The Catfish Off Grandpa’s Old Dock

Then Kevin looked over Mason’s head at me, and he said, “Can I see the picture?” I showed him.

He looked at it a long time. Then he handed my phone back and swallowed hard and said, “Send me that, Mom.”

I sent it to him right there. That night I printed it at the drugstore in town and put it on my refrigerator, under the magnet from the church cookbook.

The derby was Saturday. Kevin picked me up at six in the morning so we could get a good spot on the bank.

Mason was in the back seat in his yellow vest already, holding Lou’s rod between his knees like a soldier with a flag.

And Brittany was in the front seat. I had not known she was coming.

She said good morning to me, polite and stiff, and I said good morning back, and I got in the back with Mason and the tackle box.

It was another hot one. The state lake was flat and gray-blue in the early light, with mist still lifting off the far side.

By the time we got there, there were already trucks lined up along the gravel and kids everywhere.

There must have been fifty or sixty of them along the bank. Little ones with pink plastic rods and their daddies hovering.

Big ones of fourteen and fifteen who acted like they did not care and cared terribly.

The county had set up a folding table by the boat ramp with a scale on it and a big cooler of water.

A man named Mack from the conservation club was running it, with a clipboard and a bullhorn he did not seem to need.

There were old men all up and down that bank too. Some of them had grandkids in the derby.

Some of them, I believe, just came every year to watch and give advice whether anybody asked for it or not.

Kevin found us a spot on the bank down past the ramp, near a fallen tree in the water.

He set the tackle box down and opened up the folding chair for me. I sat. I am not too proud to sit.

Brittany did not sit. She stood about twenty feet back from the water, up on the grass, with her arms crossed tight over her chest.

She had a coffee in one hand and she did not drink it.

I could see her watching that yellow vest. Every time Mason leaned toward the water, I could see her whole body lean with him, like she was tied to him with a string.

I wanted to go up there and stand with her. I wanted to tell her I knew.

But I did not think she would want me to, so I stayed in my chair and minded the bait.

At seven sharp Mack blew a horn and hollered that the derby was open. Fifty-some lines hit the water all at once.

Mason baited his own hook, threaded that crawler on like a sock, and cast out toward the fallen tree.

For two hours, nothing much happened for us. Kids up and down the bank caught bluegill and little bass and one big carp that caused a commotion.

Mason caught one bluegill about the size of my palm and let it go.

He got a little discouraged around nine. He asked if he should try somewhere else.