“Which is the biggest?”
“Carp.”
“Then I want me a carp.”
“He’s big and fat, but the flavor’s not too good. He’s what’s used for gefilte fish.”
“Well, 10 million Jews can’t be wrong.”
“On carp, they could be.”
“He’s big?”
“Oh, big and fat and thick.”
“I want carp.”
“Then we’ll go where carp is.”
I explained that pike and muskalong like it out in the middle, catfish down on the bottom, but carp up in the shallows, “so that’s where we’ll go after him.” On the near side, above my landing, was a creek that had no name, for the reason that it wasn’t there except in flood time. But it was flood time now, and I had an idea that carp might like it. So I rowed over, past the snag, past the lower end of the island, and on up to the creek mouth. Jill had never fished before, and I explained what she should do — drop the line overboard, let it run till she felt it touch bottom, then pull it up a few inches, to leave the baited hook above the mud, where the fish would swim to feed. So she reached in the can for a shrimp, baited the hook, and dropped the line overboard. She had hardly pulled it off bottom when she gave a little squeaclass="underline" “Oh! It twitched! I could feel it! It was a nibble!” But I had her pull in, and of course her hook was bare. We baited the hook and she tried again. Then 10 or 12 feet away, a flash of silver showed, but a big flash, to the sound of a loud flop. “Dave!” she yelped. “One is out there, a great big one. I could see him!” She pulled in, checked that her hook was still baited, and then started swinging it around, I suppose to throw it out where she’d seen the fish. But in mortal terror I crouched down in the boat, yelling, “Don’t do that! Stop it! Stop whirling that hook around! Do you want it to rip out my eye?”
She hadn’t thought of that.
But the tree saved her the trouble, the one we were pulled in beside, a big white sycamore sticking out of the water just off our bow. Ordinarily it was on land, but with the river in flood, the water had risen around it, so the boat was almost touching it, and the hook, where she’d whirled it around, had snagged in the tree, so we wouldn’t be catching fish until we got it out. I told her: “First, sit down. Sit down, keep still, and stop hollering.”
She did.
“Now, take hold of me and move from the stern to the bow. Don’t stand up — or you could go overboard.” To trim the boat, I moved from the cross-seat, where I was, to the stern, where she had been. “Now wait till I snug the boat in, jam it against the tree, and hold it tight with the oar.”
She did.
I bumped the bow to the tree, then held it tight by shoving an oar to the bottom. The water at that point was no more than two feet deep, so it made as firm a fix as is possible with such a boat.
“Now reach as well as you can without standing up and try to loosen the hook. It has a barb on it, so you may have to twist it. But if you can get your fingers on it, you should be able to get it out.”
She reached, but then said: “I have to stand up.”
“No! Please! To hell with the hook. Let’s go home and have the lamb.”
“It’s OK. There’s a hollow here on the side that I can hook my fingers into so if I do lose my balance, I can hang on. Hold everything! I can feel the hook, I’m wobbling it. I have it — wind it in.”
I did, but she didn’t sit down. She said: “I have to shift my position, so I don’t go plopping down between the tree and the boat.”
“For God’s sake, be careful — I can’t help you. I have to hang onto this oar so I can steady the boat.”
“There’s something else in here.”
“Probably a hive of bees. Leave it alone.”
“It’s not bees, it’s—”
She handed something to me and asked me to take it, but I dared not let go of the oar, where I had it jammed on bottom, or the boat would veer off and drop her in the water. She said: “It has straps on it and one of them’s caught on something. I can’t get it loose.”
I had a Boy Scout knife in my pocket. I opened it and gave it to her. She tried to take it from me but couldn’t hang onto whatever it was she had and stretch far enough to get it. I held onto the oar in the water with one hand, then with the other picked up the second oar, laid it on the cross-seat, put the knife on it, and that way lifted it to her. She took it, cut, and then flung something into the boat. Then she stooped down to the front seat and at last was back in. I said: “Let’s go home. Let’s look at what you found.”
“Yes, I think we better.”
We rowed back, beached the boat, then felt our way up the path, and on into the house, both afraid to wonder what we had, yet both hoping. But when we turned the light on we saw what we always knew it would be. There was the red zipper bag, the one Shaw had had, all stuffed out tight, with the end of one strap cut off, where it had caught in some crack inside the hollow. We looked at each other and kissed. Then we pulled the zipper and there the money was, pack after pack of twenties, 100 to the pack, with printed wrappers around them, each reading $2,000. When we felt them, they were damp but not soaking wet.
“Of course,” she exclaimed. “The bag went in the river, too, and water would seep in, but only a little bit at a time, through the zipper. It wasn’t more than a minute before he climbed out beside me.”
“I think we could dry those bills in the oven,” and I snapped it on.
But after a moment or two, she said, “Dave, why couldn’t we use your plate, that steel thing you have, for cooking fritters? We could heat it, then turn off the heat, put the packs on, and let them stay there and bake. That way, they couldn’t burn, but at the same time, we could see what we’re doing.”
“OK.”
So that’s how we did it and pretty soon came out with nice new money, all dry, all perfect. “And you know what, Dave?” she whispered. “What the beauty part is? It’s all mine! I have the paper to show — Bob York gave it to me.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Wonderful.”
“But that’s not all.”
“Yeah? What else?”
“It’s all ours.”
“Little Jill, it’s yours.”
“But what’s mine is yours. After all, you’re God.”
It was beautiful being with her in the kitchen, knowing it had all turned out right and that now we could be happy. She got the paper out of her bag and let me read it. It was in the form of a letter, signed by Russell Morgan, president of Trans-U.S.&C., and listing the bills by number.
Then it said something like: “I hereby, as president of Trans-U.S.&C, and by the authority of its directors, do give, assign, and convey the said bills to you, in acknowledgment of your gallantry, bravery, and quick thinking, in saving a valuable plane and the lives of twenty-eight passengers, a pilot, copilot, and stewardess—” I read it, and then she let go of my hand to get up and kiss the money, every pack. I said: “Hey, watch it, you’ll blister your mouth.”
“You can kiss it and make it well.”
“Come here.”
She came, and we started being happy all over again. Then she asked: “Dave, what about her?”
“What about who?”
“Well, who do you think? We know who put it there. She has to be the one.”
“Then — she put it there.”
“Well, what do we do about her?”
“Leave me out.”
“What do I do about her?”
After a long time, I asked: “Do you have to do anything?”
“OK, but what do I say?”
“In what way, say?”
I knew what she meant, of course. She couldn’t just find this money, bank it, and not tell anyone. She would have to tell Mr. Morgan, and from then on the thing would have to come out — in the papers, to Edgren, to Mantle, to everyone. And yet, I couldn’t make myself face it. Face up to it, is what I’m trying to say. Because Mom had stolen that money, of that there could be no doubt. And it belonged to Jill, of that there could be no doubt. And Mom had tried to get her killed, of that most of all, there could be no doubt. And yet I was ducking the rap, and I knew why. I was mountain and that’s how we do — stand by our kin regardless, no matter how guilty they are.