Jimmy

by Robert Whitlow

  Grandpa chuckled. “And he knows I tried to talk to you about the future. I hope that satisfies your mama.”

  They sat quietly. Jimmy stretched and yawned. Every so often, the quiet of the night was broken by the yell of a fisherman who hooked a fish. Jimmy’s eyes grew heavy. Grandpa had wedged a lightweight blanket into the lounge chair. As the night cooled, Jimmy opened the blanket. Grandpa spread it over him and tucked it around his arms and under his chin.

  “I’m not going to sleep,” Jimmy said. “I’m just a little bit cold.”

  “I know. You don’t want to miss the big strike.”

  The crickets chirped as if it were their last chance for a summer romance. Jimmy, surrounded by the sounds of the night, let his eyes rest for a few minutes. He awoke to a loud grunt from Grandpa. He had one of the poles in his left hand and his thumb on the lever for the bait-runner reel. Jimmy sat up and rubbed his eyes. Grandpa glanced over at him.

  “I’ve got one,” Grandpa said through clenched teeth. “And it’s worth fighting.”

  Grandpa braced the butt of the rod against his leg.

  “He’s still taking out line,” he said. “I dropped a little drag on him for a few seconds, but he would have snapped it like sewing thread if I’d tried to put on the brakes.”

  Jimmy joined Grandpa. The tip of the rod inclined at a steady angle toward the water.

  “Which pole is it?” Jimmy asked.

  “It’s mine,” Grandpa answered. “Would you like to hold it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grandpa kept his hands on the pole as he passed it to Jimmy. As soon as it was in his grasp, Jimmy could feel the weight of the fish on the other end. Somewhere in the dark water, an angry carp was shaking its head from side to side as it bulled its way in the opposite direction. Grandpa released his grip. Jimmy held on tightly, but the power of the fish made him take two steps toward the water. He planted his feet more solidly on the ground.

  “That’s it,” Grandpa said. “As soon as he slacks off, push down on the drag.”

  As if on cue, the line went slack. The fish had stopped its run.

  “Reel it in!” Grandpa yelled. “It may be coming back this way.”

  Jimmy furiously cranked the reel, amazed at how much line lay limp.

  “He may be gone,” Grandpa said disappointedly, “but keep cranking to make sure.”

  Jimmy made a few more turns on the reel and then almost lost the rod when the line went taut and the fish took off for another run. Grandpa let out a yell.

  “That’s it, boy! You are onto that fish!”

  Jimmy lost his footing and staggered closer to the water.

  “Take it, Grandpa!” he said. “I don’t want to fall in!”

  Grandpa stepped forward and put his hands on the rod above the reel.

  “Hold on. Let’s walk it back together.”

  As the line spun out, they retreated up the bank. Only when they were back to the chairs did Grandpa take the rod.

  “Good job,” Grandpa said. “That’s what partners do for each another. If we land this fish and it’s a winner, you earned your prize money when you handled that run.”

  Jimmy didn’t realize that he was breathing heavily until he let go of the rod. “Do you think it’s Moby Dick?” he asked.

  “If not, it’s one of his nephews.”

  Grandpa carefully pressed the lever for the drag. The second run proved much shorter than the first, and Grandpa was able to keep tension on the line even when the fish doubled back toward the bank.

  “He’s coming back to meet us,” Grandpa said. “Fill the bucket with water.”

  They had brought a large plastic bucket to carry fish to the weighing station. Jimmy picked up the green pail, took a few steps toward the water, and stopped. He looked at the black water and inched forward until about two feet from the edge.

  “I don’t want to get any closer,” he said. “I might fall in.”

  “Just stay on the bank and scoop up some water! I can’t drop him in a dry bucket and carry him to the weighing station.”

  Jimmy didn’t move any closer to the water.

  “Jimmy! Go!”

  Jimmy pressed his lips tightly together and commanded his feet to march forward. Somewhere between his head and his toes the orders were short-circuited.

  “I can’t!” he wailed.

  “Okay,” Grandpa spoke with frustration. “Hold the pole while I do it.”

  Jimmy retreated. He didn’t cry, but he felt embarrassed.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered as he took the pole.

  “Just hold it where it is.”

  The tension on the line had greatly decreased. The fish was tired, halfheartedly moving from side to side. Grandpa hurried toward the water. In his haste, he lost his footing and fell, sliding a few feet forward. Jimmy winced. It was his fault that Grandpa had to fill the bucket with water. The old man heaved himself to his feet and dipped the bucket in the water. The pole suddenly jerked forward and flew from Jimmy’s hands. It skidded down the bank.

  “Grandpa!” Jimmy yelled.

  In a move worthy of an eighteen-year-old football player diving for a fumble, Grandpa lunged for the pole as it headed toward the water. His chest landed on the reel with a thud. He grabbed the barrel of the pole. The line zipped through his fingers.

  “Ouch!” he called out as he loosened his grip.

  Jimmy forgot his fear and ran toward the water. He grabbed the end of the pole with both hands just as Grandpa let go.

  “I’ve got it!” he yelled.

  Grandpa rolled onto his back and put his hand to his chest. Jimmy saw him.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Grandpa eased up to a sitting position. He continued to massage his chest. “I landed on the reel and bruised a rib or something.”

  Jimmy felt the tension on the line slacken. He began reeling in the fish.

  “That’s good,” Grandpa observed. “After all this fighting, I don’t want to lose that fish.”

  Continuing to turn the reel, Jimmy stood up and walked backward. He saw something flash in the water.

  “He’s close!” Grandpa said. “Hold it there until I get in position.”

  Jimmy had seen Grandpa get in the water to land a large fish.

  “Are you jumping in?” Jimmy asked.

  “Not tonight. Reel it in slow.”

  Jimmy turned the handle of the reel. The fish now felt like a heavy stone being dragged toward the bank. As the fish entered the shallow water, it began to flop to the surface. In the lantern light, Jimmy could see the burnished gold color that marked a healthy carp. Grandpa grabbed the line and guided the fish into the bucket. He labored up the bank and set the bucket on the ground directly underneath the lantern. Jimmy peered into the water. Exhausted, the fish lay on its side with its gills moving back and forth. Grandpa reached into the bucket and took the hook from the left side of the fish’s mouth.

  “Did you see how easily the hook came out?” Grandpa asked. “It was at the edge of his mouth, and he’d just about wiggled it loose.”

  Jimmy reached into the water and pressed his fingers against the close-linked scales that covered the fish’s body. It was cold and hard.

  “How much does it weigh?” he asked.

  “Over twenty pounds for sure,” Grandpa replied. “Let’s take him to the dam and find out.”

  Fish were measured and weighed at the east end of the pond. It was a spring-fed reservoir, so there wasn’t really a dam, but the high bank on that side of the small lake gave the appearance of an earthen dam.

  “What about the other pole?” Jimmy asked. “Should I stay and watch it?”

  Grandpa shook his head. “It’s four o’clock in the morning, and it hasn’t moved in over six hours. We’ll chance that it won’t budge for five or ten minutes.”

  Grandpa picked up the bucket, then put it down.

  “You carry it,” he said. “My left side is bothering me, and I don’t want
to strain it.”

  Jimmy picked up the bucket. Filled with water and the large fish, it was heavy, and he had to lean over to keep it steady. Some of the water sloshed out and landed on his shoes. Grandpa walked beside him, shining the flashlight. They passed several fishermen. Some were sleeping in cots, their poles resting in holders with strike alarms. Others were awake, staring out at the water. Jimmy’s arm began to ache, but he didn’t complain. Grandpa’s hurting his ribs was his fault. One man who knew Grandpa spoke to them.

  “What do you have, Jim?”

  “A lunker that just about killed me. I’ll tell you about it later.”

  They reached the weigh-in station. Gary, the man who greeted them when they arrived, and another man were serving as officials for the tournament. With a sigh of relief, Jimmy placed the bucket on the ground. Gary reached down, grabbed the fish, and put it on a digital scale. Jimmy squinted through his glasses as the numbers went past twenty and stopped at twenty-four pounds, five ounces.

  “Whose fish is it?” the other man asked.

  “It was caught on Grandpa’s pole,” Jimmy answered immediately.

  After they recorded the weight and time, Grandpa signed a sheet of paper.

  “Will you dump him back in the water for me?” Grandpa asked Gary. “I’m sore from a fall, and Jimmy doesn’t like to get near the edge.”

  Gary returned the fish to the bucket and carried it to the edge of the water. He turned the bucket on its side in shallow water. After a moment’s hesitation, the carp slipped back into the pond to eat, grow bigger, and perhaps be caught the following year.

  “Where does that one put us?” Grandpa asked.

  Gary ran his finger down the sheet in front of him and didn’t answer. Grandpa and Jimmy stood and waited. Gary finished his pass down the list, and Jimmy saw his hand return to the top of the page.

  “Come on, Gary,” Grandpa said. “If we don’t have this thing locked up, I need to get back to our spot and throw out more bait.”

  “Calm down, Jim.” Gary laughed. “I didn’t have to check the list. You’re in first place by about two pounds.”

  “Yes!” Jimmy exclaimed.

  “How much longer till you blow the horn?” Grandpa asked Gary.

  “Less than three hours.”

  Grandpa nodded and patted Jimmy on the back. “Let’s see if we can lure Moby Dick with a tasty breakfast.”

  They returned to their fishing spot. Grandpa baited his pole and cast it into the water. Jimmy’s pole remained in its holder.

  “Church bells are calling me,” Grandpa said with a grin. “It looks like I may have to put on my black suit.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  With both poles in place, Grandpa settled into his lawn chair.

  “All that excitement wore me out,” Grandpa said. “I’m going to rest my eyes and dream about what to do with the prize money. Can you stay awake and watch the poles in case Moby Dick decides to dine with us?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m not sleepy.”

  Grandpa pulled his cap over his eyes.

  THE CALM BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF A NEW DAY WAS JIMMY’S favorite part of the night. Everything around him seemed on tiptoe waiting for the sun to burst forth. The ripples that disturbed the water during the night were gone, the surface of the pond still. By this time of the tournament, there were no new stories to tell, and conversation around the lake stopped as the fishermen joined with nature in silent vigil for the morning light. Jimmy checked the tips of the fishing poles. There wasn’t the slightest twitch that hinted the presence of fish.

  Grandpa was sleeping with his mouth slightly open and his chest rising and falling in peaceful rhythm. In the indistinct light, the familiar wrinkles on his face weren’t visible, and his exact age would have been hard for a stranger to guess. To Jimmy, Grandpa was both old and young—a wise patriarch and adventuresome playmate.

  Several times, Jimmy saw fishermen walk toward the weigh-in area. He wondered if he and Grandpa would keep first place. Grandma would be excited about Grandpa attending church. Except for Easter Sunday, he hadn’t been back since the day Jimmy was saved. Grandpa stirred and sat up in the chair.

  “No bites?” he asked sleepily.

  “No, sir.”

  At 7:00 a.m., an air horn sounded, signaling the end of the tournament.

  “Reel in your line, and we’ll find out if our fish stayed on the leader board,” Grandpa said.

  Jimmy brought in his line and held it up. The cereal on the hook was gone, but its absence didn’t prove a missed strike. Over the course of a night, tiny minnows could pick away at the bait until it fell from the hook. Grandpa cut the rigs from the line and returned everything to its place in his tackle box.

  “Leave everything here,” he said to Jimmy. “We’ll load the truck after the final tally.”

  None of the fishermen gathering on the dam looked perky after a night in the open air without a shave or a shower. Those who had taken an extra holiday from shaving on the day before the tournament had grown a crop of serious chin stubble. Grandpa rubbed his left cheek. Jimmy could see that it was covered in white whiskers.

  When the fishermen had assembled at the dam, Gary stood on a rock and spoke.

  “I’m not going to give a speech or tell a joke, because you don’t want to hear it. Now if I had a pot of fresh coffee that would be a different story. Then I’d—”

  “Who caught the biggest fish?” a voice cried out. “I want my money.”

  Gary pointed toward the speaker and laughed. “Freddie, that minnow you brought up here would be bait-fish to the winners.” He turned to his helper. “Hand me the list. There were some monster carp hauled out of this pond last night.”

  Gary looked at the sheet with an expression of surprise as if discovering for the first time the names of the winners and the weight of their catch.

  “Third place and two hundred dollars goes to Bill Moore. His fish weighed twenty-two pounds, twelve ounces.”

  Jimmy knew Bill. He sang in the choir at church. There was modest applause. Jimmy, who liked to clap, made the most noise. Moore reached Gary and received his prize money.

  Gary, raising his voice to a new level, announced, “Second place and three hundred dollars goes to Jim Mitchell! With help from his grandson, Jimmy, he wrestled in a granddaddy fish that weighed twenty-four pounds, five ounces!”

  Grandpa started walking forward and motioned for Jimmy to follow. They wove their way through the crowd as men slapped them on the back and shook Grandpa’s hand. The enthusiastic reaction reminded Jimmy of the congregation after he prayed with Brother Fitzgerald. Gary handed Grandpa some money. Grandpa took off his cap and waved it over his head. Jimmy did the same. Then they returned to the back of the crowd.

  Gary cleared his throat. “And the grand prize winner is a Webb’s Pond newcomer who cashed in on beginner’s luck to land a giant carp weighing twenty-nine pounds, fourteen ounces. Alfred Walker, come up here and claim your thousand-dollar prize! Let’s hear it for Alfred!”

  All smiles, Walker wove through the crowd. Gary handed Walker a thick stack of bills.

  “No need to count it,” Gary said. “It’s all there.”

  Walker raised the money to his lips and kissed it.

  “What recipe did you use?” a man standing next to Jimmy called out.

  Walker turned toward the voice, and his eyes met Jimmy’s.

  “You know I can’t tell,” he called out, “but I’ll give you a hint.”

  The winning fisherman flexed his arm and pointed to his muscle.

  — Twenty-nine —

  Grandpa kept rubbing his chest as they loaded everything into the back of his pickup.

  “Second place is pretty good,” Grandpa said as he hoisted one of the lounge chairs over the tailgate. “But I’m not as good as your buddy Alfred Walker.”

  “You’re the greatest fisherman in the world,” Jimmy replied.

  Grandpa positioned the cooler toward the front of the truck bed
. He winced in pain as he leaned over the edge.

  “I’m so tired and sore, I think I’ll let you drive,” he joked.

  “Could you teach me someday?” Jimmy asked.

  Grandpa chuckled. “You’ll have to ask your mama about that. Do you want to ride your bike home? There won’t be many cars on the road this early on a Saturday morning.”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then put your bike in the back and hop in beside it.”

  Jimmy put his foot on the tailgate.

  “Can I ride inside with you?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Buckle up,” Grandpa said as he snapped his seat belt in place.

  Once the tournament ended, the fishermen didn’t waste time departing for home to enjoy a shower and a hot breakfast. Grandpa and Jimmy were among the last to leave the pond. Grandpa wove back and forth through the trees, almost striking a slender pine sapling on Jimmy’s side of the vehicle. Jimmy rolled up the window.

  “Sorry,” Grandpa said. “Keep your arm inside until we reach the highway.”

  Once on the pavement, Grandpa accelerated. Jimmy’s eyes quickly became heavy. His head nodded forward and he wished he could sink into his bed. He leaned against the window glass.

  Suddenly, his head jerked sideways as the truck swerved to the center of the road and then onto the shoulder. Jimmy looked up in alarm.

  “Watch out!” he yelled.

  He glanced at Grandpa. He was asleep with his chest against the steering wheel. Jimmy reached across and shook him.

  “Wake up!”

  Grandpa didn’t wake up. The truck drifted sideways and left the road. Jimmy could hear the sound of gravel beneath the tires. The truck drifted away from the pavement, and the tires dropped into a ditch. The inside of the truck began to tilt sideways. Suddenly, it flipped on its side, and Jimmy’s right shoulder slammed against the door. The sound of screeching metal filled the cab as the truck scraped across the gravel and rocks that lined the ditch. The truck kept turning over. Jimmy tried to brace himself, but he was tossed back and forth. For a second he was hanging from his seat belt as the truck rolled onto its top. Jimmy cried out. The truck slowed to a stop as it landed on the tires. It had rolled all the way over.