Meyer’s Fish House

The

Billy

Boy in and

the fish hand-

clapping their

tails against the

bottom of the boat;

Mr. Meyer in overalls,

the knife in his hand.

The pearl scales fly,

the little dead pearl

of the eye, the fish

mouth curved in the

sleepy child smile,

scraps floating

on the water

like a dainty

treat, and all the gulls

that came flying to the party.

The main street of Greenbush ends at a pier, a long dock that sticks out into the lake. Early in the morning the fishing boats set out from the pier. Late in the afternoon they come back, their decks heaped with whitefish and perch and pickerel. If the wind blows toward the town you can smell the fish long before you get to the pier.

Yesterday Grandmama sent me to Mr. Meyer’s Fish House to buy perch for supper. I got there early because I like to watch the boats come in. The first boat in was the Billy Boy. It’s owned by Billy Harper, who is so tall and so fat there is hardly room for anyone else on his boat. His brother goes out with him, and sometimes his son goes out, too. His son is my age. He’s the redheaded pest.

As Mr. Harper was tying up his boat, he called to the other fishermen to ask how many fish each boat had caught. The fishermen like to brag about how large their catch is, but they are careful to keep secret where they spread their nets.

Mr. Harper and his brother carried boxes full of fish, most of them still alive, into the fish house. Mr. Harper’s son just stood on the boat looking at me. I thought if I didn’t say something his eyes would pop out. “Hello,” I said. “What’s your name?”

“Tommy. What’s yours?”

“Elsa. Do you help your dad?”

“Sure. I help let out the nets and then I help take them in. You want to see my calluses?” He held out his hands, and I could see where the skin was hardened. “I was out in a storm once with my dad and he had to tie me onto the boat so I wouldn’t fall over and drown. I can’t swim.”

“If you’re out on the lake all the time, why doesn’t your dad or your uncle teach you to swim?”

“They can’t swim either.”

I thought that was really dumb. Off the top of my head I said, “I’ll teach you to swim and then you can teach your father and uncle.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t like the water.”

“But you’re out on it all the time. Aren’t you going to be a fisherman like your dad?”

“Sure.”

I told him where I lived. “Do you work on Sunday?”

He shook his head. Besides his red hair he has a face full of freckles, and his watery blue eyes blink a lot. He’s tall and scrawny, not fat like his dad.

“Well then, come on over to our beach around three o’clock.” I left him to go into the fish house. The fish house is a big building where the fish are cleaned and scaled. Mr. Meyer wears a long rubber apron. He has glasses that keep getting scales on them.

“Heads on or off?” he asked me.

“On.” Grandmama says the heads give the fish more flavor.

He wrapped the perch up in thick white paper and tied the package with string. By the time I got home, my hands smelled of fish. Grandmama rubbed my hands with lemon to take away the smell. I think they must use a lot of lemons at Mr. Meyer’s house.

On Sunday afternoon I waited for Tommy on the beach. He came trudging up the beach about an hour late. “You didn’t bring your bathing suit,” I said.

“Don’t have one. I don’t care if I get my shorts wet.”

“Come out where the water is deeper.” I began to wade into the lake. Tommy stayed on the shore. I knew how he felt. I used to feel the same way, but I worried that if he didn’t learn to swim he might drown someday. “Come on,” I coaxed. He didn’t move. “Just up to your ankles.” He shook his head. Suddenly I started running at him, splashing the cold water onto him as hard as I could.

He yelped and plunged into the water to chase me. I ran out deeper and deeper, calling him names. Soon we were both up to our necks. He suddenly realized where he was and began to squeal. I lay on my back and kicked my feet. “Let your feet go up,” I said. He watched me kick my way toward the shore, and then he did the same thing. He was kicking like crazy. I showed him how to float and how to do the sidestroke. He learned fast, but each time he couldn’t wait to get out of the water.

Later, when we were lying on the sand drying off, Tommy asked me, “Who taught you to swim?”

“My dad taught me in the city. There’s a park called Belle Isle near our apartment.”

“I’d rather die than live in the city. The city is full of gangsters.”

“It is not,” I said. “I’ve lived in the city all my life, and I’ve never seen a gangster.”

“You probably just don’t know one when you see one. Your grandparents are Krauts, aren’t they?”

“Krauts isn’t a nice word. They came from Germany, but they’re Americans now.”

“That’s what they say. If we have a war with Germany they’ll be on Germany’s side, and they’ll have to go to prison.”

I thought about how the people had stoned Grandpapa’s car when he was on the way to the hospital because he was German. I thought about the Roths and how some of the Germans hated them because they were Jewish. I hated Tommy for saying such mean things. “I’m sorry I taught you to swim,” I screamed at him. “I hope you drown!” I ran up the steps to our cottage. Halfway up the stairs I bumped into Grandpapa on his way down to the pump house.

“What’s all this shouting?” He held on to me. “Where are you running to? Who is that boy?”

“He’s horrible. He called you a Kraut and said they’d put you in jail.”

“Ach, Elsa. Go and wash your face and tell your grandmother to put out a plate of cookies and some raspberry juice.”

A few minutes later Grandpapa appeared with Tommy. He brought him into the kitchen, where Grandmama had set the table. He said to her, “This young man needs a little something for his stomach. Pass him some cookies, Elsa.”

I shoved the plate of cookies at Tommy, but I wouldn’t look at him. Grandmama poured him a big glass of juice. He wolfed down about five cookies and drank two glasses of raspberry juice. “Those cookies are good,” he said. The whole time he was eating he kept looking around the cottage as if he expected German spies to poke their heads out of closets.

“Doesn’t your mother make you cookies, Tommy?” Grandmama asked.

“My mom took off. It’s just Dad and me, and he don’t cook. Even if he did, we don’t have a lot of food like here.”

“Well, at least you must have plenty of fish for dinner,” Grandpapa said.

“I hate fish. It’s about all we got to eat. When do you have supper?” he asked.

“Another hour or two,” Grandmama said. “We would be happy to have you stay.”

“Thanks,” Tommy grinned.

“Go and show Tommy the orchard and your garden, Elsa,” Grandpapa said.

I headed for the front yard, not even looking to see if Tommy was following me. I didn’t understand why my grandparents were so polite to Tommy when he said such awful things about them. If they wanted to kill him with kindness, I wished the killing would come first and the kindness later.

Tommy was tagging along behind me. When we got outside he said, “I’m sorry I called them Krauts. They’re OK.”

Out in the orchard I said, “I’ll bet I can climb up this tree before you can climb up that one.” He started shinnying up the tree I pointed to. Unfortunately, he saw the hornets’ nest before the hornets could get him, so he didn’t get stung. And he ate like a pig at supper. And he promised to come back.