Molly and her brother Pete were going fishing. She had never gone before. Usually Pete told her to get lost, because he was eleven and she was only eight, but Dad said Pete could use his fishing rod if he took her, and Molly would use Pete's. "Sweet," Pete said, because Dad's gear was a lot better than his. Besides, he told Molly as they walked down the road, "If you spaz and break my rod Dad will have to buy me a new one."
The pond was only fifteen minutes away. Molly was so excited she could barely stand it. She hoped people would see them and think she went with her brother to Porter's Pond all the time. She started to skip but forced herself to stop before Pete could turn around and make fun of her.
At the dam a short, scrawny man stood fishing with a long bamboo pole, no reel, line just tied at the end. His straggly gray hair jutted out from under a Ken's Kar Kare baseball cap that was so dirty Molly wasn't sure what color it used to be. They edged closer, Molly a step behind her brother.
The man turned his head and smiled at them. He had more wrinkles on his face than teeth in his mouth. Molly took a step back.
"Hi," Pete said.
The man tipped his cap with a hand that held a burning cigarette. Coughing, he pulled a small bluegill out of the water. With the cigarette dangling from his lips he unhooked the fish and tossed it in a dirty yellow bucket. The pail was half full of water, and a bunch of bluegills.
He baited his hook with a new squirming worm. Molly saw parts of tattoos through the holes in his T-shirt. Without rinsing his hands in the lake, he put the cigarette back between his fingers.
"What're you going to do with them, mister?" Pete asked.
"What do you think, boy? Fry 'em up."
"You eat bluegills?"
"Ain't no meat sweeter. And the price is right."
"Our dad uses them for fertilizer--plants them in the dirt with corn seeds like the Indians did."
The man swung out his line. "Everything's got a purpose on God's green earth."
"Goodbye, mister." With one hand in his pocket, Pete waved with the other.
The man nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he said.
Molly wanted to say goodbye too, but no words came out. She followed her brother. Down the road Pete showed her the red and white plastic bobber he'd stolen.
"But he was poor," Molly said.
"He had a bunch and we only had one. Now you have one too. Or would you rather give it back?"
Molly had no answer. They cut into the woods and climbed over a stone wall. Pete rolled over a rotten log and found some fat worms. "Come on," he said. "I know the best place."
She followed him a few hundred feet through the trees to a quiet cove. Pete put the bobber on her line but said she had to bait her own hook. "If you're too much of a baby I'll never take you fishing again."
The worm was slimy in her hand. Molly dropped the slithery thing twice before she felt the sharp hook pop through its skin, and it wriggled like mad. She wasn't sure how to cast, but didn't want to have to ask Pete.
Before she could try, though, he let out a whoop and started reeling. "Bluegill! Bigger than any that guy had."
The fish flopped at the end of his line. Grinning at Molly, Pete took a cherry bomb out of his pocket. He handed her a pack of matches.
"Light one," he said. "That's all you have to do."
He unhooked the fish. It gulped air, its eyes wide and staring. Pete popped the bomb in its mouth like a grape. He had to force it, but just a little. The waterproof wick stuck out like a cigarette.
"Come on, light it. Unless you don't want to go fishing anymore."
Molly's heart thumped against her ribs. "We're not supposed to play with matches."
Pete spat on a lily pad. "This isn't playing," he said.
Molly struck two match heads to shreds before the third one caught fire. Pete brought the bluegill to her trembling hand. The wick sizzled and he tenderly placed the fish in the water. Long seconds passed. Then a muffled explosion broke the surface ten feet off shore.
Pete laughed. "Cool, huh? I can't believe he got that far!"
"Cool," Molly said, her throat so tight she could barely talk.
Pete threw out another cast, halfway across the cove. He shook his head. "I can't believe that guy is low enough to eat bluegills."
Molly dropped the dead match in the water. A fish poked it twice before realizing it wasn't good to eat.
Molly turned away so Pete wouldn't see her wipe the tear off her cheek. Then she pressed the button on the Zebco 202 reel and carefully cast out the worm and the stained, stolen bobber.
"Pretty darn good for your first try, Moll," Pete said, and though her stomach felt full of worms his little sister couldn't help smiling.
The pond was only fifteen minutes away. Molly was so excited she could barely stand it. She hoped people would see them and think she went with her brother to Porter's Pond all the time. She started to skip but forced herself to stop before Pete could turn around and make fun of her.
At the dam a short, scrawny man stood fishing with a long bamboo pole, no reel, line just tied at the end. His straggly gray hair jutted out from under a Ken's Kar Kare baseball cap that was so dirty Molly wasn't sure what color it used to be. They edged closer, Molly a step behind her brother.
The man turned his head and smiled at them. He had more wrinkles on his face than teeth in his mouth. Molly took a step back.
"Hi," Pete said.
The man tipped his cap with a hand that held a burning cigarette. Coughing, he pulled a small bluegill out of the water. With the cigarette dangling from his lips he unhooked the fish and tossed it in a dirty yellow bucket. The pail was half full of water, and a bunch of bluegills.
He baited his hook with a new squirming worm. Molly saw parts of tattoos through the holes in his T-shirt. Without rinsing his hands in the lake, he put the cigarette back between his fingers.
"What're you going to do with them, mister?" Pete asked.
"What do you think, boy? Fry 'em up."
"You eat bluegills?"
"Ain't no meat sweeter. And the price is right."
"Our dad uses them for fertilizer--plants them in the dirt with corn seeds like the Indians did."
The man swung out his line. "Everything's got a purpose on God's green earth."
"Goodbye, mister." With one hand in his pocket, Pete waved with the other.
The man nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he said.
Molly wanted to say goodbye too, but no words came out. She followed her brother. Down the road Pete showed her the red and white plastic bobber he'd stolen.
"But he was poor," Molly said.
"He had a bunch and we only had one. Now you have one too. Or would you rather give it back?"
Molly had no answer. They cut into the woods and climbed over a stone wall. Pete rolled over a rotten log and found some fat worms. "Come on," he said. "I know the best place."
She followed him a few hundred feet through the trees to a quiet cove. Pete put the bobber on her line but said she had to bait her own hook. "If you're too much of a baby I'll never take you fishing again."
The worm was slimy in her hand. Molly dropped the slithery thing twice before she felt the sharp hook pop through its skin, and it wriggled like mad. She wasn't sure how to cast, but didn't want to have to ask Pete.
Before she could try, though, he let out a whoop and started reeling. "Bluegill! Bigger than any that guy had."
The fish flopped at the end of his line. Grinning at Molly, Pete took a cherry bomb out of his pocket. He handed her a pack of matches.
"Light one," he said. "That's all you have to do."
He unhooked the fish. It gulped air, its eyes wide and staring. Pete popped the bomb in its mouth like a grape. He had to force it, but just a little. The waterproof wick stuck out like a cigarette.
"Come on, light it. Unless you don't want to go fishing anymore."
Molly's heart thumped against her ribs. "We're not supposed to play with matches."
Pete spat on a lily pad. "This isn't playing," he said.
Molly struck two match heads to shreds before the third one caught fire. Pete brought the bluegill to her trembling hand. The wick sizzled and he tenderly placed the fish in the water. Long seconds passed. Then a muffled explosion broke the surface ten feet off shore.
Pete laughed. "Cool, huh? I can't believe he got that far!"
"Cool," Molly said, her throat so tight she could barely talk.
Pete threw out another cast, halfway across the cove. He shook his head. "I can't believe that guy is low enough to eat bluegills."
Molly dropped the dead match in the water. A fish poked it twice before realizing it wasn't good to eat.
Molly turned away so Pete wouldn't see her wipe the tear off her cheek. Then she pressed the button on the Zebco 202 reel and carefully cast out the worm and the stained, stolen bobber.
"Pretty darn good for your first try, Moll," Pete said, and though her stomach felt full of worms his little sister couldn't help smiling.
Tom Hazuka has published three novels, The Road to the Island, In the City of the Disappeared, and Last Chance for First, and co-edited four anthologies of short stories: Flash Fiction; Sudden Flash Youth; You Have Time for This; and A Celestial Omnibus: Short Fiction on Faith (all available here). He teaches fiction writing at Central Connecticut State University. He has also guest blogged for Cheek Teeth about his songwriting process right here.
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