CHAPTER 1
JACK
I hate Sundays.
For me, they aren’t for lazy mornings in bed, the smell of coffee ruminating throughout the house, the sunlight peeking in through the shades, the feeling of someone curled up against me.
They’re not for rest and recovery, or spending the day doing things that rejuvenate the soul—or whatever the fuck people say.
Sundays are for making the 30-minute trek from my cabin to town to see an old man who gives me a hard time over my choice in nightcrawlers over leeches.
Sundays are for avoiding small-talk with the locals and pretending that being around another human doesn’t make me want to peel my skin off.
It’s the only day the bait shop is open—it’s closed every other day of the week so Banjo, as he calls himself, an old fisherman with an eye patch and a stringy white ponytail, can be out on the lake.
You could use one leech for every dozen of those lousy worms. Be a real fisherman and get the damn leeches.
Without fail, he urges every Sunday, but I don’t care enough to argue.
There isn’t much I care about these days.
Instead, I just nod and tell him, “Maybe next time”, even though we both know I’ll be getting two more containers of nightcrawlers when I come back next week.
It’s the same routine Banjo and I have followed since my first Sunday walking into his shop five months ago.
My cabin in the Northwoods of Wisconsin belonged to my grandpa, with wallpaper from the ’70s and furniture he built in the ‘80s, not to mention no cell phone service or neighbors within a 25-mile radius.
It’s just the way I like it.
No other cabins surrounding the small lake, no other boats out on the water, just me and my thoughts.
Justsolitude.
When I decided to come up here, the seclusion sounded like a good idea. Too much of home—both the people and the place—reminded me of who wasn’t there anymore and how different it was going to be now that he was gone.
“When are you gonna be a real fisherman and get the damn leeches, boy?” the old man rasps around the toothpick hanging from his lip. I set two cartons of nightcrawlers on the glass counter of Banjo’s Bait Shop, my hand going to my pocket to pull out a couple bills.
“Maybe next time,” I reply as I set the bills on the counter.
“You even catch anythin’ with ‘em things?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest, his black and red flannel buttoned up to his neck and tucked into dark blue jeans, his white beard almost as long as his ponytail. “There’s no way ‘em silly worms get you nothin’ more than a few bluegill.”
“I do okay,” I answer, grabbing the containers and turning toward the door before he can say anything else about my bait of choice. I wave a hand behind me as a goodbye before pushing the door to the shop open, the little bell chiming as I walk into the crisp spring air.
May has been uncharacteristically cool this year, but the cooler weather has pushed off the summer crowd that comes into town for their “upnorth” summer vacation, prolonging the solitude and isolation I’ve been hiding in. It’s also nice sitting out on the lake with a cool breeze or the light sprinkle rather than sweating my balls off in the sun.
A gust of wind greets me, accompanied by the smell of rain from the night before and the fresh pine from the trees. One deep breath of the clear air, and I immediately feel some of the tension in my shoulders release.
While it’s possible to fish year-round in Wisconsin, this month marks the beginning of the season for most lakes, and I have been itching for a catch that isn’t just the pesky sunfish that eat my worm before I even realize I have a bite. The bass, walleye, along with the loons who keep my company out on the lake, are calling my name.
“Jack!” My name rings out from behind me.
Damn it.
I run a hand through my hair and resist the urge to look at the cloudy sky and let out a groan.
When I’m not overly stealthy with getting my bait and getting out of town, Banjo’s wife, Caroline, or her sister, Beatrice, find me—and then ultimately corner me and drag me into their diner for breakfast.
I got out of it the first few weeks I was here, but I got tired of coming up with excuses by the second month. When I finally agreed back in February, I regretted sitting down at the counter within three seconds. Not only did I have to deal with the two of them pestering me with questions, but I had to suffer through the rest of the locals at the diner tuning in to get the 411 on what James Hasting’s grandson was doing up here after twenty years.
