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down, he thought. It didn’t take fish that long to calm down and then you had to put the sneak on them.
    He became prematurely tired and sat down under another tree for a rest, a fir with piles of soft needles beneath it. He reflected that in literature our lives were rivers which seemed inappropriate to him. Rivers were unstoppable, of great power. We were primarily creeks or rivulets that flowed into rivers. You could hope your life to be a smooth, clear, strong creek. You could make it so with care. Or you could muddy it up with carelessness. Sunderson had to put himself in the latter category but then nothing was stopping a change. He drifted away in fantasies of a clean life and fine behavior. He would find a retirement job of some sort to occupy his time properly. His long career as a state police detective had worn him out. He dreaded the many cases of physical abuse of children and wives. His gorge rose in the woods.
    He did not want to change that much. He was comfortable like most of us in his sloppiness except he didn’t want to be drunk anymore. He was tired of being drunk in the evening at his kitchen table with tears in his old retired eyes over his lost wife.
    Marion showed up very muddy after two hours with a nice creel full of brook trout for dinner. He was proud to have stalked and caught a big one, about two pounds, nearly a trophy for a brook trout, and a few smallish others, enough for lunch. Sunderson was mildly jealous but there was no way his cripple body could reach the beaver pond in the center of the swamp. Sunderson faltered and Marion carried him piggyback. He was always surprised by Marion’s massive strength, which Marion explained by describing a long youth spent as a farm laborer often for twenty-five cents an hour. Indian kids were cheap he said because they were so poor. He spent most of what he made on food because his family had so little, his father gone long ago. He told Sunderson now how proud he was to one day have brought home to his mother a big beef roast from the butcher. His brothers and sisters were delighted with everyone sitting in the kitchen watching TV while the roast cooked with a delicious odor. Once for Christmas dinner they had eaten three roast chickens that Marion had bought live from a farmer and killed. He and his mother plucked them outside on a snowy day laughing at the cold.
    His little sister Susan had been in prison ten years for shooting a man who had raped her but Marion felt there was a chance of getting her out this year.
    They napped after lunch then drove a few miles to a bigger stream that also had rainbows and brook trout. Sunderson immediately caught a nice brown trout of about two pounds, less impressive than a brookie but it put him in a glowing mood with his actual life left well behind. He slipped the beautiful wildly colored fish back into the current. Brown trout weren’t nearly as good to eat as brook trout. Maybe he could catch him here next year when he gained a pound. A thought that goes with all released fish.

Chapter 4
    Sunderson was roasting a chicken for lunch six months later in January when he was startled to hear a car. He went to the window then quickly bundled into a coat and went out on the porch. It was Diane and she was crying. She whispered through her tears that she had gotten an email and then a phone call from Mona in Paris. She was sick with hepatitis, the boyfriend had abandoned her in a hotel, and she wanted to come home.
    “I’ll go get her,” he said.
    “Are you well enough?” she wondered.
    “It doesn’t take much to ride on an airplane,” he said. In fact his back was aching and he dreaded the idea but Diane was the manager of the hospital, it was a busy time of year, and she couldn’t get away. He was counting on an extra pill to take care of the pain. The reservations were for tomorrow morning fairly early and Diane had gotten money in anticipation. She also got him a reservation for a night in Mona’s