Remote Cast

Charlie and I were soulmates. His gentle patience, his open acceptance of all things new and his love of people were a constant source of awe and wonder to me.

I had long since shut off my interest in human interaction and any youthful enthusiasm had been replaced by abject cynicism, science and a mantra that went something like this: feelings aren’t facts. A life of loss combined with a career as a public defender had taken a toll on me. I became an expert at stuffing away my feelings. Why Charlie loved me was a mystery, but he did.

When I took sick and was forced into an early retirement, Charlie sold his profitable consulting business, handled all the details related to selling our Portland condo and then moved us, full time, to the mountains of Western Maine.

“Time together is all we have. Let’s go where time slows down and grow old together” he said. So, I released myself to his plans and his devotion and we left everything behind to live in our remote cabin.

Our obsession with the outdoors was matched only by our passion for flyfishing. We loved the joy of finding long lost ponds and the thrill of pushing our rusty old jeep deep into the forest. We had our favorite spots - places where humans never ventured and nature was at its most pristine. Once there, we would balance our float tubes, waders and related gear on to our backs only to hike in even further until water, sun and nature had completely engulfed us.

I loved floating off alone, knowing Charlie was never far away. We would connect at lunch to share a sandwich and thermos of coffee. He would brag about his strikes and catches and I would tease him about his form and his choice of fly. “Charlie’s Party Streamer” is what he called it. It was massive compared to my tiny, scientifically accurate flies and it was decked out in flashy silver threading with gaudy white feathers. The red head gave the appearance of lipstick on a showgirl.

“No such fly in the natural world”, I would tease.

“Laugh all you want”, he would say, “but my father and his father before him used this lucky fly and it works.”

I, of course, would roll my eyes and watch as he would go on to out fish me every time. While there were times that I would have liked to try this fly, I never dared- my fear of losing something precious to Charlie outweighed any desire to test the luck of his streamer.

Charlie’s death was devastating.

His fall from the ladder left him alive but broken and the story would have had a happy ending but for the fact that I was away on a guided four-day fishing trip. That left Charlie cold and alone on the October ground, unable to move his broken arms and leg. Unable to fight off the half-starved bear that had smelled his wounds and vulnerability from across the lake. A stray boot, his favorite flannel shirt shredded beyond recognition, his once blue eyes frozen gray with fear - those images played in my mind like a horrible slideshow. My sadness and my despondence turned to bitterness and depression. Each unreturned phone call to a caring friend did well to seal my fate. For the next 7 years, I lived like a shadow, hiding from life and all of its pain.

On this particular morning, the morning where my story really begins, the late September warmth of Indian Summer beckoned me outside. It startled me to feel the sun and hear a bird’s song. How long had it been?

I sat on the porch and watched the shadows to the storage shed melt away. As though possessed, I left my chair and walked to the shed door. Inside, still undisturbed, hung my float tube, my waders and fly rod. My vest had fallen off its hook and I held it in my hand, briefly, before returning it to its spot across from Charlie’s gear. As I moved to leave the shed, I caught a glimpse of “Charlie’s Party Streamer” hanging on his vest. I froze. And then, with the fever of someone who was about to miss her bus, I was grabbing gear and loading up the jeep. Before leaving the shed, I turned and grabbed Charlie’s vest. It hung on my body like a tablecloth but I didn’t care, it was Charlie’s and I found comfort in wearing it.

Within a short while, I was off the primary dirt road and headed west on a rough and rocky skidder trail. This route, once second nature to me, now felt strange and unfamiliar. I no longer recognized the natural landmarks that used to mark our favorite spots.

Over the grind of the jeep’s motor, I was surprised to hear my own voice, “Charlie, stay with me today, and guide me to our secret pond.”

I smiled to imagine Charlie’s reaction to me, talking to a ...a ghost. Abruptly, my smiling stopped as the dreadful slideshow replayed:

…It’s too quiet. Why isn’t Charlie here to greet me? Honey!!? I see his work boot, it looks as though it was flung over onto the porch steps, I walk behind the cabin and see his blue flannel shirt ripped and stained with blood. At first, I do not recognize that it is clinging to a body… it’s his body!…

The end of the tote road did eventually come. The pond was close now. I loaded my gear onto my back and started the mile long hike down a wooded path to the water’s edge.

“There are no mangled shirts and stray boots here, so just relax.” I told myself.

The sparkling water now before me, I put on my gear and dropped into the little lake. The blue of the sky and the autumn leaves felt healing. The minutes melted into hours as I lost myself in the rhythmic flow of casting and reeling in. I looked down to see Charlie’s fly. It was nestled deep in the sheep’s wool on my left shoulder. Without hesitating, I tied it securely to my line and cast out.

“This one is for you, my sweet Charlie.” My voice echoed across the pond.

Strike after strike, fish after fish, my heavy heart seemed to lighten and I felt the presence of an old friend: happiness.

After some time, the wind shifted and I looked up to see the sky darkening. Time to head back. As I reeled in Charlie’s fly, I felt a strike. The fish was large and I pulled back. The line snapped. Charlie’s fly was gone! I flushed with shame and cried out. My cries mixed with the rain that had started to fall. My cries mixed with the howling wind that slowed my return to shore. I sobbed my way out of my gear and labored against the wind with my monstrous float tube. The more I struggled, the harder I cried. All of my suppressed emotion poured out of me until I felt weak. Finally, with only a few more rocks between me and the soft grass of the water’s edge, I slipped.

I recall nothing of the fall- only that when I came to, it was very dark. The howling wind was deafening and the rain washed the blood from my head wound down into my eyes.

… Is this how Charlie felt? Alone, cold and afraid? I should stay here. It would be so easy just to stay right here…

Then, I got up. Instinctively, I got up. I wiped my eyes clear with my shirt sleeve and felt around for my gear. I pushed the float tube, waders and fins into the woods. I used the butt end of my rod to steady myself. Once I stood up, the vertigo and vomiting began.

…A concussion, I must have a concussion...

I patted Charlie’s fly vest for his pen light. It worked, but barely. With just enough light to see my feet, I made my way back up the path. The inside of the jeep was filled with water but the engine turned and the head lights came on. I found a rag to wipe my wound, turned the heat on to high and cautiously started my way back down the skidder trail.

The relief I felt once I finally turned onto the dirt road was indescribable. My body relaxed and I even chuckled a little at my situation: a convertible jeep in a rain storm, no food, a now dead flash light, a large gash on my head and nobody around for miles. Perfect. Then I remembered that I had lost Charlie’s fly.

…Please forgive me, Charlie. Please forgive me…

As if in response, I began to feel some warming heat from the floor vents. Lulled into focus by the windshield wipers and the hum of engine, I continued to drive.

There. Just ahead. Maybe 200 yards. I saw something.

A moose? The dark form did not move. A bear?

…Oh god, no, please, not a bear...

Wet leaves fell like pieces of newspaper and the wind roared like a freight train. Still, the form did not move. My headlights strained to outline the shape for me. A person. It isn’t an animal. It is a person. Standing in the middle of nowhere. Facing me. Oh God, a person!

The trees flanking the road prevented me from moving to either side. Turning back on a dead-end road was futile. I had no choice but to approach this person head on. Moments later I brought the jeep to a stop and idled.

…What do I do? What do I do??!..

The wipers flailed. My body shivered from the wet and the cold and I worked to fight back another wave of vomiting.

“Are you okay!!??” I hollered above the storm. The figure did not move. “Answer me!”

…What do I do?? What do I do?? ..

“Dammit!” I muttered under my breath and grabbed the door handle.

I kept one hand on the vehicle for balance and made my way over to the figure. Her appearance told me everything I needed to know: she was in trouble. She was blue from the cold, and her clothing was ripped and muddy.

“Oh God, let me help you!” I exclaimed and then guided her toward the passenger seat. I wiped it quickly with my arm and she sat. No words. No resistance. She just sat down in the jeep. I handed her the seat belt. She did not notice the gesture and so I leaned over her to belt her in. That’s when I noticed the odor. The smell of earth was sweet and pungent with decay and it overpowered me.

“It’s okay now, I’ve got you. You’re in shock. We’re going to be okay, you and me. We’re going to be okay.” I assured myself out loud as I took my place behind the wheel.

I slammed the jeep into first gear and moved slowly. Nothing seemed familiar. How far down this road had I already traveled?

…If I can get to town hall, I can use the pay phone and call an ambulance…

My voice was shrill and panicked, “Can you tell me what happened? Did you have an accident?”

No response.

I wiped more rain and blood from my eyes and looked down at my passenger’s hands. Blue skin, she must be hypothermic! She was filthy. Perhaps her car became stuck in the mud and she tried to dig it out? Why was she out here alone?

I tried again, “Was anyone else with you?”

…Why won’t she answer me? ..

With that, she turned her head and looked over her right shoulder and released a scream so deep and mournful that I slammed on the breaks. I was terrified.

The woman raised her hand like a specter and pointed a blue finger toward what looked like a path along the roadside. In that moment, a light came on. A porchlight? There are no homes here. Why had I never noticed a cabin before?

I pulled up to a tiny trail head and stopped. As I worked to release my own seat belt, my strange rider unclipped and left me. She left me and never looked back. I glimpsed the last pieces of her body moving into the forest, toward the glow of this strange and lonely beam of light. I drove on.

The next day I awoke to find that it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I recalled some warnings about sleeping with a concussion and cursed my luck. I wailed.

“I don’t want to be alive, Charlie!!! I have no need for this loneliness. Why did you leave me?? Why did you get on that ladder when you were alone?? Why???!!!” My cries echoed off the walls of the cabin and I watched them fall like particles of dust on to the floor.

…Wait. Last night. Yes! There was a woman, and she was hurt…

I grabbed my keys and headed back on to the road. Where did I find her? Did it really happen? Did I imagine the whole thing?

I rubbed my wound.

I drove back and forth, looking for the spot where my rider left me. Finally, just as the afternoon light began to fade, I found it: the head of a small and overgrown footpath, barely visible from the road. I left the safety of the 4x4 and followed the tiny trail to a dark and dilapidated cabin. The stairs were rotted and the screen door strained to hold on with just one remaining hinge.

“I’m coming unhinged too”, I whispered.

I knocked on the cabin door. Nothing. I knocked again, harder, and hollered out, “Hello?????”

Then I heard it: the slow creeeeeek of the front door. At first, the door appeared to be opening by itself until I met the eyes of an ancient and frail woman, her body encased in shadow.

“I know why you are here,” she whispered.

“Yes! I was here last night! I drove somebody here. Your light came on. Is she okay? I drove a woman here!!” My speech was frantic.

The woman’s vacant eyes pierced mine and she said nothing for what seemed an eternity. And then, she spoke. Calmy. Patiently. I understood in that moment that she had said these words before, “I know why you are here. She is safe now...but there was a time when we did not know. Many years ago, she was raped and murdered. My daughter, brutally murdered and left to die in the words. The boys who did this put her in a shallow grave just north of here. She was alive when they buried her. You know loss, too, don’t you stranger?”

My head was spinning again and I felt sick. My grandmother’s death caused by a faulty kerosene heater, the car crash that took my parents and siblings. Charlie’s death.

“YES!” I gurgled through fresh tears. “I’m always alone. SO. MUCH. LOSS.”

“Every year, on the day of her murder, she walks the woods. You brought her home to me.” The gnarled hands of the woman moved to close the door. She was fading now, her grief pulling her back into the darkness.

“Don’t leave me” I whimpered.

I wanted to be with her. I wanted to wrap my arms around her; to fuse my pain with hers and die crying, together, on this wretched piece of earth. Instead, I moved away from the porch.

Unexpectedly, the door opened again and I spun around to see the old woman’s outstretched arm.

“This. She wanted me to give you this.”

Dizzy. Exhausted. I made my way to back to the entrance and reached out to take the silver and white streamer fly from her hand … and I pressed it into mine.