I was living on an old run-down farm-thirty acres-between Saugerties and Catskill that had been in my family for years. My great-grandfather’s brother George had owned the property. Nobody remembered what George had done for work, but he must have enjoyed his privacy. The farm was set way back off the road-the dusty dirt trail that led to it was close to a mile and the mailbox on the road never had a name on it-with the two-story main house on a slight hill. The main house was white and blue, with a wraparound wood porch overlooking the pond. A couple large sturdy red barns and two buildings about ready to fall over. The property had three little gray cabins on it, facing the mountains. Someone, years ago, put the cabins up and tried to get people to stay there. It hadn’t worked. The cabins each were equipped with a sink and a stand-up shower in addition to a flush toilet, which was probably illegal given the size of the property. The cabins had black phones in them, hanging on the wall, and when you picked them up, they rang to a single phone in the main house. For the guests, I imagined. There was still a gas pump and buried tank next to the one barn. I suppose if I went through the trouble of having someone come out and inspect the pump, I could have had my own gas on-site. It was an empire of dirt, but it was paradise to me.
I pulled the truck up the road that Friday and my father’s silver truck was parked in front of the house. He was sitting on the front porch in a lawn chair with his ball cap on, drinking a soda. He’d retired two years before from a local lumberyard.
“Hey there,” he said.
“How’s it going?” I said. “How’s retired life?”
“Can’t complain,” he said. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“You’re going fishing with me and Rich, okay? Be the best thing for you.”
“Sounds good,” I said.
He was getting in his truck. “See you at six a.m. Catskill dock.”
“See you tomorrow. Say hello to Mom for me.”
“Will do,” he said. “She’s going to visit her aunt.”
“Wish her a good flight,” I said.
He waved as he pulled away from the house.
Rich had a new boat he kept at the Catskill dock. It wasn’t brand-new, but it was new to him and he kept it shining. He was retired too, from a state conservation job. He made extra money running fishing charters out of Catskill and did pretty well for himself. Rich knew where the fish were. The other guy in Catskill who knew where the fish were was Tom, the man who owned the bait shop. Tom was a big, tall guy, an old basketball player. He had owned the bait shop in Catskill for years, and it was the best bait and tackle shop on the Hudson. All the fishermen along the river knew to stop at Tom’s before they went fishing, to get the latest report on conditions and fish. And to buy bait and everything else-reels, rods, the latest lures. Maps and charts. Tom could wind your reel with new line while you stood there and have you back out on the river in half an hour. Listening to Tom could keep you from getting shut out. No fish was no fun. When I passed Tom’s on my way to the dock, I saw my father’s truck in the parking lot. He pulled into the dock parking lot behind me and we headed out onto the Hudson River with Rich driving the boat.
“Tom says go north,” my father said to Rich.
“We’ll try it,” Rich said.
My father turned to me. “I asked you here for a reason,” he said.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Do you remember Bob?” he said. “Bob Threepersons?”
“Sure,” I said. “Still lives in Florida?” Bob had been in the army with my father and Rich. They hadn’t been in the same units, but met back here in the States when their tour of duty ended. Bob had been a tunnel rat. He was originally from Idaho. His whole family lived on a reservation out there. He still had a sister who lived on the reservation. He came and visited, almost twenty years ago. He stayed in one of the little cabins on the old farm. I remember Bob kept an owl for a pet.
My father nodded. “He’s having a heck of a time.”
“What type of problems?” I said. We were moving north through the water. The great Rip Van Winkle Bridge was overhead, with its huge stone pilings diving deep into the water around us. Rich stayed in a channel and we passed underneath. Rogers Island was on our right and the train tracks ran along the bank.
“Money,” my father said. “Drugs. Booze.”
“Is he ready to clean up?” I said.
“He says he is,” my father said.
“Does he need money?” I said.
“No.” My father shook his head. “Having extra money is part of his problem right now.”
“Are these the type of money problems that are likely to follow him up here?” I said.
“There’s a chance of that,” he said. “Anything can happen.”
We let the conversation sit, because he’d hooked a fish. Rich and I watched him bring it to the boat, as the pole he was using bent around. Rich got the net and we wrestled a good-sized striper to the deck. The fish had bright-colored scales and a white belly. After we removed the hook, my father tossed the fish back into the Hudson.
“You want him to stay in one of the little houses?” I said.
“Yeah,” my father said. “That’s a good plan. He kicked heroin there one summer, so he knows he can get clean there.”
“I never knew that,” I said. “I just thought he was visiting us.”
“He was,” my father said. “But he was having some problems at that time too.”
“Why do you guys keep helping him?” I said.
My father sipped his coffee. Rich shrugged.
“You can’t turn your back on people when you know what they’ve seen,” Rich said.
My father nodded. “War loves young men,” he said. “Those aren’t my words, somebody else said them first, but I don’t remember who. Anyway, Vietnam got hold of Bob and hasn’t let him go yet. We’re lucky”-he motioned at Rich and himself-“that we don’t have the problems Bob does.” He drank another mouthful of coffee. “I can’t watch TV anymore except baseball. The war coverage makes me think about those men and women overseas and how, even if they make it back and with all their limbs, it could still ruin their lives. I can’t stand people-ordinary, average, everyday people-suffering the consequences of politicians. Bob is like that. He’s nobody special, he’s just special to us.” My father finished his coffee and Rich nodded as he watched the water.
“And this time,” my father said, “Bob’s problems seem a little tougher and different.”
“These new problems,” I said. “Gun-type problems?”
“Yes,” my father said. “He might need some help watching his back.”
“I’ve got a brand-new shotgun,” Rich said.
“I’ve already got a shotgun,” I said.
“I meant for Bob,” Rich said. “Do you have a dog?”
“No,” I said. “I work too much to take care of one.”
“I used to have a good German shepard named Shane, but he’s long gone. I can’t help you with a dog,” Rich said.
“Okay,” I said. “When should I expect Bob?”
“Soon,” my father said. “Tonight.”
We caught another striper north of Hudson-Tom had been right-and headed back to the Catskill dock. After we moored the boat, Rich brought a gun case out of the backseat of his truck, along with three boxes of shells. I put the stuff on the backseat of my truck and shook hands with both of them before driving off.