Cranberry Red: A Novel

58. Fred and Oscar

253 At Fred Russo’s suggestion, he and Oscar Anderson opened the annual fishing season on the Willow River Millpond, a small body of water created when pioneers in the middle 1850s dammed the Willow River to create waterpower for the grain mill and the adjacent sawmill. Both mills were long closed. The grain mill still stood; it was a three-story, red, wooden structure that had become a gift shop of some kind. It was the ideal place for tourists to see the water tumble over the mill dam. The small city of Willow River surrounded the mill pond; its main street hugged one side. Ebenezer Townsend Park, created on land set aside from a donation from once-prominent citizen Ebenezer Townsend, took up much of the opposite shore. It was here that Fred and Oscar had staked an early morning claim for a fishing spot. The two old fishermen stood on shore, tossing their lines out into the clear, cold water of the pond—they were the only fishermen there. It was a blustery cold May morning, with the wind coming out of the northwest. Winter was having a tough time giving up. “What kinda fish we supposed to catch here?” said Oscar after he had tossed his line out about a half dozen times without any action. “Trout. There’s brook trout in here,” said Fred. “Native brookies.” “Rookies, what in hell is a rookie trout?” “Brookie! I said, ‘Brookie!’” Fred yelled over the sound of a semi that had downshifted as it motored slowly along Main Street. Fred and Oscar 58 “Oh,” said Oscar. He waited a few moments. “You ever catch a brookie trout?” “Used to. When I was a kid. Caught ’em in the Upper Pine River. Caught a lot of ’em. Good eatin’. About the best eatin’ trout there is.” “You ever catch a brookie trout in this millpond?” “Nope, I haven’t. Heard they’re in here, though,” said Fred. “Who told you there’s trout in here? You see another fisherman? Not a damn one. There’re all someplace else . . . where the fish are bitin’,” added Oscar. “François over at the bait shop told me,” said Fred. “François. He don’t know nothin’ about where the fish are bitin’. All he wants is to sell bait. . . . Damn, it’s cold out here. That wind just cuts right through ya.” “Gotta have a little patience, Oscar. Gotta be patient,” said Fred. “Ain’t had so much as a nibble. I don’t think there’s even a turtle in this pond,” grumped Oscar. “You wanna catch a turtle?” “No, I don’t wanna catch no damn turtle. I wanna catch fish like we used to catch over on the Tamarack River,” said Oscar. “You wanna catch another one of them mean northern pike, like the one that chewed off your walkin’ stick last year?” asked Fred. “That was the meanest fish I ever saw. Burned down our fishing shanty, too. Bet it was the same damn fish. Out to get us. That fish was out to get us, Fred,” said Oscar. “You tell anybody about that fish chasin’ us and chewing off your stick?” “Only Shotgun Slogum. Don’t think he believed me, either. Even if he did, he wouldn’t tell nobody. Slogum knows how to keep a secret,” Oscar remarked. The two old friends, with their collars up and their hats pulled down, watched their bobbers ride the little chop on the pond created by the cold northwest wind. Fifteen minutes passed without a word between them. Oscar finally broke the silence. “Fred, this here pond is the worst place I’ve ever fished. It’s colderin’ hell out here besides. Let’s go over to the Lone Pine for a cup of coffee and warm up.” “Good idea,” agreed Fred, reeling in his line. 254 Fred and Oscar ...