Fishing With RayAnne Page 18

  The prompts on the index cards are written in Cassi’s tight handwriting so that RayAnne must squint. She shuffles them out of order until one gives itself up to the breeze to blow into the water off the stern. They both watch it float for a second, then Bernadette pats RayAnne’s knee. “No matter, honey. We don’t need the cards. If it helps, I can just tell the audience a bit about the Blood-Tide Quests and you can ask me questions from there.”

  “Mom.” RayAnne covers her mic and speaks without moving her lips. “Please don’t give me advice about my job while I’m doing it.” She looks to camera one. “You’ll edit that out? Sorry everyone, can we start over?”

  And so they do. The notecards are useless. She falters through a few uninspired questions, and it all begins a slow slide downhill. Every time she looks to camera two expecting to see Cassi, her point of focus is filled with the disconcerting visage of Hal.

  She should have insisted Cassi be on board. Why doesn’t she stand her ground?

  To make things worse, it’s too windy to fish. Being so accustomed to holding a rod and reel, she doesn’t know quite what to do with her hands. She decides to sit on them, forgetting they might come in handy when needing balance. Penelope isn’t just rocking now; waves begin tugging the boat this way and that as if trying to unmoor them.

  RayAnne’s frustration gives way to nervousness, and in her nervousness she keeps repeating her mantra of “Okay.” Bernadette does her best to salvage the interview by more or less asking herself questions and then answering. Inside five minutes—and they need an average of thirty to harvest a decent ten minutes for an interview—the interview seems to be going nowhere. They each make an effort to revive the conversation, which only results in them talking over one another.

  “Okay, okay. Can you tell me about the rituals—”

  “I thought I’d talk some about the rituals—”

  “Okay, go on, Mom.” RayAnne cringes—she’d been determined not to say mom, meant to be professional and use Bernadette.

  “No, you start.”

  “No, you, okay?”

  RayAnne’s desperation intensifies while swells under the boat lift it to a stomach-churning height. Over the next twelve minutes, the interview devolves into a rehash of ancient mother-daughter dysfunction, while those looking on watch it all. The camera operators keep making eye contact with Amy the Grouper, who signals for them to keep taping. In her feed, RayAnne can hear Cassi’s voice, quiet in a way it rarely is: “Stop now, Ray. Stop the interview.”

  But RayAnne does not, at least not until one very surprising revelation is out of the bag. Sponsors and crew look on while the interview culminates in a grand finale that includes tears and ends with a flourish of vomit.

  The last thing RayAnne barks at the camera is “Please turn that off! This isn’t some fucking reality show!”

  Throughout the trip to shore, Bernadette keeps her eyes scrunched shut and clutches the gunnel. RayAnne speeds toward land to outrun the boats with sponsors and crew. Penelope’s bow ploughs over swells to crash down again and again, her stern bucking out of the waves so that the propellers whir uselessly in the air, like a plane in a tailspin.

  Once docked, she yanks off her microphone and tosses it to the decking. In spite of repeating “Sorry, Mom,” she leaves her for someone else to take care of. She pounds across the boards and without a glance passes Cassi, who scurries to help Bernadette.

  Striding through the picnic area, Big Rick catches up to her, but RayAnne twists away when he reaches for her arm. “Fuck off, Dad.”

  Her mother is trying to catch up as well, but is still wobbling on her sea legs, looking quite green. When reaching Big Rick, she gives up the chase and pauses to catch a breath. “Indeed, Richard. Fuck off.” Her hands hang in their caftan sleeves and she gags a little on the words like she might throw up again, but after a woozy sway, she only sighs and plods forward. “Oh, RayBee.”

  RayAnne sprints, not toward her trailer, but up the rougher path to the old scout camp, fleeing Location altogether. Stopping to tie her shoe, she regrets not rinsing her hands in the lake. Ripping some soft leaves from a low plant, she wipes the vomit off her palms and from between her slimy fingers. She marches and stumbles along overgrown paths around the old campsites, repeating circle-eights, a little like Danny Boy in his Habitrail.

  The interview wasn’t just a failure. It was humiliating and the opposite of professional. She can only imagine what the sponsors are thinking. Backing up against a birch, she slides down to the mulchy ground, where she mindlessly strips more plants of their leaves. There she sits, struggling to think of anything but the events of the last hour.

  Only when her bottom is numb and her pants damp from sitting does she rouse herself to slog back to Location. Rounding a corner, she waves her way through a cloud of gnats. When one suddenly zooms into her ear, she yelps. Stopping in her tracks, she shakes her head, trying to dislodge it. When shaking doesn’t work, she bends down and thumps the side of her skull with her palm as if it’s a ketchup bottle. Behind her, a male voice calls out, “RayAnne!”

  Great. She doesn’t respond, just keeps stumbling forward until her arm is grabbed.

  “Ray. Hold on!”

  She spins to face Hal with wild eyes and bangs her temple again. Why does it have to be him?

  “Bug. In my ear.”

  “Oh.” He looks relieved. “I thought you were having some sort of seizure.” He steadies her jaw and squints into her ear. “Can you hold still?”

  She writhes. “Get it out? Please.”

  Hal looks up the path and back, then steers her along. “C’mon.”

  “C’mon where?”

  In answer, he guides her to the windowless old well house, where he shoulders open the door and pulls her in.

  “What? Why in here?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The door slams, veiling them in darkness and dank humidity. She cannot think straight with all the buzzing, which is like having an Alka-Seltzer plopped in her ear. “It’s dark!”

  “That’s the idea. Just hang on.”

  She hears clothing rustle and the distinct sound of a zipper.

  Has he lost his mind? She begins to struggle, her voice verging on screechy. “What are you doing?”

  A square of blue light suddenly illuminates their faces from underneath. “Getting my phone. For the flashlight.” Even in the dim light it’s apparent how offended he is. “Now stop squirming.” He holds the beam up to her ear. “The bug will come to the light. It’ll come out.”

  “Will it?” She doubts it. The insect seems to be pinballing the chambers of her head—soon it will tunnel down her throat.

  “Quiet. Please?”

  The perfect way to end the season: triple and quadruple the humiliation. Just heap it on.

  “RayAnne, please, stay still.” A moment passes, and another. The insect seems to have at least calmed, probably considering its next plan of attack. She settles enough to hold herself steady. Hal lowers his voice, saying, “You didn’t really think I was going to . . . ?” They are close enough that she can feel his breath on her temple.

  “To ravage me? Yes. No. Sorry, I can’t stand this.” She fights the urge to shake her head again.

  Hal lightly holds her jaw. “Don’t. Move.”

  They stand silent in a pool of darkness, both barely breathing, waiting. When they do speak, it’s to whisper.

  She sniffs. “Oh God, my mother . . .”

  “She’s fine.”

  “I’m fired, aren’t I?”

  “No. But—”

  “Wait. No, I don’t even want to know,” RayAnne groans. “Gawd, it’s buzzing. Is she still here? My mother?”

  “Last I saw, she was herding her group to their bus—what does she call them?”

  “The Mavenhood.”

  “Right.
”

  She cannot see Hal but can sense he’s smiling. “Quite the pair of parents you have, Ray.”

  “Hardly a pair.” RayAnne flinches. “Never a pair; that was the problem.”

  “Well, interesting, anyway.”

  “Interesting?” RayAnne stiffens. “My mother’s head is shoved so far up her happy place . . . and he’s just a big toddler with a sippy cup of bourbon.”

  “Well. Sure. They are who they are, but you wouldn’t be you if not—”

  “Don’t do that.” She raises her voice. “Don’t patronize me. I’ve made a hash of it. Let’s agree to agree on that. You’ve seen the mistakes.” RayAnne shudders. “I mean besides just today.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, you were authentic out there, you were real with your mother, and actually? Sixty percent of it was fine.”

  “Losing my shit on camera. Nice season finale.”

  “Okay, forty percent. The worst will be edited out, Ray.”

  “The sponsors all saw. How does editing fix that?” The buzzing gets louder, and her voice rises with it.

  “Trust me, it will.”

  “Right, like you can fix it.”

  Hal pauses, as if carefully choosing his words. “What if I can, actually?”

  “Just leave it.”

  “You’ve no idea, do you?”

  “Of what?”

  “Of . . .” He shakes his head. “Wait, I can see it. Here it comes.” All is quiet as Hal delicately dips his pinky into the bowl of her ear. “Got it!”

  Finally. “Thank God.” She slumps in relief, then looks up. “I have no idea of what?”

  He still has her chin cupped in his hand. “Of how good you are at this—how bright, how natural you are. And, and how . . .”

  She opens her mouth, about to object when he begins lowering his face to hers.

  Is he going to kiss her?

  He is. He’s going to kiss her.

  In spite of herself, in spite of it all, RayAnne feels a sweet, elastic tug. Admittedly, she’s wondered just what kissing Hal would be like. Perhaps since the moment he walked past her car in the parking lot, flashing that grin. And on the morning they’d gone fishing when he’d fed her pancakes and was so easy to talk to. The thing about Hal, she realizes, is that he’s effortless. To be around, to joke with. There’s no agenda. Show or no show, she doesn’t need to be anything but herself around Hal.

  And now he’s going to kiss her. Here in the satiny, musty darkness of the well house with the smell of bay rum and mild sweat like a tonic. As if her next breath is of helium, her body lifts lightly off her heels. His lips are a delicious inch away from hers. This is it.

  Then the scritch of the needle as the soundtrack halts and she remembers with horror the canker sizzling on her lip. Her hand zip-lines to her face just in time for Hal’s mouth to connect with her knuckles, which, having been recently vomited on, reek.

  His eyes pop open. “Ah?”

  RayAnne steps back. “Oh, God. I’m sorry—I forgot about this . . . this.” She stupidly points at the cold sore, as if he can see in the dark.

  Hal steps back. “Oh, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No!” Of course, what she means is yes. Of course she would kiss him if not for the growing monstrosity on her lip and her vomit-caked fingers which not only smell, but now burn. “Wait. I can’t see. Something . . . my hands,” she holds them out and even in the darkness can tell something’s wrong.

  He shines the phone at them and she gasps, “What the . . . ?” Each finger is swollen and pink, as if her palms have sprouted bundles of wieners. Seeing them acts as a panic switch, her fingers consumed by itchiness.

  “I wiped them with those leaves. Oh, God! Is this—?”

  “Oh, boy.” Hal grimaces. “Poison ivy—afraid so.” As they both look at her hands the beam from his cell phone flickers, then peters out, sinking them back into darkness.

  He exhales. “Battery. You’ll need calamine. And don’t touch yourself; don’t spread the oil.”

  In living, stinking color, it’s all rather more than RayAnne can handle. For the third time in one day, her flight instinct roars to life. She gropes for the door with her burning catcher’s mitts, barely managing to turn the handle. Hal reaches to help and the door slams open. Evening sunlight pours into the cocoon of space. She ducks out from under Hal’s outstretched arm.

  Ten yards down the path, Cassi is walking with Amy. As the well house door bangs open, both stop dead in their tracks and watch RayAnne spill from the dark interior, followed by Hal, both blinking in the sudden glare. Clearly disheveled, RayAnne trots in the direction of her trailer.

  “Be sure to wash that off!” Hal calls after her.

  She calls back over her shoulder, “Do you have a bottle of that stuff?”

  “Yes! You have ice?”

  Amy’s jaw drops. Cassi’s face remains smooth; only her eyes are snorting.

  Anemic strains of the wrap party float into the windows of RayAnne’s RV. She hears the flat drone of attempted conversations and the out-of-tune band. The klezmer trio, which had sounded like jazzy gypsies during rehearsal, now plod along as if they’ve played one bar mitzvah too many.

  There is a distant scooping of ice and pffting of bottle caps being pried—she’d seen the caterers stocking the bar earlier; there’s enough booze for fifty Big Ricks.

  Until this, Fishing had been going pretty well, even in RayAnne’s nothing-if-not-critical estimation. But the sponsors have now judged firsthand the “talent” their investments and efforts are backing. She can practically imagine the texts: debacle, cancel, failed. She plunges her hands in a sink of ice water.

  When she had not answered Hal’s earlier knock, he’d waited a full five minutes before saying, “Right, have it your way.” He’d wedged the bottle of calamine between the door and the screen and left.

  Once it’s dark and RayAnne’s hands have slightly deflated, she ventures down the path to the shore and treads quietly to the end of the dock, where she can get three bars of reception on her phone. She’d sooner motor out onto the lake, but Penelope has already been floated onto her trailer and pulled up the hill.

  Dot’s not answering. RayAnne counts down the six rings, imagining the phone on its cradle in her grandmother’s empty kitchen. The recording chirps, “This is Dot, here I’m not! Leave a message.”

  “Gran. I just . . . it’s kinda bad. Mom showed up and was on the show. And it was . . . well, awful doesn’t quite cover it.” She stops to breathe. “And you should see my hands.” Her voice is nasal with tears. “Dad’s still around here somewhere. Drunk, if you can imagine. And this guy, Hal . . . oh, never mind. But anyway, you must be feeling better, cuz you’re not home. Okay, season’s over, so . . .” She manages to inject false cheer into her voice. “Dismount! I can go home tomorrow. Maybe even tonight.” Words just seem to evaporate as they come out, meaningless. “Okay, Gran. Wuv yooou.”

  After hanging up, she nearly wishes for a bug to take up residence in her other ear—something to knock aside thoughts of the interview with her mother, seeming to loop on replay in her head, no matter what else she tries to think about. Thankfully, Bernadette and her mavens would be deep in their teepees by now, ritualing, which Cassi informs her is now a word. At least she’s among her own, chanting farewells to their menses and probably drinking tom-tom–sized glasses of Beaujolais. If only Bernadette could forget the worst bits, as if it all were only a barf-shrouded dream.

  She bends stiffly forward like a Barbie and swishes her itchy hands in the cold lake water. The swelling has gone down, thanks to ice and calamine. Still, she must fight the urge to chew the skin from her hands.

  In the night sky above, the northern lights have begun to shimmer in and out of focus. Shafts of neon green pulse over the mirror of the lake, as if the heavens have
gargled with Scope and are spewing it at Location. She sniffs and gets to her feet, muttering, “Big aurora boring-alis deal.”

  After her things are packed, she applies a fresh layer of the calamine and watches it dry like spackle over her pink knuckles. It had been outright rude to refuse to answer Hal’s knock. Just one of the things on the list of too late.

  It’s not quite midnight, so the day isn’t over, and while it’s not quite tomorrow, the thought of waking up here—in the aftermath—is unbearable. She needs to put as much distance as possible between herself and Location, her father, and Fishing. Rehashing the more spectacular moments of the day, she sinks minutely into the couch cushions, as if gaining weight by the minute.

  The party has fizzled, the camp gone quiet.

  This is the sort of bottom she’d hit during the holiday season of seventh grade, when her parents split. It was just after the scandal and cancelation of Big Rick’s Bass Bonanza went public. A classmate had been thoughtful enough to post a newspaper article to the bulletin board detailing the court case and the troika of Big Rick, Mrs. TroutLocker, and the Fishing Channel.

  Bernadette—between bouts of rage and the shock of realizing her family had been stalked by Mrs. TroutLocker playing the role of Glenn Close—had met with RayAnne’s teachers and counselors to alert them to the weirdness. It had all blown up in the run-up to Christmas during the post-turkey weeks after Thanksgiving.

  RayAnne was sent away with Dot for the holidays on a hastily arranged Amtrak trip to Chicago, ostensibly to celebrate grandmother-granddaughter Christmas, like it was a thing. They stayed at the stuffy Drake, where RayAnne and Dot had a pathetic tabletop Christmas tree in their too-hot hotel suite, where the sheets were too tight and gave RayAnne torpedo feet in spite of Dot’s insistence there was no such condition. When venturing outside along the broad Chicago avenues, they experienced an entirely new brand of cold somehow more biting than any in Minnesota. They fought the wind between department stores and museums, shivered along the pier, and ducked away from the windows atop the Hancock building as glass rattled in the wind. At the ice rink, her new skates were on her feet all of ten minutes when a gust shifted off the lake, working up a wind that set Dot declaring that such cold could “tear the tits off a mare.” Over Christmas dinner, RayAnne bawled over her plate of greasy roast goose and told Gran all she really wanted for Christmas was permission to legally change her name. It was all picked out, a name she thought sounded like a writer’s, Margot Danforth—the sort of continental-sounding name she might move to another country with, like Australia or Canada. If her parents wouldn’t allow her a new name, the least they could do was allow her to attend a different school.