6
I was there ten minutes before Sheila appeared. I heard the slam of their screen door first, then saw her in the spotlight as she came slowly down the path. As beautiful as she was on the float, she was even lovelier now—her white dress went perfectly with her hair, and complimented her figure even more than her swimsuit.
It was her face that bothered me. It had on its delightful fullness a very dubious expression.
“Look,” she said. “I can get Dad’s car.”
“It’s faster this way,” I lied. “Parking’s tense up there. Hey, it’s safe. I won’t tip it or anything.”
She let herself down reluctantly into the bow. I was glad she wasn’t facing me. When her eyes were on me, I felt like diving in the river again from agony and joy.
I pried the canoe away from the dock and started paddling upstream. There was an extra paddle in the bow, but Sheila made no move to pick it up. She took her shoes off and dangled her feet over the side.
7
Ten minutes went by.
“What kind of band?” she said.
“It’s sort of like folk music. You’ll like it.”
“Eric Caswell’s going to be there. He strokes number four.”
“No kidding?” I said. I had no idea whom she meant.
“What’s that sound?” she said, pointing toward shore.
“Bass. That splashing sound?”
“Over there.”
“Yeah, bass. They come into the shallows at night to chase frogs and moths and things. Big largemouths. Micropterus
salmoides,” I added, showing off.
“I think fishing’s dumb,” she said, making a face. “I mean, it’s boring and all. Definitely dumb.”
8
Now I have spent a great deal of time in the years since wondering why Sheila Mant should come down so hard on fishing. Was her father a fisherman? Her antipathy toward fishing nothing more than normal filial rebellion? Had she tried it once? A messy encounter with worms? It doesn’t matter. What does is that at that fragile moment in time I would have given anything not to appear dumb in Sheila’s severe and unforgiving eyes.
She hadn’t seen my equipment yet. What I should have done, of course, was push the canoe in closer to shore and carefully slide the rod into some branches where I could pick it up again in the morning. Failing that, I could have surreptitiously dumped the whole outfit overboard, written off the forty or so dollars as love’s tribute. What I actually did do was gently lean forward, and slowly, ever so slowly, push the rod back through my legs toward the stern where it would be less conspicuous.
It must have been just exactly what the bass was waiting for. Fish will trail a lure sometimes, trying to make up their mind whether or not to attack, and the slight pause in the plug’s speed caused by my adjustment was tantalizing enough to overcome the bass’s inhibitions. My rod, safely out of sight at last, bent double. The line, tightly coiled, peeled off the spool with the shrill, tearing zip of a high-speed drill.
9
Four things occurred to me at once. One, that it was a bass. Two, that it was a big bass. Three, that it was the biggest bass I had ever hooked. Four, that Sheila Mant must not know. “What was that?” she said, turning half around.
“Uh, what was what?”
“That buzzing noise.”
“Bats.”
She shuddered, quickly drew her feet back into the canoe. Every instinct I had told me to pick up the rod and strike back at the bass, but there was no need to—it was already solidly hooked. Downstream, an awesome distance downstream, it jumped clear of the water, landing with a concussion heavy enough to ripple the entire river. For a moment, I thought it was gone, but then the rod was bending again, the tip dancing into the water. Slowly, not making any motion that might alert Sheila, I reached down to tighten the drag.
10
While all this was going on, Sheila had begun talking, and it was a few minutes before I was able to catch up with her train of thought.
“I went to a party there. These fraternity men. Katherine says I could get in there if I wanted. I’m thinking more of UVM or
Bennington. Somewhere I can ski.”
The bass was slanting toward the rocks on the New Hampshire side by the ruins of Donaldson’s boathouse. It had to be an old bass—a young one probably wouldn’t have known the rocks were there. I brought the canoe back into the middle of the river, hoping to head it off.
“That’s neat,” I mumbled. “Skiing. Yeah, I can see that.”
“Eric said I have the figure to model, but I thought I should get an education first. I mean, it might be a while before I get started and all. I was thinking of getting my hair styled, more swept back? I mean,
Ann-Margret? Like hers, only shorter.”
She hesitated. “Are we going backward?”