11
CAY DOESN’T PROTEST, SO I LIFT OFF HIS TOPPER. Then I work free the snake jaw and rehat his head.
I plop down beside Andy. She takes out a needle and thread from her saddlebag as well as the sack of chokecherries. I get to work unlatching my violin case. Inside is the Lady Tin-Yin, a member of the family for four generations.
The cousins peer down at us, both holding their elbows.
“Last time I checked, fish prefer the harmonica to the violin,” drawls West.
“Yeah, and they’d take a good mutton over chokecherries any day of the week,” Cay says around a smile. “I want the jawbone back after you lose.”
They swagger off, laughing. They’re so confident of victory, they think they can take their time. I eye the chokecherries, doubts creeping in. “Maybe this wasn’t my best idea.”
Andy threads a berry with her needle. “Don’t worry, this ain’t the bait, long as that ain’t the pole.” She nods toward my violin.
“Not in a blue fog.” From my violin case, I remove the spool I keep in case of a broken string. “Catgut is the strongest fishing line I know of.” Not to mention the most dear.
I unwind the string and attach the snake jaw to one end, careful not to stick my fingers. By the time I finish, Andy has threaded several more chokecherries, which she ties along the catgut.
“Isaac taught me this trick. These make good bobbers,” she says.
I find a flexible branch for the pole, and Andy cuts up slivers of bacon for the bait. We hurry the contraption down to the river.
“I ain’t got no patience, so you holds the pole while I run down the good spots,” she says. “You do know how to fish, right?”
“Sure.” I don’t disclose that Father usually handled the actual fish. A pang of sadness hits me again but I suck it up before we reach the boys.
We hear them talking behind some cattails.
“Gentlemen . . . ” I draw out the word, thinking I have time to play with their heads. Then I realize that Cay and West are shirtless, stripping leaves off their branches. When West carves a point on a branch with three slashes of his knife, I forget what I was going to say.
“Good luck,” I squeak out, dashing off after Andy.
She scrutinizes rocks and underwater plants where fish like to hide. A jumble of mossy stones peeking through the surface of the water catches her attention. She points toward them and I cast my line, then she scampers off to scout out other likely spots.
Downstream, Cay and West wade into the water.
“Over there!” Cay drags himself to a fallen tree that breaks the river’s flow.
My catgut drags on something, and I pull up. Springing onto my toes, I make out the silhouette of a fish.
“Yes!” I cry, hauling it in just as a breathless Andy returns to my side.
“Rápido, amigos, the boy caught something,” yells Peety, standing on a rock to oversee the action.
But it is just a pawpaw leaf.
“No,” I wail, untangling the leaf.
The boys laugh.
“We’re just waiting on the right one,” Andy hollers back.
West pulls back his spear, poised to strike. Cay holds his stomach with one hand, still laughing. “Hey, Sammy, how ya say ‘loser’ in French?”
“Chinito,” Peety yells at me. “You gonna let that ugly bum boss you?”
“Pick a side, vaquero, and stick on it,” yells Cay.
“Follow me,” says Andy, trotting back toward the boys and pointing again at the river. “That brown mess.”
I recast just short of a tangle of brown plants so my line doesn’t snag. Come on, fish!
Now Cay jabs his spear into the water. He curses. “That was just to scare ya. Next time, my arrow’s going in.”
“You’re catching fish, not sparrows,” yells Peety.
“Girls never leave my mind, even when I’m fishing. That’s why I’m such a crack hunter.”
“Pervert, you mean,” says West.
A shadow ventures out of the tangle and hovers over my bait, weighing whether the salty intruder is friend or feast. I glance at West, who is focusing on a spot. He is close, too.
“Chum the water,” Andy says, tossing a handful of bacon at my line.
The pretend worms float for half a second before fish lips poke at them from below. I feel a tug. The second tug comes a lifetime later, and I jerk my wrist up.
The fish fights now, which means I hooked it, but I don’t want my line to break. So I wait until it stops resisting before I reel in. Instead of giving up, my prey fights harder. If my line snaps, I lose.
“You gonna have to get wet,” says Andy, already pulling off my right boot.
“Do I have to?”
“Yes,” she barks, yanking off the other one.
With a farewell grumble, I step into the river. The icy water laps at my calves, but I grit my teeth and forge ahead. The fish leads me into the brown tangle, slimy and probably full of disgusting leeches. I glance back at Andy, revulsion pulling my face in different directions. Still clutching one of my boots, she gestures with it, go on already.
Just thinking about the leeches trips me and I find myself up to my chin in slippery brown strings. I bite my tongue to keep from screaming. Everyone must be watching my spectacle. I choke my pole with a death grip and pick myself back up.
Soon, a catfish the size of Texas blows me a cold-blooded kiss.
“Hallelujah!” Andy hollers.
Cay hollers, too, as West holds up his prize, a flounder still flapping at the end of his spear.
I stick my finger up my catfish’s gill so I don’t lose it and try to stop thinking about wet cow nostrils. The fish slaps my arm with its tail.
Peety tilts his brown face from the boys to Andy and me, his chin wedged between his thumb and index finger as he decides which of us caught our fish first. Andy raises her clasped hands toward heaven, her eyes squeezed shut.
Then the vaquero looks back at the boys. “Chinito wins by half a nose!”