Sunday morning, we sprinkled some of Dad’s ashes in the upper Gallatin River. We all said nice things during the ceremony, but after we finished and Tyler had rinsed out the Ziploc bag, he and his wife Jen kept talking about how “kind” Dad was. Each time they said that word it felt like a hard pinch. As the only daughter I’d taken responsibility for Dad’s care after Mom’s death, but my recent experience of him being kinder hadn’t blotted out the past.
We were staying in our parents’ old house, which we’ve kept as a vacation rental. Sunday afternoon, Jen stayed at the house while Tyler and I went fishing. In the car, I brought up Dad’s behavior toward Mom.
“Don’t you remember how he used to yell at her? Get your ass in gear! Stop piddling around! He made fun of all her OCD stuff, the way she doublechecked the stove, the back door lock … you know what I mean. He berated and ridiculed her.”
My brother said he remembered. He was driving, me in the passenger seat, the river to our right. Ahead on the left was a pullout, and without warning he executed a swerving U-turn to cross the highway and park. He popped the trunk, and we got our rods out of the car. We waited for the trucks and cars to pass and then ran across the highway, stepped over the guardrail onto gravel. We walked a little way upstream, then stopped.
“If you want to fish here, I can walk up to the next hole,” he said.
We stood looking down at the water, which was running fast and clear. Not too deep, and you could see where the water level changed about ten feet off the bank. That was where the trout would be hanging, sipping feed we’d imitate with artificial flies. We used a variety of fly patterns, but over many years of fishing this river with my father and brother I’d found that a plain old Beadhead Prince Nymph worked as well as anything.
“He was cruel to Mom,” Tyler said, “but even so, he was kinder than the average person.”
“He got kinder after his stroke,” I said.
My brother gave a little smile and raised his right hand in a gesture that reminded me of the kind version of our father. It was in fact a perfect imitation.
“You nailed it,” I said. “He used to smile just like that and make that same gesture. Like if you offered to help him put on his jacket. A smile, little flap of his hand.”
“His way of saying thanks.”
“It meant he was no longer capable of cruelty. That he was old and helpless, and he knew it.”
Tyler shrugged, then turned and walked upstream.
That night, Tyler got mad when I said we should split the cost of our rented Kia three ways, not two. I was starting to explain how this made sense because he and Jen are two people when he said in a tone deeply familiar to me that the conversation had gone far enough. I then did what our mother never would have—left the house without saying goodbye.
Our mother used to drink vodka from a bottle kept under the kitchen sink; I drove to a nearby tourist bar. Like the bars my friends and I went to when I was in my twenties, this one had antler chandeliers and a mounted bison head. No college football pennants on the ceiling though.
I sat at the end of the bar away from other people, ordered bourbon neat, and thought about the argument with my brother. I felt hurt and angry because he’d yelled at me, but I also made excuses for him and told myself I was over-reacting. I’d noticed his mood souring earlier; safe to assume he hadn’t liked the way I chipped away at the good feelings generated during our little ceremony. Tyler had no way of knowing how much his and Jen’s sentimentality grated on me. And, at least in part, I’d satisfied my need to correct the record by pointing out Dad’s flaws.
I recalled other, more serious arguments we’d had since our father’s death. Why should a spat over a rental car send me over the edge? Still, I considered paying nothing for the car and getting a hotel room for the remainder of my stay. Instead of hiking to Beehive Basin the next day with Tyler and Jen as planned, I could Uber around town visiting old friends. Or change my flight and go home early. I also thought about fishing with Tyler. I haven’t fished much since moving away from home thirty years ago. Hardly at all, in fact. Dad used to call me the non-prodigy when it came to fishing. Tyler was the prodigy: better at reading the water, casting, and mending his line. I’ve learned to do those things well enough to fish Blue Ribbon trout streams successfully. But Tyler surpassed even our father as a fisherman.
I decided to have one more bourbon before calling it a night.
“I’m actually from here,” I told the bartender.
“Back for a visit,” he said, making it a statement rather than a question.
He looked familiar, tall and lanky, with a short-boxed beard and blue eyes. Like the guys I’d gone to high school with.
“I gave up something when I was young—flyfishing. I fished today for the first time in years. I gave it up and now I want it back,” I said.
“Then take it,” he replied.
“I realize I can’t ditch that part of my life.”
“Of course you can’t.”
I finished my drink and drove back to the house. Tyler had gone to bed. Next morning, he showed me some new flies he tied last winter and offered me a few for my fly box. We did the hike with Jen. And then we fished the Gallatin.
