Jimmy

by Robert Whitlow

  “Stop!” Grandpa called out.

  Jimmy pulled to the side of the road and waited. Another truck turned onto the road and passed them.

  “Can you ride fast?” Grandpa asked. “It’s going to be dark in a few minutes.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then go!”

  Jimmy took off on the bike. He never rode fast around town because of the stop signs and intersections, but on the flat, open road, he pedaled as furiously as he could. The bicycle tires made a whirring sound on the pavement as he picked up speed. The trees and underbrush beside the road flew by. He went in and out of shadows. With a final burst of speed, he reached the end of the road and a sign posted at the entrance to the pond. He put on his brakes and came to a halt. Breathing heavily, he looked back at Grandpa, who came up beside him.

  “You almost outran the truck,” Grandpa said through the open window. “I wasn’t sure that I could keep up with you.”

  Jimmy took a few more deep breaths.

  “It was like a wind sprint,” he said.

  “Five wind sprints,” Grandpa replied. “Put your bike in the back of the truck. I’ll drive you the rest of the way.”

  After Jimmy loaded his bike, they traveled a short distance down a dirt road and stopped. A man with a flashlight in one hand and a clipboard in the other stood in the middle of the dirt track that led to the water. Grandpa rolled down the window.

  “Good evening, Jim,” the man said, shining the flashlight into the cab of the truck. “Who’s that with you? One of your power-company buddies?”

  “He could be. Did you know Jimmy climbed all the way to the top of that pole in my backyard?”

  The man stuck his head in the window and let out a low whistle. “That’s amazing, Jimmy. Weren’t you scared?”

  “No, sir,” he answered. “I’m not afraid of being up high.”

  “Well, you’ve done something I’d never think about trying. Should I put both of you on the list?”

  “Yes, Gary,” Grandpa said, handing the man Jimmy’s money and taking bills from his wallet for his own entry fee. “How many are here?”

  “A bunch. Word is out, and I’ve taken money from folks who live in Carrollton, Griffin, Villa Rica, even Cartersville. If you have a favorite spot, you’d better go straight to it.”

  “Any estimate on the prize pot?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if it pushes a thousand. We’re going to limit the number of fishermen to fifty. It could get crowded at the popular spots.”

  Grandpa rolled up the window and drove toward a parking area beside a grove of tall pine trees.

  “Gary Webb’s family owns the pond,” he said to Jimmy.

  Grandpa stopped beside a shiny green SUV. There weren’t any run-down fishing cars. Most of the pickups and SUVs scattered under the trees would have been equally comfortable at a fancy Atlanta shopping mall.

  “Grab a couple of poles and the empty bucket,” Grandpa said.

  The long, sturdy poles looked more suited to surf casting than bank fishing in a seven-acre lake; however, large carp put up such a ferocious fight that they could snap smaller poles. Grandpa compared reeling in a twenty-five-pound carp to lassoing an angry bull and pulling him through a gate not quite wide enough to allow him to pass.

  Jimmy dropped his snack bag in a bucket and grabbed two poles. Grandpa filled his arms with two more poles, a small cooler, and a tackle box. On the other side of the pine grove, they entered the open area created by the small lake. In the deepening dusk, lights and lanterns brought by other fishermen wrapped around the pond like giant fireflies. Jimmy could see men crouched down or kneeling beside coolers that held secret bait mixes.

  “It’s the south end for us,” Grandpa said. “We’ll find a spot, and then I’ll go back to the truck for our lounge chairs. Fishing doesn’t start for another half hour. You can guard our cooler.”

  Jimmy followed Grandpa. Some men called out in greeting as they passed by.

  “What are you using tonight, Big Jim?” one man asked.

  “Apricot, and if that doesn’t work, chocoholic,” Grandpa answered as he kept walking.

  “I thought you liked strawberry,” Jimmy said.

  “He knows I’m kidding,” Grandpa replied. “In a contest everyone keeps their mix as secret as a witch’s brew.”

  “What’s that?” Jimmy asked.

  Grandpa grunted. “Don’t tell your mama I said that. She wouldn’t like it.”

  As they walked, Grandpa kept shining the flashlight back and forth from the water to the woods.

  “There it is,” he said. “Over on that tree.”

  Jimmy followed the direction of the light and saw a short yellow ribbon tied to the end of a small branch.

  “I marked this spot a few weeks ago because there is a steep drop-off directly across from that ribbon. It’s the deepest place on this end of the pond. Everybody else will crowd around the north end.”

  Sure enough, Jimmy could see a bunch of lights on the opposite side of the lake.

  Grandpa continued, “Our plan is to put out a nice dinner for the big fish that want to avoid a crowded wait at the other end of the pond. There will be no delays at the Mitchell restaurant.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They set up their gear on the bank with the tips of the poles facing the water.

  “Sit on the cooler and don’t get up until I come back,” Grandpa said.

  “What did you really put in the cooler?” Jimmy asked. “Is it wild cherry?”

  Grandpa put his finger to his lips. “I’ll tell you, but only if we’re partners.”

  “What do you mean by partners?”

  “We have to agree that if we win a prize, we’ll split the money equally. If I catch the biggest fish, I’ll give you half the money. If you catch the biggest fish, you’ll give me half the money.”

  “I’ll give you all the money,” Jimmy answered immediately. “You need it more than I do. Daddy has lots of money and buys me everything I need.”

  “True,” Grandpa said, chuckling, “but that’s not the way it works with partners. It’s share and share alike. Of course, you’ll have to pay back the fifty dollars your daddy gave you.”

  Jimmy thought a moment. “Okay, but if we win a prize, you keep most of the money and come to church with Grandma on Sunday.”

  “Who put that idea in your head?”

  “I did.”

  Grandpa took off his cap and ran his fingers through his hair. “I guess it won’t kill me to listen to Brother Fitzgerald more than once or twice a year. I’ll even put some of the money in the offering plate if that will make you happy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Grandpa turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Jimmy said. “What’s in the cooler?”

  Grandpa lowered his voice. “Some of the best grits a carp ever tasted. And I seasoned them just right with freshwater mussel flavoring.”

  “I’ve never heard of that one.”

  “I ordered it from a place in Canada. I bet no one else is using it. When I was scouting out this end of the pond, I baited up a hook and landed a couple of nice ones in less than an hour. The fish will swim right over the ordinary banana and strawberry flavorings and scoop up our fancy stuff.”

  Grandpa handed Jimmy the flashlight and left. Jimmy sat in the center of the cooler and shone the light across the water. Darker than the sky overhead, the surface of the water was covered with tiny ripples that made it seem to exhale in long breaths that ran beyond the reach of the light. Jimmy shuddered. He turned the light away from the water. It shone on a man’s face covered in a thick gray beard.

  Jimmy jumped.

  “Sorry, son,” the man said, holding his hand before his eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Jimmy lowered the flashlight. The man had a long fishing pole in one hand and a cooler like Grandpa’s in the other.

  “I’ve never been to this pond and wondered where they’re going to do the weigh-in.�
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  “You’ll have to ask my grandpa. He went to get our chairs. He’ll be back in a minute.”

  The man placed his cooler on the ground and extended his hand. Jimmy shook it without standing up.

  “I’m Alfred Walker. I drove over from Bartow County, but I fish for carp all over the state.”

  “I’m Jimmy Mitchell. I live in Piney Grove.”

  “A local. Do you fish here a lot?”

  “Yes, sir. My grandpa has brought me here since I was a little boy. He’s the best fisherman in the whole world.”

  “Is that right? What’s in your cooler?”

  Jimmy looked down at the white top of the container before answering.

  “Bait,” he replied.

  “Are you willing to share your recipe with a fellow fisherman?”

  Jimmy wanted to be respectful but wasn’t sure how to respond.

  “You’ll have to ask Grandpa,” he said after a moment’s pause. “He’s the one who mixed it up. He usually brings plenty.”

  Mr. Walker smiled. “And I guess you’re guarding it until he gets back.”

  “Yes, sir. We’re partners. That means if I win, I give him half the prize money.”

  “And if he wins, you get half the money?” Walker asked.

  “Yes, sir. But I’d give him most of it, because I don’t need money. Daddy and Mama buy me everything I need, and I already have a bike and a dog.”

  “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Buster.”

  Mr. Walker stroked his chin. “I’d like to be your partner, but that would be up to your grandpa. I’d hate to drive two hours over here and not even catch a small fish. Can you give me a hint about your bait?”

  “What’s a hint?”

  “A clue, an idea about what it is. If you don’t want to tell me it’s okay, but we could make it a guessing game.”

  Jimmy knew about guessing games. It was one of the ways he learned. Daddy let him ask questions, but instead of telling him the answer, he would ask another question that guided Jimmy to the solution. That way the information would stick in Jimmy’s mind. He thought for a second then pointed to his arm. Mr. Walker looked puzzled.

  “Arm bait?”

  Jimmy flexed his bicep like he’d seen the football players do. The other fisherman stared for a second and then smiled.

  “Mussel. He’s using freshwater mussel.”

  Jimmy grinned.

  Walker picked up his cooler and moved into the shadows. “Thanks, Jimmy,” he called as he disappeared from sight.

  Grandpa returned.

  “Who were you talking to?” he asked.

  “A nice man named Mr. Walker. He lives in Bartow County, but he fishes for carp all over the state.”

  Grandpa opened up the chairs and positioned them firmly on the grass. Beside them he stuck two rod holders in the ground.

  “What did he want?” he asked.

  “To play a guessing game.”

  “About what?”

  “Our bait recipe.”

  “Did you tell him?” Grandpa asked sharply.

  “No, I made him guess.”

  Grandpa relaxed. “I bet trying to guess freshwater mussel would be pretty hard.”

  — Twenty-eight —

  Jimmy had watched Grandpa prepare the bait for carp fishing many times. The bait consisted of a large gooey ball of grits seasoned with several teaspoons from the small bottle of fresh mussel attractant. Grandpa wrapped the glob around a hefty sinker positioned behind a large hook, then he attached a second, more complicated bait pattern to a device called a hair rig—a short line that extended in front of the hook. He carefully slid several tasty dough balls on the line and then surrounded the balls with more seasoned grits. In the middle of the two meals rested a naked hook.

  Grandpa had taught Jimmy a lot about carp. The slow-moving fish lived to eat, and as they swam along the bottom of a pond or river, they constantly inhaled and exhaled debris in an effort to find something edible. A sharp hook would be quickly discarded unless it rested in the middle of a delectable feast of grits, dough, or specially manufactured ground bait. After it was cast into the water, the grit-based bait disintegrated in a few minutes, creating a meal as beautiful to a carp as a plate of pecan waffles and syrup. With a meal set out in two directions, the carp could be caught coming to dinner or nibbling on dessert. As it scooped up the seasoned grits, the carp would also vacuum up the hook, which could be set with a stiff jerk.

  Grandpa elected not to go with a bare hook and carefully positioned a piece of corn cereal on its tip. He then doused the cereal in Texas Pete hot sauce. Jimmy squatted and watched.

  “When Moby Dick takes hold of this hook, the hot sauce will make him so mad that he’ll put on a run guaranteed to lock the hook in his jaw.”

  “That’s how I want my hook fixed up too.”

  “Only if you help me.”

  They worked together and finished as the air horn sounded, signaling the beginning of the tournament. They didn’t rush. Carp fishing was a marathon, not a wind sprint. Unlike bass fishing, which involved frequent casts to attract fish with moving targets, carp fishing was all about putting good bait in a good location, where it would stay for a long period of time. Grandpa walked to the edge of the water and carefully cast out to the area where the bottom of the pond sloped downward. He backed away and put his pole in one of the holders driven into the ground.

  Jimmy picked up his pole. They walked toward the water together. Jimmy held the pole out in front of him but wouldn’t go close to the edge.

  “Let me cast from here,” he said.

  “Did you see where mine landed?” Grandpa asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Cast to the right of it.”

  They took a few steps to the right. Jimmy held back his pole and let the bait sail across the water. It wasn’t a long cast—he didn’t want the bait to come off before sinking to the bottom of the pond. It plopped into the water with a splash that seemed loud in the stillness of the night.

  “Good job,” Grandpa said.

  They placed Jimmy’s pole in the other holder. Grandpa lit a small propane lantern and positioned it to shine on the tips of the rods. With everything in order, they sat down in the lounge chairs. Grandpa took off his Ready Kilowatt hat and rubbed his head. Jimmy did the same thing. At this point, carp fishing became more of a social event than a sporting contest.

  “Fixing up that bait made me hungry,” Grandpa said. “Did I see a couple of bananas in your bag of snacks?”

  “Yes, sir, but Mama also sent you a treat.”

  Jimmy reached in the bag and found the beef jerky. He held it out. Grandpa peeled back the wrapper, took a bite, and sighed.

  “If I were a fat old carp, I think this would be the bait I couldn’t resist.”

  Jimmy ate a banana and an oatmeal cream pie. He then opened a bottle of spring water. Grandpa poured coffee from a red thermos into a Styrofoam cup. They sat in silence as they ate the food. They caught shadowy glimpses of other fishermen who, like them, were settling into a night of waiting. Jimmy could see the glow of cigarettes and hear the clink of beer bottles being removed from coolers. He could smell Grandpa’s coffee.

  “Thanks for coming, Jimmy,” Grandpa said.

  “You’re welcome,” Jimmy replied.

  Grandpa took a couple of sips of coffee. “I’d rather go fishing with you than anyone else in the whole world.”

  “Why is that, Grandpa?”

  “Because I like watching you grow up into a fine young man. I mean, I loved you when you were a little boy, but now you’re a special young—” Grandpa stopped.

  “That’s okay,” Jimmy replied. “I know it can mean a good thing to be special when you’re the one saying it to me.”

  “That’s right. You’ve grown up enough that when difficult things happen in your life, you don’t let them keep you down. You have a lot of determination, which means you’re not a quitter.”

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p; “I climbed the pole. All the way to the top.”

  “Right.”

  “And I rode my bike from our house to the pond.”

  “Yes. And you’re going to high school and working as a manager for the football team. I believe you are going to surprise a lot of people with what you do in your life. Do you remember what I told you after you climbed the pole?”

  “That I have the heart of a champion.”

  Grandpa smiled. “That’s right. What else did I say?”

  “That I can do anything I want to do.”

  “Correct.”

  Grandpa ate the last bite of beef jerky. He placed his coffee cup on a bare spot on the ground.

  “Jimmy, do you ever think about the future?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “About what you’ll do after you graduate from high school.”

  Jimmy took off his cap and pointed to the skinny figure on the front. “I want to be like you and work for the Georgia Power Company.”

  “I know we’ve talked about it, but I can’t promise you that it will happen.”

  “I climbed the pole,” Jimmy said.

  “Yes, but there are other things you have to do as a lineman. It’s a hard job in a lot of ways.”

  “You can teach me. I won’t graduate from high school for”—Jimmy hesitated— “a while. I can learn a lot before that happens.”

  Jimmy glanced at their fishing poles. The tips of the fiberglass rods were as still as the night air.

  “Well, your mama asked me to talk to you about it,” Grandpa said. “She doesn’t want you to get disappointed if becoming a lineman doesn’t work out.”

  “Don’t worry. Mama loves me a lot. But she worries about everything. She’ll be proud of me when I become a lineman.”

  “She’s a good wife to your daddy and a good mama to you.”

  “Yes, sir. I thank God for her after she leaves my room at night. Not every night, because sometimes I go right to sleep, but whenever I’m not too tired, I tell him. He knows.”