Fishing for a Connection
by Douglas Young
part 1
Before the plane took off, a flight attendant stood in the aisle explaining in a bored monotone what to do “in the highly unlikely event of an emergency.” Addison Armistead contemplated whether he preferred to survive should the plane crash. After such a pleasant stay at the conference in New Mexico where his talks had gone well and everyone had been so kind, it was distinctly uninspiring to fly home to a wife whose love for him had long been in doubt. He wondered if she might prefer he go down with the plane. That would spare her all the emotional and financial costs of leaving him and going through a divorce. She would get all the sympathy due a widow and still be easily young enough to remarry, and she could cash in his life insurance policy.
The two days and nights at the hotel had been defined by greeting so many folks interested in his work, satisfying presentations, dinners where people actually smiled, talked, and laughed with each other, and evenings full of compelling conversation by the pool under a majestic moon instead of silently watching television with someone obviously bored or reading alone in his study.
Shortly after the plane was airborne, Addison noticed a cute boy of about two sitting — but more often standing — in a seat a few rows ahead of him. From time to time, the little fellow loudly cheered and made noises he could not understand, often grinning and speaking to the passengers behind him.
The contrast between all the adults sitting ever so quietly and staring ever so intently at their phones or laptops and this exuberantly energetic child prompted Addison to chuckle. Looking around, he saw only frowns and furrowed brows. Though crammed together, each passenger was cocooned in his own world, seeking to get as much work done as possible.
But this boy was in a happy space completely devoid of stress or a hurried pace. Addison marveled at the boy’s ever-patient mother, alternately telling him to sit down and be quiet, laughing at his comments, and giving him a hug. Mr. Armistead wondered if he would have had the patience or tolerance to endure a young child, much less be so unperturbed and even thoroughly amused by his endless antics. He had not wanted to be a father. With all the mental illnesses breaking so many limbs of his family tree, he had no wish to infect anyone with his genes, least of all an innocent child. That was a life sentence he had no desire to mete out to anyone.
But Hulda Armistead pined for motherhood, or had for at least a few years. Though one of the reasons he married her was her initial lack of interest in children, about five years into marriage — soon after hitting thirty and their relationship having become far more distant — she stunned him by announcing she wanted to be a mother. Without saying so, he wondered if it was an effort to keep them together.
After a couple of years trying to conceive without success, they saw a fertility doctor but did not pursue any recommended treatment plans. Addison was sure Hulda could tell his heart was not in it and, after a while, he figured she had given up, whether out of lost interest or sensing their relationship was not strong enough to handle rearing children. She did not press him to follow up with the fertility options, and adoption was never mentioned.
Instead, they grew farther apart and she became much more argumentative, angrily analyzing all the many ways he disappointed her. For a few years he defended himself, affronted at what he saw as unreasonable, petty complaints. Sometimes he laughed at them. But each time he stood up for himself or laughed only seemed to spark her into more of a frenzy. So he stopped.
For several years, when Hulda began to fuss, he would silently sigh, slowly turn his head away, close his eyes, and dream. He knew not to say a word since that would only heighten and extend the storm. No matter how tempted to protect his dignity or pride, he reminded himself that the sooner he let her completely vent — and without interruption — the sooner the storm would lift. Early middle age had cured him of a need to defend himself. He now knew truth and fairness were irrelevant and trivial compared to peace of mind. Knowing that no one changes anyway, why bother with such meaningless abstractions?
On one occasion, she briefly lit into him at a restaurant with a pair of friends present. Stunned by the outburst, which appeared to them completely out of character, the couple was more startled by his failure to respond or even look at her. When Hulda went to the ladies’ room, the wife asked Addison why he had not stood up for himself.
“As Janis Joplin explained why she shot herself up with heroin: ‘I just want a little peace,’” he replied with a shrug and changed the subject.
The Armisteads’ marriage had for years settled into a mostly silent truce. Indeed, he noted their home was quieter than a library. Though they still shared a bed, he could not recall the last time they had been intimate. After losing interest in having a baby, she no longer initiated sex and was emotionally absent when he did. But he soon found he no longer wanted it with her. So they had long been roommates maintaining a delicate domestic detente.
Addison noticed a pair of little girls running down the plane’s aisle, each wearing a paper crown of the kind provided at some fast-food restaurants. Giggling, they would stop and begin speaking to each other in bird noises, each with a wide grin. Addison caught himself sporting a smile. The girls’ parents never appeared and the stewardesses had long retired to the front and back of the plane for the long flight. Looking around, he saw that no one seemed to notice the children who remained oblivious to everyone else, each enthusiastically making bird chirps to the other. Addison realized his grin must appear frozen to anyone who noticed.
He caught himself trying to imagine Hulda greeting his arrival that evening with excited bird calls and felt the grin collapse. He had no doubt their dog would welcome him with far more joy.
Addison recalled his closest female colleague at work recently laughing over lunch with him about how easy it was to fake an orgasm with her husband. As her laughter subsided, he spoke with a voice from far away.
“As the saying goes, ‘A woman can fake an orgasm, but a man can fake a whole relationship.’”
“Ridiculous.” She looked aghast. “That’s not true.”
“It is too.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve faked all of mine.”
She looked at him dumbfounded. “Why?” she asked with wide eyes.
“It’s less lonely than being alone — having to go to restaurants and movies by yourself. The sex — not having to masturbate. Not wanting to hurt her. ’Cause breaking up would disappoint family and friends. Not wanting to have to explain yourself. Guilt. Just routine romantic bureaucratic momentum.”
* * *
After the plane landed, he found himself looking for the children who had amused him so much, but did not see them among the mass of people hurrying through the airport. Later, on the sidewalk heading to his apartment, he walked ever slower. All he would recall of the evening’s walk was the homeless man singing while setting up his cardboard bed on a building’s front steps.
When he opened the apartment door, Tulip immediately jumped on his leg, barking with her tail wagging excitedly. Addison’s face beamed as he picked up the dog, and she eagerly licked his cheek. Putting her down, he saw Hulda sitting in her favorite chair watching TV. He walked over and kissed the top of her head as she patted his back lightly. They exchanged pleasantries and then each went about his business, with Tulip eagerly following Addison to the bedroom where she sat on the bed supervising his unpacking with occasional barks.
The rest of the work week went reasonably well. Life at the office had always been an oasis as he cherished getting lost in the details of his latest project. Though some colleagues complained about workers who talked too much amidst the ceiling-less offices, Mr. Armistead welcomed the friendly banter and found it easy to tune out. Particularly when the work was going well, he enjoyed working overtime. It was at the office where he felt most appreciated. Work had always been his salvation.
When frustrated this week, he focused on Saturday morning’s trip to Lake Basil Duke where he and his college roommate DeBoyd Bradbury would meet to fish. Located about thirty miles out of town and halfway between where each lived, their twenty-year friendship would be rebaited a few times a year while casting for bass, catfish, the occasional carp, and mostly bream. Since Hulda preferred spending Saturdays with girlfriends or relatives, fishing was a good excuse for Addison to escape the loneliness of their apartment.
* * *
So, early Saturday morning, Mr. Armistead arose before Mrs. Armistead to take Tulip outside, eat a quick bowl of cereal, and then gently close the door and rapidly walk to his car. He arrived at the lake at 8 a.m. to find DeBoyd at their favorite fishing spot by the large weeping willow trees at the south end of the 15-acre body of water.
A young couple were jogging on the north side of the lake, and an old couple strolled on the south side. Most single people walking around the lake had a dog with them. In the middle of the water was a pair of paddleboats with laughing teenagers. One had a couple of boys and the other a pair of girls. They talked loudly and occasionally splashed each other.
Addison was relieved the only beings near DeBoyd were a family of mallard ducks swimming near the shore. Not many folks fished in Lake Basil Duke, and rarely had anyone joined him and Mr. Bradbury by the weeping willows where they had enjoyed the most success.
“You may be just in time to see me reel in a mighty hungry baby,” DeBoyd announced as his float kept bobbing but would not be pulled under water. “Something’s just a nibbling away at my worm but won’t take it — likely a real little one. Good to see you, roommate.”
They shook hands and exchanged greetings as Addison baited his hook with a worm. He cast his line about thirty feet from shore to a spot where he had caught many bream over the years. The orange float already shone brightly in the early morning sun.
Since DeBoyd and Addison had known each other well for decades and neither was very talkative, there was little conversation. Upon greeting, each would ask the other about family, work, and whether he had heard from any mutual friends since their last meeting. The rest of the morning was characterized by long silences punctuated by exclamations as one or the other caught or almost caught a fish. If the catch was big or unusual enough, one would take a picture of the other holding it and text it to him.
Though long periods of silence at home bothered Addison, they were soothing at the lake. It was as if the large body of water was a giant spring renewing his spirit. While watching his float, his mind drifted to all kinds of pleasant places and memories, some recurring only when fishing. Sometimes he became so enmeshed in thought that DeBoyd had to shout that his float had gone under water to prompt Addison to reel in the line.
Upon seeing his float go up and down, Addison never failed to feel a surge of excitement, a jolt of adrenalin undiminished even if he felt sure the fish was not big. He never ceased to admire what a fine fight even a small bream could put up. The joy of reeling in a really spirited fish, especially a good-sized one, was something Mr. Armistead found nowhere else. Though he never acknowledged it, he always hoped to catch more than DeBoyd. That he usually did not only made the rare occasions when he did all the more cherished.
Copyright © 2023 by Douglas Young
