Wayward stories  

Phenton's Flies

   “He’s chasing them again, all over the grounds.” Stephen had to hold the phone away from his ear while the shrill voice continued. “I’m sorry. You’re going to have to come down. We don’t need him stirring up the chickens and frightening the other patients.” Stephen was afraid of something like this, not that it was entirely unexpected. After all, she was talking about someone few could perceive as remotely normal—his dad. Stephen apologized to the voice, got in his car and began the two hour trip to the Woodside Recovery Center.

   As he got closer to the ragged line of distant trees that told him the center wasn’t too much further, he thought about his choice of facilities. This had seemed the ideal place for his dad to rest a little. Out in the country, plenty of fresh air, some mountains nearby and even near a river they’d often fished together—the perfect setting to spend some time getting over things.

   Stopping his car in the middle of an old trestle bridge, he overlooked a small river. The setting looked familiar, if not a little boring. A thin river in a narrow valley in a part of the country with little flyfishing history. Hardly the kind of adventuresome river, Stephen suspected, a flyfisher would chirp about. In fact, this might have been the river over which he had cast his first fly with his dad. It was hard to tell. After so many years of fishing, many of the rivers began to look alike. Trying to look deeper into the stream, he saw no archetypal hatch of significant mayflies or even caddis that he could report on as a way to relieve his old man’s present collection of anxieties.

   Yet, a single mayfly did rise. Or was it a caddis? He stared hard at the insect and decided its erratic flight pattern must mark it as a caddis. “If it’s crazy, it’s a caddis,” his dad would often say, attempting to make his son see deeper into the water. But usually Stephen would just smile agreeably while his father talked about how a particular rise pattern indicates this and that form of this or that insect on this or that time of day at this or that time of the year, as he watched his father attack the water as if the devil demanded it. His dad could have thrown a rock in the water and proclaim that a stonefly hatch was on and Stephen would dutifully tie on the biggest Royal Wulff in his box.

   Or his dad would point to a mayfly sitting on his son’s shoulder and proclaim, “Flavilinea,” and Stephen would look suitably impressed. “See those wings?” his father would begin. “Like a bird’s wing. A small cloud, when you hold it up. They don’t have mouth parts, the adults. All they want to do is dance in the sky.” Stephen couldn’t get past the idea of any animal sacrificing eating in order to fly. He didn’t bother looking up the fly later in one of his dad’s many books. His dad was always right about most things anyway. Most things, except anxiety disorders.

   “Everybody has a little of that,” his dad exclaimed to a therapist whom he and Stephen visited one day. “What’s so special about it. Just give me a pill, for God’s sake.” He paused, then added, “I just need some time alone, like everybody . . . And maybe some more fishing.”

   “Dad, you locked yourself in the basement for four days,” Stephen exclaimed.

   “I was working on a salmon pattern. You don’t spend four seconds on full‑dress salmon patterns like you do your woolly buggers, boy.”

   “Dad, don’t make jokes. You were screaming down there.”

   Pondering the uneventful and boring river, Stephen was  thankful that his dad wasn’t screaming at the center, just chasing chickens, and God knows what else. Stephen continued on and soon came to the center where he was ushered by a receptionist to an upstairs door on which hung the single title, “Director.”

   He knocked.

   “Come in,” said the familiar voice, though somewhat less shrill this time.

   Stephen opened the door. “I’m Stephen, Mr. Phenton’s son.”

   “Yes, yes. Come on in. I’m the director of these facilities. I hope I didn’t startle you when we chatted over the phone. Thanks for coming down. Please have a seat.”

   Chatted? Stephen thought a psychotic drumming was more accurate. He walked toward a huge overstuffed chair in the middle of the room, and sank into it. Feeling buried and vulnerable in the huge chair, he looked up at a gigantic portrait of a nurse captured by a thick wood and plaster frame on the wall behind the director’s desk.

     “Let me start by saying we do enjoy having Mr. Phenton here, but he’s been getting involved in some . . . well, unusual activity that I haven’t seen before and, hoping this will be his last month here, we want everything to run smoothly. It is our exit policy, you know.”

   “I see.”

   “When he arrived, he seemed pleasant, which we like to see, and he handled the group sessions well, and he was doing OK on the Xanax. You know, some patients with his condition will spend the standard three month stay in their rooms afraid to go anywhere. We wanted him to take on some responsibilities, and he immediately started taking care of some of the grounds, and took a particular liking to our pond. So we let him take care of it, though admittedly, I don’t know what you do to take care of a pond.” She paused and adjusted something on her desk. “I sat with him one day, you know, and he showed me all the feathers he collects, all kinds and sizes, which I guess is good, though I don’t know what you do with feathers. We don’t have any feather crafts here. I’d rather he’d pick up some of the trash that can collect down there.”

   “I understand you there.” Stephen shifted his weight in a vain attempt to relax in the huge chair.

     “Anyway, he started following the chickens around, and one day the other patients started complaining about him picking up the birds. One day, the chickens and even some of the ducks started squawking and running around. Patients were tripping over themselves chasing them down. Now, the chickens are part of an experimental program to help some of our patients externalize while learning basic responsibilities, and some of the birds have stopped laying eggs.”

   “Really?”

   “His condition can go the other direction, you know, and we are just a medium level facility with no experience in special populations. There are better places for his condition if it gets worse. You talk to him, will you?”

   Stephen thanked the director, and proceeded to find his way out to the grounds. He walked along a narrow cemented path, passing by a small group of male patients sitting silently around a table, each of their eyes following him as he found his way to the pond. He saw a shape bent over the edge of the pond.

   “Hi, Dad.”

   His father appeared not to hear or notice him. Stephen touched him on the shoulder. “Dad?”

   Mr. Phenton stood up startled. “Son! Glad to see you. How are you doing?” They shook hands. Stephen noticed a small box in his hand.

   “Fine. How have you been?”

   “Good. They’ve let me take care of the pond. I’ve been moving some plants around, a little shade for the brookies. Imagine, there are brookies in this nut house. Small, but brookies nevertheless.” He looked out over his pond and grinned with satisfaction.

   “This is hardly a nut house, Dad.”

   “Brook trout. Imagine. Watch this.” Mr. Phenton took the lid off the box he was holding and showed Stephen.

   Stephen’s eyes showed cautious surprise. “Are these . . .  flies? But, where. . . .”

   “Is anyone looking?” asked his father quietly. Stephen looked carefully around, then realizing that he had given up his clandestine ways more than half a life ago, shook his head and returned his gaze to the box.

   “Watch.” Mr. Phenton took a fly from the box and flung it into the pond. Presently a fish sipped the fly and disappeared. Stephen didn’t know whether to be pleasantly surprised or confused at this. Was this fishing? He looked into the box again and noticed something odd about the flies. They looked very well tied, as all his dad’s flies had been, but they had no hooks.

   “Did you tie these. . . on hooks?” asked Stephen.

   “No. Hat pins, which I shortened up a bit. You can’t get a proper hook in this place. But a lot of the ladies here have hat pins, so I use those. There is actually quite a bit of fly tying material here and there, if you look carefully enough. I use forceps from the nurse’s office for a vice, and I made up a bobbin from some sewing things I found in one of those silly craft rooms where everybody gets their brains and arthritis cured. The first flies were pretty crude, but I got better. “

   “But there’s no hook,” said Stephen.

   “Watch, I’ll throw three out.” Mr. Phenton threw the flies out, and suddenly, three fish appeared and sipped them down. A moment later, one of the flies reappeared on the water. “Look. He spit one back. My first refusal.”

   “Amazing,” said Stephen. “How did you get them to float?”

   “Chicken hackle.”

   “The nurse mentioned you had been chasing the birds around.”

   “It’s not high grade stuff, but you can’t be picky here. That’s the way they do it in England, you know. No killing valuable chickens, those Brits. I tried getting CDC feathers from the ducks, but ducks are a lot less tolerant of having those particular feathers plucked.”

   “I can imagine. The little animals must be terrified of you around here.” Feeling a little uncomfortable commiserating about bird harassing, Stephen thought this would be a good time to leave. “Look Dad, I just dropped by to see how you were doing. Can you walk me back to the car?”

   They walked back up the cement path to the car. Half way up the path, Stephen asked, “Dad, you are going to be good, right? The director is concerned about you. And I don’t think she appreciates you touching the wildlife.” Stephen felt he had to pass along some information or warning.

   “Will you look at that?” exclaimed Mr. Phenton. Sitting around a table nearby were four women, one with an enormous hat. The hat was nearly a yard wide, with complicated folds, fancy velvet material, gold embroidery, artificial flowers, large plumes of ostrich and other fowl, and lace cascading off the side. As they approached the table, Mr. Phenton stopped. “Excuse me, ladies, but that is a wonderful hat. Where did you get it?”

   The lady looked startled. No one had ever inquired about her hat in such a direct and familiar way before. “Well, if you must know,” she replied, “I made it.” The ladies quickly returned to their conversation.

   “Well, you ladies have a great day,” said Mr. Phenton. The two continued toward the center’s gate.

   Mr. Phenton turned to his son. “Did you see all the materials on that hat? Now that’s a fly tier’s dream. She must be a milliner.”

   “I suppose. Dad, you take care OK, and stay away from the animals. You don’t want to get in any more trouble with the director.”

   Mr. Phenton was looking back toward the ladies. “What a fantastic hat.”

   “I’ll see you in few weeks. OK, Dad?”

   “OK, son.” They shook hands again.

   A month later, two weeks before Mr. Phenton was due to leave the center, Stephen visited again. He immediately went down to the pond to check on his dad, and found him bent over the pond again.

   “Hi, Dad.” Mr. Phenton jumped up again.

   “Son! Hello. Come here.” Stephen walked closer. “Watch,”  his dad said. “Over there.”

   Stephen peered 30 feet down the edge of the pond. Suddenly a fish jumped much further out of the water than he though a fish could jump. “Did you throw a fly down there?”

   “No. Watch.” Suddenly another fished jumped, this time a little higher. Stephen didn’t know what to think.

   “OK. Is there a hatch on?”

   “No. Watch.” A third fish jumped, this time almost twice the distance of the other two. Stephen scanned the area above the pond, but saw no insects flying to explain the odd behavior. He regretted he didn’t have his father’s ability to see things below, on or above the water. “Look at the branches hanging over the water,” said Mr. Phenton.

   Stephen peered into the branches and began to see something above the water. “What in the world? . . . Are those flies hanging on the branches? Did you put them there?”

   “Yes, with the help of a little sewing thread. One is at three inches. All the fish can reach that one. Some can reach the other fly at six inches. No fish has touched the one a foot and a half above the water, yet.”

   “Amazing. Is that. . . uh. . . legal? I mean, you could hang a fish, couldn’t you?”

   Mr. Phenton brought out his box of flies. These flies were different than the last ones Stephen saw. He picked one up and held it up to the sky, as his father had taught him many years ago. They appeared to be tied on the same type of pin as the earlier ones. “These are fantastic. I can’t believe you tied these.” Stephen marveled at the chocolate-colored bodies, the velvet colors, with unusual gold and silver braiding, purple tails, and wings of a delicate yellow, all perfectly proportioned like the mayflies his father had tied for him throughout his life. “I’ve never seen material like this,” Stephen exclaimed.

   “Did you notice the cock-y-bundhu wings?” asked his father.

   “The what?”

   “Never mind. I found different materials here and there. If you look closely, you’ll find most materials nearby.”

   Both sat on a bench and watched the fish jump. After about 30 minutes they began to notice a larger fish jumping at the highest fly. “He almost got that one. That’s my favorite fly so far,” remarked Mr. Phenton. “Ostrich, beaver fur, silk, and peacock. Maybe I’ll have to string it up higher.”

   “Maybe so. Look, Dad, I’d love to stay and watch the show some more, but I need to get back.”

   “All right, son”

   “Remember, you’ll be leaving in two weeks.”

   Mr. Phenton continued sitting, pondering his fish.

   “You take care of the fish,” said Stephen. “I’ll find my way out.” Stephen put his hand on his dad’s shoulder, then got up and left.

   After walking a little way down the path, he was nearly knocked down by the lady in the great hat, who stormed by him and headed directly toward his dad.

   “You! You there, Phenton!” She shrilled. She hovered over him like a giant bird, her great hat casting a shadow over him.

   “I hear you had one of my hats. What in God’s earth are you doing with one of my hats?” Stephen heard the exchange and shielded himself next to some bushes so as not to embarrass his father.

   “Well, I. . . ” stuttered Mr. Phenton.

   “I, nothing. You leave my stuff alone. I want my hat back, or. . . I’ll speak to the director. I will. What gives you the right, you, you, nut? Damn you, Phenton!” She stormed off, her arms flailing like a giant flustered bird.

   Mr. Phenton looked at the retreating hat lady, then turned his eyes toward the pond with a fixed stare. Stephen took a step toward his dad, but then quickly turned around and continued toward the parking lot, decided that it might be best to leave his dad alone.

   A week later, Mr. Phenton called his son. “Hi, Stephen. I’m ready to home. The director gave the OK to leave a little early. Do you want to come by?”

   Surprised by his father’s sudden frank tone, let alone the fact that his dad rarely called him about anything, Stephen didn’t answer right away, his thoughts traveling quickly between his dad, the director, the flies, the hat lady.

   “Sure, Dad. I guess I’ll pick you up this weekend, if that’s what you want.”

   When Stephen got to the center, he made some arrangements with the receptionist, signed release papers, and then went directly to the pond, knowing his dad would be nearby. Before reaching the usual part of the pond, he stopped in shock. The lady in the great hat was standing next to this father. Both were hunched over something in his dad’s hands. It was the fly box. He crept a little closer to pick up some of the conversation, but stayed a safe distance off to avoid getting embroiled in a nasty fight.

   “How did you tie it around like that?” asked the lady.

   “You tie the thick end of the feather in here with a few wraps of thread and then just spin it around, but only after you tie in feathers for tails. And then you finish it off with a few half hitches.”

   “Yes, yes. A half hitch. I use that too, except I finish it off a little differently.” She unpinned her great hat, took it off, and pointed to an area near a pheasant plume. “See? I wrap it like this, right before the final feather.”

   “Yes. Very interesting.”

   “That’s very beautiful what you did with the ostrich over that velvet,” she remarked.

   “Well, actually, ostrich is a common material in some flies, especially steelhead flies.”

   “Indeed? The things you learn.” She pinned the hat back onto her head.

   “Yes, and. . . . Well, hello son.” Mr. Phenton noticed his son stepping forward. “This is my son, Stephen,” Mr. Phenton said turning to the hat lady.

   “Well, Hello. Have you seen your father’s great flies?”

   “Yes I have. I’m very glad you like them. . . . Very glad indeed.”

   “Have you seen the fish jump at those flies out there. Fantastic. What will we do when you are gone?”

   Just then Stephen heard a yell go up from across the pond. “He got it,” someone yelled over the pond. He noticed a group of people sitting near the hanging flies, cheering for the fish. “He got it again,” someone else yelled.

   “Thank God fish can’t hear noises above water,” proclaimed Mr. Phenton.

   Stephen could only stare in puzzled amusement at groups of people watching fish jump as if they were at a riveting baseball game. The lady extended her hand to Mr. Phenton. “I’ll leave you two, now. We’ll miss you here. Well, everyone but the chickens.” The lady strolled down the path, her great hat lifting her graceful strides.

   “Let’s go, Dad. She seems like a. . . very excitable person. I’m glad she likes your flies.”

   “OK, son. You know, she really is a very nice lady.” He looked out over the pond. “A few days ago we chatted a bit. Then she started coming down to the pond.”

   Mr. Phenton picked up a few books and a couple of packages, while Stephen picked up a suitcase, and both headed toward the parking lot. Before they reached the car, they heard another yell go up from the crowd of fish watchers.

   “Amazing,” said Stephen.

   “Yes,” said Mr. Phenton. “Yes, indeed.”

   They got in the car. Before starting the car, Stephen noticed a round box under a coat on his dad’s lap.

   “What is that?” asked Stephen.

   Mr. Phenton took the lid off the box and showed him the contents. “You’ve never seen a hat box?” Inside was a hat similar to but smaller than the one the hat lady wore, with numerous braids in gold, delicate flowers, nets, and numerous bird plumes. “She said I could have one of her hats--as long as I tie her a few more of the flies with it.”

   Stephen marveled at the bright materials, intricate folds and bright lace. “I see, “ he said. “Maybe you can teach me the mysteries of the hat flies this weekend. Do you remember the old bridge down the road where you used to take me?”

   “I sure do.” Mr. Phenton paused a bit, then turned toward his son, “We’ll try some of those old woolly buggers of yours, too, just for old time’s sake.”

   He paused again. “And maybe we can drop by the nut house and see how the hat lady is doing. And check on my hanging flies, of course.”

--Toney J. Sisk

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