poles threw a silver glow across the cove in front of the cabin. There, a big fish jumped. Whoosh! Its splash was like the beginning of a rain storm. It left a ring of ripples wider than a tractor tire.
“Elihu?”
The ripples disappeared. The surface of the water was once again smooth, like a dark dinner plate. Grampy Luke stirred under his blanket.
Tiptoeing back to bed, Jason thought, Well, if that had been Elihu, the great fish hadn’t bothered to introduce itself.
Silently he laughed, making up his own joke–for if any fish could talk, wouldn’t it surely be a largemouth bass?
He pulled up the covers. There was now only the buzzing of crickets and the galumph of frogs. And not one of them was giving away Elihu’s secret.
Jason closed his eyes. Again, he pulled up the dream on the inside of his eyelids. Tic, tic, tic, Elihu began nibbling.
He put his arms over the bedcovers to practice holding his rod tip up. Bam! He expertly set the hook. He braced his bare feet against the bottom of the bed, ready for the fight.
Elihu, Elihu. Yes, he would catch Elihu.
THREE
JASON’S SENTENCE
It was three weeks before on a Saturday when Jason became Mrs. Hasturn’s prisoner. It happened soon after Mrs. Hasturn’s husband died. Right after the funeral, Jason and his mom took a casserole to the Hasturns’ house. It was right next door.
Out on the porch Jason’s mom said, “When we take this in, tell Mrs. Hasturn we’re so very sorry for her loss. Can you remember that, Jason?” His mom’s short, dark hair curled around her face like feathers. Her eyes were the color of a pecan, and they often held sadness the way a cup, left out in the yard, might overflow with rainwater.
Jason nodded. “Yes.”
“And she’s going to be living all alone now. It’s going to be very hard for her, so we’ll offer to help any way we can, right?” His mother’s voice almost hiccupped on her last word.
“Sure.”
His mother’s voice reminded Jason of the Stupid Day, the Stupid Day his father moved out, and he saw his mother cry for the first time. It was a stupid day because no one could tell him any reason to make it make sense. He wanted to forget that sound—the sound of his mother crying, high and muffled, like a bird choking. As if he were standing on a mountain with his mother on another cliff, he couldn’t reach her, only hear her. Even on days long after, Jason heard the exact same sound in his head, sometimes right before he fell asleep. Swelling up in his chest then was a feeling so lonesome that it seemed he’d swallowed a bird whose wings beat against his ribs.
His father now lived in an apartment two blocks away. Every Monday and Wednesday Jason stayed there. When his mother and father decided to live apart, the house got quiet. There was no arguing any longer. And there were no dark moods swelling in every room like bad smells. But the silence had a taste–sour and yucky—like a rotten orange. Often, anywhere in the house, the bird in his chest beat its wings as if trying to take flight.
There on Mrs. Hasturn’s porch, his mother leaned over and reminded him: “You might want to keep your hands in your pockets, Jason. You know, Mrs. Hasturn has many little things sitting around in her house. And if it’s hard to keep still…”
“Yeah, I know. Be careful.”
“Yes, please try.”
Wiggle Worm, his father called him. His teacher said he had Attention-span Challenges. His soccer coach said he had Giggly Legs. His Sunday school teacher said he had Ants in his Pants.
Be still, Jason. Stop it, Jason. For crying out loud, Jason! One more minute and it’s Time Out for you, Jason. When he was little, he spent more time in Time Out than a flea on a dog.
Now, along with Eraser Head, Pipsqueak and Squirt, he was called P.P. for Principal’s Pet because he was so often sent to the principal for not being still. Already he’d spent three days in the principal’s office, and it was only October.
At least he wasn’t called P.P. for a worse reason.
On the day he became Mrs. Hasturn’s prisoner, he had stood with his mother in Mrs. Hasturn’s mildew-smelling living room and waved his arm to motion to the wide expanse of carpet. Cheerfully, he’d said, “Want me to come over and vacuum for you, Mrs. Hasturn?” Splat! He’d knocked over a two-thousand dollar vase sitting on a side table.
How did he know that stupid old vase cost two thousand dollars?
How did he know it would break into about three million pieces that not even Gorilla Glue could fix?
How did he know, too, that breaking that vase would send Mrs. Hasturn into a crying fit until a home-health nurse came to give her a shot to make her go to sleep?
The next day, Mrs. Hasturn sent over word that Jason would have to rake her yard for twenty-one Saturdays. And that was only enough to partly make up for the murdered vase. He was to bring his own bottle of water, too, because he was never again to be allowed into her house under any circumstance whatsoever.
Soon afterward Grampy Luke moved down from Michigan. He rented an apartment nearby. “Jason,” he said, “I’m going to teach you how to fish. I don’t know anything about Florida fishing, but we can learn together.”
Over the next three weeks only those Friday nights with Grampy Luke at the lake helped Jason feel better. It was those Friday nights that helped him forget how miserable he’d be the next day at Mrs. Hasturn’s.
Now on his fourth Saturday as her prisoner, Jason propped his rake against a tree and sat down on the ground to pick a briar out of his shirt sleeve. The front door opened.
“No free-loading on my time, Mr. Lazy. Get up and get at it.” Mrs. Hasturn stood on her front porch, bossing him. Her silky dress blew against her legs. Her bony back made her look like a witch in some television show.
Sure, it was awful that he’d broken her vase, but it’d been an accident. And she couldn’t seem to stop being so mean to him.
“Yes. Okay.” Jason stood up and looked over the yard. The grass sure looked better than when he’d started. He reached down for his bottle of water and held it up, taking a deep swig.
She pointed. “That part over there. You didn’t get to that part over there.”
“Yes ma’am, I’ll get to it next.” But as he raked and she watched him, he whispered, “You don’t own me. I’m going to catch Elihu. One day you’ll be sorry for how mean you’ve been to me.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing. Just singing.”
He touched his back pocket. His wallet was there. In it was the fishing license Grampy Luke
