Tamarack River Ghost: A Novel

3. Fishing on the Millpond

21 Fishing on the Millpond 3 Oscar, you been hearin’ what I’ve been hearin’?” asked Fred Russo, Oscar Anderson’s neighbor and longtime friend. “How in hell am I supposed to know what you’ve been hearin’?” “Well I was just wonderin’.” Oscar had a puzzled look on his face as he reeled in his fishing line and tossed the bobber and hook baited with a small minnow back into the quiet waters of the Willow River Millpond. “So, what have you been hearin’?” A soft September breeze riffled the millpond waters. “What did you say?” “I said, ‘What you been hearin’?’” Oscar said, louder this time. “About what?” “What you said a little while ago.” Oscar and Fred, both in their eighties and retired farmers, often fished together. The Tamarack River had long been their favorite fishing spot, but for the sake of variety, they chose other places as well. The Willow River Millpond was one of them. Here, they could fish from shore for native brook trout, talk about the issues of the day, and reminisce about earlier times. “What I said was ‘Have you been hearin’ what I’ve been hearin’?’” “About all I hear is the wind blowing through the willow trees, kind of a nice sound too. One of the sounds of early fall. I kinda like the sounds of fall. Easy to hear. Not like winter. Winter sounds are harsh on the ears.” “Are you through talking about sounds?” said Fred. 22 Fishing on the Millpond “I could say more. Tell you about the sounds of summer, sounds of spring. I could tell you about them sounds, Fred,” Oscar said, a big smile spreading across his wrinkled face. “Hell, I ain’t talkin’ about the sounds of the seasons. I’m talking about the gossip goin’ around the Tamarack River Valley,” said Fred. “What gossip is that? Old Shotgun Slogum shootin’ off his mouth about something? The cranberry growers in trouble? Some new rumor about the fancy golf course? Somebody see the Tamarack River Ghost again?” “Nah, ain’t none of that,” said Fred. He reeled in his line and tossed it out again. The big red-and-white plastic bobber bumped up and down as the wind played across the millpond’s surface. “Well, what the hell is it? You gonna tell me or not?” asked Oscar, looking his friend in the eye. “Well, I am gonna tell you. I was just wonderin’ if you’ve heard it yourself,” said Fred. “How in hell am I supposed to know what you heard if you don’t tell me what it is?” “Well, I’ll tell you. Then you don’t have to get all huffy on me.” “I ain’t gettin’ huffy, just curious, that’s all.” “Well, here’s what I heard,” Fred began. “I’m all ears.” “You know about our conservation warden, Natalie Karlsen?” “Yeah, I know about her. Never met her. Don’t wanna meet her either. Heard she’s a tough cookie. Arrest her grandmother if she had one too many bluegills in her bucket.” “Yup, that’s Natalie Karlsen.” “Well, what about her?” “Heard she’s payin’ particular attention to the Tamarack River Valley this fall,” said Fred. “What’s that mean—payin’ particular attention?” “Means she’s spending lots of time in our neighborhood.” “So?” “Oscar, do I gotta spell it out for you?” 23 Fishing on the Millpond “Guess you do, ’cause I ain’t heard nothin’ about what Warden Karlsen is doin’ in our neighborhood.” “She’s lookin’ for poachers,” said Fred. “Lookin’ for what?” “Poachers,” said Fred, raising his voice a bit. “Thought that’s what you said. Why’s she lookin’ for poachers?” “’Cause poaching is against the law.” “I know that. Also know that now and again some of our neighbors take a deer or two out of season to feed their families. I wouldn’t call that poaching,” said Oscar. He reeled in his line and tossed it out again. “Still against the law,” said Fred. “Shouldn’t be; folks have to live. Have to feed their kids. Like as not, the deer they take are ones they’ve fed all summer on their own land. Deer that ate their corn and alfalfa.” “Doesn’t matter to the warden. If she catches somebody, she’s gonna fine ’em, take their guns away. Raise hell with ’em.” “Ain...