“What are you going to do to Mr. Seven?” Mary yelled.
She continued walking. “You don’t want to know, young lady,” she called back. “Hopefully there are plenty of strawberries in turtle heaven.”
Mary watched in horror. “Geez, Leo! Is she serious? If I’d known she was going to murder the poor turtle, I wouldn’t have taken part in this operation.”
“Relax.” I laughed. “I got this. It’s a little game she likes to play.”
After lunch that day, Grandma took us back to the garage and handed me a bucket. “Leo, you know the drill. It’s time to show your friend how we make blackberry ice cream here. And take those thieving turtles with you. Remind them they’d better not come back!” she called after us. The screen door slammed behind her.
Before heading out, Mary and I returned to the garage and did a quick search. I found Mr. Seven trying to hoist himself out of a tin bucket in the corner near the lawn mower. “Today is your lucky day, Mr. Seven,” I told him.
I tipped the bucket to the floor to make it look like an escape, snuck Mr. Seven out of the garage, and slipped him into the box with the other turtles. Then we headed up the trail into the forest.
The trail was canopied by the green leaves of June. “Have you ever filled a bucket with blackberries?” I asked her.
“Nope.”
“It takes longer than you think,” I told her.
Mary nudged me. “Lighten up, Leo. It’s not like we need to be somewhere.”
I led Mary to an old creek bed where we could release the turtles. She removed Mr. Seven from the box and pointed him in the opposite direction from Grandma’s garden. “Seven is a lucky number,” she reminded him. “If I were you, I would quit pushing your luck with that woman.”
We then headed to the edges of my grandparents’ property, where the wood fence paralleled the back road and the blackberries grew thick in the open sunlight. We spent the afternoon popping every other berry into our mouths and scratching our arms on thorny vines.
Along the far trail on the property, I showed her the old pond, the one with the thick cattail grove and abandoned cabin resting on the ridge overlooking the eastern bank. We sat down on the porch just as the sun began to set, and watched the reflections of the trees turn to shadows and the pond darken with the sky.
She finally broke the silence. “Well, this isn’t exactly the marine boot camp you made this place out to be.”
“It’s not bad,” I admitted.
“I like your grandparents,” Mary said.
I laughed. “Grandma has been a different person since the funeral. I swear.”
I picked up a stone from the ground, threw it out toward the center of the pond, and watched the concentric ripples trickle outward. “When we were younger, this is where my brother and I used to come fishing.”
I tossed another stone, this time skipping it across the water’s surface. “I guess I always just figured he was going to be around forever. I remember looking at him and wondering what he was going to look like when he got old. I figured once my parents weren’t around, I’d be looking after him. Sometimes I imagined the two of us as old geezers sitting in rocking chairs shooting the shit. Or me listening to him ramble on endlessly about something that didn’t make sense. Then we’d climb into our car and I’d take him down to the Dairy Queen.”
“Seriously, Leo,” Mary said, “I often wonder if crappy things like what went down with Caleb happen for some higher reason.”
“And what reason is that?”
“That’s the mystery,” Mary said. “One we’ll never know.”
“Well, that plain sucks,” I told her. “Based on the last month, I feel like I’m going to spend the rest of my life thinking and wondering about him. I mean, Jesus! I swear a moment doesn’t go by that I don’t see him or think about him.”
“Don’t you think that’s natural?”
“Probably,” I admitted. “But I’m still wondering if we were cool in the end, or if he still resented me.”
“I think you were good in the end,” she said, putting her arm around me.
“Yeah?”
She put her head on my shoulder. “You’re the one who has to answer that.”
—
I woke up on the last day wanting to fish one last time in the old pond before we left. Alone.
I headed down the trail with a coffee can full of dirt and earthworms I dug up from the compost pile. I flipped the old rowboat underneath the persimmon tree and retrieved the fishing pole stashed beneath. I slid the bow into the pond, stepped inside, and with one more push on the shore glided out onto the pond.
As I floated I saw Caleb and me together in this very boat. We had come here a hundred times as kids with hopes of catching a big fish.
Eventually I guided the boat over toward the cattails, where I knew the water was deep. I put a worm on the hook and cast my line. I stared at that red-and-white bobber floating on the water and thought about the last month, the last year, my whole life. A soft wind blew, making the reflections on the pond’s surface flit and change.
Suddenly I felt my fishing pole jerk and my line yank. I hit the lock, the line tightened, and the pole began to bend. I gave a quick tug. Whatever was under the surface was big.
This fish was stubborn. It fought for its life, but I was patient. I pulled slowly against its resistance, released the lock on the reel, and gathered in the line bit by bit. I knew I had this one, but when I realized that I was going to have to hold it down and pull the hook from its mouth I thought about just cutting the line. But the thought of that poor fish swimming around for the rest of its life with a piece of metal lodged in its jaw didn’t seem right. I had to deal.
The fish finally appeared beneath the surface and surrendered itself. I pulled it onto the floor of the boat. It was a catfish. It must have weighed nearly three pounds—by far the biggest fish I had ever caught.
It flipped, twisted, and thrashed on the floor of the boat, its slapping tail thudding and echoing across the pond. Fear welled up inside me: I would have to touch it. The fish was still for a moment. Its belly rested on the floor and its gills opened and closed quickly, the hook deeply lodged inside its mouth. I didn’t know what to do with the fish. I just knew I was alone with it.
I watched it flip and thrash again for several seconds until it became still. I thought about how Caleb had placed his hand over that thrashing fish, pinning it to the boat’s floor. I slowly leaned toward it and, with my left hand, gripped it on its spine just beyond its head. I pinned the fish to the floor of the boat, like Caleb had done.
I held my hand there until the fish no longer resisted. Then, with my right hand, I reached for the hook, determined the angle at which its barb was lodged, and wriggled it free. I stuck my thumb inside its mouth, lifted the fish up, and examined my catch. The fish was still except for its blood-red gills beating calmly in the morning sun. I lifted the fish over the side of the boat and placed it back in the water. It was stunned, and it floated and hovered for several seconds on the pond’s surface. Then suddenly the fish came back to life. Its tail swept slowly from side to side for a moment, and then the fish slipped beneath the surface and disappeared.
I stared into the water, looking at my reflection, and it felt like Caleb was right there beside me. I took a deep breath and shook it off. He’d always be a part of me, and as complicated as that was, I smiled and thought, we were good in the end.
I paddled back to the shore and pulled the boat in under the tree. I removed the fishing pole and wrapped the line around the pole’s stem a couple of times until the line was taut, then pushed the hook’s barb deep into the cork handle. I placed the pole on the ground and flipped the boat over on top of it.
As I headed down the trail and back to the house, I began to run. The dirt felt soft beneath my feet, and a little dust rose, filling my footprints. The leaves were dark and glossy in the shade. I picked up my pace a bit, relaxing into a rhythm. Just up the bend
I could see light sifting in, where the path opened up. My legs knew the way.
Acknowledgements
I’m beyond grateful that my manuscript found its way to Wernick & Pratt and my agent, Emily Mitchell, whose keen insights, attention to detail, and endless commitment helped make this novel possible. Additional thanks to Charlesbridge and my editor, Monica Perez, for her comments, suggestions, and guidance in seeing this project to completion. Finally, thanks to my copyeditor, Lara Stelmaszyk, for an impeccable eye for detail as well as her astute suggestions.
Thanks also to my colleague and friend Mark Burpee, for being a patient sounding board and for providing feedback, laughs, and encouragement.
Additional gratitude goes to coaches, friends, and teammates—Coach Brusca, Coach Lockerbie, Coach Fox, Curtis, Ted, Dave R., George, McGowan, Jim, and many others I’ve pounded the roads, trails, and track with over the years. Your collective camaraderie, wisdom, guidance, and experiences provided a treasure of memories to draw from when I was writing this story.
Finally, my family—Mom, Dad, Marian, Michelle, Teresa, Jim, and Sue. Thank you for the support, opportunities, and humor and for sharing the experience of being blessed by Chris.
Last, my most heartfelt thanks to my wife, Dana. No words can express my appreciation for her love and unwavering support. Thank you for putting pencil and paper in my hand and continually encouraging me to just write it down.
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