right spot, and then drifting the fly without drag." Mr. La Branche's voice sounded calm but passionate. I was impressed at how well he fit the opposite tones together.

"To get the fly to land gently," he continued, "I aim about five feet over the target and slightly downward. You see, Ian, the trick is to get the line to land first and to therefore slow the leader and fly as they float down. Right now I'm landing my fly three feet upstream of that long seam. To get a longer drift, I'm curving my casts so the fly lands downstream of the line."

"I didn't know a person can curve his casts."

"To make a downstream curve, I cast with the rod forty-five degrees to the ground. Then I let go of the line before I stop my cast and gently pull back the rod. To make an upstream curve, I don't let go of the line until I stop my cast. The more horizontally I hold the rod, the more my cast will curve. Sounds easy, doesn't it?"

"I don't know."

"Curving my casts has taken me months and months of experiments."

I thought of my own casting experiments. Suddenly I admired Mr. La Branche, in spite of his two middle initials and his dressing like a dandy.

He took out his gold pocket watch. "It's almost ten. I have to meet Mr. Theodore Gordon at the Covered Bridge Pool."

"The writer?"

"So you heard of him?"

"Kind of."

"He's also a great flytier. We're having a running debate on how to fish dry flies. Ian, why don't you come with me, and I'll tell you more on the way."

Ray, I assumed, wasn't coming, so why should I miss a golden opportunity to learn about dry-fly fishing and to see another pool? Besides, Mr. Gordon was a writer. I had never met a real writer.

I said, "Sure."

Mr. La Branche owned a brand-new black Ford. We put our rods in the back seat. Ray strolled down the road, as if he had all the time in the world—until he saw me and glared.

I wanted to apologize to him, even though he was an hour late.

"How are you, Ray?" Mr. La Branche yelled out.

"Fine," Ray answered coldly.

"We'll have some more work for you at the club."

I got in the car. Mr. La Branche drove back toward town, then turned left and drove past a long row of quaint homes with porches; and I realized I was beginning to like the look of a small town. Mr. La Branche turned onto a narrow road that ran alongside a river. The river had a lot of riffles and runs. The bank was lined with trees, posted with small signs that read: Fishing And Hunting Prohibited.

I asked. "Is that the upper Beaverkill?"

"Yes."

On both sides of the river were cornfields and farmhouses. Which farm, I wondered, was owned by the farmer in John's story? I looked back at the river. Which pool is haunted? This one? But ghosts aren't real. What a fool I am for believing, even for a second, all of John's story.

"You see," Mr. La Branche said, "to get trout to see dries on fast water, we have to tie them differently than they're tied in England. Our dries have to float higher on the water ... "

Mr. La Branche told me how his experiments led him to believe some of the best places to fish dry flies were the mouths and tails of pools. Without stopping for a breath, he explained how to fish those parts.

I was lost in his explanations, the way I once was in Izzy's. Was Mr. La Branche a mad scientist? If so, did I want to be his mad pupil?

Thinking I didn't, I looked forward to reaching the Covered Bridge Pool.

"Ian, to summarize, I think the order of importance to fishing dry flies is: action, position, size, form and, last, color. Now, Mr. Gordon does not agree with me. He thinks the order is size, form and color."

"What made you come to these conclusions?"

"You mean theories. My gut, at first. We're here."

Mr. La Branche drove down a hill then through a one-lane, covered wooden bridge. I felt as if we drove through a rattling barn. I imagined miniature Brooklyn Bridges connecting the banks of Beaverkill, but I didn't like the images, especially when Mr. La Branche parked on a clearing and I saw how beautifully the wooden bridge matched the pool. Besides, I didn't like the ring of the name: Suspension Bridge Pool.

"That's Mr. Gordon's car." Mr. La Branche pointed to an older-model Ford.

The pool was about half the size of the Forks. Its turquoise-colored water looked as if it flowed in from the Mediterranean. The far bank of the pool was a high cliff, divided in half by a narrow waterfall and covered with small trees and bushes. Suddenly I felt I was in the Hanging Garden of Babylon. But the garden, I remembered, was ancient and man-made. Wanting to be closer to modern times and to natural beauty, I imagined I was on the Tahitian island Fletcher Christian and his mutineers sailed to.

The tail of the pool narrowed, sped up and rushed down what seemed a long, long sliding pond that dropped into an unseen abyss.

How high up was I? I wondered. On the top of the world? If so, it wasn't because an upside-down reflection seemed to put me there, but because the Covered Bridge Pool, like the Forks, was one of the most beautiful places on earth—so beautiful that only a God could have created it? God didn't create Penn Station. So man and God—if there was a God—created beautiful things and horrible things like wars and earthquakes.

I hoped that an earthquake never ripped the Beaverkill apart so, like Humpty Dumpty, it couldn't be put back together again; and that dead soldiers never lay on the banks, the way dead soldiers once lay on the banks of Antietam, Manassas, Chickamauga. What was it about rivers that made them sites of so many bloody battles? Was it because armies tried, often in vain, to use them as barriers? Would armies one day climb down the steep bank of this pool and attack and be picked off by snipers? The survivors, at least, would then be protected by the walls of the covered bridge. The Union soldiers who crossed the Antietam stone bridge weren't so lucky, even if, as my father said, they fought on a battlefield of great ideas.

Thankfully, no great ideas were on the Covered Bridge Pool. Armies therefore wouldn't march up the narrow mountain road and kill and die just to capture a small piece of beauty. The pool's only strategic importance was to anglers, not to generals. And if a general was also an angler, he wouldn't want his soldiers to bleed and bloody the turquoise water.

Maybe Gus was right: war and fishing stories weren't meant to go together. If I wrote a fishing story about the pool, I would leave out all hint of war and put in long descriptions of beauty.

But could I?

Using the pen and paper of my mind, I tried to describe the pool. My mind, however, whitened into a blank sheet. Feeling like a failure, I wondered, if great descriptive writing, like Cooper's, is more beautiful than nature, maybe writing and nature can't be judged against each other because they are, in the end, different things, linked by an invisible bridge. Is this bridge stone or suspension? Or is it lacking shape or form? If so, how does it connect things? Certainly not by charging tolls. But regardless of how they're connected, if writing is created by man, while nature is created by a power I can't understand, which is more important? Nature? After all, it came first. But nature is plentiful. Great writing isn't, maybe because it has to be revised four, five, or even ten times. Does nature have to be revised?

"Let's walk to the mouth," Mr. La Branche said.

The pool semi-circled to the right. Upstream of the pool was a long, narrow run. Standing in the end of the run was a small man wearing a plaid jacket and a gray cap. His hair and mustache were streaked with gray. He looked about ten years older than my father.

"Theodore!" Mr. La Branche called.

"George, who's your friend?"

"Ian. He has the curiosity to become a great angler."

I was proud.

"Nice to meet you," Mr. Gordon said.

We shook hands. His grip was weak, like a girl's. He looked suddenly ten years younger than my father, maybe because of his diminutive size or because of the way the sunlight brightened his smooth, baby-white face.

"George, here are the flies I tied for you." Mr. Gordon handed Mr. La Branche a small matchbox.

"Thank you. The hatch should start soon."

"Yes. I already tied on my fly." Mr. Gordon held up a tiny, dark-brown fly. "Here's the one I tied for you." Mr. Gordon spoke softly, as if his voice were a fly he was scared of splashing on the water. He opened his silver fly box, took out a fly and gave it to Mr. La Branche.

Mr. La Branche studied the fly, then tied it on.

"Theodore, I see two good seams: the vertical one at the mouth and the horizontal one up there."

"Fine. Ten minutes at each seam. Ian, we're having a sort of contest. My fly is a little bigger and darker than those that are going to soon hatch. Let's get ready. Ian why don't you stand in the middle. Let us know when ten minutes have passed."

"Sure."

"George, how are things at the club?" Mr. Gordon asked.

"We had a knockdown, drag-out debate last night over your last article. Some members just don't want to see that there might be a new truth to fishing dry flies. Instead, they prefer to sit in judgment and look down at us."

"George, they're just people, like me and, and—look, the hatch!"

Mr. La Branche walked upstream.

Mr. Gordon, I soon saw, was a good caster but not as good as Mr. La Branche. Several times his fly missed the seam or splashed on the water.

Ten minutes later the anglers switched positions. As I watched the contest, I wondered if I witnessed history being made. If so, how important was the history in the scope of the history of the wide world? It certainly didn't compare to Gettysburg, or perhaps even to the Hudson River celebration. But at least at the Covered Bridge Pool, I was the only witness. Besides, was there any way to tell how big small histories would one day become?

Three more times Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon switched positions. When the contest was over, Mr. La Branche had hooked four trout but lost one. Mr. Gordon had hooked and landed two trout. Both anglers released their catch.

"George, if you had a softer rod, that trout wouldn't have broken off."

"If I had a softer rod I wouldn't have been able to hit the target so many times."

"The fish that count are the ones an angler lands."

"Not to me."

Mr. Gordon smiled. "Stubborn as ever."

"Maybe, but remember: I believed in you when almost no one else did."

"Let's fish for the love of it," Mr. Gordon said. "Ian, take my favorite spot, the tail."

I walked downstream and studied the tail. It had many seams. I decided, therefore, to fan cast the tail with Doc's backwards streamer. And so I cast about 20 feet straight across, let my fly swing directly downstream, then waited, gently moving the rod tip up and down. Finally, I retrieved my fly, cast five feet farther and let my fly swing downstream in a wider arc.

I continued the fishing cycle until my cast almost reached the bank, then I waded five feet downstream and restarted another cycle.

An hour or so later, I didn't have a single take even though Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon each had several. Embarrassed, I was angry at myself for choosing the wrong strategy. Wanting to prove to the men I was a real angler, I decided to change strategies and cast directly to some of the seams. I retrieved my line. It felt heavy, as if my fly were caught on something. I pointed the rod up. The line seemed to pull back. A massive brown trout jumped. Quickly, I lowered the rod and reeled in slack line. Knowing I had to keep the brown out of the fast tail water, I baby-stepped backwards toward the bank, then jogged downstream, reeling in more and more line. The brown broke upstream for slower water. The first tactical advantage went to me. Pointing the rod up, feeling it throb, I slowed my whirling reel with my palm and kept steady pressure on the brown. He broke for the far bank. I lowered the rod, waited, and turned him. The throbbing weakened into a pulse. Reeling in line, I quickly waded to the middle of the pool. The brown swam in a small oval. I waded right up to him. He swam right into my hand, as if he knew I was going to let him go and wanted to say hello. He was as big as Clay's monster trout. I held him up.

Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon applauded. I held the trout underwater and let him go. Like Mr. Rainbow, he didn't seem to want to leave, as if he liked being with me. Still, I splashed water and chased him away.

A few minutes later Mr. La Branche yelled, "Ian, I have to head back."

I reeled in my line and walked upstream.

"Ian, what did you catch the brown on?" Mr. Gordon asked.

I showed him Doc's streamer. "Mr. Gordon, could you tie the fly for me?"

Mr. Gordon studied the fly. His brow wrinkled. He looked older again. "Backwards? Interesting. I've never seen anything like it. Who tied it for you?"

"A drunk who fought in the Civil War, then became an angler and a doctor."

"Give me your address, Ian, and I'll tie and send some to you. In the meantime, here's some dry flies for you to practice with."

"Thanks, Mr. Gordon."

Mr. La Branche and I rode back through the covered bridge.

"Ian, what does your father do?"

"He's a lawyer."

"I'm in investment banking. Is that what you want to be, a lawyer?"

I decided to tell Mr. La Branche I wanted to be a writer.

He grinned.

Was he laughing at my dream?

"I envy Mr. Gordon for being a writer," Mr. La Branche said.

"So you don't think I'm crazy for also wanting to be one?"

"In the end, we all have to do what we believe in. Mr. Gordon could have been successful in business, but he chose not to. True, I don't understand how he can live with just a dog on the Neversink River. It must be lonely as hell, especially during the winter. He used to fish with a woman. I think she broke his heart and that's why he shuts people out. But who knows? Maybe his heart was broken for a reason, because he needs the time alone to write. One day he'll be remembered for revolutionizing fly fishing in America."

Will wanting to be an angler and a writer, I wondered, lead me to living alone, like Mr. Gordon?

We passed another farm.

Could Mr. Gordon really be the ghost in John's story? Is that why his skin is so pale and why his age seemed to keep changing?

"What will I be remembered for," Mr. La Branche muttered. "Making money?"

"But aren't you writing something?"

"Just taking notes. I'm not a writer, even though Mr. Gordon wants me to write an article."

"Why don't you?"

"Ian, supposing at the end of my long, long day, it's proven that on fast water, wet flies take more fish than dries? Or supposing it's proven the size, form and color of the fly are more important than the presentation? What a fool I'll look like. I wouldn't want to publish anything unless I know I'm right; and sometimes, sometimes, I get so tired of all my experiments. Sometimes I wonder just what the hell I'm doing. When I fish I don't even see the beauty of the rivers anymore. I don't, don't—."

A silence. For me, an uncomfortable one. I tried to think of the right words to say. Finally they came to me. "But you do see the beauty of your experiments."

He smiled. "I guess that's one way to look at it."

Another silence. This one wasn't uncomfortable. I looked at the Beaverkill River and wished I could turn into a bird and see the whole river in a few hours.

"Ian, where can I drop you off?"

I still hoped to see Ray. "At the Forks. I have a few hours before my train."

"Next season would you like to fish at my club?"

"Sure, Mr. La Branche."

He reached into his pocket and took out a business card. "Next spring telephone me and we'll arrange something."

We reached the Forks and said good-bye. His firm handshake, his warm eyes, his gentle nod told me his invitation was sincere. Grateful, I walked to the banks of the Forks. Ray wasn't there. My gratitude gave way to disappointment. I tied on one of Mr. Gordon's dry flies and fished the tail, often looking over my shoulder and hoping Ray appeared.

Like Izzy, he didn't.

I looked at the fast rapids and wondered how many men, beside Ray's father, were killed there. Maybe throwing men from their rafts the Beaverkill's way of striking back at men for cutting down trees, for killing Indians.

I walked to Ferdon's Eddy. Ray wasn't there. I waded below the mouth and practiced what Mr. La Branche had explained about casting. First, I aimed five feet above the water and slightly downward. The line landed first. The fly floated down like a leaf.

Proud, I pointed the rod to the side and cast, trying to make the leader curve.

I couldn't.

What if I cast vertically and pretend to throw a curveball? I wondered.

I did. The leader curved upstream! Again I cast, pretending to throw a screwball.

The leader curved downstream!

Thrilled that I had combined techniques of casting and pitching, I decided to forget about Ray and to enjoy the hour of fishing I had left. I tied on Doc's fly and cast 45 degrees downstream. After every third cast I waded about five feet downstream. Though I tried to watch the line for takes, in my mind I kept seeing beautiful images of the Forks and the Covered Bridge Pool.

Suddenly I realized I wasn't lonely or, for that matter, wasn't anything except lost in the beauty of the Beaverkill. Where I came from and where I was going, no longer mattered; so even though I didn't catch another trout, I wasn't disappointed about anything, until I looked at my watch and saw the time.

I walked back to the Antrim Lodge, packed, went downstairs and heard loud laughter in the tavern. I opened my fly box and looked at Clay's lucky fly. I walked down to the crowded tavern but didn't see Clay.

Ralph looked at me. "You're too young to drink."

"Can you give this to Clay for me?" I held up Clay's fly.

"Sure. Sooner or later he always ends up here."

A half hour later I sat in the train, looked out the window and saw a green clearing that stretched across two mountains. The clearing looked like a beautiful lake. A few minutes later, the mountains disappeared. Maybe I had left the Catskills too soon. Now I had to wait eight long months, an eternity, to see them again.

I saw two distant mountains, one behind the other. Their slopes seemed to crisscross like swords. I was proud of my simile, until a minute or so later when I realized it wasn't right for me to compare the peaceful Catskill mountains to weapons, and to compare the Beaverkill to a long battlefield. To apologize, I told myself I would see the mountains and the river differently, the way they really were: soothing, comforting—yes, motherly—images of a wider, more mysterious, often unseen world.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back. I was proud I hadn't given in to my fear and stayed home, and therefore had come to believe that, in spite of the death of my mother and the death of so many young soldiers, maybe the world, or at least some of its smaller worlds, were beautiful. But could I be a part of the Beaverkill world and, at the same time, a part of the New York City world?

I hoped so, then I wouldn't have to leave my father and sister. You see, already I knew the Beaverkill was going to be a part of my life, or should I say, I was going to be a part of its.

I wondered how big a part.

Chapter 12

I still wondered when winter finally thawed into spring and then into the first day of trout season. I fished the Saw Mill River. Though in miles I was a lot closer to the New York world than to the Beaverkill world, both seemed to meet on the Saw Mill.

Best of all, I finally saw Doc and told him how sorry I was about his loss.

"She was quite a woman," he said. His eyes became watery. He lowered his head, shamefully I thought. He cried.

I didn't know men that old could still cry. I told him how the anglers in the Antrim Lodge loved his story.

"Maybe one day, Ian, you'll write it for me."

"If I do, it will still be your story."

I showed him Mr. Gordon's dry flies and asked if he wanted to try one.

"I'm just too old to start changing now. I'll stick with my streamer."

"I will too." I waded about thirty feet downstream. As I fished, I told Doc about Ray, Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon. Doc didn't say anything. Realizing he wasn't interested in hearing more, I stopped talking and listened to the gurgling stream and looked up at the bare, overhanging branches. In my mind, I saw arms reaching out and trying to touch each other, the way Adam and God tried to in Michelangelo's fresco.

I hooked a rainbow. Calmly, I brought him in and held him up to show Doc. Doc was gone. Surprised, I let the fish go and wondered if Doc hadn't said good-bye because he was jealous of hearing how Mr. La Branche and Mr. Gordon had opened my eyes to a part of fly fishing he knew little about.

I cast downstream, toward the bank, and watched my fly line drift downstream. Gently, I pointed the rod up and down. Suddenly, I realized Doc's painful loss probably had more to do with his not saying good-bye than with anything I had said. Nevertheless, I decided when I saw Doc, I wouldn't say anything about Mr. La Branche, Mr. Gordon or the Beaverkill.

But a few weeks later an angler told me Doc had passed on. Numb, I didn't have to ask how he died. It was because of a broken heart.

During the week, my numbness slowly wore off, leaving me sad and often thinking about my mother. Then, just when the sadness got as heavy as lead, I thought of how Doc had brought so many lives into the world. Finally, the sadness lightened, and though all of it didn't drift away, I was able to see the beauty of the Saw Mill River and to enjoy fishing. And suddenly it seemed okay to combine war and fishing into a story.

During the next few years I frequently moved back and forth between my two worlds. To make the moves easier, I got a job as a bus boy at the Antrim Lodge. Still hoping to see Izzy, I often described him to anglers and asked if they knew him. One angler thought he might have met him several years ago in Hendrickson's Pool. From then on I often fished the fast, rocky waters of that pool.

But I never saw Izzy.

I guess I could tell you a lot of details about what happened to me during the next few years, but after reading what I already wrote, I don't think all those details are what my story is really about. So let me summarize and tell you I often fished with Ray and occasionally with Mr. La Branche. I guess the strange thing was that, even though I enjoyed their company, I never felt close to them. It was as if both had put a wall around themselves. To be honest, I was probably glad they had. Ray, I was afraid, would resent my father's wealth. Mr. La Branche, I was afraid, would want me to join The Beaverkill Trout Club and leave behind the public water and the friendly anglers of the lower Beaverkill. Several times Mr. La Branche invited me to his club. Always I accepted his invitation; and though I found his club's water beautiful, I often found it deserted and lonely.

There's one night, however, I'll always remember. Mr. La Branche and I sat on his club's porch, watching the river. He lit a cigar and told me he had come to believe in his theories and was almost finished organizing them into a book.

"Ian, I'm going to let you in on a secret. The title of the book is The Dry Fly and Fast Water. Do you mind?"

"Why should I mind."

"You gave me the title, remember?"

"Then you'll have to give me a free copy of the book."

"If I find a publisher."

"You will."

"I hope."

Now even though the Beaverkill world was still my smaller world, my bigger world, New York, seemed to grow and overlap my smaller world, I guess because I spent less time in the concrete and steel of Manhattan and more time in the meadows and lakes of Central Park. Three times a week I practiced and experimented with long-distance fly-casting techniques. Finally, I discovered that when there was no wind, I should aim my back cast upward at about 20 degrees and my forward cast upward at about 10 degrees. When there was wind from behind or from in front, I should aim my casts parallel to the ground.

Consistently, I cast about 80 feet. Often I wondered how far I could cast with an 111⁄2-foot tournament rod; but instead of buying one, I took all my savings and bought a 9-foot bass rod, a Vom Hofe reel, a new fly line, and then went to my practice spot in Central Park.

I cast 90 feet.

From the next day on, I often went to the Harlem Meer or the Hudson River and combined casting practice and fishing. What I liked most about fishing in New York was what I also liked about fishing in the Beaverkill: meeting people. In New York I stood out and often felt like a celebrity, especially when people were impressed by how far I cast. Soon, however, I also became a casting celebrity on the Beaverkill. When asked, I eagerly showed anglers how to eliminate their casting defects, and always they thanked me. Some even offered money. I never took any. You see, teaching long-distance casting made me feel as good as, or even better than, becoming a straight-A freshman at Columbia University, or becoming a starting pitcher and outfielder on the baseball team.

But those achievements didn't stop me from wishing my mother had lived to see my father's legal work help pass new labor laws that improved working conditions, and to see a more harmonious wide world. As one of my professors said, because countries were more economically dependent on each other, they would never again go to war.

Though I was grateful for all the young men, including me, who wouldn't die on battlefields, I still couldn't come to believe in God.

May 1914. I received a package in the mail. It was Mr. La Branche's book. I opened it. On the title page he wrote:

Dear Ian,

I just want to let you know that you helped me write this book in more ways than you could imagine.

I don't know what it was that made me doubt my theories and myself, but maybe, just maybe, that doubt was a blessing in disguise because it made me work harder to find some fishing truths.

Now my hope is that this book will help you and other anglers catch the big one, though sometimes we don't know what the "big one" is.

Gratefully yours,

George M. L. La Branche

I read the book that day. During the next week I reread it, took extensive notes and became sure that, thanks to Mr. La Branche, I was on my way to becoming a great angler, especially when one afternoon I caught and released three big trout in Hendrickson's Pool.

So even when I came home to East 76th Street and read in a newspaper that Archduke Ferdinand and his wife, Sophie, had been assassinated, I was on top of my world and I stayed there. You see, during the next few weeks, no one thought the assassinations would lead to war—until Austria-Hungary issued Serbia an ultimatum. Serbia didn't accept it. Austria-Hungary declared war on Serbia. Serbia's ally, Russia, mobilized. Surprised, Germany declared war on Russia and on her ally France. Feeling threatened when Germany invaded Belgium, England declared war on Germany.

Though the war seemed to explode out of nowhere, almost everyone, according to newspapers, believed the war would end before the leaves fell.

They seemed right. On the Western Front, Germany marched through Belgium, then deep into France. On the Eastern Front, Germany, led by an unknown general, von Hindenberg, won a decisive battle at a place I never heard of, Tannenberg.

Not a single leaf had even turned red, yellow or gold.

"Germany has to be stopped," my father said, throwing down his newspaper. "These Huns love war. That's why they marched into Paris forty-five years ago."

"My professor said that the French started the Franco-Prussian War."

"Why are you taking the Hun's side, Ian?"

"I'm not. I just want the whole, crazy thing to end."

A few days later, the French stopped the Germans at the Marne River. To protect themselves from the new inventions of war—machine guns and rapid-fire artillery—soldiers on opposing lines dug long trenches. So when the leaves fell, finally, the armies were locked in a stalemate, like the Confederate and Union armies at Cold Harbor.

To me, the world seemed upside-down, and it wasn't because of reflections on a river.

The Germans, French and English tried to break the stalemate at Ypres, Neuvelle Chapelle, Loos and Artois. Their results: waves of soldiers mowed down or ripped apart. Suddenly, the carnage of Cold Harbor seemed small compared to the carnage of the Western Front. My mother's death, terrible as it was, seemed even smaller. Maybe that was why, like an insect trapped in honey, I was trapped in reading about the war. Often I cursed the politicians, the generals and the world.

Strangely, few of my teammates worried about the war until the Germans sank the Lusitania; then most of my teammates wanted America to declare war on Germany, even though Germany claimed the Lusitania was full of weapons destined for France and England.

Was it just a matter of time before I bled to death on the Western Front?

Again and again I prayed politicians came to see that trading the assassinations of the Archduke and his wife for millions and millions of other lives was a bad, bad deal.

Before I say more about the war, I must—or rather I want to—tell that one afternoon I walked down to the banks of Ferdon's Eddy and was told by two anglers Theodore Gordon had died. Like millions of others, he had died from the clutch of a different kind of war: the war of consumption. He was of sixty-one years old.

I realized being part of the world of fishing also meant being part of the wider world of death.

I opened my fly box, looked at some of Mr. Gordon's dry flies, and told myself I should save them forever, or at least until I died.

The Germans attacked Verdun and began to "bleed the French dry." Before long, however, the French also bled the Germans dry. In the meantime, on a hot July day near the Somme River, English troops climbed out of their trenches and tried to break the German line. By nightfall 20,000 English boys lay dead. The next day 10,000 more English boys joined the dead. The generals, however, refused to stop the senseless attacks until mid-November, when 300,000 boys lay dead. The German line was unbroken.

The Battle of Verdun still raged. A month later, Germany's new commander, the now-famous von Hindenberg, ended the slaughter. The combined German and French death toll was about 500,000. The battle line ended right where it started.

The Great Slaughter, as it became known, continued. Was the world facing a second Hundred Years War? Thinking it might be, I tried to explain to my teammates why America shouldn't enter the war.

"Are you just scared of fighting the Germans?" Karl Crowley said.

"Damn right I'm scared of dying for something I don't believe in. When this war ends, it will only pave the way for another war, like most wars. Man has got to be the stupidest animal on the planet."

My teammates didn't believe me.

To keep my mind off the war and to try to maintain even the thinnest pillar of faith in the world, I retreated into the smaller world of literature, of Shakespeare, Cervantes, Swift, Keats, Shelly and others. In their words I found the exact opposite of war: beauty. In their stories I found characters like Hamlet and Don Quixote who also couldn't make peace with the world, and who therefore helped me feel less alone.

Often I wondered how was it, why was it, man created war as well as beauty? Were the two opposites somehow linked?

It didn't seem possible, until poems written by soldiers on the front appeared in newspapers. Was literature a counterbalance to war? Without literature, would war overwhelm the world and doom us all?

Probably; and so I yearned to join the counterbalance and wrote two short stories. The stories were rejected, again and again. Crushed, I ripped them up, and for the first time I thought of becoming an English teacher, of looking into the eyes of young students and of unveiling the meaning and the beauty of literature. I didn't, however, give up my dream of becoming a writer.

One night I wrote a short essay explaining why America should stay neutral. I sent my essay to the school newspaper. A week later, the day before our big baseball game against Princeton, the newspaper published it. Thrilled, I thought of showing it to my father, but knowing he wouldn't approve, I didn't.

I walked into our team's locker room. It was quiet, surprisingly. No one looked at me. I walked to my locker. Taped on it was my essay. Written on the essay was: Yellow Traitor. I turned to face my teammates. Their backs faced me.

Abruptly, I walked out of the room and cried.

Two hours later I boarded the train to the Beaverkill. By the time I stepped onto the porch of the Antrim Lodge a mountain blocked half the setting sun. The rays of light seemed to rush down the slope like a waterfall. For some reason I thought of Izzy sliding down the hill in Central Park, and I wondered if there were a chance my teammates shunning me would lead to something good, to seeing Izzy. Hoping so, I hitched a ride to Hendrickson's Pool.

Downstream, two anglers fished the slower water near the far bank. Way upstream, the smooth tail of Barnhart's Pool curved sharply and flowed toward me. The river sped up then curved again, this time away from me.

Was I looking at the biggest S in the world?

I climbed down the steep bank and waded into Hendrickson's fast, rocky tongue. The water swirled around me like a big wheel, reminding me of the way immigrants on Orchard Street once swirled around me. I didn't see a hatch. I opened my fly box and stared at a fly named after Mr. Gordon: the Quill Gordon. Wanting to honor him and all the dead soldiers, I tied on a Quill Gordon and decided to create my own, make-believe hatch. Again and again I cast to the downstream side of the giant, flattop boulder.

No take.

I wanted a longer, drag-free drift. I false cast, shooting more and more line, then landing the line on top of the boulder and the Quill Gordon upstream of it.

The anglers fishing the far bank waded across the riffled tail. I had the pool to myself. The retreating sun left the water dark-gray. I looked at my watch. Thirty minutes to land a fish!

My heart beat like a Morse-Code machine. Again I cast, then I looked up. The full moon's light had fooled me into believing the sun hadn't set.

Deeply I breathed. My heart stopped beating. My spinning obsession slowed; and soon I didn't really care if I caught a fish. I was just grateful to be standing in the Beaverkill—in a world away from my teammates and the horrible war; so when the water turned black, I told myself that tomorrow the sun would thankfully create another fishing day. I waded out of the river and climbed up the bank. My foot slipped. I fell. My right ankle snapped, then numbed. I broke it, I suspected. I wedged my wading stick between two rocks and pulled myself up. The steep bank was close to my face. I stepped up with my right foot, into what seemed like nothingness. Again I fell. I was trapped.

Will anyone find me before morning? I wondered. Will insects bite me? Poisonous snakes? But snakes don't bite unless they're attacked. Water—I don't have any, like the soldiers at Cold Harbor. Don't worry about dying of thirst. I'm not pinned down by Rebel fire, or in a trench on the Western Front. I'm facing only darkness, a darkness that didn't turn this riverbank into my enemy, even though I can't see much of it, or much of the world and its bloody war; so if the pain in my leg doesn't get too bad, then maybe I'll be able to sleep and seemingly speed up time. And if I can't? I can forget about my plight and pretend I'm the ears of the Beaverkill, and I can listen to the rustling trees, the gurgling water, and the singing birds. If I wasn't here would the Beaverkill have ears? Would the trees, the river and the birds have a voice? Maybe they're happy I'm here. How beautiful the river looks in the moonlight. It reflects light so gently I could stare at it forever and ever. The long, thin reflection of moonlight cutting the S in half seems to turn the giant letter into a dollar sign. In the reflection—is that a small shadow? But the shadow isn't locked in place. It moves toward me, slowly. The shadow, no doubt, is a poacher. Thank God! This isn't the right time for me to judge poachers.

A dull pain throbbed in my ankle and up my leg. I wished I could transfer the throbs out of me and into my Leonard rod. The poacher, I made out, was built like a football player. He waded closer and closer. I saw the face of a young man. He reached the bank, finally.

I yelled out, "Hello! I think I broke my leg."

He climbed up the bank and stood over me. Feeling like his prey, I looked into his face. His nose, like his chest, was wide and flat, as if it had been busted in a fight. His hair was as straight as a porcupine's and seemed to grow in all different directions. I wondered why he didn't wear a hat or at least use a comb. His chin was cleft. He wore a heavy wool shirt. The shirt was stained with what looked like grease. One of the front pockets was almost torn off and dangled like a leaf. His fly rod and silver reel, I noticed, glistened under the moonlight and looked brand new.

He scrutinized my fly rod and seemed to forget about me.

"I can't stand."

"I'll help you. Put your arm around me."

I did. Slowly, one step at a time, we climbed up the bank.

"I'm Billy Reynolds."

"I'm Ian Mac Bride."

"Where's your creel?"

"I release my fish."

"Me too. We're off to a good start."

We reached the road. I leaned on my wading stick.

"We got to get you to the hospital. Those new x-ray machines amaze me."

"How are we going to get there?"

He looked down the road. "Wait here." He marched to an automobile, opened the hood and started the engine. He drove up to me. "Let me help you in."

"Why'd you open the hood to start it?"

"To get to the engine."

"What about a key?"

"Do you have one?"

"So, the auto isn't yours?"

"Did I say it was?"

"So you're stealing it?"

"Stealin'? We got to get you to a hospital. I'm borrowin'."

"I'm not borrowing anything!"

"You're just ridin', that is, unless you have a better option."

I didn't. He helped me into the front seat.

Someone carrying a lantern and a fishing pole walked down the road. He had a long, dark beard.

Was he a religious Jew from the Lower East Side?

I said, "Isn't it late to start fishing?"

"Don't mind him. He's the Hermit. He likes to fish the big river at night."

"Why?"

Billy made a U-turn and drove toward town. "Story is that many years ago the Hermit was one of the best anglers out here, then a woman accused him of rape, and no one wanted anythin' to do with him. Later, when it came out the woman had lied and had gotten pregnant on her own, the Hermit rejected the apologies that came his way and stayed a hermit."

"Wow." I thought of Mr. Gordon. The Hermit's plight seemed a lot worse than his. "How'd you know how to start the engine?"

"Do you mean, do I steal them?"

"No—well, yes."

He glanced at me. His smile formed the shape of a half moon. "I like an honest angler. I fix cars. My father says that cars are gonna revolutionize America, and that I should be part of the revolution. He's half-right."

I waited for the half-wrong part. I didn't get it, so I asked for it.

"About which revolution," Billy answered.

Did he always talk in code? "How many revolutions are there?"

"Many. Just look at your Leonard rod. It ain't only automobiles that are gettin' better."

"So you build fly rods?"

"I want to build the best castin' rod in the world. I don't care if a lot of people say I can't. It's what I believe that's important. I don't care if it takes me ten years to build my first great rod, but I will. You'll see."

Yes, I will, I thought. He's at least willing to fight for what he believes in. Am I? I should have fought for my essay. Damn me for walking out of the locker room!

I asked, "What does your father think?"

"He's against it."

"So you told your father?"

"I got nothin' to be ashamed of."

Do I? I wondered. I wish I had Billy's courage, then I'd tell my father I want to be a writer.

I said, "I've never seen how fly rods are built."

"It's a real science and a real art. You'll have to come over and see my shop."

"What about tomorrow before I head back?"

"To New York?" He grinned.

"How'd you know?" My ankle throbbed more sharply, as if a double-edged sword swayed in my leg. Not wanting to show pain, I clenched my fist.

"The way you speak. I never finished high school."

"Mark Twain never even went to high school."

"He didn't turn out so bad."

There was a silence.

I didn't let it sit. "I'm not planning on buying up land and closing off a part of the river."

"If you did, I'd poach it anyway."

"And supposing I had you arrested?"

"You? Be real."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin', except that I think I like you."

Did I want him to? At least he also didn't kill fish and also wanted to create beauty. Besides, he was helping me. At most, he could be only a little bad.

I asked, "So are you going to show me your shop?"

"Tomorrow, well, I'll, ah, be workin' in the car shop," he said weakly.

Was there another reason he didn't want me to come?

Billy helped get me inside the hospital. In the indoor light I saw he was suntanned or perhaps part of the long line of Lenni-Lanape Indians. I didn't care which, or that his fingernails were dirty.

A pretty nurse tried to take off my wading boot. I screamed. The nurse got small scissors and slowly cut off my boot and sock. The doctor came over and asked if I could move my ankle.

"No."

"It's broken," he said.

"I brought him here so you could take an x-ray," Billy said.

"I see enough already."

The doctor put on a cast and gave me a pair of crutches. I stood up.

"Ian, put your arm around me," Billy said.

"No," the nurse insisted. "He has to learn to walk by himself."

Using the crutches, I limped to the car. Billy drove me to the lodge.

"What time's your train tomorrow?" he asked.

I told him.

"I'll stop by and give you a lift to the station."

"In a borrowed car?"

He laughed. "Yes. One I'm workin' on. It needs a test ride."

Chapter 13

The next evening I limped into my house.

My father glared at me. "I knew nothing good would come from fishing and casting."

"A lot of good has come from it."

"Maybe I shouldn't have bought you that rod."

"So what are you going to do, break it?"

"I told you I was sorry. I, ah, guess your baseball season is over."

I stared at my father. "It was over before I broke my ankle." I told him about my essay and my teammates' reaction to it.

"If you wrote what you believe you shouldn't care about their reaction."

"What I care about is what I love: fishing, literature and the Catskills."

"So you're going to be a country lawyer?"

I thought of Billy. "Maybe a country teacher."

"A teacher! What kind?"

"English, and, and maybe I'll also be a writer."

"Your mother wanted to be an artist. Look what happened to her."

"What?"

"Her heart broke and never healed."

"It was healing. She loved playing in the theater and helping immigrants. Remember how proud of her you were, after she passed away?"

"Ian, you're young. You can't know what you want."

"When you were young, you knew."

"I don't want to see you hurt."

"I'll get hurt being what I don't want to be."

"Law is important. Without it, without lawyers, there'd be anarchy. Laws keep society together. Laws are making things better for workers. Maybe if countries followed universal laws we wouldn't have this crazy war that's making some people turn their back on God, and making others retreat from reality. Did you ever—running away isn't a real solution."

"Wanting something different is not running." I looked at the stairs. They looked higher and steeper than they had before. Knowing I had to climb them, I put both crutches on the first step, then pulled myself up.

"Ian, let me help you."

"I can do it. I have to do it."

Six weeks later, a doctor in New York cut off my cast, gave me a cane and told me I'd probably limp for five or six months. And I became grateful. When winter thawed into spring, my limp was my excuse for not playing baseball.

February 1917: British code experts deciphered a telegram from the German Foreign Secretary, Zimmerman, and learned that, if America entered the war, Germany would encourage Mexico to declare war on America.

A month later, Germany torpedoed two American ships. On April 7th, America declared war on Germany. Newspapers published editorials saying America was embarking on a great crusade. If so, I didn't want to be a part of it; so with conscription and my twenty-first birthday around the corner, I hoped my ankle kept me out of the army.

Scared it wouldn't, I obsessed about the war. Fishing, I hoped, would at least tame my obsession; so on the very first day of trout season, I rode the O. & W. railroad up to Roscoe and back into winter. The mountains were covered with bare trees that—though I didn't want them to—looked like soldiers standing at attention and in close formation.

I stepped off the train, buttoned up my coat, turned south and walked to the last house on Cottage Street. I knocked on the door. A woman about my father's age opened it.

"Is Billy home?"

"You must be the college fella who busted his ankle?"

"I am, Ma'am."

"I'm Billy's mother. He's in the garage. Just knock on the side door."

"Thanks."

Billy opened the garage door and smiled. In his face I again saw a half-moon, but this half-moon was closer in color to the real thing. Like me, Billy was light-skinned. He wasn't an Indian. His faded overalls were stained and torn at the knees. I said, "I told you I'd come."

"Come into my office."

His so-called office was a workshop I couldn't have imagined. In the middle was a big, thick table. On the sides of the table were two vises and small, funny-looking machines. On top of the table were long, narrow pieces of wood, divided in half by V-shaped grooves. Next to the wood were small carpenter's planes that looked like tools belonging to the Lilliputians in Gulliver's Travels; but in reality these tools belonged to a full-size human being. They fit Billy's fingertips. Also on the table was a half-finished bowl of spaghetti and meatballs. Under the table were cans of varnish.

Hanging horizontally above the table were sections of unfinished fly rods, wrapped with white string. Leaning in a corner of the garage was a clump of raw bamboo. In another corner was an old, small stove that looked as if it came out of an apartment on the Lower East Side.

I turned around and faced two tall, unpainted, plywood cabinets. Lining the top of the door of one of the cabinets were three small holes. Hanging from the holes was rope. The bottom of each strand was wrapped around big, flat knobs near the bottom of the door. Painted on the knobs were black crosses.

Why kind of contraption was I looking at?

The other cabinet didn't have holes or rope, just a big padlock.

What secret treasure was inside?

Hanging from the ceiling was the longest rubber belt I ever saw. The belt connected one of the machines on the table to a black, upside-down motor on the ceiling. I looked at Billy and his porcupine-like hair.

Was I in the laboratory of a scientist a lot madder than George M. L. La Branche? But didn't Mr. La Branche turn out to be sane after all?

I asked, "Did you build all this?"

"Even the machines."

"Wow."

"Looks like you got a bit of a limp."

"My ankle is still stiff, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

"Ian, have you ever seen how a fly rod is made?"

"No."

"Let me show you. First I take a stalk of bamboo and split it into narrow, three-sided strips. Next, I file down the nodes on the strip, then heat them with a small torch. Before they cool, I put the strips into a vise and flatten the nodes and straighten the strips. Then, using this bevelin' machine, I cut the strips so that their sides form three, perfect, sixty-degree angles. Next, I take the strips and fit them in these long, wooden forms. The grooves in the forms are also cut at sixty degrees. If you look closely, you'll see that the grooves get shallower and shallower. I shave the tops of the strips until they're flush with the top of the forms. That's how I make sure the width of the rods narrow at the precise taper. For each section of the rod, and for each kind of rod, I use a different form."

"How did you get the forms?"

"Some I made after measurin' the taper of rods built by the great builders like Leonard. Other forms I made by experimentin' on my own."

Billy told me how he then wrapped the strips together and, to make them stronger, baked them; then he told me how he unwrapped and cleaned them. Using a small brush, he glued the strips, then wrapped them together again. When the glue dried, he opened the cabinet door that had the holes and hanging rope, and he clipped the rod sections to the ends of the rope and dunked the sections into upright pipes filled with varnish. To keep dust off the wet varnish, he closed the cabinet. Slowly, he turned the doorknobs wrapped with rope, lifting the sections about three inches out of the varnish. Every two hours he turned the knobs, until the sections were lifted out of the varnish. When the varnish dried a week later, he glued on the metal joints that connected the sections of the rods—the ferrules. (Billy bought the ferrules from a guy named Varney.) Finally, Billy wrapped on the guides with red and black thread. Last, he glued on the handle.

"Now Ian, I have many secrets. Here's my biggest."

He took one of the strips hanging above the table. The inside of the strip was cut or filed into short, narrow waves. "What I'm tryin' to do, Ian, is truly revolutionary. It's called flutin', which means cuttin' away some of the inside of the strip and makin' a lighter rod that will recoil faster. I think dry-fly fishin' is the way of the future. Anglers are gonna want faster, more accurate rods."

"So you believe in La Branche's and Gordon's theories?"

"They're the prophets of American fly-fishin'. Now I want to show you somethin' else." Billy unlocked the big padlock, opened the cabinet and took out a long, three-piece rod. "This is an 11-and-a-half-foot tournament, casting rod. I started out using Leonard tapers, but then I made the tip a little softer. Since I fluted the inside strips, I was able to widen and stiffen the midsection and still keep the rod at regulation weight. Ian, what I hope to do is transfer this design to a nine-and-a-half-foot, trout rod."

"I've never cast a tournament rod before."

"Want to try?"

"Damn right, I would."

"Let me get my measurin' line. Leave your stuff here."

We walked down Cottage Street to a long, narrow lawn alongside the Willowemoc. Billy screwed on a reel and fed the fly line through the guides. He tied on a fly, then cut off the hook.

"How much line should I pull off?" Billy asked.

"How much line is on the reel?"

"One hundred twenty feet."

"Pull off all of it."

"Serious?"

"We'll see."

I gripped the smooth, cork rod handle. Walking down the lawn, Billy pulled off all the line.

I retrieved about 70 feet of it, got into my casting stance and cast the rod up and back. The rod felt heavy and almost as stiff as a broomstick. The line formed a wide loop. I cast forward. The loop was wide again.

What's wrong? I stopped casting and closed my eyes. Because the rod is stiffer than mine, I have to accelerate the rod faster.

Again I false cast, faster and faster. The loop tightened into a wedge. I shot about 10 feet of line. The wedge held its shape. I cast back, lowered the rod tip, then turned my hips, shifted my weight, and cast. Abruptly I stopped the rod, let go of the line, and raised the butt. The fly streaked across the lawn, turned over and floated down.

Billy's smile almost became a full moon. "Wow! I don't believe what I just saw. I got to take a measurement."

Billy handed me the end of his measuring line. Unrolling the line, he walked alongside the fly line.

"One hundred thirteen feet!" he yelled. He ran back to me. "Last year's long-distance champion cast only one hundred twelve feet. Ian, you beat him. You're one heck of a lean, castin' machine."

I was proud.

"This summer, at the Sportsman's Show in Madison Square Garden, there's gonna be a castin' tournament. You can use this rod."

"Indoors, I won't get any help from a slight tail wind."

"But this was the first time you ever tried the rod."

"Billy, those competitors are some of the best in the world. They've all competed in front of large crowds. I never have. Is this really about making a name for you?"

"For both of us. Look, is askin' for help such a bad thing? I always ask for help about how to build fly rods. Don't you want the world to see how great a caster you are?"

"The world won't be watching. Besides, if I choke up, what will that do for your reputation?"

"No one will know whose rod you used, unless you win. Ian, maybe breakin' your leg and me findin' you was no accident."

"So you think God had a hand in it?"

"You never know."

"Even if there is a God, I'm sure he's not going to take sides in a fly-casting tournament."

"Why wouldn't he? You're a good person."

"Winning casting tournaments is not about being a good person." I looked into Billy's eyes and saw myself making a tournament-winning cast, but then my vision stared back at me and scared me like a ghost. I looked at Billy's beautiful rod and wished it was mine.

"Ian, you don't got to decide right away. Borrow the rod and practice with it."

"I don't want you to get your hopes up."

"So you'll think about it?"

"All right. I'll think about it."

"Let's fish. Have you ever been to Cooks Falls?"

"No."

"We'll take my neighbor's car."

"Take?"

"The deal is I fix it for free and he lets me use it."

We walked back to his garage and put on our waders and fishing boots.

I said, "It's cold. Aren't you going to wear a hat?"

"When I'm outside I love the feel of sunlight on my face."

We got into an old Ford.

"It has a lot of miles on it," Billy said. "But I rebuilt the engine."

"I never knew anyone who could rebuild engines."

Billy laughed. "You college boys got to expand your horizons."

"Don't we all?"

"Good answer."

We drove along the Beaverkill and past Painter's Bend. Billy drove off the road and parked. We walked to the bank of the river. Cook's Falls pool was long, straight and rocky. About fifty yards downstream was a covered bridge. But the bridge wasn't long enough to reach both banks of the river. The far end of the bridge, the north end, was connected to a short, metal bridge that reached the bank. At first the covered bridge looked like a freight car, but the metal bridge was too small to be a locomotive; so then the bridges looked like an ant pulling a big piece of food.

"I'll race you across," Billy said.

"That water is fast."

"Just make sure you're anchored on the bottom and that before you step forward you move your wadin' stick; then you'll be able to stand up to the water. I'll give you a head start."

"Billy, my ankle."

"You said it wasn't sore. I'm tryin' to show you one of my secret holes."

If I break my ankle again, I thought, the army surely won't take me. "I've never done this before. I want a head start."

"I'm gonna count to sixty before I start. One, two ... "

I waded into the river. The cold water kept kicking my ankles and shins. At least the water seemed to wear boxing gloves on its feet.

I can't do this, I thought. What if I fall and hit my head?

"Feel all your steps!" Billy yelled. "One step at a time and you'll soon be there!"

Maybe I can do it.

Following Billy's advice, I carefully waded to the middle of the pool. I looked over my shoulder. Billy was about twenty feet behind me.

"Don't worry about me, Ian. The trick is to compete against yourself."

"You mean to stay within myself."

"Whatever. Time-out for a minute. Look downstream, Ian."

The covered bridge and the river seemed to form a picture frame. But the river obviously wanted to be more than a border. It flowed through the picture, beckoning my eyes to follow it. My eyes weren't the only followers. Downstream, on the sloping banks, small homes looked like the faces of people sitting in a stadium. The windows were the people's wide-open eyes. The bare branches surrounding the homes were the people's thinning hair, so when the leaves bloomed, these people, unlike Clay, would have full heads of hair and wouldn't need comb-overs.

"Ain't that a beautiful sight?" Billy said.

"Absolutely."

"When I finally start makin' money from my rods I'm gonna buy a real good camera and come here early in the mornin' when the sun casts a warm, pink glow, and take pictures. One day, Ian, maybe I'll take a lot of pictures of the Beaverkill and put together one of those beautiful picture books. I know people will say that I'm a crazy dreamer, but I don't care."

I never knew, I thought, that a mechanic who never went to college could have such a love and an appreciation for beauty.

I said, "And maybe I'll write essays to go with the pictures."

"I didn't know you write."

"I don't like to talk about it, but yes, I do."

"Then we'll do the book together. Okay, time in."

We resumed our race. As I neared the bank, Billy caught up to me. Sure he'd win, I stepped into slower water and onto smaller rocks. Wading was easier. Billy and I reached the bank at the same time.

If he's trying to teach me a lesson, I don't like it, even though I feel really good that I waded across.

I asked, "So what's so important about this spot?"

He smiled. "You'll see." He opened his fly box and took out a dry fly. "Notice how this wing is higher than the other, and how the hackle on this side isn't as thick."

"Why's that?"

"So when the fly floats it tips over a bit. The theory is that if a trout has a few flies to choose from, he'll pick the one that looks imperfect or injured."

"Did you tie that fly yourself?"

"The Hermit tied it for me."

"I thought the Hermit stays to himself."

"He does, but a few years ago I fixed one of his rods. Since I felt sorry for him, I didn't charge him. Now he pays me back by givin' me flies."

"What's he like?"

"He don't talk much, but I think he's real smart even though he never went to college. He reads a lot. He even offered to loan me books, but I ain't up to readin' history or science. The Hermit told me science, like fly-rods, is on the verge of a revolution."

"What kind of revolution?"

"One started by a guy named Einstein. Did they teach you about him in college?"

"I didn't take any physics courses."

"Well, according to Einstein, time ain't really time. Two people, seein' the same event, like a flash of light, can think the flash happened at different times. Don't ask me to explain any more because that's all I know, and even that I don't understand."

"I didn't think time can be changed. That sounds like something out of Don Quixote. I wonder if Einstein read it."

"The Hermit thinks Einstein is right."

"And what does the Hermit think about the war?"

"That America should help England and France, and I do too!"

I didn't want to start an argument. "Can I try one of the Hermit's flies?"

"Sure. Let's wade downstream. Even though there ain't any signs of it, runnin' up and down the bottom over there is a drop-off where trout love to stay."

"How did you find it?"

"Last summer I waded across and the next thing I knew I was swimmin'. A few winters ago, an ice jam must've carved out the drop-off."

"I didn't know ice could carve out fishing holes."

"That's why this river changes year to year."

"Like time."

Billy laughed.

We waded downstream and fished. Billy landed and released a big rainbow. "Let's see you beat that."

In the middle of the river, about sixty feet away, was a boulder.

I said, "You asked for it." I pulled line off my reel, made a long cast and landed the fly right in front of the boulder. A rainbow jumped up, gulped the fly, and bolted downstream. My reel spun like a top. Finally, it slowed. I quickly waded downstream, reeling in line. The rainbow broke toward the far bank. Turning him again and again, I slowly brought him closer. I yelled, "Mine's bigger."

"It ain't fair that you can cast that far."

"You're the one who made the challenge."

The rainbow broke toward me. I reeled as fast as I could. The rainbow passed me. Suddenly the rod went dead. The line dangled. I reeled it in and saw the rainbow had snapped my tippet. I cursed.

Billy laughed, momentarily.

I asked, "What happened?"

"Two things. First, when you kept turning the fish, the hook made a bigger and bigger hole in his mouth, so he probably would have shaken free anyway. But the reason he broke off was because when he was moving away from you his head was down and you continued to reel. What I try to do during a fight is to let the fish run, then when I feel him let up a bit, I try to lift his head out of the water, then I reel him in."

"I never read that in a book."

"I learned it from losing a lot of fights with fish."

We waded downstream, almost up to the covered bridge, and cast to several eddies. Billy hooked a big brown.

The sun hung low in the sky. The wind suddenly blew harder and harder, ripping down the river like a speeding train, making me feel I was stark naked. I wanted to go back to the lodge but didn't want Billy to think I was giving in to the cold.

"Ian, aren't you glad you waded across?"

"Absolutely!"

"Tomorrow, at about three, where will you be?"

I remembered Ray coming to the Forks over an hour late. I smiled. "You mean three o'clock according to my watch's time or to Einstein's?"

"Don't get smart on me."

"I'll be at Ferdon's."

"I'll take you to another great spot."

The next day at exactly three o'clock, Billy drove the old Ford down to the bank of Ferdon's Eddy. Glad that, unlike Izzy and Ray, Billy kept his word, I got into the Ford. Billy drove up the road that led to the Covered Bridge Pool, but when we reached the turnoff to the pool, Billy drove straight ahead.

"Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

A few minutes later, Billy turned onto the dirt road Mr. La Branche's fishing club was on.

Was Billy planning to poach the water of the club? If so, what would I do? I didn't want to offend Mr. La Branche or anyone else.

Billy drove past Mr. La Branche's club. I was relieved.

A few minutes later, he parked in a small clearing. Signs prohibiting fishing and trespassing were posted on the trees. Billy got out of the Ford, walked to the river and looked upstream. He jogged back. "Let's go."

"Billy, are you poaching?"

"It's early in the season. The club members probably ain't even here."

"Poaching is against the law."

"Whose law? The club don't own the water."

"It owns the land under the water."

"So what are you gonna do, just sit here?"

Angry at being manipulated, I insisted, "You should've told me."

Billy looked into my eyes. "You're right. I should have. Give me about an hour and I'll be back."

Billy marched down the road.

What the heck! I thought. Billy is probably right about the members not being here.

I got out of the Ford and ran up to Billy. He smiled and pulled the front of my cap over my eyes. I pulled it back up and thought, Yes, I want him as a friend.

We walked to the bank. Billy said, "Right there, Ian, the tail. See the way those two long seams form a big V."

"How'd you find this hole?"

"A guy wearin' fancy clothes came to my shop, asked me to fix his rod, and then told me all about how he broke it when he wrestled a four-pound brown. I asked where he hooked the monster and he told me. I think we should start upstream of the V and work our way down."

"Okay."

The bottom of the river was gravel and small rocks. Way upstream, the pool narrowed into a neck. I couldn't see if the neck had a head, because my view was blocked by the pool's wide shoulders: a man-made, plank waterfall. Below the waterfall, the pool's smooth, reflecting surface looked as if it were painted silver. Near the pool's tail, the water sped up and formed small riffles.

Billy cast and landed his fly on one of the seams of the big V. His fly drifted downstream about two feet. A big brown inhaled it.

"I told you, Ian!"

"I'll go downstream and land it."

"No. That would be cheatin'."

After a long fight, Billy landed and released the brown. Ten minutes later, I landed a smaller brown.

"You fellas better get going!" someone yelled. Standing on the bank was a big man with dark curly hair and bushy eyebrows. He wore hip boots.

I looked at Billy. "Who's that?"

"The river keeper."

"You're trespassing!" the river keeper yelled.

"Says who?" Billy stated.

"The signs."

"Any of your club members up here?"

"That don't matter."

"We don't mean no harm. No one will know we're here. Please?"

"I'll know. Don't make me come in and teach you a lesson."

"Why don't you!?" Billy yelled.

The river keeper staggered back, as if he had been punched. His eyes wandered downstream. He looked lost. "There's, there's two of you."

"Don't worry about my friend. He ain't gonna do anything. I promise. Just worry about me."

I said, "Billy, let's go."

"He threatened us!"

"I don't want trouble," the river keeper said.

"So why did you start some?"

The river keeper turned abruptly and walked away.

"You can't teach me anythin'!" Billy yelled. He looked at me. "See Ian, I told you he wasn't gonna do anythin'."

"He could come back with a gun."

"He could, but he won't."

"Let's leave."

"Then wait for me in the car." Billy retrieved his line and cast.

Not knowing what to do, I stood still. Even though I believed in the law, I didn't want Billy to think I was a coward, so I fished for twenty minutes, then told Billy I'd wait for him in the Ford.

"Ian, I'll come with you."

We got into the car.

Billy said, "We didn't do anythin' wrong."

"Says who?"

Billy drove toward Roscoe. Looking out the side window, I didn't say anything. My heart beat hard and fast, as if the confrontation was still going on. Glad it wasn't, I felt sorry for the river keeper, even though he had threatened us. I looked at Billy. He glanced at me and smiled. I wished I had just half of his courage.

"So, you're not gonna say anythin'?" Billy asked.

We broke the law, I thought. But we didn't harm anyone. We stood up to the world of private fishing clubs and got away with it.

Suddenly I felt I hit a grand-slam home run. I laughed.

"Ian, I'm sorry."

Pretending to be angry, I said, "Yeah, you should be."

"Admit it: you loved it."

I tried to glare at Billy, but uncontrollably I laughed.

Maybe Billy's dares his way of showing me I have the courage to compete in the fly-casting tournament. If so, he talked in code again. I don't like it. Can I really trust him?

I asked, "Do you know what my father does for a living?"

"What?"

"He's a lawyer."

"If we get locked up we'll know who to call."

We laughed.

I asked, "What does your father do?"

"My father is out west workin' for the railroads. He—Ian, I might as well tell you the truth. My parents ain't married anymore."

I didn't know anyone whose parents were divorced. Billy's mother seemed so nice. Was his father evil?

"Are you going to be a lawyer too?" Billy asked.

"I want to be a writer."

"And be famous?"

"I suppose so."

"Don't be ashamed of wanting to be famous. One day, I'm gonna build the finest fly rods ever made. A hundred years from now, people will still want them. Maybe we'll both be famous forever."

"And ever."

Chapter 14

A month later I went back to Roscoe. The leaves had bloomed, and the Catskill Mountains looked the way I remembered.

I visited Billy in his shop. He finished wrapping bamboo strips.

"Ian, do you feel like fishing some of the best dry-fly water on the Beaverkill?"

"Sure. Where?"

"It's a surprise."

"I don't want one."

Billy smiled. "The tail of Barnhart's." He put on his waders.

"So you're poaching?"

"There ain't any river keeper there. We'll wade in from Hendrickson's."

Did I want to risk getting arrested and really disappointing my father? "I'll pass."

"C'mon, Ian. For some of us locals, poaching is like going to church."

"I don't go to church."

"Don't you want to be a great caster?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothin'." He opened his fly box and examined his flies.

I said, "So that's why you want me to poach: to teach me a lesson?"

"Did I say that?"

"Without the words."

"Are you gettin' fancy on me?"

"I believe in following the law. If that makes me a coward, so be it."

Billy nodded. "Suit yourself." He marched past me and out of his shop.

Standing by myself, suddenly feeling lonely, I wondered if I had said something wrong. No, I decided.

Sure my friendship with Billy was over, I walked to the Antrim and was welcomed by the other bus boys and by law-abiding anglers.

The next afternoon I fished Ferdon's with Ray. Billy walked down to the bank. Surprised, I didn't wave to him. He waded into the river, then toward me.

"Any takes, Ian?"

Should I be his friend again? I wondered. Without looking at him, I said, "One."

"Ian, I'm sorry for what I said yesterday." He held out his hand.

I looked into his eyes. They seemed droopy, as if oozing pain.

Yes, I still want to be his friend. I shook his hand and asked, "Any luck last night?"

He grinned. "No. I guess the Law was against me."

A few days later, I read in the New York Times the details of the Selective Service Act of 1917. Because all men twenty-one years old had to register for the draft, I was spared, for a while at least. I wouldn't be twenty-one until August. Maybe by then the military would have enough volunteers and recruits, or even better, the war would miraculously end.

But did a miracle seem possible?

France's Chemin des Dames Offensive turned into a repetition of all the previous offensives: thousands and thousands of boys mowed down like soulless blades of grass. Terrified I too would be mowed, I stopped reading newspapers and tried, mostly unsuccessfully, to put the war out of my mind.

Now before I go on, I should tell you that one evening my father said, "Ian, maybe something good came out of your fishing."

"What's that?"

"Your broken ankle. There's a chance the army won't take you. I guess some accidents turn out for the best."

"I thought you love reading about war."

"I've always been interested in how wars and history go together, like blood and life. But what's going on in Europe isn't even war. It's slaughter. And you're right: Since we were supposed to be neutral, I don't see why our passenger ships should have transported weapons."

I felt vindicated.

On Friday I rode the railroad to Roscoe. Billy waited at the station.

Surprised, I asked, "What are you doing here?"

"You usually take this train up. Ian, next week I got to register for the draft. I want to enlist. My mother is real upset. She started cryin' and sayin' that without me she'd have nothin'. What about you? Are you thinkin' of enlistin'?"

"Have you been reading about the slaughter on the Western Front?"

"Not really."

"Well let me tell you." Using words, I painted pictures of the slaughter, then said, "Think of what will happen to your mother if you get killed. And what will happen to your dream of becoming a great rod builder? Think of all those young men who would have become great artists and writers, but who are instead rotting like meat in shallow, muddy graves because some general tried to make a name for himself and wouldn't call off his suicidal attack."

"When your time is up, it's up."

"Billy, how can you possibly believe that?"

"I've always believed things happen for a reason."

"What's the reason five million soldiers are dead?"

Billy looked into my eyes, sadly, I thought. He said, "I'm an American."

"You're a person with hopes and dreams. And so am I!"

He looked down and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

I said, "I'll tell you what. If you don't enlist, if you instead take your chances with the draft lottery, I'll practice like crazy and compete in the fly-casting tournament, and maybe, just maybe, you'll build a name for yourself."

"You don't got to do that for me."

"You're my friend."

"Let me think about it. Where you fishin' tomorrow?"

"Hendrickson's."

He turned. Hunched over, he walked away, and for a split second I saw Izzy walking down the casting dock. Suddenly something told me Billy would see the light and accept my offer.

The next day he didn't come to Hendrickson's. Surprised, I blamed myself for not painting vivid-enough pictures of the slaughter on the Western Front.

How would I ever become a great writer?

A week later, I set a table in the Antrim's dining room and looked up. Billy stood on the other side of the table, holding his tournament-casting rod.

I said, "So, I guess we have a deal."

He handed me the fly rod.

I telephoned the Sportsman's Show and asked for their tournament rules. A few days later I got them in the mail. They stated that, once I stepped onto the casting platform, I would have five minutes to make three casts. Only my longest cast would count. I would have to use my own line, but it couldn't have a diameter wider than 0.062 of an inch. My leader could be up to 12-feet long.

I went to a fly shop and bought three lines with different diameters. Day after day I went to Central Park. First, I experimented by casting each line until I determined I cast farthest when I used the line with a diameter of 0.056 of an inch. Second, I determined that on my first back cast, I could cast up to 46 feet of line off the lawn and still have a tight loop. I marked my line at 46 feet. Third, I determined that, before I made my presentation cast, I should back cast about 56 feet of line, then shoot another five feet. Finally, I experimented by casting different-length leaders. When I used a 12, or even a 9-foot leader, the fly wouldn't turn over; and so for weeks I experimented with every part of my cast, but the fly still didn't turn over. Frustrated, I thought of using a 7-foot leader. But something—was it a voice?—told me not to give up.

The something was right. One day, I set up my rod and accidentally pulled five feet less line off the reel than I wanted to. As my first presentation cast unrolled, the line flew through the guides, then pulled against the reel. The tension on the line was like a gentle brake. The fly turned over. The leader landed in a straight line.

I cast 120 feet!

Because of my new discovery, maybe, just maybe, I would win the tournament!

During the next few weeks, I often saw myself making a winning-tournament cast and seeing spectators applause and cheer; but as days flowed past me, the vision in my mind changed. I saw myself standing on the casting platform, freezing up and making a fool of myself.

July 15 and the fly-casting tournament became soiled with dread.

July, 7: I couldn't stop the days. Again and again I reminded myself my real goal was to save Billy from getting killed or maimed.

Yes, I told myself. I made the right decision. Making a fool of myself is worth saving a friend's life. But should I invite Billy to stay over my house on the weekend of the tournament? Then he will see I lived in a small mansion and maybe come to resent me. And then my father will see I had a working-class, dirty-nailed friend. Besides, I don't want my father to know I'm competing in a fly-casting tournament.

Billy told me he would meet me in Penn Station on the day of the tournament.

I answered, "Fine."

The night before the tournament: I lay in bed. The room seemed to spin, faster and faster. I felt sea sick. I turned on the light and stared at it. But the room still spun.

Is it too late to back out? I wondered. But I made a deal with Billy. If I could borrow his courage as if borrowing money, I'd gladly pay double interest.

The room slowed. But I couldn't sleep. I glanced at the clock every few minutes. Time moved so slowly I wondered if Einstein was right. If so, could time stop dead still and spare me from competing?

The minute hand crept on.

I jumped out of bed. Pretending I held Billy's fly rod, I got into my casting stance and, visualizing all my casting techniques, practiced for about a half-hour.

In bed, I closed my eyes and thought of the boys on the Western Front and told myself that, unlike them, I wasn't going to climb out of a trench and face streaking machine-gun bullets or exploding bombs. No matter how poorly I cast, I would live to see the next day. ...

The sun shined through the shaded window. It was six o'clock. I had slept for three hours.

Six hours later, I wished I sat in a baseball-field dugout instead of on the wood floor of Madison Square Garden, surrounded by thousands and thousands of people. Some of the people stood around the casting platform. Others sat in the oval-shaped stands. I was in the middle of a line of fly casters. Izzy and Mr. La Branche weren't part of the line. The casters who were stared straight ahead like mustached or bearded, fearless zombies. But they were grown-up men. I wasn't. Feeling out of my league, I scanned the crowd for Izzy and Billy. The arena spun slowly, in my head.

Don't look at the crowd! I told myself. Pretend there are only fifty spectators, as there were at my college baseball games.

Jim Frazer, the first caster, stepped up to the casting platform. My arm shook. I clutched it. My leg shook. I pushed it down. My arm again shook. I decided to let it. I felt balloon-headed, as if I were about to float up. Unable to feel my legs, I tried to wiggle my toes. I succeeded, thankfully.

Frazer cast 106 feet.

One by one, other casters were called to the platform, like gladiators called to the field of the Roman Coliseum. One by one the gladiators cast.

Jim Mullen, a big man with a shaved head, cast 116 feet.

"Ian Mac Bride!"

I stood up. A million eyes seem to be staring at me, I thought. I don't have time to count. Looking down, I walked toward the end of the casting platform. My feet floated on the floor. My heart beat hard. Deeply, I tried to breathe, but the air was like the invisible smoke in the hallway of 97 Orchard Street.

Will I suffocate before I make my first cast?

Sucking in air, I climbed three or four steps, onto what looked like a huge, green Christian cross.

This might be what if feels like to fight to the death. At least I'm not being thrown to the lions.

A tournament official grabbed my leader and pulled my line to the end of the platform. I reeled in line up to my 108-foot mark. I put the rod down, retrieved line and piled it on the floor until my 46-foot mark reached the rod tip. I picked up the rod, put my left foot about four inches behind the white line, bent my knees and got into my casting stance.

Pretend I'm casting in Central Park, I told myself. Just look straight ahead. I've done this hundreds and hundreds of times before. Think of what the soldiers on the Western Front are facing. Go!

I cast the rod up and back. A wide loop unrolled. I cast forward. My arm felt heavy, my elbow rusty. Where was an injection of oil when I needed it? Why was my body deaf to my mind? Another wide loop unrolled. My cast was weak. Don't shoot line, I told myself. I cast back. A tighter loop unrolled. Wait for the shape of a candy cane. I cast forward. The loop tightened but not into a wedge. I shot line. Feeling it slide between my thumb and forefinger, I counted: one, two, three. I pressed the sliding line and lowered the rod tip a few inches. Keeping my elbow in place, I cast back. Another tight loop. Good. I cast forward, faster and faster. I hit the nail, abruptly stopping the rod. I let go of the line and raised the rod butt.

But I forgot to lower the rod tip at the end of my back cast.

The fly didn't turn over.

"One hundred two feet!" a tournament official yelled.

Damn! I thought. Next time don't forget to lower the rod tip!

I retrieved line and again got into my stance. My heart beat even harder. Was it a dam about to burst? If so, would rushing fear drench my muscles and make them move like lead? The arena spun slowly. I stared straight down the long, green platform. Like a roulette wheel, the arena slowed into dead-still, finally. But no matter where the ball landed, I wanted to run. I looked down the long fly rod as if I looked down a rifle. I saw Billy in his shop.

No! I won't run.

I cast up and back, then forward. My body still felt heavy. My loop didn't tighten.

I cast back. A tight loop. Good. I cast forward. Another tight loop. I shot line, counted, then cast back. Slowly I lowered the rod tip. I cast forward, faster and faster. I hammered the nail.

Damn! I didn't fully turn my hips.

Again the fly didn't turn over.

"Ninety-nine feet!"

Why can't I relax? Why won't my body listen? One more cast left. Make it count!

I closed my eyes and sucked in air.

"Do it, Ian!" someone yelled out. It had to be Billy.

Remember, I told myself. Fully rotate. Raise the butt. Relax. Let my body do the work, as my father told me. Didn't I strike out Brett? I can do this!

I cast up and back. My body felt lighter, looser. It was listening to me, finally! A tight loop. Good! Cast forward. Stop rod. A tight wedge. Great! Shoot line. Count. Lower rod tip, slightly. Wait for the line to almost unroll. Cast rod back. Watch the loop unroll. Lower rod tip No! Too damn early I started my forward cast!

I cast 108 feet.

Why didn't I wait for the loop to take the shape of a candy cane? Just another second more and I would've cast 120 feet. Damn me! I blew it. Well at least it's all over. At least Billy won't be going to war.

Shamefully looking down, I walked off the platform and back to my seat. My heart still beat hard and fast.

The next competitor cast 117 feet and won the tournament. Billy walked out of the crowd and looked right at me.

"Billy, I'm sorry. I let you down."

"You did the best you could."

"No. I was hitting one hundred twenty feet in practice."

"There's always next year."

Next year seemed like an eternity away. "Billy, when you stood up to the river keeper were you scared?"

He grinned. "What do you think, Ian?"

"Please, this is not the time for talking in circles."

"Yes, I was scared."

"Well, I was scared as hell up there."

"Maybe that's what got you, not bein' scared but then worryin' about it and makin' it all worse."

"I never thought of that."

"I knew a prizefighter once. He told me he was always scared before he entered the ring. I guess I should've told you that before."

I looked at Billy's dirty pants and fingernails. "Billy, why don't you stay in my house tonight? We can go to Central Park and fish the Harlem Meer."

"Ian, look at me. I'm dressed like a farmer."

"I am looking at you. This is New York. No one will care, especially if we go down to the Lower East Side. It's a whole other world down there."

"City crowds feel like they're gonna swallow me up." He smiled. "They scare me."

"Give them a chance."

"Maybe next time. I don't want my mother worryin' about me. You comin' up next weekend?"

"Sure."

"Good. I have something to show you."

"What?"

"It's a surprise."

We walked to Penn Station. Inside, I said, "You can't tell me this building isn't beautiful."

He looked up at the ceiling, at the arched windows and passageways and at the big columns. He nodded. "It's one heck of a beautiful fly rod. Ian, in my book you did great."

He turned abruptly, walked away and seemed to melt into the crowd of people. I went back in time, back into Central Park. I watched Izzy walk into the woods and disappear.

But I'll see Billy again, I told myself.

I walked outside, into the big shadow covering 34th Street like overhanging trees. The air was dry and cool. I headed east. Though I carried a fly rod, no one seemed to notice me.

Yes, I thought, this long street looks like a river. The heads of people walking the sidewalks are the riffles, the heads of the people crossing the intersection in different directions are the swirling eddies. In a few hours the sun will set, the riffles and the eddies will go home, and the face of the street, like the face of the Beaverkill, will change. As my last back cast unrolled, why didn't I wait another second? Maybe if I had the courage to stand up to Brett, I would have waited. Damn me! But if time is relative, can I go backwards and again cast in the tournament? No. Time, in spite of what Einstein says, is so strong subzero temperature can't freeze it, and fire can't burn it. Yet time has no shape or weight. So maybe in my mind, at least, I can erase time and the tournament and also my mother's passing. Haven't I tried but always failed? Why did my mother have to die? Why did boys have to assassinate the Archduke? Why?...

The next weekend I got off the O & W train and walked to Billy's house. I knocked on the garage door. He didn't answer. I knocked on the front door. No one answered. I walked to the Antrim Lodge. Jim, one of the other bus boys, sat on the porch.

"Did you hear the news about your friend, Billy?"

"No."

"He was killed."

"Killed?"

"Yeah. He was leaving Ferdon's when someone bashed his head with a rock."

"Can't be!"

"I'm sorry, Ian. It can."

I went numb. Something told me to walk to the police station and tell them about the incident with the river keeper. Though I could barely feel my legs, I walked out of the Antrim Lodge. The police were interested in my story and told me they would talk to the river keeper.

They did, I heard, but for whatever reason, they let him go.

The next day I visited Billy's mother. She cried and told me what a good boy Billy was. More than anything I wanted to tell her Billy's death was my fault and to apologize to her; but unable to, I just sat there and listened and waited for an opportunity to leave.

During the next four or five weeks, I often walked to the police station and asked about Billy's murder, but always I got the same answer: there were no leads or suspects.

Finally, I demanded, "Look harder!"

"Don't tell us how to do our job."

"When it comes to my friend, I will!"

Book 3: The Wide World
Chapter 15

But still, Billy's murder, like Izzy's disappearance, became an unsolved mystery—a mystery I blamed myself for. If I hadn't made a deal with Billy and competed in the fly-casting tournament, he'd be alive in an army training camp.

How could my attempt to save his life lead to someone else taking it? What kind of world was I in where doing something so right ended up so wrong? Was right simply an upside-down reflection on a river? If so, was I again on the verge of causing wrong? Maybe I was a real-life Don Quixote. Or maybe I was just cursed the way the Beaverkill supposedly is.

As for fly casting, I thought of trying to win next year's tournament in his memory; but for some reason, I just never felt like practicing, even though I often stared at Billy's tournament rod and wondered what might have been if he had lived.

In August I registered for the draft. When asked about my health, I thought about the Zimmerman telegram, and how Germany's scheme to encourage Mexico to invade America seemed terribly wrong. I told the draft board nothing about my ankle, then went home and prayed I wouldn't be drafted.

In the next lottery I wasn't, luckily.

March 1918: The German army began a spring offensive. Suddenly its soldiers found holes in the French and English lines, and soon they closed in on Paris—but then many attacking Germans were felled by a new enemy: a mysterious sickness (later called the flu). The German offensive bogged down. The Allies counterattacked and drove the Germans back to the Hindenberg line. The German High Command no longer saw the line as unbreakable. They asked, surprisingly, for an armistice. Their government collapsed like a bombed wall. The war ended, thankfully; but ten million dead soldiers told me to stop trying to believe in God.

Exactly five years after the assassination of Franz Ferdinarnd and his wife, the Versailles Treaty was signed, in spite of Germany's vehement protest.

"This treaty," my father said, "isn't the foundation of a new world order. It's a total humiliation of Germany. It's a road to another war."

December 1919: In the world of science there was an important discovery that intrigued me, maybe because the war's carnage caused me and so many others to hope science uncovered more mysteries of the universe and proved that there was some sort of grand—I won't say divine—working order, and that humanity was at the dawn of a second Enlightenment, a second era of hope and optimism.

What was that scientific discovery?

Because the war was over, scientists from different sides of the war were able to travel to Brazil and Africa and observe a total solar eclipse. Their findings confirmed Albert Einstein's theories. Einstein became world-famous, almost overnight.

I read article after article about Einstein's theories of Special and General Relativity. Though I certainly didn't understand much of them, what I did understand was this: Isaac Newton, who discovered the fundamental laws of physics, believed time flows at a constant, absolute rate. Furthermore, he believed all objects not affected by outside forces move at constant speeds. Space, like time, is absolute. Newton therefore believed scientists, through observation and experimentation, could come to learn all of the physical world.

Einstein, however, believed observation is often misleading. To know more of the world, therefore, he looked inward, into his mind and intuition, and he visualized theories of time and space that could later be tested.

(I thought of how, in my mind, I had come up with fly-casting techniques I later tested. At the risk of being arrogant, I wondered if, without knowing it, I had followed in Einstein's way. But how could I compare the way of fly-casting to the way of the world?)

Einstein theorized that nothing moves faster than light; and that the speed of light in a vacuum is always the same, whether you move toward or away from it. Time and space are therefore relative.

How would I explain this? Let's say I sat on the banks of Ferdon's Eddy. I look up and, hypothetically, see a band of sunlight. Below the band an airplane accelerates. As it almost reaches the speed of light, its front seems to contract.

Later, the plane lands. The pilot gets his fly rod and goes to Ferdon's. I say to him that when he accelerated the plane, the light must have seemed to slow. He says, surprisingly, it didn't.

How is his observation possible?

Because for the pilot, but not for me, time slowed.

Next, I ask the pilot if the front of his plane seemed to contract. No, he answers.

Einstein concluded, therefore, motion and distance can't be measured by human observation. In short, the universe is more deceiving than a trout stream.

Einstein's theory seemed gigantic compared to George M. L. La Branche's; so how was I supposed to have faith in the world when what I saw of it was really an illusion, or some sort of rippled, broken reflection?

Einstein went even further. He theorized that gravity creates a fourth dimension called space-time, and that in the dimension, gravity curves all lines. (The universe is like a suspended mattress with a heavy ball in the middle.) Because all lines are curved, objects move on curved paths; and so gravity, according to Einstein, is not a force, as Newton believed, but a curved space-fabric that bends light. Furthermore, because the size and distance of a planet or star determines the strength of gravity, the speed of light, and therefore time on a faraway planet, might differ from time on earth.

I wondered: If time and space are relative, what about history? After all, if time had been faster, the Great War might have ended before the leaves fell, and fewer boys might have died. Or might their death rate simply have increased?

Not if the boys' contracted size made them less vulnerable to bullets and bombs.

Was I stretching Einstein's theories too far and hoping to rewrite history? After all, I was just a college student who couldn't understand how Einstein came to believe theories he couldn't see.

I tried to imagine his laboratory, but the only image I saw was Billy's workshop. Did Einstein even own a fly rod? From his photograph, he looked like an angler, but so did just about everyone else. To me, Einstein seemed like an interesting guy to fish with, assuming he spoke English.

I read more about Einstein and surprisingly learned that he didn't have a laboratory, that he tested much of his theories using long, Greek-to-me, mathematical equations.

How can numbers, I asked myself, reflect an invisible part of the universe? To me, it doesn't make sense. Besides, even if there is a working order to the universe, where does that order come from? Maybe it often breaks, like a dam, and let war and disease spread. Maybe it needs a mechanic like Billy to fix it. Or are war and disease parts of an order that never breaks? Is there also be a fifth or even a sixth dimension? If so, can the universe be really measured? And because gravity, not God, creates time, are Christianity and Judaism fundamentally wrong?

What does Einstein think? Does he believe the Bible, like Don Quixote, is more metaphoric than literal?

Maybe, I realized, I was better off studying literature than science. You see, great literature, like Shakespeare's plays and Cervantes' novel, weren't illusions and had beauty and answers on every level.

Again it's time I speed the story up. I'll leave out a lot of details and tell you that I broke my father's heart and enrolled in graduate school. Two years later, I earned a graduate degree in education. With the help of the Antrim's owner, I landed a job teaching English in Roscoe High School.

From day one, I loved seeing students look up to me as I preached that great literature was a reflection of the human spirit, a reflection of great characters overcoming obstacles and coming to terms with a world or a situation they couldn't accept. Many students, I saw, didn't believe me. But I knew one day they would probably suffer disappointments, like Hamlet, Oliver Twist and even me, and then maybe come to believe.

Before I go on, I should tell you I still dreamed of becoming a great writer. I wrote two more stories. Both were rejected, again and again. Hurt, I wondered if I should give up writing. Though my thoughts didn't answer the question, my feelings did. Often I sat for hours in front of a blank piece of paper, hoping, praying for words that didn't come. In short, I found it impossible to write.

One more digression: In America, most fly-fishers, including me, filled their fly boxes with dry flies and, as Billy had, saw Theodore Gordon and George M. L. La Branche as prophets.

I often recalled their fishing contest and felt blessed to be the only witness to a growing segment of history.

I walked along the bank of the Forks. Fishing the tail was a pretty woman. She had blue eyes and black, wavy hair. I'll admit it: she reminded me of my mother.

Was that why she looked familiar?

She looked at me. "You're some caster."

"What makes you think so?"

"Two weeks ago, when I walked across the bridge I watched you fish. You looked so beautiful casting, as if you were in perfect harmony with the Beaverkill."

"Well, at least I was in harmony with something. My whole life I've felt out-of-step."

"With what?"

Not wanting to say, I looked away from her.

"I'm sorry for asking." she said. "I want to thank you for inspiring me to take up fishing again. When I was a girl I used to fish with my father. Now I feel close to him again."

"Has he passed on?"

"Awhile ago. How's your ankle?"

"You're the nurse."

"Yes. I'm Sarah. I just got back from Europe."

I was reminded I wasn't the only person who had lost a young parent. "What were you doing in Europe?"

"I was an army nurse."

"You volunteered?"

"Yes."

I wondered if I should I tell her why I didn't, then asked, "How did you stand seeing so many soldiers die?"

"I also saw a lot recover and live. Besides, my job was to save lives. It's what I wanted to do since my brother almost died of tuberculosis."

"Was your brother in the war?"

"Ironically, the tuberculosis may have saved his life. The army wouldn't take him."

"I read a lot about the war. Maybe I shouldn't have. I lost any faith I had in the world."

"I feel sad for you, then. Faith, to me, means loving what isn't perfect, loving what's changing and growing."

"Including God?"

"Yes. I see God in the change of seasons and in all that is good, like new, lifesaving medicines. Just think, Ian—see, I remember your name—billions of years ago this planet couldn't nourish life. Now it nourishes thousands of species, including man. I believe in a God, in a world that's evolving and getting stronger, like a person building up a resistance to a virus. I see a world where one day man resists war."

"Does that mean history has a soul?"

"I never really thought about it. Who knows, maybe it does."

Perhaps the world, I thought, like writing, has to be revised and revised until it becomes beautiful. But if gravity changes time, does it also change God and, therefore, make him reletive? Is God, therefore, relative? If so, is it his relativity that enables him to evolve?

Feeling trapped in a maze of ideas, I wanted out, but then I became thankful confusing ideas were not bullets and bombs. "Sarah, it might take thousands of years until man resists war."

"I don't think it will take that long. In the meantime, I'll see a God that's in beauty, in this river for example. I'll feel a God that's in the love people have for each other."

"But how can God be in so many things?"

"Because to me, he's in all that is good. And in spite of war and hate, good and love are endless."

"Is it a Christian God?"

"Yes, to me."

"You make things sound so easy."

"Simple, you mean. Watching young boys die wasn't easy, but being an army nurse was my way of putting love into the world."

"My way is by teaching the beauty of literature."

"So we're not that different."

"We are. To me, faith is a wish, nothing more."

"Then don't try to believe in God. Try to believe in the day and in spirituality, in being connected to all that's good."

Her ideas sounded like a cliché. But who was I to tell her so? After all, where did my doubt get me? Fear Alley? Didn't I yearn to get off?

She false cast, jerking the rod back and forth, and stopping the rod too late. Her loops were wide.

"Tell me, Ian, do you think there's a place for women anglers on this river?"

"As long as it's near me."

She smiled. "Tell me, Ian, what's wrong with my casting?"

I waded into the river and gently suggested a few techniques. An hour later, her casts formed tight loops.

"Ian, thanks for helping me with my casting and for explaining things in a way that didn't make me feel stupid."

"You're very welcome." As I watched her fish, I wished I could reach out, pull her close to me and kiss her thick, beautiful lips; but I just stood there, watching, wishing. ...

She landed a sixteen-inch rainbow!

"I'm going to let it go," she said. "I never kill fish."

I wanted to see her again, but instead of asking her for a real date I asked if she was going fishing the next day.

"At about five o'clock. Can you make it?"

"Yes, I can make it! And, and Ian, I'm sorry if I made things, if I made believing sound so easy. I guess after seeing the horror of war I'm too scared not to believe in God and in love. Does that make me weak? Make me a coward? I don't know, but on most days—the good days—I no longer care. See you tomorrow."

During the next few two weeks we fished together four or five times. Finally, I got the nerve to kiss her. That night my father called. I told him about Sarah.

"What does her father do?"

"Her father was a mailman."

"Ian, you're Ivy League."

"How can you say that? I'm in love with her and you're just going to have to accept it."

How would I describe being in love? I can't. What I can say is love resembled my obsession to catch a fish. It consumed me. It became me. When I was away from Sarah, I really wasn't away because, like Einstein, I looked inward, and in my mind I saw her beautiful face, heard her soft, soothing voice, held her hand and kissed her lips. The images became so vivid they almost always whitewashed the images of dead, twisted soldiers and garment workers. I felt blessed to be alive, to live near the Beaverkill and to be surrounded by the Catskills.

To describe my new visions, I wrote a poem comparing Sarah's beauty to the beauty of the Beaverkill. Her voice and laughter were like gurgling water and singing birds. Her wavy hair was like long, gentle riffles. Her soft skin was like smooth, sun-tinted pools. Her eyes, the passageway to her soul, were like long seams and swirling eddies. Her mouth was like—I don't remember, because soon I came to see the poem as what it was: juvenile junk. To make sure it never again saw the light of day, I ripped it into small pieces so, like Humpty Dumpty, it couldn't be put back together. Feeling like a failure, I told myself that maybe love was to be lived instead of described.

So I lived it.

Sarah and I fished together almost every day. Always we stood close and talked. I remember one day we shared how our parents' deaths left us devastated, confused and lonely. A few days later, as we fished the Forks, Sarah asked why I became an English teacher instead of a lawyer. I told her.

"I'm not much of a reader," she said. "But I think it's great you want to teach young people about the beauty of literature."

"There's another reason I became a teacher, a reason I'm ashamed of." I cast and landed my fly just outside an eddy. I watched my fly drift downstream.

"Well, are you going to tell me the reason?"

"I want to be a writer."

"So why be ashamed?"

"I don't think I have the courage. Every time I get rejected it devastates me."

"Every time I lost a soldier it devastated me, but I went on—I'm sorry, Ian. I didn't mean to make you feel less than me. I'm sure writing is different. I mean, the soldiers who passed on didn't reject me."

How could my father not like her? I thought.

Sarah asked me to tell her about my favorite books. So every day as we fished, I summarized the plot of a great book or play, then its deeper meaning. Soon I thought she would tire of my summaries and interpretations, but she didn't, and before long I ran out of books and plays to tell her about, so I started telling her about the lives of many writers. She was especially interested to learn that Shakespeare became the great Shakespeare we know only after his son died.

The next day, as Sarah and I fished the mouth of the Covered Bridge Pool, I said, "Today I'm going to tell you about Cervantes, the author of my favorite book, Don Quixote. The interesting thing about Cervantes was that he was a failure most of his life. Needing money, he took a job he probably hated, tax collecting, and therefore had to travel many roads of southern Spain and meet all sorts of people. Then, according to legend, Cervantes was short in his collections and thrown in debtor's prison. In prison, he wrote a story of a knight, Don Quixote. But as Cervantes wrote, he decided to add another character, Sancho Panza; and then the story grew and grew and finally became the first part of his great novel. Luckily, a publisher took a chance on the novel, though he used the cheapest paper and didn't correct many of the typographical errors. But to the publisher's surprise, the book became a best seller. Cervantes became famous late in life.

"But you know what I wonder most about, Sarah? What did Cervantes think about as he collected taxes? Did he, a former war hero, feel life had been unfair to him? Did he feel bitter and like a failure? Or did he in some way see, that by traveling the dusty roads, he was living the life, or at least a part of it, that his great character, Don Quixote, would soon live? Had Cervantes not been a failure and a tax collector, he never would have gathered the visions he shaped into his great book."

"Ian, you just told a great story."

"I just wish I could write one."

"You can. I feel it. Don't ask me how, but I do."

A week later, my father drove up and met Sarah. When he saw how pretty and intelligent she was, he seemed to forget her father had been a mailman. During dinner at the Antrim, he couldn't stop talking to her. Feeling left out, I was a little angry, but then I told myself to let my father enjoy himself. Quietly, I finished my shepherd's pie.

Later my father said to me, "Ian, she reminds me of your mother."

"So you approve?"

"Yes, I approve."

A few days later I nervously asked Sarah to marry me.

She looked down.

I thought, I'm a fool for asking her.

She looked at me. "Ian, there's something I have to tell you. When I was in Europe I did something I was told not to do. I fell in love with a wounded soldier, a married soldier. I guess in war we live in different rules. We became—how should I say this—intimate. Then one day he went back to the front and I never saw him again." Sarah cried.

"Do you still love him?"

"I love you, Ian, but I want you to know the truth about me before you decide."

Later, I telephoned my father and told him what Sarah had told me. The next evening when I came home, my father sat on my porch.

Surprised, I asked, "What are you doing here?"

"I thought it would be better if I spoke to you in person. You see, Ian, when I met your mother neither of us was that young. Both of us had experienced love. What I'm saying is, neither of us was—you know what I mean. And in my eyes, I didn't see your mother in less of a light. If I could do it all over again, I'd marry her in a minute. Now Sarah could have put a better face on her past, but she told the truth and, in my eyes, that means a lot."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"How come you never remarried?"

"Because I'm still in love with your mother, and I don't think it would be fair to marry someone else and always compare her to Elizabeth."

The next day, I forcefully asked Sarah to marry me. She said yes, then asked if she could encourage our children to believe in a loving God. I agreed.

We married in her church. For a wedding present, my father gave us a down payment for a house. We chose a small Victorian, about two hundred yards from the Beaverkill. After we painted it and moved in, Sarah encouraged me to write a memoir about my first day fishing the Beaverkill. I listened to her. Two magazines, however, rejected my memoir. Sarah insisted I send it out again. I did, and the third magazine offered me ten dollars. I accepted and bought Sarah an English fly box.

A week later we both received a much bigger present: She was pregnant. I was ecstatic. Nine months later, when I held my son Ross for the first time and counted his little fingers and toes, I felt what real ecstasy was. I remembered what Doc said about the magnificence of every living creature. It seemed amazing a single cell could evolve into a beautiful baby boy.

Maybe, I thought, there is a God. But what if Ross dies in some foolish war? No! Don't worry about the future in a moment like this.

I kissed my son's soft cheek and, wishing my mother was alive, I cried.

Almost every weekend my father drove up. "I think we have the making of an outfielder," he said, holding Ross.

I said, "Or an angler."

"Well, maybe both," he answered.

"Maybe we should just let him become whatever he wants," Sarah said.

Eighteen months later, my second son, Everett, was born a month premature. At first we didn't know if he would survive. Hour after hour, as Sarah and I waited in the hospital, I prayed to a God I didn't believe in. On the morning of the third day, Doctor Schwartz walked into the waiting room, smiled like a boy and told us Everett was all right. Looking back, that was the happiest moment of my life; though still I wonder if Everett's premature birth was the cause of his small size.

Ross, on the other hand, was always one of the biggest boys in his class and, thanks to my father's coaching, the best baseball player. Often I tried to take him fly fishing, but he said no usually. When he was thirteen he and his friends played little-league football. Because of his speed and size, Ross became a quarterback and a star, and so football became his favorite game. My father was disappointed, and to tell you the truth, so was I. You see, I couldn't see any sense in the violence of football. Football resembled war.

Ross started high school. In his junior year he was his team's starting quarterback.

Everett couldn't compete athletically with Ross. Wanting attention, he begged me to take him fishing. I thought he was too young to fly fish, so I bought him a conventional rod and often took him to a lake. Sitting on milk boxes, we fished for blue gills. I loved spending time with Everett and seeing how catching a fish brought joy to his face.

Fly fishing, however, was still the blood in me. After school, I often fished the Beaverkill for an hour or so. One day Everett asked if I had fished without him. I told him the truth. He cried and said he wanted to fly fish with me.

"Soon, Everett. I promise. Right now, you're a little too young to handle a fly rod."

Later, Sarah said to me, "If Everett gets hooked on fishing now he'll probably cut himself off from so many other things in life, like being part of a group or a team."

"Sarah, I didn't encourage Everett to become an angler, but we can't force him to give up what he loves. That will only make him resent us. When he gets older, he'll learn that fishing is only a small part of life."

"I'm going to see to it."

Almost every day Sarah read stories to Everett. Her tactic worked. Everett became an avid reader and a good student. Sarah therefore didn't object when I bought Everett a 7-foot fly rod and taught him how to cast. At first Everett couldn't propel the line. His loops were wide and his fly didn't turn over.

Afraid he would get discouraged, I put my arm around him, lied a little, and told him it took me a long time to learn to fly cast. "Everett, I think you practiced enough for today. Besides, dinner is ready."

The next day Everett's casts took shape. Though his loops were still wide, his fly turned over and landed over 30 feet away.

Surprised, I said, "Everett, you're a natural."

"Can I go fishing with you, Dad? Please."

"We mustn't rush things, Everett."

A week later I came home and saw Everett casting on our front lawn. He accelerated the rod smoothly, gracefully, then stopped it abruptly. The line formed a tight loop.

Proud, I felt I was in heaven, or at least insulated from the rest of the world, especially the great economic depression, and the millions of unemployed, and the thousands of families living in shanty towns.

In Germany, the depression plunged even deeper. Though few thought it was possible, my father feared Adolf Hitler would come to power.

"I told you, Ian, that damn Versailles Treaty was no good."

Maybe, I thought, Sarah is wrong about God and the world evolving for the better.

Before I go on with my story, I feel I again should tell you a little about the world of science. Walter Heisenberg, Neils Bohr and other scientists argued that subatomic particles acted randomly and unpredictably, defying the laws of gravity.

Einstein disagreed and insisted, "God doesn't play dice with the world."

But Einstein, I knew, didn't believe in a God who created the world in seven days; so what kind of God did he mean?

Chapter 16

The next day I bought Everett waders, fishing boots and a fly-fishing hat. His eyes opened wide. He hugged me around the waist.

"Can we go fishing now, Dad?"

"Sure."

We walked to the Forks. Ray and Bill Sullivan fished the tail. Ray, I saw, had lost a few more teeth. Knowing he was hurting financially from the Depression, I wished I had carpentry work for him.

"Ian, you're certainly starting him young," Ray said.

Afraid Everett would be nervous casting in front of two experienced anglers, I asked if he wanted to fish upstream. He said no. We waded into the river. Everett pulled line off his reel and fed it into the current. He cast back. A tight loop unrolled. Keeping his elbow in place, he cast forward. Another tight loop. Doc's streamer turned over and floated onto the water. Ray and Bill stared in disbelief.

"I've never seen a little kid cast like that," Ray said.

"My father taught me," Everett said. He mended the line and then retrieved.

"Your father is the greatest caster I ever saw," Ray said.

A few minutes later, Ray and Bill waded downstream.

Everett looked at me. "Did I show them Dad? Did I?"

"You certainly did."

Everett's line tightened. He lifted the rod up and back, smoothly. The rod bent. A rainbow jumped up, shook his head, dived and bolted toward the near bank. Everett pointed the rod to the side and tried to lift the rainbow's head out of the water but couldn't. The rainbow bulleted straight downstream. Everett let him. His reel clicked faster and faster, and sounded like a spinning roulette wheel. Would Everett land the trout?

"Everett, keep him out of the fast water!"

"I know, Dad."

The fish slowed, finally. Everett lifted his head and turned him.

I quickly waded downstream, closed in on the rainbow.

"Dad, I want to bring him in myself."

The rainbow jumped again. Everett dropped the rod tip and reeled slack out of the line. The rainbow bolted right at him. Everett reeled, quickly.

My heart beat harder and faster, as if I were in the fight. "His head is down."

"I know, Dad." Everett stopped reeling. The rainbow streaked past him, then slowed. Everett lifted his head out of the water and calmly, as if he had fought hundreds of trout, turned and pulled the rainbow into slower water, then reeled him in, slowly, steadily. "Okay, Dad. Get him."

I put my hand under the rainbow and grabbed him. "You did it, Everett. You did it!"

Everett smiled. "Can I mount him?"

"Look how beautiful he is. Don't you think we should let him live?"

"But he's mine."

"He's the river's."

"Please?"

"Everett, if we let him live he'll father more fish."

"Okay, Dad," Everett muttered.

I let the rainbow go. "It's getting late. We should start heading back."

As we walked home, I thought about how Everett fought the trout masterfully. The fight seemed unreal, like a fairy tale, like the way Izzy came down the mountain and won the fly-casting tournament.

I put my arm around Everett's shoulder. "Everett, how did you know how to play the fish?"

"From watching you last week, Dad."

"Playing a fish is something most people can't learn by just watching."

"I did."

"I guess so. I guess so."

And so Everett became a real angler almost overnight, and I became a proud father whose son followed in his way, even though a few days later Everett caught a trout and insisted on keeping it for dinner.

I let him.

January 1933: My father telephoned and said, "I told you the unthinkable might happen. Hindenburg just appointed Hitler Chancellor."

"The other Chancellors didn't last long. Germany produced Goethe, Schiller, Beethoven. Once they see Hitler for what he is, they'll reject him. He only got a third of the vote."

"And what if Hindenburg dies? Ian, this can't be good."

"But what can we do?"

"I joined a group of lawyers and businessmen who are raising money to donate to some of the moderate, German political parties."

A week later, Everett and I fished a long pool that I'll only say is downstream of Cook's Falls. Not getting a strike, we waded farther downstream, through a long stretch of shallow, flat water and into a fast tail. We were about twenty feet upstream of the mouth of a short pool I had never fished. A feeder creek, blocked from my view by an overhanging branch, poured foamy water into the pool. We tied on Doc's backward streamers and let them dead drift straight downstream.

About ten minutes later, I got a take. A big brown veered for the creek, but before he reached it, I turned him and soon landed him. I looked at Everett. "I wonder if there's trout in that creek. Let's take a look."

We ducked under the overhanging branch. About thirty feet in front of us was a low, man-made waterfall. The falling water looked like a see-through, rotating cylinder that crashed and splattered into white suds and sounded like a smooth-running engine. Upstream of the waterfall was a gently flowing pool, scattered with several boulders. The trees lining the banks tilted inward and reminded me of the trees lining the Saw Mill River, especially because signs prohibiting fishing weren't posted. I felt I had stumbled back in time.

Is the pool a symbol of my past? I wondered. It's been so many years since I fished the Saw Mill. And yet that first day I fished the river seems like yesterday. Maybe time really has sped up or contracted.

"Everett, I think we may have just discovered our own small fishing oasis. Let's start by fishing the base of the waterfall."

Standing next to each other, we cast our streamers into the base of the waterfall.

When is the last time, I asked myself, I heard my mother's spirit, my mother's music, in the sounds of a river or stream? Have I grown out of hearing things that, in reality, aren't there? Oh how I wish I could again hear her play and, along with Everett and Ross, be soothed by her music and her love.

I closed my eyes, listened to the crashing water, the singing birds, the wind-rustling leaves, and wished I could somehow drift into the eternal music of the creek and lose myself.

But where would I end up? Back in my childhood? Or maybe even before that—before I even had a self, a memory, a hope, a fear, a grief, a sorrow. Again I see my father teaching me how to throw a baseball, my mother teaching me how to write better sentences. I see Doc telling his story. I see myself marrying Sarah, then holding Ross and Everett for the first time.

If I didn't have these memories would I have a self? If not, would anyone remember or grieve for me? Yes, I want them to. And so I clutch my memories like a Leonard fly rod. Should I let go of them and merge with and become one with this stream? But streams can't have children, or get love from rocks or waterfalls. No, I don't want to give up my self. At least not all the time. After all, there are meeting places for my self and this stream, the way the Saw Mill was, for me, a meeting place for Manhattan and the Beaverkill.

"Dad! Aren't you going to fish?"

I opened my eyes. "I guess I got lost in my daydreams."

No takes. We waded to the bank, walked upstream and waded into the pool. The water was up to Everett's waist. A flock of small singing birds flew down and circled the pool in a figure-eight, roller-coaster pattern. One by one, birds flew in and out of the pattern.

"What are they doing?" Everett asked.

"I don't know. It looks like they're playing a game."

"Like baseball?"

I laughed. "I guess so."

Everett's line tightened. He hooked and landed a fourteen-inch rainbow.

"Is it big enough to keep, Dad?"

"Are you sure you don't want to let him go?"

"Please? You eat fish."

"Okay. As long as you promise you'll let the next ones go."

We fished for another hour. Everett landed another rainbow. I landed two.

"Everett, I think we should keep this pool secret."

During the next few months, Everett and I often fished the pool, but I never thought our secret pool, like the fly-casting tournament of 1909, or like Brett Wilson, would change my life.

1934: I published two articles about fishing the Beaverkill and a short story about a fly-casting tournament. Finally, I felt like a real writer, though I was light-years away from being a great one.

In the world of fly casting, a man named Marvin Hedge discovered a new technique called the Double Haul. According to an article in a fishing magazine, the technique enabled casters to increase line tension on the rod tip and therefore load the rod even more. To execute the technique, a caster accelerated the rod, and with his other hand, simultaneously hauled line downward. As the false cast unrolled, the caster moved his line hand upward and "gave back" line.

Curious if the Double Haul really worked, I took my fly rod to a football field and tried to execute the technique. But every time I did, the unrolling line sagged and the loop widened. Discouraged, I went home, telling myself I'd continue experimenting with the new technique.

But I didn't. Somewhere down the road of my life, I had lost the interest, the drive to become the greatest long-distance fly caster on the planet. You see, I was more interested in being a great father, a great husband and a great teacher.

Looking back as I write this long story of my life, I again see an incident I must tell you about. It happened near Cook's Falls, upstream of the covered bridge.

I pointed to the far bank. "Everett, there used to be a secret fishing hole there."

"Dad, the water is too fast and rocky to cross."

I don't want him to be a coward like me. I thought. "Everett, an old friend of mine named Billy Reynolds showed me that if I took my time and anchored the wading stick, then stepped one foot at a time but not ahead of the stick, there wasn't anything to be scared of. Let's try. You go first and I'll stay right behind you. If you fall I'll catch you."

"But—all right."

Slowly, one step at a time, we waded across the river. Everett looked at me and smiled. "I did it, Dad! I did it!"

"I'm so proud. Now let's see if that hole is still there."

We didn't catch a single fish. The sun slid behind the covered bridge. I said, "Everett, I guess an ice jam covered up the hole."

"Why'd it do that?"

I laughed. "Nature doesn't always have reasons."

March 1936: Hitler ordered German troops to march into the Rhineland and to violate, for all the world to see, the Versailles Treaty.

My father telephoned me. He was worried.

"But Dad, you said the treaty was unfair."

"Yes, but now we have to deal with the present. The French, by not stopping Hitler, made him a hero in the eyes of his people."

"But the Rhineland is part of Germany. Maybe taking it back will satisfy Hitler."

"A bully is never satisfied until someone stands up to him," my father insisted.

"Now that their economy is finally improving, I'm sure the German people only want peace."

"It's what Hitler, not his people, want."

I didn't want to argue or even to think my sons might have to go off to war, so I said, "Next month I promised to take Everett to watch the fly-casting tournament at the Sportsman's Show. Why don't you join us?"

"Everett told me he begged you to compete."

"I haven't practiced for a long time."

"Why don't you? You can make him proud."

"Or ashamed. Weren't you always against my casting?"

"Ian, I don't remember it that way."

A month later, still clinging to the hope of seeing Izzy, I, along with Everett and my father, walked into Madison Square Garden. I saw the green casting platform, and for a few moments I was back in time, standing on the platform, trying to get my body to listen to my mind. Sad, I went further back in time and again saw Izzy climb down the stone hill, then look into my eyes and take my money.

Yes, through my childhood eyes, so much seemed right with the world that hot, summer day.

I looked at Everett and told myself I was blessed to have a loving wife and two beautiful sons. No, I don't want to go back to the past.

I searched the crowd for Izzy.

I didn't see him.

Because I've already described, though in different ways, two casting tournaments, I'm not going to describe the one of 1936. The winner, Jake Bender, a young man built like an offensive lineman, used the Double Haul and cast 128 feet.

If I had practiced, could I have beaten him? I wondered.

Yes, I think so.

Jake held up his trophy and yelled, "If anyone out there knows a caster who thinks he can beat me, tell them I'm willing to put up good money to meet their challenge."

"Challenge him, Dad," Everett demanded. "You used to cast over one hundred twenty feet."

"Used to."

"Don't be scared of him."

"I'm not scared." I looked at my father. "Did you plant seeds in his head?"

"Ian, I swear I didn't."

Everett ran away from us. I tried to catch up to him.

He ran up to Jake Bender. "My father can beat you."

"Kid, like hell he can. Get away from me."

I caught up to Everett and glared at Jake.

He grinned. "If you could beat me, you would have." He turned away.

The next evening as Sarah and I diced carrots and onions, I told her what happened. "Sarah, I wonder why Everett did that. I feel as if he wanted me to prove myself, as if I'm not good enough in his eyes. Haven't I been a good father?"

Sarah put down the knife and looked into my eyes. "Ian, maybe, ah, maybe just showing Everett how to fish, isn't showing him that, that you love him."

"What do you mean?"

"Ian, this is hard for me, but when you talk about literature and fishing I feel your passion, but I don't feel passion when you talk about me. Sometimes Ian, I feel you have had so many losses in your life that you're afraid to, to show love, or maybe even to feel love."

"But I do love you. You know that."

"Knowing it and feeling it are different. To me, the biggest danger of all is being afraid that love will be taken from me and therefore not feeling or showing it."

"Sarah, when I was a boy I never thought my mother would die like that. And soon afterwards Izzy, the great fly caster I told you about, gave me a gift I never told you about, maybe because I'm still so ashamed about what happened." I told Sarah how I fell in love with Izzy's beautiful fly rod, and how my father broke it. "I guess the funny thing is I still remember looking at the rod and not feeling anything. Maybe you're right. I probably don't even show or feel love toward myself. Because of my mother's drinking and death, maybe I just don't feel I'm worth being loved?"

"Ian, I too have a secret. Remember I told you when my brother contracted tuberculosis my mother took him to Arizona and stayed with him for about five months—well what I didn't tell you is that there were times I almost wished my brother passed on so that my mother would come back to me and love me. I knew my feelings were wrong, but I couldn't always stop them. Then when my father, not my brother, died, a part of me blamed myself, as if his death was retribution for my bad thoughts. Maybe that's why I eventually became a nurse, so I could wash my dark stain away."

"And now, do you still blame yourself?"

"Sometimes I still don't know." Sarah hugged me. "Ian, we're both worth loving. To me you're a wonderful man. Look at all the good you do: teach, write, raise sons. If your mother was alive she'd be so proud of you. We can't let things we didn't cause define us."

"Like the crazy world and all its wars? Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't make peace with the world because I can't make peace with myself." I looked into Sarah's blue eyes. "Sarah, I'm sorry for not being everything you, Ross, Everett and even I want me to be, but I am going to try to turn over a new leaf. In the meantime, I want you to know how much I love you and how I always will."

The next day I bought Ross an expensive baseball glove. I gave it to him and said, "I want you to know, even though I haven't always showed it, I love you and feel blessed you are my son."

Ross put on the glove, pounded the pocket and said, "Has something got into you, Dad?"

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Thanks. Just because you bought Everett a fly rod you didn't have to—Dad, I'm the one who chose not to be an angler. It must be so hard for Everett, always hearing about his older brother, always being expected to be as good an athlete."

"Maybe he is as good as you, just in different things. He can really cast and fish."

I walked into Everett's room. He was doing his homework. "Everett, I'm so impressed by how quickly you've become an angler. Sometimes, though, I worry."

"About what, Dad?"

"That you're doing it for me."

"For you?"

"Yes. You see, me and your mother had a talk, and, and maybe I haven't always shown it, but I want you to know how much I love you, and that I wouldn't love you any less if you didn't fish."

"But I love to fish, and I love you too."

"Even if I don't compete against Jake?"

"Yes, but I still think you can beat him."

"Everett, there's so much more to life than casting a fly farther than one hundred twenty feet."

"I want to show you something, Dad." Everett opened his desk drawer and took out a blue-covered notebook. The notebook, he showed me, was his fly-fishing diary. Every time he had caught a trout, he kept a record of the fly, the time of day, the length and width of the leader, and the temperature, clarity, depth and structure of the water. Everett, in my eyes, had turned into a junior George M. L. La Branche; and frankly, Sarah and I were concerned. Besides fishing and reading, Everett didn't have interests. Just as troubling, he didn't have real friends.

I hope he doesn't end up a loner, like Theodore Gordon, I thought. It would be better if he played baseball and joined teams.

I bought him a baseball glove and offered to teach him some of the techniques my father had taught me. Everett, however, put the glove down without even trying it on. He told me he wasn't interested in baseball.

Later, I told Sarah, "Maybe we shouldn't worry so much. Maybe Everett just wants, in his own way, to be a star, like Ross. Maybe he'll grow out of it. Remember I told you I once wanted to be a fly-casting star? For now I think we have no choice but to let Everett be who he wants to be."

"I hope you're right."

To me, what was also troubling about Everett was his new business: catching and selling trout, often to anglers drinking in the Antrim Lodge.

One day I suggested, "Everett, if you need money for a new rod, why don't you just ask me?"

"I want my own money."

"But a lot of these anglers you're selling fish to just want to pretend they caught them. Don't you think those trout want to live?"

"What about all the baby fish and the insects the trout eat? Don't they too want to live? Fish are here for us to eat."

Did I have a choice other than to accept that Everett sold fish?

I didn't think so.

With his profits, Everett bought an F. E. Thomas fly rod and a fly-tying vise.

April 1938: Snow covered the banks of the Beaverkill. Everett, however, insisted on fishing. We put on heavy long johns and wool jackets. Twenty minutes later we waded into our secret pool.

"You're on my land!" someone yelled.

The Hermit stood on the bank.

I asked, "Since when?"

"Two weeks ago."

"You haven't posted signs."

"I will."

"Until you do, the law says we can fish. Besides, do you own both sides of the river?"

"I don't have to."

"The law says you do."

He stepped toward me and then rested his foot on a big rock. His eyes beamed hate. "Are you a lawyer?"

"Maybe." Afraid the Hermit would pick up and throw the rock, I stepped in front of Everett.

"I'm going to get something to eat. When I come back, don't be here." The Hermit marched away.

"My father's right!" Everett yelled. "You don't scare us."

"Everett, be quiet."

"He has no right telling us not to fish here."

"We'd better leave."

"No!"

"Everett, we may be right, but it isn't worth fighting a crazy person over a fishing spot."

"It is!"

"Sometimes it's better to avoid fights. I can't risk you getting hurt. We have miles of other water to fish."

Everett folded his arms. I grabbed his hand and pulled him to the bank.

"I don't want to fish anymore!" Everett yelled, wiping tears away from his cheek.

"Okay."

As I drove home Everett didn't say a word.

Have I again acted like a coward by leaving the creek so quickly? I wondered. But as a father, I had to protect Everett. Yes, I shouldn't feel ashamed, even though I was a little scared.

I drove into our driveway and said. "One day you'll understand why I decided to leave the creek."

Without looking at me, he jumped out of the car and ran up to his room.

From then on I sensed Everett saw me in a different light. Often I wondered if I could have handled the confrontation differently with the Hermit. Though I didn't see how, I continued to blame myself and to hope Everett would forget the confrontation. You see, I yearned for Everett to see me differently. So I came up with a plan: Secretly, I practiced the Double Haul, hoping to master it and to then compete against Jake Bender. But every time I moved my line hand up and gave back line, the line sagged and the loops widened.

Finally, a week before the fly-casting tournament, I made a discovery: If I moved my line hand up as I shot line on my forward cast, the line didn't sag. My loops didn't widen. Then I got an idea: what if I shot line after my back cast?

I tried, but I couldn't move my line hand and simultaneously lower my forearm to 1 o'clock and break my wrist back. Executing three techniques at once was just too much for me.

I decided not to compete against Jake Bender, and I turned from trying to master the Double Haul to worrying about Adolf Hitler and the fate of the world.

Chapter 17

March 14, 1938: Hitler entered Vienna and was welcomed by ecstatic crowds.

In October, England and Germany signed the Munich Pact, giving Germany permission to annex the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia. Chamberlain returned from Munich, waved the treaty and declared, "... peace with honor. I believe it is peace in our time."

My father telephoned. "Chamberlain has no backbone!"

"Chamberlain is just being realistic. I'm sure he's just facing the reality that placating Hitler, bad as he is, is better than replanting the killing fields of the Great War."

"If evil isn't opposed, it spreads, like cancer. The more Hitler builds his military, the more we risk another war. Churchill is right."

As usual, I let my father have the last word, so that even if things weren't peaceful in Europe, they would be between us. Besides, how could I possibly win an argument against such a great litigator?

A week later, Ross suffered a severe knee injury in a football game. The next day he underwent surgery. Afterwards, the doctor told me and Sarah that Ross might limp for the rest of his life.

I looked at Sarah. "I told you I hate football."

We went into Ross's hospital room. Sarah held his hand.

Ross was pale. He smiled weakly. "Look at the good side."

"What's that?"

"I don't think the army will take me. You see Dad, in some ways I've become like you. What good are wars? If it wasn't for the last one, we wouldn't be in this mess now. I guess I'll have to try fly fishing again. Maybe standing in a river, waving a rod back and forth, will start making sense to me. If it does, I hope I'll never fish or cast as well as Everett. You know Dad, I think in a lot of ways I wasn't a very good brother. I mean, I should've encouraged Everett to play sports with me and my friends. Maybe I did rub my ability in Everett's face."

"Ross, you were young. How could you know any better?"

"Dad, I want you to know, even though there were times I was jealous because you spent more time with Everett than with me, I want you to know how glad I now am you did. Now I see that spending more time with him was your way of leveling the playing field, so to speak."

"Thank you for seeing that. I never meant to be unfair."

April 1, 1939: The Barnharts sold an easement to New York State, giving all anglers access to Billy's favorite pool. Frequently, Everett and I fished dry flies on the pool's gently riffled tail. Often I thought of Billy and recalled the times we spent together, like the night I broke my ankle and he borrowed a car and took me to the hospital. Often I tried not to blame myself for his unsolved murder, but a part of me still did.

September 1, 1939: Germany invaded Poland. England and France declared war on Germany. On the Beaverkill, talk of war often drowned out the sounds of gurgling water, singing birds and rustling leaves. Would the war, anglers questioned, be as bloody as the Great War? Should we Americans turn our back on Europe and look away, no matter how evil Hitler was?

During the long winter, the opposing European armies didn't fire a shot. Many people, therefore, said the war existed only on paper. If so, I hoped it stayed that way and was resolved peacefully.

Worried that it wouldn't, I yearned for the opening day of trout season, for the day I could stand in the midst of nature and feel blessed by her beauty, even if the branches were bare, and the cold wind ripped down the river.

On opening day, Everett, Ross and I fished Ferdon's Eddy. Ross whipped his new rod back and forth. The rod didn't load. The line formed wide loops.

"Not so hard, Ross. Watch Everett."

Ross watched for a few minutes and then cast back. The line unrolled and landed on the water behind him.

"Don't pull your elbow back!" Everett yelled.

We fished for an hour without a take. Finally, Everett caught and released a small brown trout.

"I'm freezing," Ross said. He waded toward the bank.

"Baby!" Everett yelled.

My legs were cold, my fingers almost numb. "Everett, I think it's time we went home."

"I waited all winter to fish,"

"The cold is very dangerous. It has a way of sneaking up on you, and then it could be too late. We have the whole fishing season ahead of us."

"All right," he muttered.

A few days later, Germany invaded Denmark and Norway. The so-called paper war became a real war.

May 10: Germany struck like lightning into France. Quickly they outflanked the "impregnable" Maginot Line, then sped north and cut off the English army at Dunkirk.

Hitler was on the verge of total victory.

How? The war was supposed to stop evil and serve a higher purpose. The Beaverkill, after all, was a battlefield of big fish killing insects and little fish. If it wasn't for the killing, the trout would starve, the minnows would multiply and eventually devour all the plant life, then they too would starve. Yes, fish killed for good reasons. What about man? Surely it wasn't for food. War caused hunger and disease and suffering. Is that what God wanted? Or was that what man wanted? But didn't God create man in his own image?

To me, it seemed more like the other way around. But even if I was right, miracles still happened. Churchill somehow used the sea as a savior and evacuated his entire army from Dunkirk. But then France surrendered. England fought alone. Evil in the form of German bombs fell from the sky like rain. English cities burned; and my hope burned with them. Though I wasn't ready to admit it to myself, deep inside I knew it was only a matter of time before America joined the war.

Suddenly Ross's knee injury looked like a beautiful accident. Could Everett tear up his knee fly fishing?

Unfortunately, he didn't.

December 7, 1941: Out of nowhere, seemingly, a swarm of Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbor.

America declared war.

I walked into Everett's room. He slept peacefully. I ran my hand through his curly, blond hair and kissed his cheek.

At least, I thought, he's only sixteen. We have two years to win this war before he's eighteen. Maybe I should be thankful for that. But what about all the other boys, boys who sat in my classrooms? How can I be thankful when so many of them will soon bleed into a thirsty ground?

The first boy I knew to die was John McGovern, a teammate of Ross's. To pay my respects, I forced myself to drive to his house and park behind a long row of cars. At least I wouldn't be the only visitor.

John's parents seemed more drunk than sad. They served roast turkey, potato salad and warm beer. I remembered how, immediately after my mother died, I also didn't feel sad. Shock, I told myself, was nature's way of protecting people from terrible losses.

The next day, Everett asked if I wanted to go fishing.

"Not today Everett. Fishing just doesn't feel right after I learned of John McGovern's death. Everett, I want you to promise that you'll never enlist in the army."

"But a lot of my classmates want to fight for their country."

"I don't care about them! Promise me!"

"I'm not like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes. You could've stood up to the Hermit, but you didn't."

"Fishing that stream wasn't worth fighting for. You're old enough to understand that now."

"I'm old enough to understand that sometimes a person has to fight for what's right. Didn't you and Grandpa often talk about how evil Hitler is?"

Later I told Sarah about my argument with Everett. "Is it my fault, Sarah? How can he still not understand why I didn't stand up to the Hermit?"

Sarah held my hand. "One day Everett will understand. Then he'll thank you. You'll see."

"I hope so."

Chapter 18

I began this story by admitting I didn't become the person or the writer I thought I'd be. Not surprisingly, therefore, I wonder if I'm like an angler who spends too much time fishing the same water instead of wading on. So bear with me as I summarize my next few years.

Every morning I opened a newspaper, searching, hoping for a sign that an end to the war, to the slaughter, was in sight. I didn't see one. Terrified Everett would get sucked into the blood-gulping storm, I tried to keep my mind off my terror by fishing as much as possible, usually with Everett, sometimes with friends.

Then Ross went off to Cornell and wrote sports articles for the school newspaper. His clear writing style made me proud, but it didn't relieve my pain when I heard, one by one, boys I had taught were killed. To discourage Everett from enlisting, I often told him how many Americans were killed that week.

One day I asked, "Everett, have you thought about applying to colleges?"

"I want to go to Columbia, like you, Dad."

"You can then fish the Harlem Meer, or take the train up and fish the Saw Mill River."

Everett mailed his application to Columbia. I interpreted this to mean instead of enlisting, he was leaving his fate in the hands of the draft lottery.

Everett was accepted by Columbia. A month before he was to begin his freshman term, he turned eighteen. Sarah and I made him a small party. After he blew out the candles on his cake, I gave him a big, wrapped box.

"Everett, I have a present for you."

Everett opened the box and took out a typewriter. Without smiling, he put it down.

"Everett, what's wrong?"

"I'm not going to Columbia. I'm going to enlist."

"You're not!"

"I am! And you should be proud." Everett ran up to his room.

I shot up from my chair.

Sarah grabbed my arm. "Later, Ian. Let him calm down. Ross, will you talk to him?"

"There's nothing I can say."

I said, "But you told me you thought the war was stupid."

"That was then. Now I see this war differently. Hitler is the devil. Doesn't the story you told about going with your mother to deliver food to Jewish immigrants mean something to you? If Hitler has his way he'll kill every Jewish family. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not, but I care about my family."

"We're not the whole world. To tell you the truth, Dad, I'm beginning to feel like a coward."

"The Army wouldn't take you if you tried."

"I did try."

"What?"

"You heard me."

"Did you tell Everett?"

"No. He never mentioned anything to me about wanting to enlist. If he had, do you think I would've suggested you buy him a typewriter?"

I pounded the table. "Is this why I had a son: to lose him in war? Wars are like rivers: they flow into bigger ones."

"Dad, Everett's enlisting is not about your way of seeing the world."

"Then what is it about?"

"It's like he said; it's about doing what he thinks is right. Maybe by the time he gets through boot camp the war will be over. Some stories have happy endings, remember?"

"Right now, I don't."

After dinner, Ross went to see his friends. Sarah said, "Ian, you have to try to talk to Everett and tell him about the horrors of war."

"I already have. Besides, you're the one who has seen them firsthand."

"He's not going to listen to a woman's point of view. I love Everett. Just the thought of him going and, and ..." Sarah cried. I hugged her. She said, "God damn this war! Why did Hitler have to be born? How could one man cause so much death and destruction?"

"Even if Everett doesn't enlist, he'll probably get drafted."

"But being chosen by a random lottery will take time."

I walked up to Everett's room, remembering Doc saying how in war, life or death, victory or defeat, often turned on a random event.

Everett sat at his desk and tied a fly. "I want to leave you a whole bunch of Doc's streamers."

I sat on Everett's bed. He turned and looked at me.

"Everett, I always wanted to be a great father. Looking back, maybe I fell a little short. You see, I've had so many—"

"I heard this before. You're here to talk me out of enlisting. You won't."

"I know the evil the world is facing. But I also know one more American soldier is not going to change things."

"Not fighting for what's right will change me."

"There's no shame in waiting to be drafted. Can't you at least do that for me and your mother?"

"Other parents are proud that their sons are enlisting."

"I've always been proud of you. Haven't you seen that?"

"I mean proud of me for more than my fishing. Mom once said that maybe God created disease so we can build up resistance and become stronger. Germany and Japan have become diseases. I don't understand why, only that God gives us the will and the courage to fight and to be the cure. I don't care what your idol, Einstein, says about relativity. When it comes to right and wrong there are only absolutes. Maybe if you believed in God, like Mom, you'd also believe that we're more than flesh, blood and energy. Your beloved Hamlet wonders if we're more than dust. I believe we are."

"How did you come to these ideas?"

"From things Mom taught me, from things I read in books, from things I thought about when I fished."

He makes so much sense to me, I thought. How can I tell him what's right? I was wrong when I didn't stand up to the Hermit. To Brett Wilson. I was wrong when I convinced Billy not to enlist. And yet still I believe there is right in this world. Who am I to tell Everett not to become part of that right and enlist? And even if I could, he still wouldn't listen.

"Dad, sometimes I think back to that day you taught me how to cross the fast riffles at Cook's Falls. Didn't you do that for a reason?"

"I didn't want you to get hurt."

"You also wanted to teach me not to be scared. And I learned."

"Then maybe I made a mistake."

"Please don't say that. Please don't think that. You taught me for a reason, a reason that opened its beautiful, sun-glowing petals when Hitler invaded Poland."

"Everett, Mom and I love you so much. We're scared of losing you. You can't blame us for that. I am proud of you. I only wish I had your courage." I cried.

Everett sat next to me and put his arm around me. "I want you to know how lucky and blessed I feel to have you for a father, even if you're not the greatest long-distance caster in the world."

Everett enlisted. The day before he left for training camp, we fished the Forks, or as many anglers now called it, Junction Pool. Looking back, it's strange how I don't remember if we caught any fish. I do remember, however, it rained lightly. A thick, gray fog blanketed the sky. I wondered how the fog, something so airy, something without its own shape, could erase the tops of time-proof mountains. Holding up the fog like poles holding up a circus tent, were bare trees.

Had heaven, in the form of fog, crossed its boundary and become part of earth?

Plumes of fog rose like smoke.

Was heaven bombing mountains that wouldn't surrender? Or maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe the fog was the mountain's way of crossing its boundary and becoming part of heaven. After all, wouldn't I rather be part of heaven than part of earth?

I watched Everett false cast.

Would it be for the last time?

His body moved like flowing water. His F. E. Thomas rod, his tight, rolling loops seemed like a metronome for the Beaverkill and the world.

I guess they now need one, I thought. What if a young assassin hadn't killed Franz Ferdinand and the Great War hadn't happened? What if Hitler had been killed in the trenches of the war?

What if? What if? Would I ask if there was a God? Would history seem so random? Doesn't Einstein say God doesn't play dice with the world? How I hope Einstein is right. Whether he is or not, I'll hold on to some faith in humanity as I had during the Great War: I'll turn to literature, and to the words of men and women where I'll find rhythmical images of nature more beautiful than nature itself. I'll find hope. Oh, how I wish men could all be poets instead of soldiers.

"Dad, look." Everett pointed at the sky. "Doc's streamer."

I looked up and saw a rainbow. I thought, Maybe the rainbow is an omen or message from Doc, saying that he had fought in a war and had become a better man, and so will Everett.

Everett wrote home frequently. Ten months later, his division sailed for England.

May 1944

Dad and Mom,

There's talk that we're going to be part of the liberation of Europe. All of us are looking forward to it. All of us feel we'll be taking part in something great, something that will forever be a big part of human history. I love being a part of a team, knowing there is something so much bigger than myself. For the first time in my life I have a family of friends. I'm grateful for it.

Some of the guys from the South are serious bass fishermen. Because I too fish, they see me as a brother, even though I'm a Yankee. Our Civil War healed, so I'm hoping that out of the ashes of today's bombed cities an everlasting peace will grow. Now that man has seen the horrors of two world wars, I don't see how it won't.

We all have such faith in Eisenhower. Tell Grandpa I hear Ike is every bit as humble and good a general as Grant or Lee. ...

Sarah and I dreaded news of an Allied invasion.

Finally the news came. In a newspaper we read that after fierce fighting on the beaches of France, the Allies established a beach head and slowly advanced.

Day after day we, like so many parents, feared a knock on the door, a telegram telling us our son was killed in action.

June, 1944

Well here I am in France, finally. I guess you can say my division was lucky. We were one of the last to land on Normandy. The fighting was over by the time we got there. Many of the guys are sad they missed the action, but we know there's a lot of it ahead.

Some of the villages have been almost completely destroyed. It's hard to imagine that the piles of rubble once formed beautiful buildings and even churches. Last Sunday about fifty villagers went to an almost totally destroyed church and listened to a priest give a sermon in French. Though I didn't understand his words, I understood his comforting tone, and I understood the hope and faith I saw on the faces of the worshipers.

(I guess in spite of all the destruction, so many of us believe God will triumph in the end. I'm so grateful, so proud to be an American.)

A lot of villagers walk through the ruins as if they're oblivious to them, especially children. I watched some boys play soccer. They seemed so happy. Later one climbed onto a pile of rubble and the other boys tried to push him off. I guess the game was their version of King-Of-The-Hill. It's strange how right in the middle of a real war, children play fake war. Other villages haven't been touched by bombs and bullets. It's almost as if they're out of bounds. And that goes for a lot of the beautiful, rolling countryside and farmland.

And I have to tell you, France has some beautiful streams. The other day I saw an old man fly fishing with an English rod. The angler couldn't speak English. He let me make a few casts. I could see in his eyes he was impressed with my casting. Later, a captain told me the old man, under the guise of fishing, had spied for us before the invasion. Would you believe it?

When the war is over we should both travel over here and fish some of these streams.

... The news we're hearing is that the German army is disintegrating, and that Hitler is on the run. We're hearing rumors, however, that Hitler is preparing for one last stand. War breeds so many rumors that it's often impossible to know what to believe, so we just keep going.

Dad, how's the fishing? I miss you, Mom, Ross and all the anglers of the Beaverkill.

October, 1944

It rained really heavily here. The rain seemed to erase the roads and turn everything into mud. It's funny how the Germans can't stop us but the rain can.

Finally the storm stopped. A few hours later, the nighttime sky didn't have a hint of a cloud. The moon and the stars looked so close I felt I could reach them with one good, long fly cast, especially since, for a few seconds, the stars looked like floating fireflies.

Though I know it's true, I find it hard to believe the stars are light-years away.

... We heard that two Germans held a young girl at gunpoint and raped her and made her parents watch.

A German officer came in and stopped the brutal act.

Even though Hitler is a dictator, I don't think he has the power to rob all goodness out of the German people. I remember, Dad, how you often told me your mother loved German composers. We have a Jewish soldier in our platoon who was born in Germany. He told me how, up until Hitler came to power, his parents loved Germany and felt at home there.

I just can't believe the rumors about Hitler exterminating Jews and Slavs in death camps. I'll never believe that men can be that evil.

My guess is that the German people don't know what they're fighting for. After this war I'm sure the good German spirit will bloom and grow like a rose. ...

Why hadn't Everett described any firsthand fighting? Was his division still at the rear of our invasion force, as I hoped? Or did he want us not to worry?

I read how the Allies slowly fought their way deeper into France, and how Hitler then unleashed a surprise counteroffensive. From the reports, I knew Everett's division was involved.

One night Sarah and I heard a sharp knock on the door. We stared at each other.

Was the army delivering a telegram?

Sarah covered her face with her pillow. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe. Choking, I forced myself out of bed. My legs, my feet were numb. I couldn't feel the floor, but somehow I made it to the door and opened it.

"Dad!"

"Ross, thank God."

"I hitched a ride with some of the guys at school. I left so fast I forgot my key. I just wanted to be with you and Mom so we could all pray for Everett together."

I hugged Ross and cried. "I'm so afraid of losing Everett."

"So am I."

"I wish I could stop this damn war."

"Dad, you can't blame yourself."

"If only I could stop all the bad things in this world. If only—maybe then I could make peace with the world. Maybe then I won't be so afraid of it. Tell me I'm not a coward, Ross. Tell me!"

"I wish you could believe what I believe: You're a wonderful man."

December, 1944

My Division is in Belgium now.

The Germans are making a stand. They broke through some of our lines. We countered the attack, reformed our lines and now are moving forward again. The cold, the snow, the icy roads, the rain, the thickest fog I have ever seen are slowing us more than the Germans, but we have now learned to use fog as an ally. I still think we are close to a great, noble victory. I'm so proud to be a part of it.

... Some of the guys read the Bible a lot. I just pray, not for myself, but for the world. Last night I went to Catholic services. I wasn't the only Protestant there. At a time like this I think all churches are the same, and all moral roads lead to the same God.

Mom, I think you're right. After this war humanity will have built up a strong immunity to war. Hopefully this penicillin will never wear off.

The funny thing is that even now, without any immunity, I think we're free to feel love and God instead of hate. I'm sorry, Dad, if that sounds like a cliché. You know, I'm sure, how much I admire English teachers and writers who avoid clichés. ...

January 31: The Germans ran out of fuel and withdrew to the Siegfried Line. The Battle of the Bulge was over!

April, 1945

Because we've been in such heavy fighting, my division, like Doc's after the Battle of Cold Harbor, was moved to the rear. We've just crossed the Rhine. It's only a matter of time now. Good has triumphed, so I guess now I can admit that at times I doubted whether it would. ...

May 9: Germany surrendered. Everett was coming home, finally!

Chapter 19

"Finally" was five months later.

I woke up as soon as sunlight sifted through our window shades. Quickly, I dressed, walked downstairs and onto the porch. I sat in my rocking chair. Small clouds were scattered in the sky. Each cloud was shaped differently and looked like a broken yoke, but the more I looked at the clouds, the more they looked like big islands on a map.

Were clouds nature's daily way of varying the face of the sky and making it more beautiful?

The cool air was still as ice, perfect for football. Sarah, I and other parents were blessed with a beautiful homecoming day. The rising sun sat on the top of the mountain and looked like a bull's eye in a shooting gallery. The autumn leaves blended into a red, gold and orange frameless mosaic.

I laughed. Was I ever going to grow out of using unlikely comparisons to describe some of the things I saw?

Sarah stepped outside.

I held her hand. "Sarah, I only wish other parents could feel the joy we're feeling today. It's so unfair that, while we feel joy, others feel such grief."

"I know, but I've given my whole nursing life to others. Today, this day, I'm giving to myself. I feel so happy to have two sons."

Yes, I thought, there's nothing wrong with Sarah feeling that way, even though my feelings, because of all the dead boys, are mixed with joy and sorrow.

My father telephoned. "The jury started deliberating yesterday afternoon. I'll drive up as soon as they reach a verdict. You just can't predict how long a jury will take."

"Everett will understand."

"Wait till he sees what I bought him."

"I hope it's not golf clubs."

"Don't worry. I have Ross for a golf partner."

I looked at my watch. Everett's train arrived in two hours and twenty-five minutes.

Sarah and I drove to the train station and joined the smiling, flag-waving families crowding the platform. Though I couldn't see it, joy pulsed through the air like the melodies my mother once played. The high school band tuned their instruments. I put my arm around Sarah and kissed her.

Everett was twelve minutes away.

I stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down the tracks. In the distance, the tracks seemed to meet, even though I knew they didn't. I remembered the day my mother and I stood on the platform of the El and waited for the train to take us to Grand Street.

If I hadn't seen the fly rod in the Orchard Street apartment, I wondered, would I be on this platform? I'm so grateful my mother and I went to the Lower East Side.

The band played "Over There." Two tiny lights, the eyes of the train, appeared way down the tracks. Sarah cried.

Again, I kissed her. "I'm so glad I met you. I love you and always will."

"I love you too. I'm so glad you broke your ankle and came to the hospital."

The sunlight felt warm and comforting. The train lights grew bigger and bigger, finally into life-size. The train rumbled into the station and screeched to a stop.

Yes, I told myself. This is one of the happiest days of my life.

We loudly cheered.

Jim Gragg, a star football player, was the first soldier to step off the train. Suntanned, he wore his dress-up army uniform and carried his big duffle bag over his shoulder. His parents ran up to him and hugged him. A short line of soldiers followed Jim. Bill Cline's arm was in a sling. Joe Stewart walked with crutches.

The line of soldiers changed into a line of civilians.

"Where's Everett?" Sarah asked frantically.

"Maybe he's just letting everyone else off first—look there he is!"

Everett stepped off the train. He carried his army jacket over his arm.

I yelled, "Everett!"

Sarah and I ran up to him. Sarah hugged and kissed him.

"Everett, it's so good to see you," Sarah said. "We love you so much."

I said, "We're so proud of you."

Everett didn't smile. "Where's Ross?"

"Now that Ross is a journalist, he's in the middle of an assignment. He'll be here Saturday. Grandpa is waiting for a jury to finish deliberating."

"He'll work to his dying day," Everett said.

As we drove home, Everett stared out the window.

"Wow," he said. "Everything looks so different over here, like something out of a fairy tale. Nothing is bombed out."

A silence, long, then suddenly eerie.

I wanted to break it. "I'm sure you'll have a lot of war stories to tell us and grandpa."

"I'm not much of a storyteller," Everett said, still staring out the window.

I said, "I should have understood you might not want to talk about the war."

Everett didn't answer.

Is something wrong? I wondered. War does change people, some for the rest of their lives. In time, I'm sure Everett will be himself again, especially once he starts fishing.

I said, "The Beaverkill is waiting for you."

"I'm sure even the rivers will look different. At least they won't be stained with blood."

We drove into our driveway.

I said, "I'll light the barbecue."

"I can't wait to see my room again," Everett said.

We got out of the car. Without waiting for us, Everett marched inside.

I looked at Sarah. "He doesn't seem all that happy to be home."

"He probably doesn't believe he finally is. I'll get the chicken ready."

I set up the barbecue, lit and fanned the coals, then I went inside and asked, "Where's Everett?"

"Still in his room."

I walked toward the stairs. Sarah ran up behind me and grabbed my hand.

"Maybe Everett just wants to be alone."

"You mean he'd rather see his room than see us?"

"I think we should leave him alone for a while."

"Something isn't right."

"Give him time. He'll be down when he's ready."

I walked outside. The coals burned brightly. Sarah brought out the marinated chicken. I put them on the grill. They sizzled. Flames jumped up from the coals like hooked trout.

I said, "We should tell Everett that dinner is almost ready, don't you think?"

"I'll go inside and yell up to him."

A few minutes later, Everett walked outside.

I asked, "Did you take out your fly rod?"

"No. I just tried to take a nap but couldn't fall asleep. The house, my room, they look so small."

"Are you hungry?"

"I guess so."

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Do you have any beer?"

"I'll get you one," Sarah said.

I asked, "Do you feel like fishing tomorrow?"

"I guess."

"You guess. I figured you couldn't wait to fish what has become the most famous trout stream in America: the Beaverkill. Whoever thought so much fly-fishing history would happen right here? So much good history. That's the theme of my new article. I'll show it to you later."

Everett stared into space.

Is he lost somewhere in his mind? I wondered.

I said, "I'm sure you still have that delicate casting touch."

"How's Ross's casting?"

"So-so. You wouldn't believe how far he can drive a golf ball."

"He was always a gifted athlete. If it wasn't for the injury, who knows how far he would have gone?"

"At least the injury kept him out of the war."

"Yes, it did."

Sarah brought out potato salad, cole slaw and a bottle of beer.

I asked, "When did you start drinking beer?"

"In Europe. The French were always giving us beer, candy and cigarettes."

"I hope you didn't start smoking."

"I didn't, except for a cigar now and then."

"Einstein likes cigars. Would you like a glass?"

"No." Everett drank from the bottle. "Is Ray still around?"

"Yeah, but his arthritis is so bad he can't tie on his own flies. It's so sad the way he always has to ask for help."

"Is he still fishing only wets?"

"He's as stubborn as ever. The dry-fly revolution passed him by."

Another silence. Everett stared at the top of the mountain.

I said, "So it looks like Ross is on the way to becoming the big-shot writer I once wanted to be."

"He sent me some of his articles. To tell you the truth, I like your descriptions better."

"I guess Ross is limited by the demands of his editors."

"How far are you casting these days?"

"I still haven't gone back to long-distance casting."

Everett finished his beer, quickly I thought.

"Would you like another one?" Sarah asked.

"I'll get it." Everett went inside.

"Sarah, I'm telling you, something isn't right."

"Give him some time." Sarah set the table. Everett walked back out.

I took the chicken off the grill and served it. "I'll make my mother's famous French toast tomorrow for breakfast. When was the last time you had French toast?"

"Not in France." Everett grinned, finally. "So who didn't make it back from the war?"

I told him the boys who were killed.

"Damn. They were such nice guys. Why did they deserve to die? Their poor parents." Everett finished half his beer, then tasted the chicken.

I asked, "So how's the chicken?"

"Fantastic. Dad, Mom, I want you to know it's great to be home."

I smiled. "We're a family again."

"We were always a family. Almost every hour I was over there I thought of you." Everett finished most of his beer. "Do you mind if I get another one?"

I said, "I'm sure you've earned it."

Everett went inside again.

I looked at Sarah. "He never drank before."

"He was never a wartime soldier before."

We finished dinner. Everett said, "I'm really tired. Do you mind if I go upstairs? I guess I'm still on European time."

"No, your mother and I will clean up."

Everett left. That night he didn't come back down.

I told Sarah, "I guess he fell asleep."

The next morning I woke up before the sun came up. I lay in bed recalling the time Everett was about twelve and hooked a big brown that was so strong it twice pulled the rod out of Everett's hand. Two anglers watched and laughed, but Everett didn't give up. In the end, he landed the fish. The anglers applauded.

I went downstairs and opened the refrigerator. No eggs. Surprised, I wondered what happened to them. A spatula was in the sink. I looked in the garbage. The empty egg box was on top.

What did Everett do with twelve eggs? I wondered. No one could eat that many.

I went up to Everett's room. His fly rod and waders weren't there.

He couldn't wait to fish.

And neither could I. I put on my waders, boots and fly-fishing vest, took my fly rod and went outside.

A police car moved down the street, slowly—strangely, I thought. The car turned into our driveway. I was surprised. Jim Marks, a policeman, got out of the car, carrying a fly rod, Everett's fly rod.

Jim Marks shook his head, then looked down.

My body chilled.

Jim Marks stepped toward me, then stopped. "We're, we're not sure what happened. We found an empty pint bottle of whiskey in his pocket. We think he got drunk, went fishing in the Junction Pool and, and ..." Jim Marks closed his eyes.

"And what!?"

"He's gone."

"Gone?"

"We tried to save him, but it was too late."

"Where's he now?"

"In the hospital. Strange thing is that there's scrambled eggs in the pool and a frying pan on the bank. I need you to make an identification."

Chapter 20

Even if I could describe my and Sarah's heavy, dull-bladed grief, I wouldn't want a written version of it to spill over and afflict you; so, keeping most of my grief within myself, I'll tell you that minute after minute, day after day, I wondered why Everett had put eggs in the river, and why he had cut the hook off his fly. Though I knew Everett's death was connected to the war, I also wondered exactly how much I was to blame. Had I stood up to the Hermit, had I competed against Jake Bender, Everett wouldn't have seen me as a coward, wouldn't have felt the need to prove his courage and to enlist.

Sarah tried to get me to stop blaming myself, but she couldn't.

Should I have told her that I could have tried harder to talk Everett out of enlisting?

Maybe. But deep in my heart, I knew even a thousand beautifully sculptured words wouldn't have changed Everett's mind.

How is it, I soon wondered, that I took up fly fishing and moved to the Catskills to escape the death and destruction of the wide world, but instead I was followed and bludgeoned by it? Does something in me need punishing? What makes me unworthy of the world's unconditional love that Sarah believes in?

Often I sat on the bank of Junction Pool, staring at the swirling eddies, praying that when Everett went under he was too drunk to feel pain or fear. Sometimes I tried to hear Everett's voice in the gurgling water, or to see his reflection in the smooth tail.

I never did.

And always, though I didn't try to, I saw the pool with angry, self-hating eyes—eyes blind to nature's beauty, to season-changing images I had relished and often wanted to become a part of; and always I wished the upside-down reflections could flow backwards and take me back in time and into my mother's boundless love.

They never did.

October: The leaves fell, landed on the water as gently as Everett's fly, and flowed drag-free downstream. Nature never had to mend, seemingly.

The branches bared and looked like crooked pins stabbing the sky. As if in pain—a pain I felt it deserved—the sky howled winds that slapped and stung my face, then seeped like icy water through my clothes and pressed against my flesh like cold steel.

Shivering, wanting to punish myself, I never ran.

Again and again I obsessed: What if I had never seen the fly-casting tournament? What if students hadn't assassinated Franz Ferdinard? ...

What if? ... What if? ...

Were the what-ifs—the random events in my life and in world history—a reflection of the random movement of subatomic particles? If so, wouldn't I and the world be better off if gravity and space-time affected events? That way, I wouldn't hate God for throwing events like dice.

But my hate, my anger, couldn't flow upstream and reverse time, no matter what Einstein said. And so I wished I had never held a fly rod and swore I never again would.

Sarah and I talked about changing our scenery, so to speak. Then one evening George La Branche, whose son was wounded in the war, stopped by, offered condolences, and then suggested we go down to the Florida Keys and stay in his winter home.

"Ian, the bone fishing is out of this world."

I thanked him and said Sarah and I would consider his generous offer. I looked at his gray hair and mustache, at his slightly wrinkled face, and tried to impose his younger face on top of it, the face I wanted to always remember.

I said, "Sometimes I think about the day you and Mr. Gordon had that fly-fishing experiment in the Covered Bridge Pool. The world looked so beautiful that day. Who could have ever visualized two horrible world wars?"

"No one."

"And who—did you ever think your book would change the course of fly-fishing history?"

"Not in a million years."

"I guess sitting with you is the closest I'll ever come to being with a great writer."

"Great? I wouldn't go that far. Funny thing is, sometimes I look back and wonder why, like a madman, I conducted my dry-fly experiments, day after day, year after year. I guess I was just possessed, for better or worse. Time goes by so fast I wish I would have enjoyed more of it."

"How does it feel to be immortal?"

"After the war, what I did, what I am, seems so damn insignificant. I'm just glad that this world is full of real heroes, like Everett."

"Thanks for stopping by, George. And I really like your safari jacket, even though I'll always remember the well-tailored suits you wore on the Beaverkill."

"To tell you the truth, I'm glad suits on a river are a thing of the past."

Sarah and I considered George's offer, but we finally decided that nursing and teaching, our ways of doing good, were keeping us sane.

Sarah often went to church with other grieving parents. One Sunday, she put on her black dress, but twenty minutes later I found her sitting on the front porch, crying and staring out into space.

I sat next to her and held her hand.

Without looking at me she said, "That first day we met on the river, maybe you were right that my belief in a loving God was an easy way out. Back then I didn't care. Today I wish I could still not care. Does that make me weak? Should I feel ashamed? Maybe you're the one who, all along, has been courageous enough not to believe."

"Still I wish I could keep the promise I made to my mother and--but didn't you say that going to church made you feel less alone?"

Sarah nodded.

"If you want I'll drive you to church and hold your hand and go inside with you."

Sarah looked at me, finally. "All right Ian. We'll go together."

Christmas Time: Sarah and I were having a particularly bad day. Our house became a tomb again. Eagerly we waited for Ross and his new girlfriend, and for my sister and her family.

Again I went into Everett's room. I opened his fly box. It was filled with flies—about twenty Quill Gordons and about ten of Doc's streamers. Some of the streamers were tied backwards.

If there are ghosts, I thought, I hope that Doc, Theodore Gordon and Everett fish together.

I opened Everett's fishing diary somewhere near the end. His beautiful handwriting flowed like an artist's. I read:

May 15, 1938: The tail of Barnhart's Pool, about ten feet from the north bank. The water is fifty-two degrees, clear and moving at about four feet per second. The sky is partly cloudy.

It is about five p.m. I'm fishing a March Brown, size twelve. I'm using a 9-foot, 5X. leader. On my fifth cast to the same seam, I hook a fourteen-inch brown.

Someone knocked on our door. I yelled, "I'll get it." I ran downstairs and opened the door. A young man and woman stood in front of me. The woman held a baby. Surprised at seeing strangers, I asked, "Yes, may I help you?"

"Is dhis de Mac Bride residence?" the young man asked. He was almost as tall as I. His eyes and thinning hair were dark.

"Yes."

"Dhank God we're finally here. We had a hard of a time finding de place, especially widh de snow and all. Dhis is my wife, Maria and our baby son, Michael." The young man spoke as if he were from the bowels of Brooklyn.

"And you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Sal, Licata. I served with Everett. I always said I'd drive up and visit him."

His words punched me.

"Did I say somedhing wrong?" he asked.

"Come inside."

Sal walked with a limp. He and his wife sat on the couch.

I looked into Sal's eyes and said, "I don't know how to tell you this, but Everett didn't survive the war."

Sal flinched. "We sailed home togedher."

Forcing words out of my mouth, I told them what had happened.

Sal stared at me with frozen, spaced-out eyes.

Sarah served tea.

The baby cried. Maria apologized.

I said, "I like the sound. It's the sound of life."

Maria rocked the baby to sleep.

I said, "The thing I still can't figure out for the life of me are the eggs and the hookless fly."

"I dhink I can," Sal said. "Mr. Mac Bride, de reason I drove up here is because I—we owe a lot to Everett. Did he ever tell you de story of what happened to us near Dinant, at de Meuse River?"

"No, strangely Everett never described any fighting he had been in."

"But he sure loved to describe de beauty of fly fishing, but I guess you know dat already. Anyway, seven of us were on night patrol. It was foggy and we lost our way and de next dhing we knew we near de bank of de river. All of a sudden a Jerry machine gun on de oder side of de river opened up on us, killing two of our guys, Steven and Mickie. Luckily dere was a big bomb crater which we jumped into. At first our plan was to wait and hope de fog would get dhicker and dhicker, as it often did, and den we'd be able to crawl out of de crater widout de Jerries seein' us. But soon de temperature dropped like a rock, and de fog was drifting up like smoke. If we stayed put, we'd freeze to death. If we made a run for it we'd get shot.

"Now strange dhings happen, Mr. Mac Bride, when men dhink dey're facing death. One of de guys just broke down, and cried, and said dat all he wanted was to get home and see his wife and son again. Everett, however, seemed to turn into some sort of zombie. He didn't say a word for de longest time, den suddenly he told us how sick and tired he was of war and killin'; and dat if he ever survived de war he would never kill anyding again. Suddenly he seemed about to cry. He told us he couldn't count de number of trout he killed. Aldhough I don't fish, I told him when it comes to killin', trout don't count. He looked at me and told me I was wrong. I didn't see de point in arguing back, especially when for all I knew he was right.

"Den he told us he had a plan. We were to start firing our guns at de Jerries. Wid dem distracted, Everett would make a run for de woods.

" 'Den what?' " I asked.

" 'I'll sneak downstream, cross the river and get de Krauts.'

" 'You're crazy,' I said. 'Maybe we can survive de cold, and when daylight comes, de Jerries might pull back. If dey don't, maybe our planes will get dem.'

" 'I don't like dose odds,' Everett said.

" 'Even if you make it to de woods, how are you going to cross de river?' I asked.

" 'I'm a fly fisher, remember? My father taught me how to cross fast, rocky rivers.'

"And so we followed Everett's plan and opened up on de Jerries. Everett broke for de woods. At first de Jerries didn't see him, but den dey turned dheir guns on him. We hoped and prayed Everett had made it into de safety of de woods.

"The ground got colder and colder and seemed to harden into concrete. To keep warm, we huddled togeder and waited for what seemed like an eternity. I wondered to myself: if I was de one who made it out of de crater, would I have de guts to try to take out de Jerry machine gun? Or would I just find my way back to our lines and try to get help?

"I decided I would try to get help, even dhough I might not be able to find de way back to de crater.

"Shiverin', we assumed Everett was dead and soon we would be too. I tried to imagine what deadh was like. I mean, would deadh seem as if de whole world came to an end just because I wasn't dere to see it? Now I'm not a smart or educated man, but de world seeming to come to an end didn't seem possible. After all, what does one man really amount to? A speck of de world's sand?

"Suddenly we heard a small explosion, den gunfire, den quiet, a long, deep quiet, dat is, if quiet can be deep.

" 'Hey Yanks, get out of dere!' It was Everett's voice.

"We jumped up and hugged him as if he had scored de game-winnin' touchdown. Now de funny dhing is, when we got back we told Everett dat we were goin' to see to it dat he got de Silver Star. But Everett insisted dat we didn't say anydhing to our officers, and dat he would never take a medal for what he had done. I asked him why, but he just turned and walked away.

"So Mr. and Mrs. Mac Bride, here's de way I see it: Everett cut de hook off because he was finished killin' fish. Instead he wanted to feed dem and help give dem life."

I said, "Like Doc."

"Who?"

"A lifelong friend."

"Here's what else I see," Sal said. "If it wasn't for Everett, my son and I wouldn't be here, and neidher would de five guys on our patrol unit. Luckily all of us survived de war, dhough Bill Jacobs lost a leg. So Everett also saved de lives of all our children and grandchildren."

Proud, I held Sarah's hand. We cried.

The baby opened his eyes, looked at us and smiled.

"Sal, I'll be right back."

I walked up to Everett's room, took his F. E. Thomas fly rod and brought it downstairs. "This is Everett's favorite fly rod. I'm sure he'll want your son to have it. I only ask that when he's older, you tell him Everett's story and then make him promise—no. Let the story help him make up his own mind."

"Dhanks Mr. Mac Bride," Sal said.

"My son Ross will be here soon. I want you to meet him and stay for dinner."

"Sure," Maria said. "We'd love to."

Sal's story deepened my pain. More than anything I wished I hadn't taught Everett to overcome his fear and to wade across Cook's Falls. As I had after Billy's death, I again wondered how my trying to do good turned into my doing bad, but as time rolled on, as winter's icy winds weakened, I often tried to determine just how many more babies would come into this world because of Everett's heroism.

Twenty? Thirty?

And what if humanity inhabited the earth for 100,000 more years?

A million babies?

I had no way of knowing.

The first warm day of spring: I still had no desire to pick up a fly rod. I sat on my porch and graded compositions. Finally, I came to what I thought was the last one.

It was a letter signed by all my students. It read:

Dear Mr. Mac Bride,

We all just wanted to let you know how blessed we feel for having one of the greatest English teachers in the world. Because of your passion, when we read beautiful language we'll always hear the rhythm and melody of great music.

When we read Don Quixote we'll always see his wanderings as noble as Moses's and Christ's; so if we get lost in our illusions, or even spun and dropped by windmills, our ideals won't shatter.

When we read Hamlet we'll always hear his deep questioning about the meaning of life as noble as Einstein's and Newton's; so if we get lost in our darkest night, or even chased and scared by ghosts, our faith will burn brighter.

Your eternally grateful students,

All my students signed the letter. I showed it to Sarah. She read it and said, "Ian, we have to frame this and hang it in Everett's room."

"Yes, that's what he would want."

A few months later, I walked down the school steps. A man with messy gray hair stood on the sidewalk. He had a cleft chin. He wore a pressed denim shirt and pants. He carried a small, cherry-stained case.

"Mr. Mac Bride?"

"Yes."

"Do you recognize me?"

"I can't say that I do."

"I shaved my beard off. I'm known as the Hermit. I want to apologize for what happened many years ago on the stream. I should have let you and Everett fish. You're certainly welcome to fish it now, though the man-made waterfall didn't hold. I'd be honored to fish with you."

"Thanks, but fishing is now in my past."

"Death affects us in strange ways. I lost a child too."

"I'm sorry."

"I want to thank you for being his good friend."

"I don't follow."

"Mr. Mac Bride—"

"Call me Ian, please."

"Okay. Ian, you see, Billy's mother was married to someone else. She and I used to run into each other in the library, where she worked. Well before long, things sort of happened on their own. We fell in love. We decided that love outside marriage was wrong, but then, then, well I guess love is something we can't always control. In short, she became pregnant with my child, with Billy. We decided not to tell anyone, and that she'd try to fool her husband into raising Billy as his own. But when Billy got older, her husband saw he didn't at all look like him. He got suspicious; then one day Billy's mother came back from church and told her husband the truth. He left and never came back, hurting Billy terribly. By then, well I think you know what happened to me; so Billy's mother made me promise not to tell him the truth until he was at least twenty-one. Though I didn't want to, I kept my promise. That's why I grew a beard, so Billy could never see the truth printed on my face.

"Now Billy was a good boy, but he didn't always do things right. I told him that stealing fly rods to take them apart and see how they're built was wrong. Who knows, maybe someone caught him stealing and killed him. I guess he felt stealing was okay if it led to his building great rods that anglers would cherish like art for the rest of their lives. After Billy died his mother gave me the last fly rod he made. I think it's one of his masterpieces."

The Hermit opened the case. Inside was a beautiful, three-piece fly rod. "It's a nine-and-a-half-foot trout rod. I want you to have it."

"I can't take it."

"It's what Billy would have wanted. We have to honor the wishes of those who passed on."

He closed the case and held it up. "It's a five-weight."

I looked into his face and saw Billy. I took the case.

"Ian, do you think I did right by not telling Billy the truth?"

"You did right."

"Thanks."

"May I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"After everything that's happened to you, how do you make peace with it all?"

He nodded, then grinned. "You see, Ian, I learned—too late in life, I regret—that when I really get right down to it, the most important thing is to love a shimmer-less flow of time, to love a faceless God, even though they seem deaf to my pleas, to love them the same way I love a beautiful, beautiful river. I think that's what Billy, wherever he is, wants me to do."

I stared into his eyes and—this might sound strange—felt love, or something like it.

"Do you still believe in Einstein?"

He smiled. "Billy told you?"

"Yes."

"It's amazing how the more that's revealed about the world, the more Einstein is being proved right."

"So you don't believe God plays dice with the world?"

"No."

"But what about the randomness in physics and in history?"

"It's there, but I think for a reason."

"What?"

"That, Ian, is the big question." He turned abruptly, walked away, and then looked back. "Hope I see you on the stream."

"What's your name?"

"The Hermit."

"Nice to meet you, Hermit."

I took the case home, opened it and ran my fingers over the fly rod's smooth-as-glass, light-orange finish. I put the rod together. Compared to mine, it felt as light as a feather. I screwed on my Orvis reel, but abruptly I took it off. I put the rod back in its case.

Chapter 21

My curiosity ate at me. Did Billy perfect his technique of fluting the inside of bamboo? And because some fly-casting tournaments now restricted casters to use rods 91⁄2 feet or less, could I use Billy's rod and compete and win?

I found my old notes on long-distance casting and studied them. Wanting to keep my practices secret, I drove to a little-used baseball field near Livingston Manor. A few minutes later, I got into my casting stance and felt I got back into my past. Keeping my elbow in place, I cast back, then forward. The rod loaded and unloaded like a spring. I shot line.

Let's see what this rod can do, I thought.

I cast back, lowered the rod tip and cast forward. Hammering a nail, I stopped the rod and let go of the line. The front loop tightened into a wedge and jetted across the field.

The fly didn't turn over. The leader and the end of the fly line landed in a circle.

I reeled in all the slack line, marked the line close to the reel, and I reeled in six more inches. Again I cast. This time, as my presentation cast unrolled, the line pulled against the reel. The fly turned over. I put the rod down and measured the cast.

96 feet!

How far will I cast, I wondered, if I can shoot line after my back cast and then slide my line hand up without adding slack to the unrolling line?

I tried to, again and again, but I either lowered the rod tip too quickly and added slack, or I lowered the tip too slowly and not far enough.

But I wasn't giving up!

The next afternoon I went back to the baseball field. It was a mild, sunny day. In right field a boy, a girl and a blond-haired woman played soccer.

The woman kicked the ball over the boy's head.

I walked to left field and set up Billy's rod. A woman wearing a straw hat walked her big, black poodle behind home plate. I got into my stance. Again and again I back cast and shot line, but always I lowered the rod too quickly or too slowly.

Catching my breath, I stared into space, looked into my past, and saw myself trying to discover casting defects, like rocking my shoulders during the cast, and therefore inadvertently lowering the rod from the target line.

Were the defects, I wondered, a sign for me to continue experimenting until I discovered a cure?

"Goal!" The woman yelled out.

"No, it was outside," the boy argued. "Mom, you can't tell from where you were."

I smiled. The poodle, I saw, looked at me.

What goes through the dog's mind, I wondered, when it watches me cast? Can it have any idea what I'm doing? And what am I doing—trying to discover the ideal, long-distance casting form? If so, is this baseball field my laboratory?

Again I false cast. I shot line after my back cast and lowered the rod to 2 o'clock. The line didn't sag! I cast forward.

A wedge! The fly turned over! The leader landed in a straight line. I measured my cast.

98 feet! Could I do it again?

My next cast was 97 feet! Billy had built a great fly rod.

Exhausted but thankful for another casting defect, I reeled in line, lay down on the lawn and closed my eyes. The warm sun comforted me. I told myself that, to help other anglers, I should write a long-distance, fly-casting article.

But why is casting 10 feet farther so important to me? Are my casting experiments about more than distance?

Yes. They're also about coming to believe in an ideal—a perfect fly-casting form—as absolute as the universal law of physics—gravity, relativity—as absolute as what's good and right—fighting against Hitler—as absolute as the beauty of nature—the Beaverkill.

But do these ideals have a soul?

Whether they do or not, why is coming to believe in them so important? Is it because even though the world is riddled by random turns of history and bloodied by wars, the world is also unified by ideals: universal laws that form a working order, a kind of higher power? If so, why are ideals invisible and so hard to discover? And what gives them meaning? Just existing? No. My will, my choice to discover and to emulate them?

To discover, to emulate. But I've instead always tried to will things into my way. And what was the usual result? Fear. Failure. Lack of faith and self-worth. Yet now, just as I've learned that if I come in-line with the ideal casting form that I'll cast close to a 100 feet, I've also learned that if I come in-line with other ideals, I'll rise above helplessness, above my defects, and above the world's random events, even though I don't know where these ideals came from. Isn't that what self-love is all about? Do my defects and random events therefore exist for a reason? To challenge me to become connected to love, beauty, goodness—to spirituality?

Yes, I think so. And perhaps Izzy never came back because he knew I had to find my spirituality in my own way. And if I, therefore, believe in the fly-casting techniques I've discovered, if I believe in Billy's rod, I should fight for them. I should overcome my fear, the way I had to overcome my casting defects.

I opened my eyes. The sun shined low in the sky. Its orange rays burned my eyes. I looked straight up, into heaven, and smiled. Slowly, the sky's blue darkened. The hiding stars peeked down and soon became pinheads of light. I started counting them. Somewhere I lost track; then I lost caring about how many stars were in the sky. I sat up. The blond-haired woman and her children had left. I clutched Billy's fly rod and told myself it was time for me to go home and see Sarah.

The next morning I telephoned a casting organization and learned that their next tournament was in August, in the Newark Civic Center, and that competitors had to use the organization's official fly line. I asked, "How long was last year's winning cast?"

"One hundred two feet."

"Who won?"

"Jake Bender."

I ordered the official line.

A few days later, Ross and his girlfriend, Melissa, visited Sarah and me and told us they were engaged. To celebrate, I took them to dinner at the Antrim Lodge. As I ate my dessert, I looked at Ross. "Do you remember the time Everett told Jake Bender I could cast farther than he could?"

"Sure."

"Well, I got this great rod as a gift. I'm going to see if Everett was right."

"But Dad, you're forty-nine years old."

"Well, the way I see it, I have three months to experiment and perfect my technique. If I don't win, I'll know I did the best I could; that's why, this time, I'm not keeping it a secret that I'm competing. I'm going to tell every angler I see."

The next day I started practicing and eventually determined that, using Billy's rod and the official fly line, I could false cast up to 50 feet of line and shoot another five feet on my last back cast.

But could I false cast more line and therefore increase the length of my presentation cast?

Like Einstein imagining relativity, I tried to imagine new fly-casting techniques.

Finally, I came up with four: 1. Stopping the rod more abruptly on my back cast by stabbing it slightly upward. (As the line unrolled, I slightly lowered my rod hand back to casting-level.) 2. Starting my downward haul later and faster. 3. Increasing the length of my casting stroke by slightly lowering the trajectory of my forward, false cast and therefore having the rod in a lower position at the start of my back cast. 4. As the line unrolled, not losing power by shifting my weight before starting my false or presentation cast.

I went to the baseball field and tested each technique.

They all worked! I was able to false cast up to 54 feet of line.

I cast 100 feet!

Thrilled, thinking I could beat Jake Bender, I drove home. During the next week, however, I never cast farther than 100 feet. Discouraged, I told myself I was a fool for believing I could beat Bender, probably the best caster on the planet.

I stopped practicing, but my mind, as if it had a life of its own, wouldn't stop asking, what if I tried ...? What if ...?

So day after day I went back to the field and experimented with new techniques. But the final answer was always the same: 100 feet or less.

Why can't I cast as far as Jake? I wondered. Is it because he's younger than me? Bigger than me? Or am I just not good enough? Why even go on? But I've told so many people I am competing. There has to be other casting techniques out there. I can still try to find them

But time, I knew, was running out. The tournament was only a month away.

I told Ross I still couldn't break a hundred feet. Joe Louis, he said, added snap to his right cross by sharply twisting his fist just before he landed the punch.

Could I adapt the technique to fly casting?

The next morning, as the sun rose, I drove to the baseball field. During my first back cast I turned my rod hand outward, so my palm faced straight ahead. I cast forward, sharply twisting my rod hand. Abruptly, I stopped the rod with my palm facing left.

But I hadn't fully accelerated the rod.

Don't give up! I told myself.

I didn't, and on the fourth day of practicing the new technique I accelerated the rod and simultaneously twisted my rod hand.

I cast 103 feet.

But not consistently, so I wrote all my—or I should say the world's—casting techniques on index cards. Before every practice, I reread the techniques. As I executed them one after the other, I reminded myself not to rush, to stay in the casting moment.

A week later, I consistently cast 103 feet. But casting by myself on a lawn was a lot different from casting in front of thousands of staring eyes in an arena, so as the days marched toward the tournament, I became more and more nervous. Often I woke up in the middle of the night and saw myself standing on the casting platform, freezing up and making a fool of myself. Terrified, I wondered if I should tell everyone I knew that I hurt my elbow and was backing out of the tournament.

No! I told myself.

To keep my mind off the tournament, I decided to fish again. Wanting to be with other anglers, I drove to the most popular pool on the Beaverkill, Cairns.

The long, straight pool was lined with about fifteen anglers. Mickey, Roger and Doug waded out of the river, walked up to me and offered condolences. Feeling welcomed, I asked how the fishing was. Slow, they told me.

"Ian, is that a new rod?" Roger asked.

"Well, a new old one. Many years ago around here there was a young guy named Billy Reynolds ..." I told them the story of Billy and his dream of building great fly rods. As I did, the anglers looked into my eyes as if I were Abe Lincoln giving the Gettysburg Address. Suddenly, I felt I was back in the Antrim Lodge, telling Doc's story. "... And so this is the rod I'll use in the tournament. Maybe Billy will become famous after all."

They wished me luck. I thanked them and walked downstream, along the bank. I cried. Wearing the tears on my face like medals, I waded into the tail of the pool. The gently flowing water seemed to hug my legs and to comfort and welcome me. All my fishing days, I knew, were not downstream of me.

The afternoon before the fly-casting tournament: Wanting to be close to Everett, I drove to Junction Pool, stood at the bank, near the deep water, and watched the eddies swirl, disappear and pop up a few feet away. Suddenly the eddies and the seams looked like ancient letters on a Rosetta stone.

Maybe the Beaverkill, and even the universe, have been writing to us all along, and we've been unwilling to learn its eternal language. Maybe if Einstein or Newton were here they could decipher it, but I can't. "My beloved son, Everett, I know you wanted to see me as a courageous hero. I'm sorry you didn't. You once told Jake Bender I could beat him in a fly-casting tournament. To tell you the truth, I don't know if I can, but I'm going to try; and because I am, I hope, I pray you will see me as I really am, a man, so much smaller than the laws of nature, as a man who didn't always have the courage to see the world the way it was and to make peace with it, so instead I often tried to see it in my own way and to change it. And I hope you also see me as a man who, in his way, tried to do the right things."

I walked downstream. The island in the pool's tail still looked like it needed a haircut. How was it that its hair seemed frozen in length, as if, unlike me, it was outside the laws and clutch of time?

Was the island really a giant subatomic particle?

Mark, an angler I hadn't seen in years, fished the tail. He waved to me. "Good luck, tomorrow."

"Thanks."

Ray sat on the bank. I walked to him. He smiled. Around his eyes were lines that looked like rays of light drawn by a hieroglyphic-carving Egyptian. But in my mind, I saw the man-in-the-moon face I saw 30 years ago.

"Ray, do you need me to tie on a fly?"

"Would you, Ian?"

He handed me his fly box. His crooked, arthritic fingers were so swollen they looked as if they had marbles in them. His fly box was full of wet flies and a few streamers.

I asked, "Which one?"

"You pick."

"A Green Drake? I had luck with that once, remember?"

"I remember."

"What about a streamer, Doc's streamer?"

"Yeah. That sounds good."

I tied on Doc's streamer.

Ray studied it. "Hell of a fly, backward and forward."

"Sure is."

"Ian, I don't know how to say this, so I'm just going to say it. Look at how I've become a sick, old man. Damn time has robbed me of my joy of fishing. The hemlocks can grow back and line the banks, and look as if they've never been cut down, but I can't grow young. At least I can still come here and see and hear the river. I just wish, Ian, that the river took me instead of Everett."

"Ray, I don't feel it was the river that took him."

"So you've made peace with the Kettle That Washes Itself Clean?"

"The river was one thing I was never at war with."

"I hear you're going to compete in that fly-casting tournament in Newark."

"I am."

"Wow. That takes real guts. From what I read, it's about time someone put that Jake Bender in his place."

"Ray, I remember the first day I came here. I was lonely and scared and wanted to run home, and I probably would have if I hadn't met you and felt welcomed; and for that I'll always be grateful. Sarah, Ross and I are driving to the tournament. I'd really like you to come with us."

"I've never seen a fly-casting tournament before."

"I have to warn you: we're picking up my father in Manhattan. He's a rich lawyer."

"Hell, from the first day I knew you were a rich kid. I didn't hold it against you, did I?"

"No, you didn't."

Ray stared at his swollen fingers, then into my eyes. He smiled. "Damn right, I'll come to the tournament."

The morning of the tournament: "Ian, wake up." Sarah shook me. "Ray's downstairs having breakfast with Ross."

I glanced at the clock. "I can't believe I slept so late."

"That's a good sign."

After breakfast, we all piled into my car. I drove to Manhattan, picked up my father and drove through the Lincoln Tunnel and to the Civic Center in Newark. The football-field-sized parking lot was about half full.

"How do you feel, Dad?" Ross asked.

"Nervous, like a prizefighter before a fight. But I want you all to know how grateful I feel to have all of you here with me. I feel like a winner already."

"Remember, Ian," my father said. "Try to relax and let your body do the work."

We walked into the lobby of the Center. A casting official wearing a green sports jacket sat at a desk.

I said, "I'm here to compete. I'm Ian Mac Bride, with a space between the Mac and the Bride."

He wrote down my name and gave me two hookless flies. We walked into a big auditorium. Fly casters competed in the accuracy event. Standing on both sides of the long, casting platform were about five hundred people. Unlike the platform that had been in Madison Square Garden, this one was white and straight and didn't resemble a cross. Another five hundred or so more people sat in the long, steep balcony.

At the far end of the auditorium was a roped-off practice area.

I looked at Ray and my family. "Well, I think I should practice one last time."

I walked to the practice area. Jake Bender reeled in his line. Our eyes met. His tightened into a glare.

Yes, he remembered me!

I stared back, then set up Billy's rod and took out my index cards. As I read each casting technique, I visualized executing it.

I false cast, reminding myself to stay in the moment and in-line with the ideal casting image in my mind.

"May I make a suggestion?" a man asked.

Not looking for advice, I didn't look at him. Curtly I said, "Why not?"

"I think you're turning your head too fast. When you start your back cast, keep looking forward for a split second. When you start your forward cast, keeping looking back."

A hint of an accent. The man wore a green, broad-brimmed, fly-fishing hat. He looked about ten years older than me. His hair was gray and curly. His nose was hooked.

I muttered, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I retrieved line and got into my stance.

Izzy? The beak-like nose. Yes, that was Izzy!

I turned. He was gone. I put Billy's rod down and marched through the crowd searching for the fishing hat. I didn't see it.

The technique, I said to myself. I have only a few minutes to try it.

Back in the practice area, I false cast, making sure I didn't turn my head too quickly. I made a presentation cast. The line pulled hard against the reel, too hard. It snapped back a few feet. Izzy's technique worked!

I retrieved line and pulled about three feet more line off the reel. Again I cast. This time the line gently pulled against the reel. The fly turned over perfectly.

I sat on the end of a line of casters. By the luck of the draw, I would cast last.

Was that an omen?

I didn't know.

Was it a benefit?

On the one hand, I would know exactly how far I had to cast to win. On the other hand, I would have more time to get nervous.

Forget about everyone else, I told myself. Pretend I'm alone. Put my casting notes on my lap. Read them. Visualize them.

Jake Bender's name was called. I looked up from my notes.

Jake cast beautifully, effortlessly. But I saw he didn't shoot line on his last back cast and he turned his head too fast.

I could beat him!

He cast 103 feet, five feet farther than anyone else.

"Ian Mac Bride!" an official called.

I stepped onto the casting platform.

Don't look at anyone, I told myself. Get out of myself and in-line with the ideal fly cast.

I put down Billy's rod and walked off about a 100 feet of line. I walked back down the platform, picked up the rod, and reeled up line until my mark was about three feet from the reel. I tucked the rod handle under my arm. Hand over hand, I retrieved line and piled it in front of me, then got into my stance, glanced at the tournament official and nodded. He started his stopwatch.

I looked straight ahead, at my fly line.

Slowly, I cast the rod back, thinking, Keep elbow in place. Turn rod hand out. Haul and cast, faster. Abruptly stop rod by stabbing it upward a few inches. Stop downward haul. Don't move shoulders. Lower rod hand to casting-level. Look back. Loop is tight. Good. Keep weight back. Wait for narrow candy cane to form. Cast forward. Still look back. Now watch casting hand. Haul and cast faster. Rotate hips forward. Twist rod hand and hammer nail. Stop rod and downward haul at same time. Shoot line. Slide rod hand up. Count: 1, 2, 3. Catch line. Watch loop unroll. Lower rod slowly a few inches. Keep weight forward. Candy cane. Look forward, cast rod back. Haul downward. Stop rod and haul. Point rod lower. Look back. Good tight loop. Shoot line and slide rod hand up. Lower rod tip. Break wrist back. Candy cane. Look back, cast forward. Watch rod hand. Rotate hips all the way forward. Drive body through the cast. Savagely haul. Slam nail! Hit the wall. Stop rod and haul. Let go of line. Raise rod butt. Stab rod forward. Keep still. Did it!

The rolling loop tightened into a narrow wedge and missiled over the casting platform.

I yelled, "Go!"

The line gently pulled on the reel. The fly turned over.

I won! I know it!

"One hundred six feet!" the official yelled. "A new record! The caster has two more casts to see if he can break his own record."

I looked at the official. "Sir, I think I did the best I could. I'm finished."

"Very well. We'll engrave your name on this trophy later."

I remembered how Izzy didn't take his trophy.

Should I take mine? Yes, I've earned it! I'll keep it in Everett's room.

Holding up the trophy, I looked across rows and rows of faces. The spectators applauded, wildly, the way they had so many times in my mind. I searched for the green, fly-fishing hat.

I didn't see it.

A silence. The spectators wanted me to say something.

I said, "First, I want to thank the greatest fly caster I ever knew, Izzy Klein. Next, I'd like to thank the greatest fly-rod builder I ever knew, Billy Reynolds. Next I'd like to thank my son Everett, my mother, my family, and all the people in my life. I feel I had so much help in teaching me what I couldn't teach myself: how to come to believe. I'll always be grateful."

I stepped off the platform. Ross jogged through the crowd and hugged me.

I said, "I'll meet you outside. Here, take my trophy."

"Where are you going?"

"I'll tell you later." I fought my way to the front of the exiting crowd. Outside, I scanned the faces pouring through the doorways and tried to pick out gray, curly hair and a hooked nose.

I didn't.

I saw Ross, my father, Sarah and Ray.

"What's wrong, Dad?" Ross asked.

Still scanning faces, I said, "Nothing. Just give me a few moments."

"Sure."

The faces were fewer and fewer, and fewer—a trickle.

Then there were none.

"Who are you looking for?" Ross asked.

"Do you remember I once told about—well, I just thought I saw a guy I once knew. Maybe it was his ghost." I smiled.

"Ian, aren't you too old to believe in ghosts and in fairy tales?" my father said.

"Dad, I thought so. I guess it's time we all headed home."

And so as I sit on my porch this autumn day and write the last words of my story, I wonder, are some world events meant to move outside the historical law that rising empires will one day fall? Does this random, accidental movement, like red-coated British soldiers firing into a Boston crowd, often lead to great ideals: the Bill of Rights and to Liberty?

Are subatomic particles meant to move outside the scientific laws of gravity? Does this random, accidental movement, like cells mutating, often lead to stronger species and to evolution? Can history be perfected like a fly cast?

Even if so, maybe the long line of events in my life or in world history weren't really random. After all, I chose to go to the Lower East Side. Chose to move up to the Catskills. And the world chose to go to war in 1914. Choose to not stop Hitler before he became so powerful.

Are some events, therefore, Man-made and random at the same time?

I think so; so maybe now, after two bloody, world wars, the world and I will choose to find the zigzagging path to peace, faith and love. And maybe one day I'll be able to make amends to Everett, to my mother and to all the people in my life by seeing that in this world of flesh and blood, love is rarely born from perfection, from a Mona Lisa or a David, but usually from a mixture of black and white, from seeing beauty in the midst of defects, from feeling love in the midst of anger. Yes, how grateful I am, that for a short time on the river of eternity, I was a small, small part of it.

Finally, I have one more thing to tell you: Often I read words in a biography of Einstein, words he too often read. The words are Sir Isaac Newton's:

"I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me."

Epilogue

JENNIFER, THE LAST TIME

I put down Ian's manuscript. I really liked it, even though I knew someone with my education and editorial position should have found the ending a little hokey.

Do I hide behind intellectualism? I wondered. Am I too afraid to be emotionally moved by stories?

The next morning I put Ian's manuscript into my briefcase and went to work. I called Brad. He invited me to stop by his office in the afternoon. I called Eric and asked if he wanted to meet in Greenwich Village.

"Why down there?" he asked.

"I want to see something."

We met for lunch. Afterwards, we walked to Washington Place and Greene Street, the site of the Triangle Waist Factory. Unlike the site of 9/11, this one looked too small to be the site of such a horrible, history-changing tragedy. I was glad, therefore, to see two plaques commemorating those who died in the fire. I hoped the brass words, unlike the cement words on tombstones, would never be chiseled away by time.

I looked at the sidewalks and tried to picture twisted, broken bodies of young girls littering the street like dead soldiers on a battlefield.

I couldn't, maybe because the images were so horrible they didn't seem to fit into quaint, narrow streets, and because the eighth floor windows seemed so close I felt I could throw a stone through them, even though I was a woman.

I imagined young women standing in the windows and jumping. I imagined their long dresses opening like parachutes. I imagined the girls still falling like stones.

I held Eric's hand. "I wonder, just before the girls jumped, did they see the gray sidewalk below them, or see big events of their lives, or see the faces of their loved ones? Eric, were the girls angry that after living short, moral lives, they were now faced with only two choices: to jump or to burn, the same choice that, ninety years later, less than a mile away, other good people also faced? As they chose, did they still have faith in God? Suddenly, I feel so grateful to be alive and to face choices like what to wear or what to eat."

Eric looked at me. "I never heard you talk this way."

"What do you mean? Don't answer. I know what you mean. Eric, I want you to know that, even though I didn't always show it, I'm so grateful that you're in my life. And I'm sorry if I haven't always been the most generous person in the world, but from now on, I will try to be, I promise. I, I love you."

"Jennifer, is this about—?"

"You have a right not to trust me in certain ways, so instead trust the time in front of us. I have to go downtown and return the manuscript. Why don't you come with me?"

We rode the subway to the Wall Street station. As soon as I smelled death and saw images of 9/11, I wanted to turn back. I grabbed Eric's hand and walked to 26 Broadway.

Brad welcomed us warmly. I introduced him to Eric.

"Sit down, please. I guess I have a present for you." Brad opened his top drawer. "I made a copy of my grandfather's fly-casting article. You can publish it if you want."

"Thanks. Brad, I loved Ian's memoir. I'm curious: Is Ross still alive?"

"He and my mother are living in the Keys. Believe it or not, my father became an avid fly-fisher for bonefish."

"Did you know your grandfather?"

"Sure. He died in 1979. He used to fish with me and my sister on the Beaverkill, the Saw Mill and even the Harlem Meer. Right to the end of his long life my grandfather amazed people by how far he could cast."

"Did Ian ever see Izzy again?"

"Not that I know."

"That's a shame. If Ian's story was fiction, I would have had them become good friends, like Rick and Louie in 'Casablanca.' Can you show Billy's rod to Eric?"

Brad opened the case, put Billy's three-piece rod together and handed it to Eric.

"What a work of beauty," Eric said. "I never fished bamboo." Eric handed me the rod.

My fingers hugged the cork handle. I looked into the rod's smooth finish. "I think I see a reflection of a face. Is it mine? Or Ian's? Or Billy's?"

Brad laughed. "Or the man in the moon's? I think you're starting to think like my grandfather."

"This is going to sound corny, but maybe holding the rod is connecting me to Ian in some way."

"Then why don't you cast the rod?"

"When?"

"Now. We can go to Battery Park. I just happen to have the reel and line my grandfather used in the tournament."

I looked at Eric. He smiled like a boy.

I said, "Brad, you know what I'd really like?"

"What?"

"A fly-casting lesson?"

"I'd be happy to."

We walked to the park and found an empty space on the lawn. Brad set up the rod and asked me to hold it. Pulling line off the reel, he walked down the lawn. The clicking reel sounded like the spinning Wheel Of Fortune on television.

Eric put his arm around my waist and whispered in my ear, "I have a secret."

"What?"

"I love you and, something tells me, always will."

"I love you too."

Eric kissed me passionately.

Acknowledgements and Sources

I had a lot of help along the way, but I don't know where to begin thanking people so I'll do it alphabetically: Chris Bessler, Deanna Birkholm, Bob D'Amico, Gord Deval, Dave Hughes, Howard Jones, Jackie Oldfield, Eric Peper, Ernie Schulman, Ian Scott, David Siff, Mats Sjostrand, Judie Darbee Smith, Dick Wentz and Ed Van Put.

Also, I'd like to acknowledge the sources for some of my historical material.

For the Beaverkill: Ed Van Put's, The Beaverkill, and Austin Francis' The Land of Little Rivers and Catskill Rivers.

For fly rod building: Martin Keane's Classic Rods and Rodmakers.

For tournament fly casting: Earl Osten's Tournament Fly and Bait Casting.

For an easy-to-understand explanation of Albert Einstein's Theory of Relativity: Michio Kaku's article, "Einstein (In A Nutshell)" which appeared in the September 2004 issue of Discover Magazine

The cover illustration is by Bruce R. T. Hakli.

Appendix

TECHNIQUES FOR THE LONG-DISTANCE FLY CASTER

By Ian Mac Bride

To be able to fly cast 80 feet or not.

Does it matter?

No, argue many dry fly anglers. After all, since we fight drag by having slack line on the water, we can't mend or set the hook with 80 feet of line out.

But wait, insist streamer anglers. Since we feel strikes by having tight line on the water, we can set the hook with 80 feet of line out.

Well, like they say: there are two sides to every argument.

And sometimes a third or fourth.

Consider this scenario: You're fishing a fast, rocky river, so instead of wading you're making long casts. But you keep missing your targets. And even though it's the first day of your fishing trip, you're already exhausted.

Is there any way around these problems?

I'll answer the question this way: you show me an angler who can cast 80 or 90 feet, and I'll show you an angler who can accurately and almost effortlessly cast 50 or 60 feet.

And so for many frustrating and often discouraging years I experimented with long-distance, fly-casting techniques. Now that I have dramatically increased my casting distance, I'd like to share those techniques with you.

Before I begin, let me say I'm well aware of what I call "The Very Open Stance" way of long distance fly casting. (A right-handed caster puts his right foot well behind his left.) My purpose is not to compete with that or any other way but simply to describe another. In the end, I believe each caster should experiment with as many techniques as possible and see what works for him.

I believe, however, that the casting method I describe will allow anglers to dramatically change casting trajectories, which is often very useful, for example, if we want to make a high back cast to avoid a bush.

GETTING STARTED. I prefer to use a short piece of string or yarn for a fly. A long 9-foot leader will help reveal some of our casting defects. During each practice, I like to focus on one technique and not worry about putting all the techniques together until I feel I've become good with each one.

THE OPEN STANCE. (For purposes of instruction, I'll assume we're right-handed.) Start with our feet about shoulder-width apart, a little closer for more power, a little wider for better balance. If we're casting vertically, we'll put our left foot forward about eight inches and point it at the target. We'll point our right foot about 30 degrees to the right of the target. If we're casting with our rod pointed outward—somewhere between vertical and sidearm—we'll point both feet a little more outward. With our shoulders facing the target, we bend our knees and put our weight on the ball of our front foot. To make a long-line pickup, we bend forward and hold the line just behind the stripping guide. We point the rod at the water, with the rod tip about an inch above the surface.

THE CLOSED STANCE I believe there is nothing wrong with using an open stance. In fact, an open stance will make it easier for us to look over our casting shoulder and watch our back cast unroll—something that I believe is essential for executing a long distance fly cast. I also believe, however, that when we cast a fly rod, unlike when we throw a ball, we don't bend at the waist to generate leverage and power. Instead, we rotate our hips as much as possible, like a batter hitting a ball or a boxer throwing a punch. If my left foot is forward, I will not be able to fully rotate my hips and get all my weight into the cast. Therefore, I often prefer to use a closed stance and place most of my right foot in front of my left. At first, this will probably feel awkward for many casters, but with time, I believe it will become more comfortable.

THE GRIP. We start by holding the rod lightly, then tightening our grip as we increase our casting acceleration. I prefer to slightly bend my thumb and place it directly on top of the handle. Other casters, however, place their thumb slightly on the side of the handle. This is often called a V-Grip.

LONG-CAST SEQUENCE. As a general rule, casting slightly upward will help keep our loops tight; so, if there is no head or tail wind, we aim our first back cast upward about 30 degrees. We then aim our next false casts and our presentation cast at a slightly lower angle or even parallel to the water. (Aiming our presentation cast too high, especially if we're casting a long-belly line, will cause the belly to pull our cast down and kill it.)

For maximum distance, our back and forward cast must form a straight line (180 degrees). If we're casting weighted flies or sinking lines, we aim our false casts upward about 20 degrees. And remember: We apply maximum force (by reaching maximum acceleration) only at the end of our presentation cast.

However, at least four basic casting defects will cause our cast to lose power and therefore change our intended trajectory: 1. Starting our cast after, or well before, our cast has unrolled and, thereby, in effect, shortening our casting stroke. 2. Accelerating our back-cast haul too slowly. (Because there is no back-cast wrist snap, our hauling acceleration should be faster on our back casts than on our forward casts.) 3. False casting, especially a weighted fly, too hard for the length of the line we have out. (When the line unrolls it will snap like a rubber band and create slack) 4. Shooting line without increasing the acceleration of our casting stroke and our haul. 5. Our back and forward casts form an angle greater than 180 degrees, and we therefore lowered the rod tip from the target line. As a result, our fly rod unloaded too early.

ANGLE OF THE ROD. Some casters argue the vertical cast is the most efficient. Others disagree and cast with the rod tip pointed outward. Besides, they say, this is a safer way to fish that makes it easier—especially for us older guys—to turn our heads and watch the back cast unroll without turning our shoulders and then inadvertently moving the rod. Maybe so, but the important point is: If our cast is not under powered, and if we do not move our rod hand in a convex motion and lower the rod tip from the target line, the fly will not hit us or the rod. The following casting defects will cause us to move our hand in a convex motion: 1. Pulling our elbow back. (Our elbow should move back because of our rearward body rotation. To me, making a back cast is more of a flexing up motion than a pulling back.) 2. Beginning our forward cast with our elbow behind our rod hand. (We always want to lead with our elbow.) 3. Breaking our wrist more than halfway during our forward-cast power snap. (To prevent this, try to pretend you're hammering a nail.) 4. Lowering, instead of just rotating, our shoulders. 5. Stopping the rod too late. (This sometimes happens because we started our weight shift before we started our casting stroke, or because we quickly accelerated our back cast but didn't abruptly stop the rod with a slight upward, stabbing motion.) 6. Beginning our cast with our rod hand too low for our intended trajectory. (For example: If you want to execute a cast parallel to the surface, you must finish your back and forward casts with your rod hand at the same level.) 7. Casting with our elbow too far out from our body. 8. Using an open stance but having our right foot too far back or pointing too far outward.

In short, a lot can go wrong that can cause us to get hit with the fly. Besides, even the best casters make imperfect casts, so I recommend wearing sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat, and casting heavy flies and sinking lines with the rod tip pointing out to the side.

To simplify my descriptions, I'll assume we're casting vertically. (If you're casting with the tip pointing out, adjust your rod-hand position more outward and less upward.)

BACK CAST. First, remove all slack from the line. Aiming upward, we slowly start our cast by slightly lifting our elbow, and moving the rod in sync with our rearward body rotation. Slowly, we tighten our grip. When the rod butt reaches 12 o'clock to the target line, we quickly increase our acceleration—I call this my power acceleration—and execute our downward haul. (More about hauling later.) For maximum power, I like to keep looking straight ahead. When the fly comes off the water, we squeeze the handle and abruptly stop the butt at about 1 o'clock. Our forearm points to 12 o'clock. Our weight should be on our rear heel.

We ease up on our grip, turn our head, and watch the cast unroll. If we stopped the rod by stabbing it upward, we lower our rod hand to casting-level. (Some casters feel they increase their power by rotating their forearm and palm outward during their back cast so that they can then execute their forward power snap with a sharp twisting motion.)

Now we make our forward false cast. Because we probably won't be able to accelerate our false back casts as fast as we accelerate our false forward casts, I like to begin my false back cast when my forward loop is about two or three feet long. This will prevent my forward cast from unrolling and then bouncing or falling.

We aim our second back cast a little lower, but again we stop the rod butt at about 1 o'clock to the (new) target line. If we're casting vertically, our casting elbow should point outward at an angle of about 45 degrees to the target. Our wrist should be at about eye-level.

If our loop turns sideways or swings open, we moved the rod in a curving motion or pulled our elbow out and back during our back cast.

HAULS AND DRIFTS. First, to keep the line from tangling during the haul, we pull off about 3 feet of line from the reel.

The more line we're false casting, the faster and longer we have to haul to keep our casting loops tight. To do this, we usually execute our haul faster than our cast.

If we're casting a weight-forward line, we begin hauling when most of the belly of the line is outside the rod tip. During our back cast loading move, we keep our hands at the same level. When the rod butt points to about 12 o'clock, we begin our power acceleration and our downward back-cast haul. On most back cast hauls we haul at an angle of about 60 degrees to the water. We stop our cast and haul at the same time. Our line hand will be at about 8 o'clock. If we're false casting more line, we want to increase the length of our haul (as well as our casting stroke.). To do this, we haul at a steeper angle. Also, just before we finish our haul, we generate additional power by snapping our line hand down.

Immediately, we begin our upward haul, giving back line at the same speed it is unrolling. (If we still add slack, we probably stopped our downward haul too late, or our cast was underpowered.) Do not prematurely move the rod tip back! (You'll add slack.) When the fly passes us, we turn our head, but not our shoulders, and watch the line unroll. Next, we move our line hand up to, but not past, our rod hand.

Not moving our line hand up far enough may cause us to then begin our forward cast by moving our rod hand before or faster than we move our line hand. Because this will add slack between our hands, we won't be able to fully load the rod, and our cast, therefore, might collapse. And remember: The stronger the wind we are casting into, the shorter, but faster we have to haul.

At the end of our forward false cast haul, our hand, depending on how much line we're false casting, will point to between 8 and 6 o'clock.

To make a long presentation cast, we can add a drift move after our last back cast. That way, we'll increase the length of our forward casting stroke. We can execute a drift move in two different ways. The first way is to we keep our wrist stiff, our elbow in place and our shoulders level, and wait until our back cast has unrolled about three-quarters of the way; then we move our foreman back to about 12:30 and slightly break our wrist down and point the rod lower, to about 2 o'clock.

However, at least five casting defects will cause us to add slack during this drift move: 1. Drifting too fast or too far. 2. Not hauling fast or far enough. (Our cast will be underpowered.) 3. Beginning a cast after the false cast has unrolled. 4. Stopping our downward haul too late, so that we then have to execute our upward haul faster than the line is unrolling. 5. False casting too much line.

(When false casting, unless I'm trying to change trajectories, I do not drift and therefore reduce the risk of adding slack.)

The second way of drifting is to instead move the rod back so that the tip travels along the path of the target line. We then begin our forward cast by leading with our elbow and moving our casting arm forward before we begin to rotate our body. (Our arm will catch up to our body.)

On our presentation cast, we haul as hard as possible and concentrate on stopping the rod and letting go of the line at the same time. (Momentum should force our hauling hand well behind our front thigh.)

To make an effective back-cast haul, I find it helpful to visualize a loose rope connecting my rod and line hands. When I stop my rod, I imagine the rope snapping tight and stopping my hands.

Finally, to me the secret of becoming a really good hauler is to practice throwing a ball left-handed.

FORWARD AND PRESENTATION CASTS. When making a long cast we should start it before the back cast loop opens. (The heavier my fly or the faster my line is unrolling, the earlier I begin my cast.) To start our forward false cast, we keep looking over our rear shoulder and push off our back foot. With our wrist locked, we begin our forward cast in sync with our body rotation. (Watching our rod hand during the cast will help prevent our casting arm from getting ahead of our rotating body.) Move the rod butt perpendicular to the target line. When our casting arm is extended at about halfway, we begin our power snap and haul, and then abruptly stop the rod and our haul when the rod butt points to about 10:30. We ease up on our grip. Our right shoulder should be slightly ahead of our left. Our weight should be on the ball of our front foot.

If we want to finish our forward false cast in position to increase the length and power of our back cast we can: 1. Speed up our forward false cast—if we get a tailing loop we should slow down our haul— and end our cast with our weight on our toes and with our right shoulder well ahead of our left. 2. Execute our cast parallel to the water so that we'll begin our back cast with our rod in a lower position. 3. Add a drift move by slightly lowering the rod tip.

As soon as we finish the cast, we can shoot up to eight feet of line. (As the line slides through our curled fingers, we keep moving our line hand up so that we'll be able to reach our rod hand before the cast unrolls.)

To make a long presentation cast, we begin with the rod drifted back and then push off our back foot. Again, we move the rod butt perpendicular to the target line. When our arm is extended about three-quarters, we execute our power snap and haul. Reaching maximum casting acceleration, we fully rotate our body and fully extend our casting arm. We again stop the rod when the butt points to about 10:30. Our front leg should now be straight, and all our weight on our front toes.

To reduce friction between the line and the guides, we immediately raise the rod butt, so that the rod points to the target line. Do not lower the rod tip from the target line!

Finally, if we do everything right, but we still can't get the fly to turn over, try lowering our casting trajectory, or by beginning the cast with a little less line off the reel than we want to cast.(When the cast unrolls, line tension will help the fly turnover.)

ROLL CASTS. To increase our distance, we start the cast just before the fly stops moving and slack forms in our D-loop. Also, we can use a short single (downward) haul, or we can hold the line against the bottom of the rod handle, then let go when we stop the cast.

OVERHANG. Overhang is the amount of running line between the rod tip and the belly of the line. As we increase our overhang, we must also increase the acceleration and length of our casting stroke and haul.

If we use too long of an overhang, our cast will be underpowered, and our loop will not turn over. If we use too short of an overhang, we'll probably get a tailing loop. We should, therefore, experiment to find the longest overhang we can handle. Keep in mind that the more long false casts we make, the more we risk adding slack; so once the belly of our line is outside the rod tip, we should try to make our presentation cast after our second back cast.

To increase our overhang, we can try: 1. A heavier, stiffer rod. 2. A fly line one weight lighter than our rod. 3. Shooting line as our last back cast unrolls.

If we're casting a shooting line, however, we'll probably have to shorten our overhang.

HOW MUCH LINE DID I SHOOT? To answer this question, I use the counting method. For example, if I fully accelerate my casting stroke, and then I shoot line for as long as it takes me to count to 3, I know I shot almost 10 feet of line.

TAILING LOOPS. Some common causes are: 1. The rod tip is moved in a concave path because too much force is used too early in the casting stroke. 2. The casting stroke is too narrow for the action (bend) of the rod. 3. Executing a presentation cast with too short of an overhang. 4. Beginning our downward haul too early or quickly.

WEIGHTED FLIES. If we use the same casting and haul acceleration as we use with lighter flies, our loops will open up. Many casters prefer this, as they feel a wide loop will help prevent the fly from hitting the rod tip. I believe, however, if a cast is executed correctly, it will not hit the rod tip; so, for maximum distance, I actually increase my casting and hauling acceleration. How much do I increase my acceleration? To me, the answer is as much as possible as long as my fly doesn't bounce at the end of the cast.

(To me, finding that "sweet acceleration" is the biggest challenge to casting heavy flies.)

Also, I'll use shorter leaders and a shorter casting stroke. If my loops are still too wide, I'll then shorten my overhang.

Remember: At high speeds, weighted flies, if they hit your rod tip, can break it. To fish below the surface, therefore, I like to use lighter flies and sinking lines.

IF YOU DECIDE. Whether it is necessary to learn to cast 80 or even 90 feet and endure hours and hours of casting trials and tribulations is up to you.

But if you decide it is, try not to get discouraged. Long-distance fly casting, like hitting a good tee shot, is a lot harder than it looks. Luckily, however, studies have shown that frequently visualizing proper athletic techniques is often more effective than practicing them.

For us older guys, isn't that something to be grateful about!?

About the Author

Randy Kadish is an outdoor writer and avid angler who has spent countless hours experimenting with long-distance fly casting techniques. For this novel he extensively researched the history of fly fishing, particularly on the famed Beaverkill River during the golden era of the early 1900s. "Flycaster" is his first novel, but his short stories and articles have appeared in many publications, including Flyfisher, Flyfishing & Tying Journal, Fishing and Hunting News and Yale Anglers' Journal. Much of Randy's writing is about the techniques of spin and fly casting, and about the spirituality/recovery of fly fishing.

