by Lynn Austin
“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.”
Chapter 9
Monday, October 19, 1987
When the 7:25 a.m. commuter flight to New York roared overhead, Mike knew he had overslept. He willed his body to get out of bed, but like the rusty Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, his limbs refused to respond to his commands. He ached all over. Buster and Heinz heard him stirring and bounded into the bedroom, tails thumping, fur shedding, tongues lolling in greeting.
“Yeah . . . yeah, I know, guys. I’m late today. You probably need to go out, right?” Buster woofed in reply.
Mike slowly sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I know I’m slowing down on you, guys, but this old body I’m trapped in is giving out on me. There’s nothing I can do about it, either. I’m sorry, fellas.” He patted Heinz on the head and gave Buster a quick scratch behind the ears. Then he shuffled to the back door in his bathrobe and slippers to let the dogs out.
He watched them from the kitchen window as they romped around the backyard with boundless energy, stopping to sniff at each new smell or to peer up into the treetops for squirrels. Mike could remember feeling that way once, young and full of energy, the world a new and exciting place every morning. Deep in his heart Mike still felt that way. He still welcomed each day with a boundless zest for life. But his body, an aging Judas, had betrayed him.
In the distance, Mike heard a car door slam, and Buster and Heinz tore around to the side of the house, barking loudly. A moment later the front doorbell rang. Mike glanced at the kitchen clock. Who could it be at 20 minutes to 8 in the morning? He wasn’t even dressed yet.
When he opened the front door, Steve, Cheryl, and all three grandkids stood on his front porch. “Happy Birthday!” they shouted.
Mike turned 66 today. He hadn’t remembered. “I forgot what day it was!”
Lori handed him a box of doughnuts as they piled into his living room. “Did you eat breakfast yet, Grandpa?”
“No, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. Thank you.”
“I’ll put some coffee on, Dad,” Cheryl said, kissing him on the cheek. “Happy birthday.”
“Did we wake you up, Grandpa? You’re still in your pajamas.”
“No, Pete. I was already up. But, hey! Aren’t you kids supposed to be in school today?”
“Yeah, Dad says we have to go right after we give you your birthday present,” Mickey told him.
Steve flopped into Mike’s tattered recliner and eased it back. “Cheryl’s going to drive them later. I knew they’d never pay attention to their schoolwork if they didn’t give you your present first thing this morning.”
Mike held out both hands. “Well, let’s have it, then. I love unwrapping presents.”
For some reason Peter found this very amusing. He began to giggle. “It’s not here, Grandpa. And it’s not even wrapped because it’s—”
Lori clapped her hand over Peter’s mouth. “Be quiet! You’re not supposed to tell! Daddy, make him be quiet. He’s going to give it away.”
Steve laughed as he brought the recliner upright again. “Better get dressed, Dad. These kids can’t keep secret much longer. Hey, Cheryl. Make that coffee to go.”
When Mike was dressed they all piled into Steve’s station wagon. The kids squirmed with excitement. “You’ll be so surprised, Grandpa.”
“Not if you give it away, dummy.”
“I sure hope this surprise is nearby,” Mike said, “or I do believe one of these kids is going to burst like a balloon.”
Steve drove the familiar route to the airfield and pulled up beside a small, vacant hangar not too far from their own.
“Close your eyes, Grandpa,” Lori ordered. “And don’t peek.” Mike got out of the car and squeezed his eyes shut. Peter and Lori took his hands and slowly led him into the hangar.
“OK, you can open them.”
Steve switched on the overhead lights. “Ta da!”
A tattered airplane stood in the dimly lit hangar. It smelled like musty wood and castor oil. Mike gazed at it from end to end in disbelief.
“Is that a Fokker DR-1 triplane?”
“Yep.”
Mike walked slowly toward the plane, almost afraid the magnificent sight would disappear if he got too close. His eyes caresse
d every inch of it, from its sloping, down-turned tail, to its single, varnished wood propeller. He peered into the cramped, one-man open cockpit and stared up at the three tapering wings, piled one on top of the other.
“This is really mine?”
“Yep. Happy birthday, Dad.”
“Maybe it was the Red Baron’s plane,” Peter said.
“Well, this was the kind of plane he flew, all right.” Mike ran his hand over the faded, rotting fuselage, still unsure if he was dreaming. It was a genuine World War I vintage fighter plane. And it was his.
“Do you like it, Grandpa?” Lori asked.
“Honey, I love it! It’s beautiful! I . . . I’m speechless!”
Steve laughed. “That’s a first.”
“Where on earth did you find this? I can’t believe it.” Mike hoped he wouldn’t cry.
“It needs some work, as you can see,” Steve said, poking his finger through the aging canvas. “But I figured it would give you something to do when you retire.”
“Hey, are you trying to push me out to pasture?” Mike tried to frown, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. He was unable to erase the look of awe and wonder on his face as he gazed at his new plane.
“You’ve worked hard all your life, Dad. You deserve a retirement hobby. But if I know you, you’ll have this old relic airborne by springtime.”
For a moment Mike had forgotten. Now he remembered. He wouldn’t live long enough to sit in the cockpit and fly this beautiful, marvelous antique. He ducked under the triple wings to hide his tears and busied himself near the tail section. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t want to die. There were so many reasons to live, so much he still wanted to do. But his son, Mike Jr., probably hadn’t wanted to die either. He had been only 19 years old, with a girlfriend and a 1954 Chevy waiting for him back home. And Helen hadn’t wanted to die either. How she would have loved these grandkids of theirs. No, life wasn’t always fair. But he had enjoyed a lot more of it than Mike Jr. and Helen had. He should be grateful.
“I’ll help you paint it red, Grandpa,” Lori said. “And we can put those cross-things on it like the Red Baron’s plane.”
