He remembered the fishing lure with its kaleidoscopic shimmer and its angry triple hook, all peeking out from the sand. The water brushed over it easily and maybe it was that rhythm and the gentle nudge that let him see the lure before he might carelessly let his bare foot sink right down over those barbs. He dug the thing from the sand and held it over his head and called to his father. He was six then, and boy had he found a treasure.
His parents were some distance away, back at the picnic table, that weathered, splintered thing built of cedar logs and chained to a rugged maple, the tree bark scarred with hearts and letters, and three-pronged peace signs. Rodney’s mother sat on the bench closest, cigarette fuming from her fingers, right leg over her left knee, sunglasses hiding her gaze. She might be looking at him. There was no way to know.
His father stood squarely behind her, and he was talking with one hand moving in loops while the other held a brown bottle by the neck. On and on he went, no notice of Rodney and his wonderful discovery, saying something important, worthy of sharing and yet Rodney’s mother looked to be a world away from it all. She brought the cigarette to her mouth and held it in her lips, chasing some insect from her orbit with her free hand. Then his father put the bottle down and placed his hands on his mother’s shoulders, moving them back and forth. She tightened up at first, her forehead breaking into lines as if he was hurting her. And then there was a grin, her teeth, as his father leaned in and whispered something to her, and her laughter and smile seemed to open her whole face.
There were other people there at the lake, people they did not know who shared the beach and the grass and the mood. A man strolled toward Rodney, his long shadow curling over neglected sandcastles and discarded towels. “That’s a nice spinner you got there,” he said, stopping at the water’s edge. He cupped a hand over his forehead, his stomach chalky white and spilling out the bottom of his T-shirt. A sack of flour peeking over his waistband.
“I found it,” Rodney said. “Right here.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t step on it,” he said.
“I’m careful,” Rodney said, and then he pointed at the shade of the maple tree. “That’s my mom and dad over there.”
The man looked over to the table, at the scene that was persisting, the blue feather of smoke and the tumbling hands and the beer bottle dancing from one side to the other. He laughed softly and Rodney imagined that the man had heard something he’d missed, a joke maybe. And then the man clapped Rodney on the shoulder and told him to watch for more hooks, and he continued to make his way down the beach, his eyes tracking the picnic table as he went.
Rodney carried that hook in his hand all the way back from the lake. No one asked him what was there in that clenched fist, not when his mother helped him with his seatbelt, not when he tapped it against the side window, loud enough to be heard over the thrum of the engine. Not for the entire ride home.