If Catfish Had Nine Lives(4)

            “On three, one last big pull,” Jerome said. “One, two, three!”

            The fish, which truly was one of the monsters of the river, I was sure, sprang up and into the air in front of us. Even as he was flying up, he was writhing and spitting. He was probably the biggest catfish I’d ever caught, but he wasn’t gigantic; I thought I should be able to handle him. He looked me in the eye right before he spit out the line, hook, and lure, and then splashed back into the river, drenching me from straw hat to cute tennis shoes. The force of the release sent me, Jerome, and the pole with the masticated fake worm to the ground.

            An instant later, Jerome and I looked at each other and laughed.

            It wasn’t long, though, before I sobered and the laughter transformed into something not funny at all.

            “Wait, I felt your hands on mine,” I said.

            “Oh?” Jerome held his hands up and looked at them.

            “I’m not supposed to be able to feel you unless it’s really dark. It’s not really dark; it’s not dark at all.”

            Jerome looked up toward the high treetops. “It’s not bright sunlight in here either.”

            “But still.” I wanted to reach out and see if I could feel him. But I didn’t. I did not want the ever-changing rules with the ghosts to be changing again. I couldn’t keep up with all the edits, and accepting each new change took me time and contemplation.

            Jerome looked at me, his eyebrows tight together. “Maybe I showed up to save you from the fish.”

            It was an absurd statement, of course, but I didn’t laugh.

            “No, you’re still here,” I said.

            “That’s true.”

            “Let me see,” I said as I tentatively reached for his hand again.

            I’d placed my cell phone on another fallen tree trunk a little farther back from the river. It suddenly buzzed and vibrated and slid onto the ground. I pulled my hand back and got up and hurried to gather the phone.

            “Gram?” I said. “What’s up?”

            I listened to her words and tried to focus on their content, but she was saying some pretty unbelievable stuff.

            When she was done, I said, “I’m on my way back. Stay inside and Cliff will get to you in a second, I’m sure.”

            “What is it, Isabelle?” Jerome said after I ended the call.

            “I’ve got to get back into town. There’s been a shooting. Someone was killed,” I said.

            The details Gram had given me were so gruesome that I couldn’t bring myself to repeat all of them for Jerome.

            “I’m going with you,” he said.

            “That’s probably a good idea.”

            All thoughts of testing Jerome’s solidity were left beside the river with my tackle box, pole, and probably an amused Terminator catfish. But, eventually, all things forgotten would have to be remembered.





Chapter 2




            At first I couldn’t find Gram. She’d said she’d gone inside the saloon, but she wasn’t there. The place was crowded, but mostly with people I didn’t readily recognize. There were so many convention attendees—we had dubbed them the poets—and I didn’t know most of them well enough to approach anyone and ask if they’d seen Gram. We had a number of visiting actors as well. I knew a few more of them because I’d helped with skit rehearsals, but my quick search didn’t yield any actor, poet, or Broken Rope native that I recognized. I looked for Orly, the man who was in charge of the poet group. He was tall enough that I’d spot him quickly if he was there. I saw plenty cowboy hats, but none that reached up high enough to have been perched on the tall man’s head. I moved out of the saloon and to the boardwalk to continue my search.