The following is an excerpt reproduced with written permission from Barclay Creek Press; from the book, “Northwest of Normal” written by John Larison, published by Barclay Creek Press ©2009, 240 pages, 6″x9″; which can be purchased at the Fly Addicts Shop for only $24.95 by clicking HERE.

Finally, the rains let up and the river dropped into normal winter shape. The brown flows settled to green again, and the continuous flood-current broke into distinct rapids and pools and tailouts.

Andy had called Ethan a few days before, and asked about coming out. “Of course,” Ethan said. “You’re welcome to the couch at Lizzy’s house.” Lizzy was his new lady, as it turned out.

“What happened to the tarpon guide?”

“Ah,” Ethan said, “she acted like I was her sport. ‘Do this, do that.’ And she kept taking my flies. No, I’m done dating guides.”

Andy asked about what kind of work he could expect.

“There’s always work on my buddy’s head boat. Shitty work with cheap-ass clients, but it’ll pay your bills until you can get a loan and buy a proper flat’s skiff. You’ve got to have a skiff to make any real money. When are you coming?”

Andy told him that he needed to raise airfare first.

“As soon as you get it, let me know. I’ll smooth it out with Lizzy.”

Andy had been trying to visit Danny for days now, ever since seeing Shoshana in the Co-op. Twice he had climbed into the truck and driven upstream—once he made it as far as Danny’s driveway. But each time he had convinced himself to wait, that it would be best to try again in a day or two, give things a little more time to settle.

But enough was enough. The only thing worse than confronting Danny was the constant fear of confronting Danny. And the river would be fishable soon.

Before he could stop himself, he dialed the yurt. Luckily the answering machine picked up. Danny’s voice said: “It’s me. Leave a message.”

“Hey, I don’t know if you’re interested or not, but I’m thinking of fishing tomorrow. Should be at least a few winters around. I’ll be at Millican fifteen minutes before light. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

Andy’s own answering machine contained a message—the red light was blinking. The call must have come when he was outside. He clicked the play button and heard his father’s voice, the fourth time this month. “Andrew, please pickup. I’m not too proud to beg.” Pause. “How long are we going to keep doing this? I know we’ve had our—” Andy punched the delete button.

From the dresser, he grabbed his wallet and started toward the truck.

His father’s voice. It had become more desperate—there was an edge of panic to it. Maybe something was wrong, medically or something. He was getting to that age.

To hell with him. He had made this bed. They barely knew each other anyway. They were only relatives on paper.

Andy stepped out onto the porch, the truck only a short cast away.

Fuck this. He shouldn’t have to feel guilty about not calling. He should be able to live his own life, free from any of that old bullshit. What had that man done to deserve forgiveness?

And yet, Andy found himself just standing on the porch. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t climbing into the truck and driving into town. He could and he should; he had every right to. But he was just standing there with the keys in his hands.

The man didn’t deserve forgiveness, but he was his father, and he just wanted a second chance. This father wanted a second chance.

He stepped back inside and held the phone. Besides, it would be easier to forgive him than to go on hearing these sad messages every week.

“Dad?”

“Andrew? Is that you?”

“I got the grocery card and I just wanted to give you a buzz and say thank you, or whatever.”

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine. I just wanted to call, to say thanks.”

There was a pause. “I’ve been calling.”

“I know. And I’m calling you now.”

“We’ve been worried about you, with the weather out there and everything. First New Orleans, then Oregon.”

“I’ve been thinking about leaving. A friend can plug me into the guiding scene in the Keys.”

“The Keys are nice,” his father said. “It’s an easy flight from up here. When are you going?”

“I’m not real sure. I need to take care of some things first. Is everything okay? I mean, you’ve been calling a lot.”

“Everything is fine,” his father said a little too urgently. “It’s just it’s been so long since I’ve seen you, that’s all. Four years this March. And we’re…we’re not going to be around forever, you know.”

“Are you okay?”

“Do you think you’ll still be in Oregon in June?”

“What’s going on?”

“William and I are planning a trip. He’s desperate to fish out there with his big brother. He idolizes you, you know. To him, you’re this famous fishing guide with his picture in a magazine. William really wants to see you.”

Then in a quieter voice, he continued. “I know how you must feel, son, how I made you feel. I wasn’t what you needed, what you deserved. I see that now. My life’s great mistake. Please, please let me make this right.”

Andy focused on the fly tying bench, on a purple feather near the vise.

“You don’t need to forgive me.” His father’s voice was shaking. “I’m not asking to be forgiven.”

Tears welled up in Andy’s eyes—he hadn’t planned on this. He laughed. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

Andy dropped into his guiding voice. “Water under the bridge. Seriously…The fishing should be good in June.”

“It’s not water under the bridge. I want to know you. I want to see you as you are. Please. Will you be there in June?”

“I don’t know, Dad. We’ll see.”