When Wilhelmina awoke the following Saturday she felt like she had spent the night inside her piano with all 88 hammers pounding against her head. She wished it meant she was getting the flu—anything to give her an excuse to stay home from the festivities at the college. Larry would never understand why she didn’t want to go. He would badger her about her duty and her responsibilities, pressuring her with guilt until she would finally paste on a phony smile and agree to go with him. Wilhelmina had never won an argument with him in her life. When Homecoming ended and Larry went back to his fancy church in Springfield, she’d be depressed for weeks.
She took two pills for her headache and found clean sheets for the bed in the guest room. If only she had a legitimate excuse to stay home, one that Larry couldn’t possibly argue with. She was still searching for one when the telephone rang.
“Hey, there, Professor. Mike Dolan here. I hope I’m not disturbing you or anything.” It felt good to hear Mike’s voice, in spite of her lingering guilt for failing to witness to him.
“Why, no. You’re not bothering me at all! What can I do for you, Mike?”
“Well, I hope you were serious about giving Lori those piano lessons, because she hasn’t given her father or me a moment’s peace since last Sunday.”
“Of course I was serious. Did her father agree?”
“After a little arm-twisting. What I wanted to ask you, see . . . well, I offered to give Helen’s old piano to Lori, but I’m not really sure if it’s still any good.”
“Would you like me to take a look at it?”
“I would really appreciate it, if you don’t mind. No one has played on it in years.”
“How about this afternoon?”
“Well, I don’t want to bother you if you have other plans. There’s no big hurry.”
“Actually, this afternoon would work out very well for me.”
“Great! OK, then, how about if I pick you up around one?”
“I can drive over, Mike. I don’t mind.”
“No, I don’t want you wasting any gas on my account. I’ll pick you up around one.” He hung up before she could argue.
Wilhelmina hummed to herself as she finished making the guest bed. Another ride in Mike’s truck wasn’t half as bad as trying to be sociable at Faith College all afternoon. She had a valid excuse to stay home. That was all that mattered.
Laurentius and his wife, Marjorie, arrived with style and pomp later that morning. He swept grandly into Wilhelmina’s house like visiting royalty and immediately took over. He reminded Wilhelmina more than ever of a great bald eagle, with his patrician nose and scowling, hooded eyes. Larry’s towering presence overshadowed his plump, gray-haired wife. Marjorie took the biblical injunction for wives to be submissive to their husbands quite literally, and as far as Wilhelmina knew, had never ventured an original opinion in her life. Nor was she ever likely to as long as she was married to Larry, the world’s foremost authority on any issue.
The Reverend Dr. Laurentius Horatio Brewster, B.D., M.Div., Th.D., had successfully shepherded wayward sinners into the heavenly kingdom for more than 45 years. During lunch, Wilhelmina decided to mine his vast resources of knowledge for a few pointers on how to witness to Mike. But she would have to be careful to keep the questions general or Larry would begin asking questions of his own. She passed the platter of ham sandwiches and asked, “Larry, how much of your job involves ministering to those who are already Christians and how much involves reaching the unsaved?”
“Well, I have a rather large church to administer, as you know, so I’ve had to delegate many duties to my associates in specialized areas. In fact, I currently have a very competent minister of evangelism whose job it is to reach the unsaved.”
“How does he do that? Does he go out on the highways and byways and round them up?”
“Of course not. It’s a specialized field of theology now. They have a major in evangelism at the seminary.”
Wilhelmina took this piece of news very hard. If ministers earned advanced degrees in order to witness to unbelievers like Mike, how could she hope to do a good job of it? Her purse full of 3” x 5” cards suddenly seemed ridiculous compared to a seminary degree in evangelism.
“Let’s suppose your minister of evangelism encountered an unbeliever . . . it doesn’t matter how. What might he say to him? How would he begin?”
Larry took a bite of his sandwich and blotted his lips. “Well, the first step would be to point out to this sinner his utter depravity, the debauchery and degradation of his immortal soul, the corruption and impurity—”
“Oh, good grief, Larry. We’re not talking about an axe murderer. He’s just an average man on the street.”
He gazed at her patiently through half-closed eyes. “The Bible says in Romans 3:23 that all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. So even your average man on the street is a vile, debased creature in God’s eyes, worthy of the fiery punishments of hell and death—”
“Don’t be so pompous! Mike isn’t vile or debased.”
Larry smiled astutely. “Are we talking about a real person now?”
Wilhelmina wanted to swallow her own tongue. Larry had outsmarted her again. He wouldn’t be satisfied now until he knew the whole story. She never should have brought up the subject in the first place. She passed him the plate of pickles, hoping to create a diversion, but Larry had stopped eating. His forkful of salad was poised in midair. He would continue to stare at her until she answered his question.
“Oh, all right! What if he is a real person? I still don’t see why you have to start off by telling him he’s vile and debased. He would turn on his heel and walk away. And I wouldn’t blame him one bit.”
“Nevertheless, the truth must be spoken, Wilhelmina. Until he is shown the vast, yawning gulf that separates him from God and the fiery torments of judgment that await him, this sinner will see no need for repentance or for a Savior.”
Wilhelmina couldn’t do it. She could never talk about moral depravity or hellfire and brimstone to Mike Dolan. She was sorry she had asked Larry for advice. “Would anyone like some cake?” she asked, as Larry paused in his sermon.
Marjorie cleared her throat, a sign that she was, at last, about to speak. “I don’t mean to rush you, Wilhelmina dear, but it’s nearly one o’clock. Why don’t you go get changed and I’ll clean up the lunch dishes?”
Wilhelmina drew a deep breath. “I’m not going with you, Marjorie. I have another appointment.”
Larry set down his fork. “Not going? Wilhelmina!”
“Listen, spare me your sermon on duty and responsibility, Larry. I’m not going and that’s final. Faith College will just have to celebrate without me. In fact, my ride will be here any minute, so you’ll have to excuse me. Just leave the dishes, Marjorie. I’ll do them later.”
She gathered up the serving platters and started toward the kitchen door, but Larry rose from his place at the head of the table and stood in her path.
“What is all this nonsense?” He looked and sounded so much like Father that Wilhelmina wanted to laugh.
“Larry, who won the Homecoming game last year? Or the year before? Do you remember? Do you really care? It’s a waste of time to go to those things, and I don’t have time for it this year. I have another engagement.”
Larry’s stern demeanor transformed to one of pastoral compassion. He draped his arm around her shoulder. “I think I know what this little fuss is all about, Wilhelmina. Your pride has been wounded, hasn’t it? And so you’ve decided to avoid Faith College this year. Now, we all have to face up to difficult situations from time to time, but the best way to deal with them is to take the bull by the horns, so to speak. Just pick yourself up, dust off your wounded pride, and—”
“This has nothing to do with wounded pride and bull’s horns, Larry. I promised to test a piano for one of my students, and I think that’s a little more important than a boring reception and a football game.”
Larry sputtered wordlessly for a moment as he tried to cope with the outrage of having his sermon cut off. “Well! This must be an extraordinarily talented student to merit the sacrifice of your duties on Homecoming weekend!”
Wilhelmina recalled Lori’s stubby fingers and chipped pink nail polish. “Oh, yes. She has great potential.”
“But it shouldn’t take you all day to look at a piano. You’ll still be able to attend the alumni banquet with us later tonight, won’t you.” It wasn’t a question, it was a command.
“Sure, Larry.” She had won her freedom for the afternoon and that meant a partial victory. As she turned to carry the dishes into the kitchen, she heard the noisy exhaust of Mike’s pickup truck. He tooted the horn.
“That’s my ride. I’ll see you later.” She dodged around her brother and set the dishes in the sink, hoping to make a swift departure. But Larry had glanced out the dining room window at Mike’s truck, and he charged after Wilhelmina like an angry bull.
“Good heavens! It’s . . . it’s a truck!”
“Of course it’s a truck, Larry. How else would you move a piano?”
“But you can’t possibly ride in that! It’s nothing but a rusted-out hulk! And it has dogs in it!”
As Wilhelmina opened the door she heard Buster and Heinz barking their loud greeting. For a moment she was tempted to tell Larry what a pompous snob he was. But then her conscience reminded her that her original opinion of Mike and his truck was not very different from her brother’s.
“Yes, Larry, the truck has dogs in it. And you know what? They’re not purebred either.”
*****
“I’m not tearing you away from your company, am I?” Mike gestured to the Lincoln Town Car, parked in Wilhelmina’s driveway.
“On the contrary. You’re rescuing me.” Her cheeks were bright pink, and she seemed flustered. Mike hoisted her into the passenger seat beside his grandson, Mickey, then climbed into the driver’s seat. He kept the truck idling in neutral.
“I don’t mean to be nosy, but I can see by the license plate that whoever it is drove down from Massachusetts.”
“It’s only my brother and his wife, and they’re not here to visit me, anyway. They came down for Homecoming Weekend at the college.”
“Oh.” That explained why Wilhelmina had been so eager to go with him today. As Mike shoved the gearshift into reverse and backed out of the driveway, he felt a wave of anger at the college officials and the heartless way in which they had rejected her. He didn’t blame her for wanting to avoid that place. He whistled tunelessly as he drove across town, trying to decide what he could do to cheer her up.
“Are you really going to give my stupid sister piano lessons?” Mickey asked Wilhelmina.
“Whoa! That’s no way to talk about your sister,” Mike said.
“Aw, Grandpa. Lori’s such an airhead. A real space cadet. She’ll never learn to play the piano.”
“You wouldn’t be just a little bit jealous, now, would you?” he asked.
“No way.” But Mike could tell by the way Mickey scrunched lower in the seat that he had struck a raw nerve.
“Just asking. Some kids might get their noses out of joint if their sister was getting something new—like a piano and piano lessons, for instance.” Mickey folded his arms across his chest. “Professor Brewster told me that she has two brothers. I wonder if they ever got jealous of her for playing the piano?” He looked over at Wilhelmina, hoping to draw her into the conversation, but when he saw the look of sadness that crossed her face he wished he could retract the question.
“I suspect they felt a bit jealous, at times,” she said, studying her lap. “But they each have special skills that I don’t have, so it evens out in the end.” She looked up at Mickey. “I think you would be happier if you allowed Lori to be herself and you concentrated on those talents that only you possess.”
A few minutes later, Mike pulled up in front of his tiny bungalow. He led the way through the front door, proud that he had cleaned up. His house looked a lot neater than the last time Wilhelmina had visited. But in spite of the fact that there were no dirty socks or half-eaten sandwiches, it irritated him to discover that the dust on the piano bench was thick enough to carve his name in.
“I guess the maid forgot to dust.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped it away. “Go ahead, Willymina. It’s all yours.”
“It’s a lovely old upright and a good brand name. It should play just fine.” She sat down and opened the lid to the keyboard, then plunged in with a dazzling display of skill, her hands covering the keyboard from one end to the other.
“Wow! I don’t think it’s been played like that in its entire life,” Mike said when she finished. “It’s probably wondering what hit it just now.”
“It’s a really fine instrument. It would be worth a fair amount if you ever decide to sell it.” She played part of another song that Mike vaguely recognized.
“It sounds more in tune than the one at the Cancer Center,” he said with a grin.
Wilhelmina looked up at him. She was almost smiling. “Yes. So it does. But I would still have it tuned, if I were you, after it has been moved to your son’s house. I can give you Mr. Amato’s phone number. He’s very good, and his prices are reasonable.”
She doodled around on the keyboard for another minute or two, as if reluctant to finish her job so soon, then experimented with the pedals for a while. Finally she lowered the keyboard lid and stood up. She picked up Helen’s picture on top of the piano.
“Is this your wife? Lori told me she used to play the piano.”
“She did but nothing like you. She mostly played by ear. Popular songs, Christmas carols, stuff like that. Whenever we’d have a gang over we’d get her to play, and we’d all sing along. Nothing fancy.”
Mickey sighed with the impatience of youth. “Is she done, Grandpa? Can we go fishing now?”
“Yes, Mickey, I”m done. Your grandfather can take me home.” She returned Helen’s picture to its place.
Mike glared at his grandson. Wilhelmina would never agree to stay longer now that she knew Mike had other plans. He needed to cheer her up, but he didn’t know what to do. “Uh . . . what about music, Willymina? Shouldn’t we buy Lori a book or something?”
“Not right away. And anyhow, I have plenty of books I can lend her.” She picked up her purse and inched toward the door.
Mike couldn’t take her home, knowing she would sit around all alone and depressed. But Wilhelmina would never agree to go fishing with them either. “I, uh . . . I think there’s some old sheet music inside the bench there. Would you mind having a look at it before you go? I’ll be right back.”
He ducked into the kitchen, grabbed a plastic grocery bag, and began stuffing whatever he could find into it. A package of frozen hot dogs. Half a loaf of bread. Four nearly-stale donuts. Three cans of soda pop. A squeeze bottle of mustard. An unopened bag of potato chips. Mike glanced at the roll of masking tape laying on the counter and considered bringing it along to stick over Mickey’s mouth.
“Grandpa promised to take me fishing later,” he heard Mickey telling her. He couldn’t hear Wilhelmina’s mumbled reply. “Yeah, that’s why I’m glad it didn’t take very long for you to check out the piano.”
Mike tied the handles of the plastic bag together and strode into the living room with it.
“Is any of that old music any good?” he asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t throw it out. You never know.”
“That means it’s junk, Mickey. OK, then. Let’s take off.”
Mike tossed the bag of food behind the front seat of the truck, loaded the dogs and everyone else on board, and drove off. Ten minutes later he zoomed past Wilhelmina’s turnoff.
“Wait a minute. You just drove past my street.”
“Sorry, Ma’am, we’re taking you captive. Scream all you want, but it won’t do any good.”
“But I really should be—”
“The captain and crew of this pirate ship are deaf to all pleas for mercy, aren’t we, Mickey, my mate?”
Mickey scowled. “Huh?”
“See? What did I tell you?” Mike glanced at Wilhelmina and saw her smiling slightly.
“Well, I guess as long as we’re not gone too long . . .”
“Let me ask you something, Willymina, and I want a straight answer. Do you really want me to take you back home so you can go with your brother to all that hoopla over at the college?”
She was silent for a moment. “No. Not really.”
“That’s what I figured.” He gave her a broad smile and sang a rusty chorus of “Yo, Ho, Ho and a Bottle of Rum.”
“Mike . . . ,” she said when he’d finished, “I . . . I just want to say thanks. For rescuing a damsel in distress.”
*****
They drove for almost an hour over narrow back roads, following the winding course of the river, until they came to a state park. A week or two ago it had probably looked spectacular, but now the fall leaves had passed their prime. The trees looked nearly bare, and the forest stood braced for the winter ahead. Mike pulled the truck into an empty parking lot.
“Looks like we’re about the only ones here,” he said. “I hope you’ve got your walking shoes on.”
Wilhelmina had nylons on and rather expensive leather pumps with low heels. But like a prisoner making a frantic dash toward freedom, she didn’t care whether she ruined her shoes or not. Mickey grabbed his fishing pole and jogged ahead with the dogs. Mike took her arm to steady her as she picked her way carefully down the narrow, rutted hiking trail.
“I’m sorry I’m so poky.”
“Oh, that’s all right. I don’t suppose you get to do much hiking in the woods.”
“Goodness, no! I can’t even remember the last time.”
They walked for a quarter of an hour, and all the time Wilhelmina kept her eyes glued to the path, careful to watch for tree roots, snakes, and other unnamed dangers. She was beginning to regret coming on this adventure when Mike suddenly gave a great sigh of satisfaction.
“Ahhh . . . there’s something about the contentment of the forest that has power to restore a person. Know what I mean?”
Wilhelmina scowled. “No. How can a forest be content?”
“Well, maybe if you’d quit worrying about seeing a snake or tripping up and took the time to look around, you’d see what I mean.”
“It’s rather hard to enjoy the walk, Mr. Dolan, when the trail is so rough, and I don’t have proper shoes.”
“If you’ll pardon my forwardness, Ma’am, I don’t think it’s the trail or the shoes that’s bothering you. Now, I don’t blame you for not wanting to go to the college today. But at the same time, it must be hard on you, thinking about all that you’re missing out on. I think part of you wants to be there and part of you doesn’t.”
Mike barely knew her, yet he understood her better than her own brother did. Better than she understood herself. She blinked back tears and looked up for the first time at the canopy of trees above her. The bare branches seemed woven together in an intricate pattern like black lace. The deep blue sky stood out in contrast above them.
“How can you tell that the trees are content, Mike?” she asked quietly.
“Listen for a minute.” He pulled her to a stop, and she stood in silent amazement, listening to the deep, penetrating stillness all around them. The swaying silence of the trees played a counterpoint to the distant song of birds, the quiet gurgling of water, the rustling of dry leaves in the wind. “Can’t you almost hear them sigh with contentment, Willymina? And you never see trees arguing among themselves or trying to push each other around. They’re satisfied just to live and grow and quietly change with the seasons.”
They started walking again, and the stillness of the forest and the music of the whispering leaves beneath her feet seemed like the rising crescendo of a magnificent symphony. By the time they reached a little picnic spot along the banks of the river, Wilhelmina’s soul felt refreshed and at peace.
She sat at the picnic table while Mike and Mickey climbed down the embankment to the river’s edge. She watched them bait the line and cast out into the middle of the river and listened to their murmuring voices as they talked about what kind of fish they would catch and the best bait to use. Once Mickey settled in with his gear, Mike climbed the bank again and sat beside her on the bench.
“Is it legal to fish in a state park?” she asked.
“He never catches anything,” Mike whispered.
“Never? Then I’m surprised he still likes to go fishing.”
“Well, he thinks he caught a couple of fish, you see.”
“Why on earth would he think that?”
“Because I tied one or two that I caught onto his line when he wasn’t looking. But never in a state park,” he quickly added.
Wilhelmina thought of Dean Bradford’s empty promises. “Do you think it’s right to deceive Mickey like that and get his hopes up?”
Mike’s smile faded. “Well, I never thought about it like that. I never meant to tell a lie or anything. I just wanted to encourage him to keep trying. I figured sooner or later he would catch something on his own if he kept at it.”
“I’m sorry, Mike. I had no right to say that. You’re a wonderful grandfather. Lord knows, I would have made an abysmal grandmother. I have no patience with children at all.”
“Now, you wouldn’t say that if you could see how Lori’s been prancing around the living room on her tippy-toes all week. She thinks you’re the greatest.” They sat side by side, listening to the silence, watching Mickey patiently cast out his line, then reel it slowly in, over and over again. But the peaceful setting and calm stillness of the afternoon were lost on Wilhelmina as her mind churned with images of Faith College, and her heart mourned her loss.
Mike drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “Ahhh . . . isn’t that a lovely smell, Willymina? The forest . . . the moss and dry leaves . . . the earth? It’s the richest perfume ever made.”
Wilhelmina took a tentative sniff. “Yes, I guess it is rather nice. I hadn’t noticed.”
The wind picked up as the fall afternoon began to fade, and she shivered in her thin sweater. “Hey, you’re cold,” Mike said. “Here, take my jacket.”
Before she could protest, he shrugged off his scruffy leather bomber jacket and draped it across her shoulders.
“Now you’ll be cold.”
“I’ll build a fire.” He scurried around the clearing, gathering fallen branches, breaking them into smaller pieces over his knee, piling them on a bare patch of ground beside the picnic table.
“Is it legal to build a fire in a state park?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t you think you should ask permission before you build one?”
Mike bit his lip, and she knew he was suppressing laughter. He strode over to the nearest tree and tapped respectfully on the trunk. “Excuse me, sir. Do you mind if we build a fire here? My friend’s feeling a bit chilly.” He turned back to Wilhelmina, grinning broadly. “He said it was all right with him as long as we’re careful.”
Mike’s little routine was so comical, his smile so infectious, her own question so ridiculous, that Wilhelmina couldn’t help laughing out loud. “You must think I’m a pompous bore.”
“No, but I’m sure you think I’m a terrible scoundrel. Let’s see, how many crimes have I committed today? Kidnapping, fishing illegally, leading a minor into a life of crime, building a fire in a prohibited area . . .”
Wilhelmina smiled. “Oh, be quiet and light your fire. You didn’t kidnap me, I came willingly. And you can’t be accused of fishing unless you actually catch something. Besides, I heard that tall gentleman over there give you permission to light your fire, so go ahead.”
Mike quickly dug through all his pockets. “I can’t! I don’t have any matches!” They both laughed so helplessly that Mickey left his fishing pole and scrambled up the bank.
“What’s so funny, Grandpa?”
“Mickey, stay up here with the professor for a minute while I jog back to the truck to look for some matches.”
Buster and Heinz took off ahead of Mike as if they’d understood exactly what he said. Mickey sank down on the picnic bench beside her and stared at the ground.
“You can go ahead and fish if you want to,” Wilhelmina told him. “You don’t have to stay up here with me.”
“No, I’ll stay. Grandpa wants me to.” Mickey appeared glum, as if resigned to a terrible fate. He sat with his elbows on his knees, his head propped in his hands.
“Well, that’s a very responsible attitude for a young man to have.”
“I’m the oldest. Everyone expects you to be responsible when you’re the oldest. It’s OK for Pete to fool around and do dumb things because he’s the baby, but when I do something—even when it’s an accident, like breaking the TV remote control thing—my dad says, ‘You’ll have to pay for that. We expect you to act your age!’ Pete and Lori get away with way more than I do. I always have to watch out for Peter and take care of Lori . . . and she’s such an airhead. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t the oldest.”
He scooped up a fistful of gravel and began pitching stones toward the river. Wilhelmina couldn’t help thinking of her older brother. Father had made Larry responsible for walking her and Peter to school and back. He expected him to have a paper route and to deliver his early morning papers in all sorts of weather. Larry was told to be the man of the house during Father’s long preaching tours, and it seemed as though Larry had been a little adult from birth. Wilhelmina couldn’t remember him ever being a carefree, skipping child. No wonder he still felt he had to take charge of every situation. She studied Mickey’s solemn face as he pitched his last stone into the river.
“You know, Mickey, I’ve never gone fishing in my life. I don’t know the first thing about it. But if you wouldn’t mind helping me climb down the riverbank in these dreadful shoes, I think I would like to learn.”
“Sure! Come on, Professor.” He took her hand and led her toward the path to the river. “Maybe you should take your shoes off and slide down the bank. It’s nice and sandy.”
She hesitated, then kicked them off. Mickey took both her hands and towed her to the bottom of the riverbank. Wilhelmina felt a peculiar sensation, like hundreds of insects scrambling up her legs, as her toes ripped through her nylons and the runs raced to the top of her pantyhose. But at least she had reached the bottom of the hill without breaking any bones.
“Now what do I do?”
“First you have to put the bait on the hook.” Mickey whipped the fishing pole around and accidentally snagged the front of Wilhelmina’s sweater with the hook, tearing a large hole. “Oh, no! I’m sorry!” His panicky attempts to free her caused more of the sweater to unravel. His face was a portrait of despair.
“It’s all right, Mickey. I always hated this sweater anyway. Here, let me get it.” She managed to twist the hook free, but the jagged hole in her sweater was irreparable. It would go into the garbage with her pantyhose. “OK, what do I do next?”
He produced a squirming, mud-encrusted worm from a tin can and held it out to her. “You gotta stick this on the hook.”
“Uhh . . . well, since this is my first time, how about if you put the bait on the hook for me, all right?”
Mickey scraped some of the mud off the doomed worm with his fingernail, then speared it heartlessly onto the hook.
“Oh, dear. That poor creature!”
“It’s only a dumb worm.” He handed her the fishing pole. “Now you have to cast it out in the river, like this.” He demonstrated with an imaginary fishing pole. “Only make sure you don’t let go of the pole.”
Wilhelmina gripped the pole, drew her arm back like Mickey had shown her, then threw a perfect cast out into the middle of the river.
“That was fantastic! Are you sure you never fished before?”
“I’m positive. You must be a good teacher. What’s next?”
“You just wait. If a fish starts to nibble on the worm, you’ll feel a little tug and the bobber will go under.”
“What’s a bobber?”
“See that little red thing floating out. . . ? Hey! It’s going down! You got a bite!”
“What?”
“Quick! Reel it in! Reel it in!”
“Oh, good heavens! Here, you do it, Mickey.”
“No way! That’s your fish, Professor. Just start turning the crank.”
Wilhelmina’s hands shook as she struggled to turn the reel. She could feel the resistance of the fish, fighting on the other end of the line. She cranked furiously. “How am I doing?”
“You’ve almost got it. You’re doing great.”
“Willymina? Mickey? Where are you?” she heard Mike calling.
“Down here, Grandpa. Hurry up, the professor caught a fish.” Mike scrambled down the bank and stopped beside her, panting slightly. She tried to hand him the fishing pole.
“Mike, take this thing, will you?”
“No way! I think it’s against the law to catch fish in a state park.” She stared at him, and his face split into a grin. “Grab the net there, Mickey, and wade out a little bit. Get ready to net it. She’s almost got it in now.”
“There it is, Grandpa! I see it!”
“Get the net under it.”
Wilhelmina kept turning the crank as Mickey flailed around in the water. “I got it!” he cried at last and waved the net in triumph. A tiny fish, no more than six inches long, flopped around in it like a grasshopper. Mike laughed until the tears came.
“I’ve seen canned sardines bigger than that!”
“Oh, Mike, set the poor little thing free! It’s only a baby.”
“You’re not supposed to feel sorry for the fish. How will we ever make a fisherman out of you?”
The words of Jesus sprang to Wilhelmina’s mind as clearly as if they’d been spoken aloud. Come, follow me . . . and I will make you fishers of men. But how should she begin? Surely fishing for men’s souls wasn’t as simple as fishing in a river.
“She felt sorry for the worm, too, Grandpa,” Mickey said.
It was true. Wilhelmina had felt more pity for the fish and for a soulless worm than she had for Mike. She had wanted nothing to do with him at first. Yet according to one of the verses on her 3” x 5” cards, God was not willing that any should perish. O Lord, do it, she prayed. Make me a fisher of men!
“Well, so much for your first fishing adventure,” Mike said, as he dropped the fish back into the river. “Hey, what happened to your sweater?”
Wilhelmina swallowed the lump of emotion in her throat. “I, uh . . . I had a little accident with the hook.”
“I see.” He bit his lip again. “Well, anyway, I found some matches, so we can start cooking supper if we want to.”
“Supper! Oh dear. I told Larry I would be back in time for the banquet.”
“Well, I guess if we headed back right away I could have you home in a little over an hour.”
Wilhelmina looked at her watch. “But by the time I got changed and everything else it would be too late. Never mind. I suppose I can miss the banquet this year.” She was amazed to discover how relieved she felt.
“You don’t seem too broken up about it. What were they serving?”
“Prime rib.”
“Well, I can beat that! Come on.” He took her hand to help her up the riverbank. His palm was warm and rough from his work. When they got to the top she could find only one shoe.
“I wonder what happened to the other one?”
“Uh, oh. Buster! Get over here!” The dog romped up to Mike with Wilhelmina’s soggy shoe dangling from his mouth. “Gimme that shoe, you stupid mutt!”
Buster wanted to play. He frolicked in front of them and refused to relinquish his hold on the shoe, no matter how loudly Mike yelled. Wilhelmina watched helplessly as the dog’s teeth tore through the leather.
“Please, Buster. I need my shoe,” she begged. Instantly, he dropped it in front of her. Mike scooped it up and slipped it, wet and slimy, back on her foot.
“Gosh, I’m really sorry about this, Willymina. I’d like to buy you a new pair.”
“Don’t be silly. They’re only shoes.”
Before long, Mike had a blazing fire lit. Wilhelmina sat beside him as he roasted a hot dog for her on a sharpened stick. When it was thoroughly charred, he folded a slice of bread around it and handed it to her. “There now. Doesn’t that beat a prime rib dinner?”
“Well, I don’t know . . . but my dinner companions are certainly more entertaining.”
They finished off the entire package of wieners. Wilhelmina couldn’t remember when a hot dog had tasted so good. Mickey ate most of the potato chips and the dogs ate the stale donuts. Then they sat around the fire for more than an hour talking and laughing and listening to Mike sing crazy songs like “Bicycle Built for Two” and “Swanee River.” He even convinced Wilhelmina and Mickey to join him in a round of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” until they all dissolved into laughter. None of them noticed the darkening sky or the threatening storm clouds until the first few raindrops began to fall.
“We’re going to get drenched!” Mike cried. “Mickey, you and the professor head back to the truck. I’ll get your fishing gear and douse this fire, hurry!”
Mickey dashed off and was soon well ahead of Wilhelmina. She stumbled down the trail in the deepening darkness alone, trying not to imagine how many wild creatures were lurking behind the trees. The rain fell harder and faster. Twice, Buster and Heinz startled her half to death when they bounded back through the woods to look for her. After several minutes, she no longer cared about snakes or any other creatures. She simply longed for the promise of warmth from the truck’s heater and shelter from the rain that streamed down in sheets.
By the time she reached the parking lot, Wilhelmina was drenched. She climbed into the cab beside Mickey but before she could close the door, both dogs scrambled in with them.
“Oh, no! Bad dogs! Get out! Out!” she cried, but they refused to go back out into the rain. Their wet-dog smell overpowered her. As they trampled her lap with their muddy paws she wondered if her skirt would be salvageable or if it would be consigned to the garbage, as well.
When Mike finally sprinted out of the woods and opened the door of the truck, he took one look at the four, wet, miserable creatures huddling in the cab and burst out laughing.
*****
It looked as if every light in Wilhelmina’s house was lit when they pulled into her driveway. Her brother’s car was parked near the garage. She looked at her watch. The Homecoming banquet must have ended earlier than usual. She said good night to Mike and Mickey, then crept through the back door, hoping to disappear quietly up the stairs and change her clothes before her brother noticed her.
But Larry was seated at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, still dressed in his suit and tie. Marjorie sat beside him, kneading a wadded up tissue. Her eyes were pink from weeping. Larry took one look at Wilhelmina and sprang to his feet.
“Good heavens! What happened to you? Have you been in an accident?”
She looked down at her clothes. Rainwater soaked the front of Mike’s scruffy bomber jacket and dripped from her stringy hair. Muddy paw prints and dog hair covered her skirt. A tail of yarn dangled from the jagged hole in her sweater as it slowly unraveled. A few tattered strings were all that remained of her pantyhose. Buster’s teeth marks perforated her right shoe. She suppressed the urge to giggle at her brother’s shocked expression.
“No, I’m fine, Larry.”
“Well, where on earth have you been? We’ve been worried sick about you!”
“I’m sorry. I thought you would be at the college. I never dreamed you would be worried about me. Is the banquet over already?”
“We didn’t go to the banquet.”
“Well, that’s silly. You could have gone without me—”
“Wilhelmina. The nursing home called right after you left. Father passed away.”