The Prince Of Perch Fishing - University of Pittsburgh Press

Three would do it, I thought. My paltry retirement and social securiy
wouldn’t cut it, even with the cash I’d get rom the house in
Camp Meeker and my bag of gold coins, which sat in a box in the
vault at the bank. No, if we moved in together she’d meet my kids,
she’d have to. I didn’t imagne she’d like them one bit. She wasn’t
amused at the thought, I could tell, of my son and his mishap and
six months to go still in jail in Mill Valley. She hailed rom Wyoming,
the high plains, not here. Not California, land of love and
burnt bras and drugs, of just saying no to those who say no, of bee
pollen and wheat grass and nutritional plankton.
Her guns stood in a rack in the hall closet, behind the raincoats
and woolens, things hangng on hangers. I clicked the light on and,
parting the clothing, knelt down to look. A weny-wo, chipped up
somewhat, not new. A thiry-ought-six, newer, enough to knock a
full-grown caribou down. And a shotgun; and an antique pistol of
sorts, a relic, something Buffalo Bill might have used in his wild
west show. I pulled the shotgun off and examined the thing. It was
loaded, I noticed. All her guns needed oil. They cried out to be
cleaned, this one especially. I unhooked the safey.
Where’ve you been? she said.
She’d snuck in behind me. I stood up too fast and banged my
skull on the overhang. I didn’t drop the shotgun, luckily.
Here, I told her. I snapped the safey back and tucked the shotgun
in. Where were you? I asked, following her out of the closet. I
touched my scalp where it hit.
That’s what you get, she said, for gexing into my stuff.
I like your stuff.
She noticed the pie on the counter, the plant in its pot and
translucent coaster.
What a dear man you are, she exclaimed.
Dearer than Bob? I wanted to say. She had on a light pink sweat
suit and tiny white socks, her hair swept up in a tail. My heart about
broke, seeing her.
There’s lots more dear where that dearness came rom, I said
instead.
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