All-Season Edie Read Free Page B

kind of liked that, but pretty soon they forgot about it. Dexter calls me all kinds of things, none of which is worth repeating. All the time I stand there thinking about this, kind of balancing on one foot and chewing my thumbnail, the fat boy just looks at me. Finally I say, “Dusty.” Dusty is the name of my cat.
    â€œAre you sure?” he asks.
    I give him one of my looks and he says quickly, “Hey, whatever you say. Dusty it is.”
    â€œI know your name,” I say, changing the subject. “Robert. I heard them calling you.”
    â€œHe’s not my father,” Robert responds.
    I stare. He says, “My mother’s my mother but he’s not my father. I don’t want you to think he is because he isn’t.”
    â€œOh,” I say. “Want to go fishing?” I ask.
    â€œYes,” Robert says. “But it’s the wrong time of day.”
    â€œSo?” I ask.
    â€œSo nothing,” Robert says. “Have you ever caught a fish?”
    â€œOf course not,” I say, rolling my eyes and making the raisin face for practice. “Puh-leeeeze.”
    â€œI bet I could, if I tried,” Robert says pensively. Then he corrects himself and says, “I bet we could,” and I decide I quite like Robert, even though he isn’t always easy to follow. All that stuff yesterday about caskets, for instance, and now this man who isn’t his father. “I have a fishing rod,” he says. “Only I’ve never used it.” We look at each other and then out over the water, critically, considering. The lake is all sunlight and innocent tadpoles and happy little wavelets. But further out, hidden now but surely there—oh, surely— long silver shapes knife in and out of the reeds and slip ghostlike through the depths, unsuspecting.
    â€œOh, boy,” I say. “Watch out, fish.”
    Robert goes back to his cottage and gets his fishing rod, which is bright red with a black stripe around the reel and silver earring-hoops for the line to go through. He also has a tackle box with hooks and weights and lures. There are artful little candy-colored insects, lemon and silver wasps and mint green flies and red licorice rubber worms and other confections of wings and tinsel and thread, designed to tempt the greedy fish. They’d look very nice on a Christmas tree.
    After lunch, we take turns casting from the jetty for practice, which works okay once we get the hang of it, but we don’t even catch a single tadpole. “The fish must be farther out,” Robert says when it comes time to go in for supper. “Next time we’ll take a boat out to where it’s deeper.” We agree to meet the next morning for a day’s serious fishing.
    At suppertime (tomato soup and wieners), I ask if I can get a fishing rod.
    â€œNext year, maybe, if you’re still interested,” Mom says. Oh well.
    From then on, Robert and I go out every day in the big rowboat and fish different parts of the lake. For a while it’s quite satisfying to sit still for a long time, holding on to the end of the long taut line that slices into the water. We each bring a book and take turns slumping in the stern, reading and pulling long arcs with the rod, which feels very professional. We fish the middle of the lake; we fish in the shadow of the big trees; we fish the mouth of the little creek; we fish up the windy end of the lake with the private jetties. Nothing. I decide fish are smart.
    â€œSomething isn’t right,” I declare flatly. “We’re doing something wrong.” Robert nods glumly and sighs and reaches for the oars.
    Finally we go to the office and ask the old man. He tells us to try closer to the reeds around dusk. He peers briefly at our lures, then goes into the back room and comes out with a jam jar full of dirt, which he hands to Robert. “You’ll have better luck with these,” he says.
    â€œWhat is it?”