BRUSH, WHO’S IN THE LITTLE spear house with Sarah, lifts his head from the thin floorboards.
“What?” Sarah says.
He growls—a low rumble.
“It’s just ice noise,” Sarah says. “Don’t worry about it.” They are upriver from the cabin, in a bay where the ice is thicker and safer. The cramped, dark house is situated at the edge of the wild rice bed, where northern pike cruise, looking for baitfish. She works her red-and-white decoy fish in the water below. The glowing hole is like a television in the floor but with a blank screen. A luminous, pale square of light. A spear (Mr. Kurz’s) leans against her right shoulder, and its retrieve cord is tied to the wall. The skinny iron rod, about four feet long, ends in a wide hand of five sharp tines. She keeps the spear close by the open hole in the ice, which is a smooth, glowing, blue-white slab about a foot deep. She’s ready but has seen no fish.
The only entertainment is the talking ice—intermittent groans, ripping and booming noises that used to scare her, but now she understands them. It’s not the ice breaking; it’s the ice growing. Thickening. Getting stronger. In the last few days, when the temperature has fallen to twenty below zero, she has had to chip away several inches of new ice in order to keep the spear hole open. Fish are skittish during loud ice days; even minnows flinch and dart away when the ice speaks.
Inside the tiny shack it is dark except for a candle for a bit of warmth; Brush is the spear house heater. She couldn’t stand the cold in here if not for his big body. He’s gotten mostly used to her—though not to anybody else. He’ll never be a house pet, but he makes a good spear house dog.
He’s restless, however; he cocks his good ear—and growls again. He sits up, and soon Sarah hears footsteps crunch on snow, growing louder as they approach. Her left hand goes to the shotgun in the corner; her right hand goes to the little sliding peephole board.
The figure approaching is backlit by sun—it’s a bright day, maybe another reason that the fish aren’t moving—and she squints one eye to see better. Slips a shell into the chamber and gets ready to step outside.
“Ahoy in the spear house!” a voice calls.
“Ray!” she says suddenly.
Brush growls for real this time.
“Stop that,” Sarah says.
He quickly lowers his ears, and she opens the door and shoos him outside; then she yanks off her stocking cap and tries to fluff up her hair.
“Are you in there, Sarah?” Ray calls.
“Yes! Come on in,” she answers. She swings open the little plywood door, and Ray bends low to step inside. She quickly closes the door behind him.
“Whoa—I’m blind!” he says, and stumbles against her old wooden bench.
“It takes a while for your eyes to adjust,” she says with a laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t let you fall in the hole.”
“Thanks!”
“We have to share my bench, though,” she says, scooting over.
He gets situated closer beside her and leans forward to look down. His breath steams above the greenish light from the ice hole. He turns to her, smiles, gives her a quick kiss on the cheek.
“Your dad’s doing his thing with Miles?” Sarah asks as she leans against him.
Ray nods.
“How does he seem today?”
Ray shrugs slightly. “Better, I think. Just a couple of slips into Mr. Kurz-world, though you never know when he’s kidding.”
“Tell me about it,” Sarah says.
“And you?” Ray asks. He puts an arm around her and pulls her closer—a friendly, one-armed hug—and anyway, they’re both wearing gloves and big parkas.
“The fish must be sleeping today,” Sarah says.
“That’s not what I meant,” Ray says.
“My parents are really worried about Miles,” she blurts.
They are silent for a long time. “When this is all over, you could write a book,” Ray offers.
“Suburban Chick Turns Woodswoman,” Sarah mutters.
“Meets northern boy who doesn’t hunt,” Ray adds.
She manages a tiny smile.
“Actually, my family could go for some red meat,” Ray says.
Sarah glances at him.
“I mean, if you’re out hunting someday,” he says with a shrug.
“No problem,” Sarah says.
And suddenly they’re kissing—hard, fumbling kisses in the tight space, with no room to move. They hold each other until her heart slams like a bass drum and she is sweaty all over beneath her winter parka. For some reason she opens one eye to look down at the green square hole in the ice—and quickly pushes Ray away.
“I’m sorry!” he says.
“No—not that. I saw a fish. A northern! A really big one!” She quickly lifts the decoy fish string—makes the little wooden fish dart.
“Oh no, it’s my fault!” Ray says.
“Shhhh,” Sarah says. “He might come back.”
But in the next minute or so he doesn’t.
Gradually they relax. “There’s always next time,” she says. They are silent; it’s as if neither knows what to say about the kissing.
“Spearing decoys are cool,” Ray says.
“This one’s new,” she says, hoisting it closer to the surface. “We made it.”
“How’d you know how?” Ray asks.
“Miles,” she answers.”
“Duh,” Ray replies.
“It was kind of fun, actually,” Sarah says. “Especially the wood carving.”
“If the decoys are wooden, what keeps them from floating up to the surface?” Ray asks.
“They’re weighted with lead. After you carve them, you drill out a hole in the belly, then pour hot lead inside.”
“And the fins?”
“Cut from tin cans, then stuck into the wood with little nails.” She lifts the decoy still closer to the surface so Ray can see it better. “You just bend the tail fin a half turn, and that makes the fish turn in a circle.” She demonstrates, which is when the big pike, jaws wide and gills flared, lunges back at the decoy.
“Jeez!” Ray shouts, and almost tips over backward on the bench.
“Stay still!” Sarah whispers. “He missed the decoy—which means he’ll circle back.”
“It was huge!” Ray breathes. “Looked like an alligator!”
“At least ten pounds,” Sarah whispers. “Here—you handle the decoy and I’ll get ready with the spear.”
“What do I do?”
“Nothing. Let it hang there but be ready to jerk it away if he tries to bite it.”
The gray torpedo drifts in from a different direction this time, finning slowly toward the motionless decoy. His beady eyes focus on its colors, and his wide gills fan slowly in and out. Sarah carefully lowers the spearhead and its needle-sharp points, then thrusts it hard—a powerful, jabbing throw. The tines nail the pike just behind his head.
“You got him!” Ray shouts.
“Not yet!” Sarah shouts. She grabs the retrieve cord, which is tied to the end of the spear, and slows down the run of the fish. When the cord grows slack, she pulls it in, hand over hand. The fish is not a fighter or a flopper; the center tine has hit him in the spine, and he comes in quivering and heavy.
“Open the door,” Sarah calls to Ray.
He fumbles with the latch, and the sunlight floods in.
“You go out first!” she calls.
Ray vamooses, and, with a grunt, she heaves the dripping, heavy pike from the hole and pitches him onto the snow. Scales as big as quarters glint on the spear tines.
“I can’t believe it!” Ray says. “You got him. I could never have done that.”
“Sure you could,” Sarah says. Even as they look, a film of ice glazes over the shiny green-and-white-spotted sides of the northern pike. Sarah’s heart is pounding.
“Now what?” Ray says.
She wants to go back into the spear house with Ray and forget about fishing. But she says, “If we leave the fish outside, Brush will eat it.”
Ray shivers. “We’d better head back. The fish will be frozen as hard as a rock within five minutes.”
The drag him, tied by a twine looped through his gills and out his mouth, across the snowy edge of the river and onto land. Brush limps along close behind. Sarah has to be on guard that he doesn’t bite the fish, but soon they arrive at the cabin.
“Supper is served,” Sarah announces as they come inside the cabin; she hoists up the big northern pike.
“My God!” Nat says.
“Wow,” Artie says, and Herb O’Keefe begins to clap.
Miles can only smile at the big fish and Sarah. “That’s my sister,” he says to everyone. It’s a cool moment, even though he’s looking at her oddly, as if he doesn’t quite recognize her. As if he’s saying it to convince himself.