There was an earlier Lanfrey story. This is part of a later one. It is a story I will write over and over again, I think.
What was our friendship like? What did we talk about? Well, there was fishing. He was good at it. That surprised me, but he told me his family was farm folk, newly transplanted to the city.
He never took me fishing, but he did speak with authority on the subject when I gave him the chance. I loved hearing him talk. I loved it when he talked about things that interested him--his voice caught fire.
He loved flyfishing, and I did too, when the tackle box emerged from its sacred spot in the closet and we sat in front of it fingering the tiny, feathery creations housed in all its partitions. There were fuzzy things with beads dangling from them, and "Superflies" still in their packages claiming the uncanny ability to leap backward in the water. You could tell they were super because they had tiny plastic propellers on them, like the kind on the more stylish beanies.
In school, Lanfrey's knowledge and appreciation of history amazed me. I like history--really, I like dates, I like finding out how much time elapses between events. That's not really liking history; that's my love of math all over again. But at least, it's math applied to real life this time. Lanfrey's appreciation of history had nothing to do with dates, at least until I came along. He wasn't interested in what separated events. He wanted to know what connected them.
"1066," I said, testing him.
"William the Conqueror. Think about it, Ellen. No one's been able to invade that tiny little island for over 900 years. I wonder, has any outsider ever conquered Russia?"
"I don't think so."
"Strange to think, England's as hard to capture as Russia but for entirely different reasons..."
Discussions like these didn't hold my interest as strongly as demonstrations of flyfishing techniques.
"Let's try another one. 1215."
"Magna Carta. John under a tree, right? Different sort of king-under-the-tree situation than Louis."
"What are you going on about?"
"You know. King Louis IX, St. Louis. Sat under a tree and gave just judgments--the original People's Court. And then there's John dragged to the tree, probably, just so those nobles can get something from him. Something about trees and kings."
I was getting into the game now. "And didn't King George talk to them when he was crazy?"
"Wonder if they ever talked back."
That's how we studied. I helped him with history and got trapped in tangents, he helped me with English and suffered my rantings.
"Why do I gotta delve into the deeper meaning of this bull? Can I just read a story and like it without having to justify? What if it's just a matter of taste?"
"Can't you examine your tastes? There aren't underlying reasons for why you like what you do?
"I've never told you what my favorite book is, have I?" I knew I hadn't.
"No," he answered, but then promptly said "Flatland."
"How did you do that?"
And he giggled, so I fell on him like an attacking tigress. He was still laughing at me as I pounced, but as I took his neck in a mock stranglehold my eyes were locked on his. Then his eyes, his smile softened. I was just a little scared of that so I did not soften my look, but I did let my eyes stray over his hair, the line of his jaw. So perfect. He couldn't know.