Melissa Bank - The Girls Guide to Hunting and Fishing

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Table of Contents

TO MY REAL-LIFE GIRL GUIDES

Adrienne Brodeur, Carole DeSanti,
Carol Fiorino, Molly Friedrich,
Judy Katz, and Anna Wingfield

The art of losing isnt hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isnt hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mothers watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isnt hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasnt a disaster.

Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shant have lied. Its evident
the art of losings not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

One Art, from The Complete Poems 1927-1979, by Elizabeth Bishop

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to Alexandra Babanskyj, Barbara Grossman, Susan Petersen, and Paul Slovak at Viking; to Francis Coppola, Karla Eoff, Alicia Patterson, Samantha Schnee, and Joanna Yas at Zoetrope: All Story; to Kathy Minton and Isaiah Sheffer at Selected Shorts; to Lucy Childs and Paul Cirone at the Aaron Priest Literary Agency; to my trusty readersMichael Atmore, Joan Bank, Donna Barba, Margery Bates, Scott Bryson, Arthur Chernoff, Paul Cody, Jane Dickinson, Hunter Hill, Mitch Karsch, Ken Katz, Peter Landesman, Alex Moon, Jane Moriarty, Sylvie Rabineau, Michael Ruby, Oren Rudavsky, Julie Schumacher, Sandy Stillman, Joe Sweet, John Szalay, Jack Wettling, Judy Wohland especially Garth Wingfield, who helped me with every version of every story; and, finally, thanks to my brother, Andrew Bank, for listening to all the boring details, making me laugh every day, and always coming to the rescue.

ADVANCED BEGINNERS

While home is the place where you can relax and be yourself, this doesnt mean that you can take advantage of the love and affection other members of your family have for you.

From 20th Century Typewriting by D. D. Lessenberry, T. James Crawford, and Lawrence W. Erickson

My brothers first serious girlfriend was eight years oldertwenty-eight to his twenty. Her name was Julia Cathcart, and Henry introduced her to us in early June. They drove from Manhattan down to our cottage in Loveladies, on the New Jersey shore. When his little convertible, his pet, pulled into the driveway, she was behind the wheel. My mother and I were watching from the kitchen window. I said, He lets her drive his car.

My brother and his girlfriend were dressed alike, baggy white shirts tucked into jeans, except she had a black cashmere sweater over her shoulders.

She had dark eyes, high cheekbones, and beautiful skin, pale, with high coloring in her cheeks like a child with a fever. Her hair was back in a loose ponytail, tied with a piece of lace, and she wore tiny pearl earrings.

I thought maybe shed look older than Henry, but it was Henry who looked older than Henry. Standing there, he looked like a man. Hed grown a beard, for starters, and had on new wire-rim sunglasses that made him appear more like a bon vivant than a philosophy major between colleges. His hair was longer, and, not yet lightened by the sun, it was the reddish-brown color of an Irish setter.

He gave me a kiss on the cheek, as though he always had.

Then he roughed around with our Airedale, Atlas, while his girlfriend and mother shook hands. They were clasping fingertips, ladylike, smiling as though they were already fond of each other and just waiting for details to fill in why.

Julia turned to me and said, You must be Janie.

Most people call me Jane now, I said, making myself sound even younger.

Jane, she said, possibly in the manner of an adult trying to take a child seriously.

Henry unpacked the car and loaded himself up with everything theyd brought, little bags and big ones, a string tote, and a knapsack.

As he started up the driveway, his girlfriend said, Do you have the wine, Hank?

Whoever Hank was, he had it.

Except for bedrooms and the screened-in porch, our house was just one big all-purpose room, and Henry was giving her a jokey tour of it: This is the living room, he said, gesturing to the sofa; he paused, gestured to it again and said, This is the den.

Out on the porch, she stretched her legs in front of herAudrey Hepburn relaxing after dance class. She wore navy espadrilles. I noticed that Henry had on penny Loafers without socks, and hed inserted a subway token in the slot where the penny belonged.

Julia sipped her iced tea and asked how Loveladies got its name. We didnt know, but Henry said, It was derived from the Indian name of the founder.

Julia smiled, and asked my mother how long wed been coming here.

This is our first year, my mother said.

My father was out playing tennis, and without him present, I felt free to add a subversive, We used to go to Nantucket.

Nantucket is lovely, Julia said.

It is lovely, my mother conceded, but went on to cite drab points in New Jerseys favor, based on its proximity to our house in Philadelphia.

In the last of our New Jersey versus Nantucket debates, Id argued, forcefully Id thought, that Camden was even closer. Id almost added that the trash dump was practically in walking distance, but my father had interrupted.

I could tell he was angry, but he kept his voice even: we could go to the shore all year round, he said, and that would help us to be a closer family.

Not so far, I said, meaning to add levity.

But my father looked at me with his eyes narrowed, like he wasnt sure I was his daughter after all.

My mother smiled at me and said that the house was right on the water! Id be able to walk right out the door and go swimming!

Only then did I understand that theyd already chosen a house; theyd put a bid on it.

Its on the ocean? I asked.

Close, she said, trying to maintain her enthusiasm.

The bay, I said to myself.

It does have a spectacular view of the bay, she said, but, no, our house was on a lagoon, a canal. Like Venice, shed said, as though this would mean something to me.

Now Julia asked if we swam in there, and my mother said, Absolutely.

I didnt want to acid rain on my mothers parade, but the lagoon had oil floating on the surface and the bottom was sewagey soft.

I was surprised how long Henry sat with us on the porch, as my mother turned the topic to summer, touching upon such controversial issues as corn on the cob (Silver Queen was best), mosquitoes (pesky), and tennis (good exercise).

Finally, Henry did get up. He went outside as though on a mission. He might be going to check my crab traps or to see if wed brought the bikes; he could do whatever he wanted. My father was the same way: a houseful of guests, and my mothers duty was to provide food, drink, fun, and conversation, while my fathers was to nap or read.

While Mother hostessed and Girlfriend guested, Younger Sister stood up. When there was a pause in their nicing, I made my mouth move smileward:

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