Cars, cars, cars. People, people, people. The parking lot at Ron’s Bait Shop is busy on this Sunday morning. A yellow banner rippling across the big window reads:
FISHING CONTEST
A big scale and long tables stand by the door. Men in fishing vests, like Jack’s, weigh their catch to see if they have won first prize. A fancy rod and reel hang from the awning on fishing line.
WIN THIS CUSTOM ROD AND REEL
Cooper squeezes through the gaps in the crowd outside, between the laughs and the “How’ve you been?”s and the smells of sweat and coffee and lake reeds, with a box of caddis flies in his arms like a secret treasure.
The little bell tinkles over his head. Inside, Cooper bumps into a line of customers leading from the door to the counter. The till chirps and slams. Chirps and slams. Cooper waits, squished against fishing rods. Mike waves him forward, opens the till, and gives him a twenty-dollar bill. Mike doesn’t ask about Tom Sawyer. Does not look in the cardboard box and say the flies are beautiful. Does not say thank you.
Something is wrong with Mike. Mike is not Mike. Mike appears to be an alien being.
Mike hands Cooper a bag of supplies for at least a million more flies. No, not a million. That is an exaggeration. Chirp and slam. Mike rings up another customer. As soon as Cooper finishes this bag of supplies, he will have saved up enough money to buy a vest like Jack’s.
Cooper opens the door to leave, glances back at the counter. Mike looks up. But he doesn’t smile. Does not say goodbye. Cooper points at the vest in the window. Gives Mike a big thumbs-up. Mike nods and looks away. Cooper wishes there were a book called Mike because he is certain there is something he needs to know. The bell tinkles over his head as he leaves.
Outside, Mike’s dad, Ron, wears big black sunglasses. He resembles a larval fly. “Wouldja look at this one?” Ron shouts. Cooper looks. Sees Jack in his vest, holding a big fish up in the air, way over his head. Its silvery tail twitches. Brushes Jack’s shoulder. “Whadja use there, Jack?”
“Soft-hackle caddis,” Jack says. “Bought ’em right here.”
“Looks like you’re the lucky man today,” Ron says.
Cooper feels taller. Stands tall. Stands strong. Feels his cells dividing, making muscle and marrow. His mother is right. He is growing like a weed. Maybe one of his beautiful flies made Jack a lucky man. Cooper squeezes through the smelly crowd to the table to see Jack’s luck up close.
Ron slaps the fish on the table. Water hits Cooper in the face. He blinks the splash away, sees the fish more clearly. Ron nods—a big, happy nod—the measuring tape pulled taut in his fingertips. “No question. Biggest one yet,” Ron says.
Jack smiles. Takes off his fishing cap and scratches his gray head. “I’d say it’s about time.”
The big fish does not smile. It thwaps its tail. Bounces. Lands near the edge of the table. “Whoa!” Ron says. Both men hold it down. Like the fish is a bad guy on TV. Like he’s a crazy person. Then the fish lies still. Afraid to move. It opens its mouth like a baby bird’s.
Shuts. Opens. Shuts. Opens. The fish is trying to blow bubbles. But it cannot blow bubbles in the air. The fish stares into Cooper’s eyes. Pleads. No, the fish is not trying to blow a bubble. It is trying to speak. Speak to Cooper. Cooper holds still. Listens. He can’t hear the fish, but he knows what it is saying. I am dying. Can you help me? The tiny black eye glistens. Like his mother’s eyes when she is sad or desperate. Like the grandfather’s when he was dying.
Jack is lucky.
The fish is not.
The fish is dying and there is nothing you can do about it.
Cooper’s breath quivers.
That Boy leans over Cooper’s shoulder for a better look.
He wants to stomp.
Wants to run.
That Boy pushes Cooper through the crowd. Chases him across the parking lot, all the way to the grocery store, running as fast as he can to keep up. Cooper’s mother is not in Aisle A. And she is not in Aisle B, where the soups are. Where the red and white cans stand in rows like multiplication tables. Like books on bookshelves. Like soldiers. Like military graves.
Nothing you can do. Nothing you can do. Nothing you can do.
That Boy yanks the bag of caddis fly supplies from Cooper’s arms. Drops it to the floor. That Boy turns the soup labels to read their names. Faces them to the front. Moves the can of vegetable soup from the C’s, from the very wrong place next to cream of celery to its perfect place at the end.
“Cooper!”
Cooper ignores his name because he cannot stop. That Boy won’t let him stop. And he mustn’t stop. Too many lives are at risk. Too many fish. Too many species. The world is not safe.
“Cooper!” His mother’s voice. Again. And then his mother’s hand tightens on his shoulder. Strong, like a wood clamp. “Cooper, stop it!” But he’s almost done. The T’s line up perfectly on the cans of tomato soup. “Cooper—” She stops before she says the next word. She cannot speak. Her wordless breath puffs against his neck.
Cooper doesn’t have to turn around to see his mother’s glistening eyes. The fish is dying and there is nothing he can do about it. Just like the fish, every living thing will die and there is nothing he can do about it. No matter how hard he works, he can’t stop it. No, no, no. And he can’t stop what he needs to do. That Boy won’t give up. That Boy will never give up trying. He rubs his hands together. Scrubs his face. Reaches in the air to feel the water. Reaches high overhead.
Reaches and reaches.
Reaches for the everlasting clean water.
Until his mother grabs his right hand and squeezes it warm and tight. He feels her arms clench around him. As strong as Grandpa’s. Hears her whisper into his hair, “It’s okay, Cooper. It’s okay.” He feels his new, strong, growing muscles give up in her grasp. In her hug. In a big bear hug just like Grandpa’s.
Cooper hears the silence in the store. The silence of people watching. The wonderful silence of his mother holding him. Tight, warm, safe. Without a care in the world. Except for him. That Boy. That Boy is at the root of everything. Cooper looks down. Ashamed. Embarrassed. Tired. He does not want to be his mother’s only care in the world. It is not fair.
“How about we go get some pepperoni pizza. And some ice cream,” she whispers.
Ice cream. His legs shake. The ground shifts and sways. But he can walk. He feels a strength in his legs he does not remember. He picks up his bag of caddis fly supplies. He has the strength to stand in the check-out lane. The strength to carry one bag of groceries to the van. He can make it across the street. He can wave at Caddie’s reflection in the store window, beneath the sign “Moccasins Sold Here.” He can use his last bit of strength to call to her, “Guess what? We’re getting ice cream.” He can do all this to make his mother happy.
“Pizza for dinner first, Cooper.”
Caddie looks at their mother. At Cooper. “Now?” Her face wrinkles with confusion. “Mom. It’s, like, afternoon.”
Their mother nods. A desperate nod. A code in their secret language.
“I guess. If you say so,” Caddie says.
They sit outside in the sunshine at the Pizza Pie and I shop. Caddie puts her bag in the empty chair. Sits down first at the round green table with a million diamond-shaped holes in its top. It tilts every time Caddie leans on her elbows. Cooper doesn’t want to count the holes. Does not want to count to a million. Wants to be as good as he can be.
He shoves the toe of his tennis shoe beneath the short leg of the table. Feels the weight of the table in his toe like a dart. He sits on his right hand to keep his fingers from poking every little hole. To keep from embarrassing Caddie one more time. To keep from being sent away someplace.
When the waitress arrives, Cooper’s mother lets him order the pizza. “One large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese,” he says.
Caddie rolls her eyes.
“Did you find a bathing suit this time?” their mother asks.
Caddie nods. Reaches for her bag. Holds up a shiny silver bathing suit in two small pieces. “It was on sale.”
“Looks nice,” their mother says.
“Looks nice,” Cooper says.
Caddie rolls her eyes again.
The waitress brings them glasses of water and a pile of napkins.
“I heard Mr. Bell is finally out of the hospital,” their mother says.
Poor Mr. Bell. Poor Mr. Bell. Poor Mr. Bell. “I will take him some ice cream,” Cooper says.
“That’s a nice idea, Cooper,” his mother says.
The waitress returns with the giant pizza. Sets it down in the center of the table. “Can I get you anything else?”
“We’re good,” Caddie says.
“No, thank you,” their mother says.
Cooper picks off the pepperoni with his left hand, one by one. Makes a pepperoni tower at the side of his plate.
“Why do you always make us order pepperoni pizza when you won’t eat the pepperoni?” Caddie says with lots of mad in her voice. “It doesn’t make any sense. Then I have to eat pepperoni pizza and I don’t even like it.”
“It would be nice if you wouldn’t waste it,” his mother says.
Cooper wishes he could eat the pepperoni tower. But pepperoni is hot and spicy. Like fire. “Pepperoni pizza is the most popular kind of pizza,” he says. “Everybody loves pepperoni.”
“Then prove it,” Caddie says, picking up a circle of pepperoni. “And open your mouth.”
Cooper looks at Caddie’s face. Her beautiful smooth, pink face. And the rubbery piece of pepperoni in her hand.
“It won’t hurt you, Coop. Just open your mouth.”
The pepperoni comes closer and closer. Cooper shakes his head.
“C’mon, Cooper. Just once. It’s not poison. It’s not going to kill you.”
Kill, kill, kill.
He shakes his head again. His mother looks at him, at Caddie, and looks away, her lips tight like stretched rubber bands. Her tears are ferociously strong. He can see the muscles in his mother’s face weaken and pucker. Pepperoni must be very important to her.
“Not today, Caddie,” his mother says.
“Why, Mom? If everyone else eats pepperoni, he can too.”
His mother shakes her head. Her eyes still glisten.
A girl with fluorescent orange fingernails at the next table watches Caddie. Flings her long blond hair the way Caddie flings hers. Cooper doesn’t want to embarrass Caddie one more time. Doesn’t want his mother’s eyes to shine with tears. Does not want to be sent away. He wants to be like everyone else. Like people who eat pepperoni pizza. Without a care in the world.
“C’mon, Cooper. I dare you.”
He shuts his eyes. Squeezes his hands into fists.
For Caddie. Only for Caddie.
He opens his mouth.
The slice of pepperoni lands on his tongue. Spit collects in his cheeks—ready to put out the fire. Saliva pools in his throat. He gags and spits. Caddie pinches his lips shut. “You can do it, Coop. Trust me.”
There is no fire. No burn. He is not dying.
It is still true. Everything Caddie says really is getting more and more believable every day.
He chews the pepperoni. Thinks. Thinks of secrets and truths. He will not water the ivy ever again because his mother knows the truth and it will remind her of all the things she cannot bring back to life. He thinks of The Grinner and Caddie’s white teeth and sparkling eyes in the night. He thinks of Mike. Mike has a secret. So does Cooper. Secrets are why they are friends. He swallows the pepperoni. Opens his eyes to a living world. His smiling mother. Nothing is on fire. Not even his tongue.
“Look,” Caddie says.
A police car turns the corner, drives across the turtle racetrack. Stops in front of DJ’s Liquors. And then another police car. And another. “One, two, three,” Cooper counts. “Six policemen.”
“Must be the whole force,” Caddie says.
“Oh, Caddie,” their mother says. “It’s a small town. Why would they need any more?”
The waitress picks up Caddie’s plate. Nods at Cooper’s short stack of pepperoni. “Still working on that?”
“It is my life’s work,” Cooper says. He points across the street. “Is that a sting operation?”
The waitress reaches for his mother’s plate. Looks up. “Another robbery, I bet. That’d be the fifth one this summer. Someone got us too. They think it’s the same gang.”
Sparkling Oz. Flailing turtles. The fireworks. “I bet I know who it is,” Cooper says.
“Now, Cooper,” his mother says. “Don’t get carried away.”
“Who?” Caddie says.
“The Loch Ness Monster,” he says.
“Oh, Cooper,” his mother says.
“You’re funny,” the waitress says.
“Really?” Caddie says.
Cooper and Caddie have a secret. The secret makes him feel sick to his stomach. “I’m full. Can we go home?” Cooper says.
“What, no ice cream?” His mother pats him on the head.
“I want ice cream,” Caddie says.
“If Caddie can eat ice cream, I can eat ice cream,” he says because he needs a happy thought. His mother puts her credit card away and they cross the street to The Whole Scoop ice cream stand.
Cooper ties flies when they get home. He ties flies until bedtime. He will finish these flies for Mike and he will never tie flies again. He will tell Mike his fingers hurt. He will tell Mike his mother won’t let him. No, he won’t. He cannot lie. But he cannot tell the whole truth. He will never tell Mike he feels sorry for the fish. That he wants all fish to be the big one that got away. Mike likes to fish. Mike will not understand.
At midnight, Cooper is too tired to read. Too tired to lay out his rocks. Too tired to write in his notebook. He thinks he might sleep like a log. Like the dead. No, not like the dead. He must unthink that word. Dead.
He lies beneath the thin and cool sheet. Awake. Caddie’s bed creaks as she rolls over in her sleep. A loon calls with a heart so full of love it shudders. An acorn drops on the roof. Rolls. The loon calls again. On the other side of the cabin, his mother gets up. Goes into the kitchen.
Cooper lies still. Still enough to hear every movement. Every breath. Every thought. He hears the pump. The clink of a glass. He knows his mother has looked at the dead ivy and pricked her heart on its needle-tipped stem.
He watches the moonlit shadows on his walls. Pictures The Father as a giant caddis fly, sputtering across the top of still, dawn-gray water. Thinks of the fish, swimming. Teased. Tricked. Trickery is a tactic of the enemy. He wants to whisper a secret to all the fish: Do not eat the caddis fly. Even if you fight for your life, you will die. And you will never know what happened.
Now Cooper is thirsty. He wants a drink. He waits until the house is quiet. Tiptoes to the kitchen. Pumps the water. Sees the ivy in the garbage. Dead. Nothing you can do about it.
It is a truth. Out in the open.
He goes back to his room, to Grandpa’s old, safe bedroom, and turns on the light. “It’s just me, Amicus,” he whispers before he opens his notebook to a clean page.
Some truths are easier when they aren’t secrets anymore.
He leaves the light on and reaches for Tom Sawyer. He. He. He. Was. Was. Was. Gloomy. Gloomy. Gloomy . . . He was gloomy and desperate.
Cooper is surprised. Surprised that brave Tom Sawyer is sad. Forsaken and friendless, Tom Sawyer has made up his mind to leave his home and become a pirate. Cooper thinks of Mike. The Mike who looks like Mike but acts like an alien being. For a tiny moment, between the words aye-aye and sir, Cooper wonders what it would be like to build a raft and sail away.