10/11/12

Old Foxy Wasn’t the Only Foxy One!
By Kathy Warnes


“Yes, Mr. Clemmons, I’ll type this letter right away.” I smiled at my boss, knowing that I wouldn’t type it until after lunch and he couldn’t do or say anything about it. I AM the only one in town crazy enough to work for Paul Clemmons.

In a bigger city, Paul’s reputation wouldn’t spread far beyond his print shop, but in a small town like Bradford, he’s famous. Paul is a photographer and printer, and the only one in town. He’s a good one and his prices are reasonable, so he can afford to be cantankerous.

Like me, Paul had been married for a long time. While Gertie was alive the shop was spotless and so was their house on Walnut Street. I remember the spotless shop because I used to come in to make photo copies and get pictures developed for my husband Jack who published our town newspaper. Jack died and then Gertie died. Rumor had it that the house on Walnut Street, the print shop and Paul were all falling part. I discovered the rumors were true when I came to work for Paul.”

My best friend and the best gossip in town, Janet, insisted that Paul needed a woman’s touch to jump start his life again. She bumped us into each other “accidentally” in church a couple of Sundays ago. “You two sound so good singing together,” she cooed. “I’m going to ask Mr. Green to let you sing a duet for special music.”

“Slow down, Janet,” I said. “How do you know that Paul-“
She didn’t let me finish. “Of course Paul does,” she insisted, shoving us both over to the piano. We sang a duet in church that next Sunday. The romance stopped there

For two months. Janet shrugged and loudly gave up on us getting together. Next she concentrated on a possible romance between her and Paul. She invited him over for a home cooked meal one night. She told me about it the next day.”


“All he talked about was fish!”

“What did you think he’d talk about?”

“Me or the full moon. Anything but fish.”

I smiled. “He really loves fishing and that magazine.”

“You should know!” Janet sniffed. “That’s all I see you work on anymore. You should work on his office. It’s a mess.”

Janet flounced out and I went back to the news release from the state fish commission. Janet was right about me and the magazine. Paul was having me do more and more magazine work.

I used to help Jack at the paper, and I had always liked to write. Jack printed stories I had written and put his name on them. When people complimented him on his stories, he’d just strut and act like he’d written them. That’s one of the reasons I don’t like men much. Paul I can tolerate because underneath his roaring purrs a kitten. The men who think plumbing makes them perfect I can live without.

Janet was right about the shop, too. I looked around while I sipped my coffee. The place was a mess. Papers were scattered all over and files were stacked against the desk and wall. I took a last gulp of coffee. My first stop would be the office supply place to buy a filing cabinet. I bought it and managed to wrestle it into the doorway of the shop. Paul came in just as I was propping the door open.

“What are you doing, Rose?” He brushed a lock of shaggy gray hair out of his eyes to get a better view.

“Moving in a filing cabinet, Paul. I’m going to write, compute, and put the office in order.”
“It looks fine to me. I’ll have no part of changing things.”

I shrugged. “Suit yourself. I can manage.”

“I like your stories, Rose. They read a lot like Jack’s stories in the paper,” he said looking at me intently.

I grunted. “Help me with this filing cabinet, Paul.”

“I won’t be able to find anything if you clean up in here,” Paul complained as we pushed the filing cabinet through the door.

“You put your treasures in your desk drawer and I’ll organize the rest of the stuff,” I told him. His good humor vanished.

“Why don’t you mind your own business?” he snarled at me.

“Running this office efficiently is my business,” I snared back. “You just lost an ad for a printing job yesterday because you couldn’t find the paper work.”

“Who says I couldn’t find it,” he said.

“I found it yesterday under a stack of invoices that you never sent out.”

He pulled that gray beard of his that makes him look like Father Time. “Alright,” he growled. “But I’ll never shave off my beard!”

“I don’t care what you do with your beard.” I was already going through the first folder.

It took me a month, but finally the office was organized. Paul grunted something about cranky clean, but he did straighten his shoulders. A few days later I noticed that the edges of his beard were trimmed. In the middle of all of this drama I wrote my stories. At the end of the month when his magazine came out, Paul handed me an extra check. “This is for the story about the fish hatchery,” he said. “It was excellent.”

“I enjoyed interviewing the man at the hatchery. Did you know that they breed tiger muskie there?”

As soon as I said the word Muskie he forgot that I was anything but an ear. He talked for half an hour about fishing for Tiger Muskie in our creek. I smiled and nodded at the right places, but I didn’t really care. I have a goldfish mentality when it comes to fishing.

For the next issue of his magazine Paul asked me to try a local fishing spot and write about it. He loaned me a fishing pole and tackle, slapped a camera in my hand and shoved me out the door one Friday afternoon. By nightfall I was hooked. I loved fishing. I loved the solitude of the woods (after I dodged all of the other fishermen). I loved the feel of the fishing pole and the sunshine and the wind ruffling my hair. I loved the way the fish fights the hook and line and reeling it in. The only thing I didn’t like was taking it off the hook.

“Where the heck is the fish?” Paul growled when I came back.

“I let it go,” I told him.

He pulled his beard. “How could you do such a stupid thing?”

“It was easy Paul. I didn’t want to keep it, so I let it go!”

“Rose, you’re supposed to catch the fish and clean it and fry it over a camp fire in an iron skillet. MMMMMMM!”

“MMMMM nothing,” I said. “I just like to catch them, not kill and eat them.”

“It’s going to be some story,” Paul said, turning away.

“I got a picture of the fish before I threw it back,” I told him.

Paul turned back. “Some picture it’s gonna be,” he grumbled.

Paul’s jaw dropped when he saw the picture of the fish. He stood in front of my desk rubbing his jaw and holding the picture in front of him. “It’s Old Foxy, do you know that Rose? You caught old Foxy and you threw him back! How could you!”

“Who’s Old Foxy?”

“He’s only the biggest Muskie in these parts. Couldn’t you tell that when you hooked him?”

“I did think he weighed a lot, but I reeled him in anyway.”

“Old Foxy has to go at least forty pounds,” Paul said, waving the picture under my nose. “Why did you let him go?”

I glared at him. “I wanted him to be free. Maybe it’s hard for you to understand freedom, but it isn’t for me.”

Paul stopped waving the picture under my nose and plopped into the soft easy chair I’d put beside my desk for customers. “It’s not so hard to understand, Rose. I loved Gertie but when she was so sick and I had to take care of her all of the time I felt like I was in prison. I feel guilty for saying it but sometimes I felt so tied down and trapped that I just wanted to be free.”

I nodded, “I felt the same way with Jack. I loved him, but he was so…”

“Overbearing?” Paul said.

I nodded again. I wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone else, but Paul made it natural to admit a truth that I kept hidden from myself most of the time. I realized what I had just admitted and hurried to change the subject. “Here’s the story that goes with the picture.” I pulled the story out of the top desk drawer.

Paul read it with his finger to his lips to warn me not to say anything. Then he shoved a check in front of me. “Take this, you’ve earned it. Just don’t tell me if you catch Old Foxy again, okay?” He slapped the back of the chair since he didn’t have a door to slam. His office was just a corner cubbyhole fenced off by the filing cabinet and two screens.

“You ought to make a partition and hang a door so you’ll have something to slam!” I hollered at him.

“I’ll do just that!” he shot back. “I need to have a place to escape meddling women.”

I jumped up and stomped to his cubbyhole. “I do not meddle! I’m just doing my job!”

“Go away and let me do mine!” he hollered. He yanked open his bottom desk drawer and papers flowed onto the floor.

I snatched the nearest pile of papers and threw them up in the air. “If I’d been meddling these papers would have been sorted and filed weeks ago!”

I grabbed one of them and folded it into an airplane. I aimed it at him and it hit him square in the nose.
Paul laughed so hard that his fell on his knees. When he could talk again he said, “I’m sorry Rose. I guess I am grouchy sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” I said. But I got on my hands and knees and started picking up the papers. He crawled over beside me. “I have a favor to ask you,” he said. Up close his eyes were so gentle and deep brown that I had a hard time concentrating on the papers.

“What favor?” I stammered.

“Will you show me exactly where you caught Old Foxy? And if I don’t catch him again, will you stay and help me catch something as good?”

We smiled at each other as we both reached for the same piece of paper. My hand tingled at his touch.

Paul laughed. “It’s going to be fun fishing for Old Foxy with you.

He stroked his jaw. “I think I’ll shave off my beard.

“Lot’s of fun,” I agreed. “Want to sing another duet in church soon?”

He nodded.


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Kathy Warnes is a writer from Michigan who likes to write fiction.