Caddie hops out of the van as soon as they pull up in front of the grocery store. “You’re coming with me, Cooper,” his mother says.
But Cooper doesn’t want to go grocery shopping. He doesn’t want to see the rows of milk and grapefruit today. He doesn’t feel up to the spices and soups that might be out of order. It’s too much work. His mother moves so quickly, it’s hard to keep up. And if he can’t keep up, something terrible might happen. “I don’t want to go with you,” he says.
“Don’t think you’re coming with me,” Caddie calls over her shoulder as she crosses the street.
His mother sighs. “What do you want to do, Cooper?”
Cooper looks at the sign boards up and down the street—the candy shop, the souvenir shop, “Moccasins Sold Here,” Ron’s Bait Shop. Ron. Mike. Cooper feels a small smile appear on his face. All by itself. He pulls his notebook from his pocket.
Smiles are like dandelions growing between two rocks.
They cannot be stopped.
“There.” Cooper points at the sign, Ron’s Bait Shop. “I’m going there.” He looks left, looks right, looks left again. He lets the red van pass before he crosses the street.
A tiny bell tinkles overhead when he opens the door to Ron’s Bait Shop. The store is a library of messy things. The shelves are tall, busy, and green. Cooper closes his eyes. The air smells like a storm. He has been here before. With his grandfather. He remembers the clock on the wall with leaping fish for hands. Tick. Tick. Tick.
“Hey! How’s it going? How do you like Tom Sawyer?”
Cooper opens his eyes. “I reckon I do,” he says. “Done started last night.”
“Should I call you Tom from now on?”
Cooper shakes his head.
Mike smiles. “How far are you?”
The words and the lines and the pages appear like a memory of a dream. I, I, I. Reckon, reckon, reckon. There, there, there. I reckon there ain’t one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand that can do it the way it’s got to be done. Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly. “Not very far,” Cooper says.
Mike sits on a tall stool at the counter. His hands are busy. Busy, busy, busy. Cooper moves closer. “What are you doing?”
“Tying flies.”
Cooper knows of this craft. He has seen the instructions in a book. Mike is making fake bugs called trichoptera. Sticky bugs with wings like tissue paper that sputter across still water like tiny raindrops. Grandpa’s book on fishing in Colorado says fish like to eat them. “You have an infestation,” Cooper says, pointing at the pile of finished bugs on the counter. “Of caddis flies.”
“You know your bugs,” Mike says. He wraps a hook with wire, then with delicate thread. He twists and ties and clips, like a robot. Dabs one end with clear fingernail polish.
“Caddie has some of that,” Cooper says.
Mike’s eyes blink fast and blink again before he smiles. “How’s her eye?” he asks. He puts another bug in the pile.
“I believe she has made a full recovery,” Cooper says.
“Can you say hi to her for me?”
“I reckon I can,” Cooper says.
A bell tinkles every time the door opens, and Mike glances up. Says hi. Every time. Then he wraps, ties, plucks another bit of hair and fur, wraps some more and ties. Clips. Pulls another length of thread. Wraps and ties.
“I thought fly fishing was a sport of the mountain streams,” Cooper says.
“Mountain streams and Minnesota quarries. They stock ’em with trout.”
“You mean it’s pretend?”
Mike whispers, “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll just be our little secret.”
“Really?”
Mike’s busy fingers stop. “Oh, no,” he says. “They know. I mean, I was just kidding about the secret.” Cooper looks away. He does not see the point in pretend fishing.
A motor hums and water gurgles. It sounds like a radio left on in a different room. Cooper tracks it down. The hum comes from a black box next to a big claw-foot tub in the corner. The black box is a pump that circulates water around and around in the tub. Cooper peers into the water. Into the churning water where the minnows swim in circles. Plastic buckets full of black dirt hang from the rolled edge of the tub on twisted black coat hangers. Cooper wants to turn off the motor. Stop the whir. Set the minnows free.
Suddenly, That Boy is standing next to him. Cooper hasn’t seen him in hours and hours and hours. He thought he left him behind at the cabin. He touches the twisted wire. Cooper does not want to count the hangers. But That Boy needs to count them. One, two, three . . .
The bell tinkles.
Cooper is saved. He puts his hand in his pocket.
“Hi, Mike,” a voice says. The customer is an old man. Like his grandpa. But not as old as Mr. Bell. His bulky vest has a hundred pockets, and Cooper thinks of all the things he could carry in those pockets: his rocks, magnifying glass, maybe even Amicus. Pencils. His notebook. And books. A vest just like it hangs high in the window.
It doesn’t really have a hundred pockets, but a vest with a hundred pockets is a happy thought. And Cooper needs a happy thought. Right now.
“Hey, Jack. How’s it going? Any big ones yet?” Mike asks.
“Nope. But I’m not giving up.”
Jack shops the row of fishing rods. Lifts one and bounces the rod. Spins the reel. Puts it back in the rack where it belongs. “Thought I’d try some soft-hackle caddis this time.”
“Got ’em right here. Can’t tie ’em fast enough.” Mike nods at the growing pile of caddis flies on the counter.
“And some night crawlers,” Jack says. “For my grandson.”
The bell tinkles again. “You got fishing licenses?” the big man in the orange cap asks.
“Sure do,” Mike says. “Hey, Cooper, can you help me while I write this up?”
Cooper stands over the pool of minnows, watching. Watching the minnows swim their circles. He feels the rhythm. Up, down, and back. Knows the repetition. Senses their fear. One minnow drifts low in the tub. Rolls with the fake tide. That minnow is dead. Like his grandfather. Nothing you can do about it now.
“Cooper? Can you get Jack here some night crawlers?”
“Sure,” Cooper says, but he doesn’t know why he says sure. He doesn’t know how to get night crawlers in Ron’s Bait Shop. He imagines himself in the dark earth beneath the cabin where the water drains from the pump at the kitchen sink. He is the night crawler. Crawling. Hurrying. Curling into a ball.
Afraid.
That Boy won’t leave. And he won’t leave Cooper alone. He counts the minnows, but they swim so fast he can’t keep up. One, two, three . . . Upstream, downstream. He loses track. Starts over. One, two, three . . .
“Cooper?” Mike stands next to him. Whispers, “The night crawlers are in the buckets.” Mike sinks his hand into the plastic bucket. Pulls out mud that squirms and seethes. “See?” He reaches for a small cardboard box. Counts out twelve giant worms that duck from the light and wrap around his fingers. The worms are holding on for dear life. He pushes them off, closes the lid.
Cooper wants to wash. Wants to count. Please, he whispers to That Boy. Not in front of Mike. He remembers what Caddie said. Be polite. Remembers how badly he needs a friend. Cooper shakes his head. “No, thank you, Mike. I prefer the fake flies.” He stands by the counter. Picks up a fire-red fly from a different pile. Rolls it back and forth with his fingertip.
“Where’s your dad today?” Jack says.
Mike rings up Jack’s soft-hackle caddis flies and night crawlers. “Over at DJ’s. They had another break-in.”
“Have you guys been hit this summer?” Jack asks.
Mike shakes his head. Counts out change from Jack’s twenty-dollar bill. “Not yet.”
“Must be a bigger market for beer than there is for worms,” Jack says and laughs at his own joke. “I hope I don’t have to come back for any more woolly buggers.” Jack laughs again. Jack is happy. The bell tinkles. Jack is gone. Gone fishin’. Cooper laughs in his mind at his stupid joke. A Tom Sawyer joke. But only for a second. He cannot forget what he is doing.
Watching. Waiting. Ready.
Always.
Mike’s hands are busy again. Busy, busy, busy. Cooper is drawn to the fake lures like a hungry fish. “Maybe I could do that,” Cooper says. He picks up a hook and a piece of wire and wraps the wire around the hook in concentric circles. Methodically. Tediously. Wonderfully. The rows are as even as the spindle of wire on Grandpa’s workbench.
He pulls brown thread. Ties and wraps. Ties and clips. He reaches for a bit of fur. Mike nods. Cooper concentrates. Feels his tongue pointed against his upper lip. Just like Mike’s, his hands are busy. Busy, busy, busy.
But his mind is not busy. His mind feels loose and free. And That Boy has nothing to do. That Boy is bored. Cooper imagines his heavy brain turned to liquid. Draining out through his opened mouth—That Boy sliding out with all the muck. Leaving room for ideas. Ideas as soft as the clouds. He imagines himself floating across the sky.
The caddis fly is perfect.
“Wow!” Mike says.
“I’m a fast learner.”
“Maybe, but you better pick up some speed if you want to make any money at it.”
“Money?” Cooper says. “You mean, like a job?”
“Yeah, like a job. I’ll pay you to tie flies. Maybe you can buy something you’ve always wanted.”
Cooper knows what he would like to buy. But he has not always wanted it. He has never wanted it until this moment. He points up high at the window—at the giant vest that does not really have a hundred pockets. “I will want to buy that.”
“And then I’ll take you fishing,” Mike says.
No. Not fishing. Never fishing. Ever.
Cooper picks up another piece of wire.
Busy, busy, busy.
Free, free, free.