It was noon, and as usual Lyle and Oscar ate lunch on the dock, accompanied by a stiff breeze that blew their sandwich crumbs and wax paper and empty beer cans into the water if they didn't hang onto them. Also as usual, Lyle was regaling his companion with tales of adventure in the Second World War. Oscar didn't much begrudge him this pleasure, except that Lyle had now cycled through each story at least twice. Today brought his third retelling of 'Duke the Sharpshooter and the German Latrine'.
"Have I told you this one?" Lyle asked, not wanting an honest answer. He giggled delightedly as he prepared to launch. Anytime he was going to tell an off color story or joke, he would redden, hunch over, place his fist to his mouth as though he were covering a cough, and make a noise that could be best described as "tee-hick" – a high, wheezy giggle that ended in a full glottal stop. Oscar smiled absently and stared out at the lake, wondering what he was going to do with the rest of his life – his pointless, inconsequential life.
When he pulled his dramatic exit from Washington, he told himself he was going to work with his hands – having always harbored a vague, romantic notion that physical labor was the only truly noble form of work - and thirty years ago that might have been fine, but now, at fifty, it didn't bring him nearly the pleasure and satisfaction he had hoped – and it looked as though he was stuck with it.
Perhaps he would have left Montana altogether to seek out some new challenge, but the lake kept him there. He had grown to love the place passionately. It provided him the only deep and abiding pleasure in his life of exile.
From where he sat he could just make out the dash of blue on the horizon that was Big Bull Island. The other day he had taken his little fishing boat to it after work for a look round. That entire clump of islands was known for its treacherous shallows, and he had found it necessary to lean out over the side and look down as he puttered along. It was deceiving – he thought the danger was overstated, for the water was an opaque, inky blue, and then all of a sudden it was green, the bottom visible, and then there he was, practically right on top of the enormous sharp boulders jutting up to the surface.
"It was pitch black – no moon, nothing. Couldn't see a foot in front of your face. Except for Duke. I tell you, that guy had the night vision of a big cat." Lyle said, with exactly the same enthusiasm he had employed on the first telling.
It was the loneliness that was got to him most. It made him hang around with Lyle at lunch, it made him haunt the Polson Tavern after work – but those efforts made no dent in his desolation. There was a waitress at the coffee shop with whom he sometimes exchanged a word or two, and she was friendly in her brusque way, but that took the edge off only slightly. He had never experienced loneliness in this way before – he supposed he had been too busy and too focused to notice.
He missed his friends in Washington – Rudy and Louise of course, always reliable companions for a late night scotch or a small dinner party, his few friends from the political scene, his old Navy pals – even Russ. He actually missed Russ.
But the one person he missed above all others was Jaime.
"That guy could shoot a tick off a wood nymph's tit at a hundred paces, I tell you." Lyle leaned into Oscar for emphasis, his eyes bright and intent.
Her visit had been catastrophic to his equilibrium. Having held her close to him all night, having kissed her - he missed her so keenly he felt much of the time as though someone had punched him in the chest. Though he tried not to think of her, it was a hopeless effort. He constantly caught himself speaking to her in his mind, telling her of his doubts, telling her about the shallows of Bull Island, of the owls hooting to each other night after night, of the spooky chatter of the coyotes in the distance, of Lyle's coarse turn of phrase.
His mental discipline had failed him completely, but then, missing her at least kept her near him in some small, pathetic way. But soon his memories of her would grow old, and she would continue on in a life that would be entirely unknown to him. The very thought was crushing. She'd probably marry Chris and have children - and he, Oscar, would become nothing more than a distant memory to her.
"So Burtinski got on one side of the privy, and I got on the other side, see, and we started to rock that thing!"
Chris didn't deserve the loathing Oscar felt for him. In fact he was kind of a nice guy – just not good enough. Besides, he looked exactly like a men's wear model in the Sears catalogue. That in itself was intolerable. He wondered for the hundredth time if Jaime had reported to Chris that he was in love with her. He thought it was unlikely, but there was still a chance, and he felt the usual pang of embarrassment. What must Jaime think of him, spilling his guts in that ridiculous way? He winced and turned his attention to Lyle, who was nearing the climax of his appalling story, his face lit with excitement.