The Boy Who Sat Still At Sunrise

The second day

Saturday morning went the same as Friday. Todd at the top of the dock with his coffee.

Newell and Rollo climbing in. Asher standing in his life vest, rod in hand, waiting to be told.

“Bank, bud,” Todd said. “You’re the shore patrol today.”

Rollo said, “Dad, he could sit in the middle. I’ll scoot.” And Todd said, “Rollo, I said no,” and Rollo looked at Asher like he was sorry, which I will remember about that boy for the rest of my life.

So it was the bank again. I brought a blanket this time and a thermos.

Asher caught one more bluegill and a little perch, and he told me perch have stripes so they can hide in the weeds.

The boat came in for lunch. It had been a slow morning, and Todd was short with everybody.

Newell had a small pike, and Todd was cleaning it at the board at the end of the dock.

Asher had been saving a question all morning. I could see it in him.

He walked down the dock slow, the way I had asked him to, and he waited until Todd looked up, which I had also asked him to do.

“Uncle Todd,” he said, “do walleye eyes shine at night because of a layer in the back called the tapetum lucidum? Because I read that, and I want to know if it’s true for real.”

Todd did not even stop the knife. “Buddy, nobody cares,” he said. “Go on back up by your mom.”

Asher stood there for a second. Then he turned around and walked back up the dock and sat down on the blanket next to me.

He did not cry. He did not flap. He folded his hands in his lap and went very, very still.

That stillness hurt worse than any tears would have. I have seen my son cry a thousand times over loud noises and scratchy shirts.

I had never seen him go quiet like that, like he was trying to make himself smaller than he was.

After a while he said, “I’ll be quieter tomorrow. Then maybe I can go.”

And I put my arm around him and looked out at the water and did not trust myself to say anything at all.