The orchard was closed for Thanksgiving and the day after, so I didn’t technically need to be at work. But George had asked if he could see me on Friday, and I’d said yes. Ian was filming, and I’d told Sophia that George was fine with me for the day if she wanted to sightsee or explore.
The weather was chilly but not too cold, and by midday, the sun was shining brightly in a cloudless sky. So I texted Maggie a quick note and then found what I was looking for in the shed behind my parents’ house before making my way across the road to pick up George.
“We’re going fishing? Really, Joanie?” he asked when he saw me.
The “Joanie” was new. It seemed like he’d picked up the nickname yesterday from my family.
“Yep. I have all the gear we’ll need.”
He pumped a little fist in the air, and I laughed, happy to see him come out of his quiet, reserved shell so much lately. He seemed like a different kid when compared to the one who’d silently watched me work and rarely smiled.
We made our way across the yard and down the hillside. Junior and Nola’s house overlooked the pond at Grandpappy’s, but several attractions wereclosed in the winter, so there were fewer tourists about. All the u-pick operations were out of season. Most visitors were up at the General Store or over by the Orchard Bake Shop.
My truck was parked on the worn tractor path right next to a cherry tree beside the water. There was a bench and a scattering of Adirondack chairs nearby as well.
I showed George the fishing rods I’d brought. There was a kid-sized one that Brady had used many years ago. It had a little case and was still in good shape.
We worked on casting for a while. It took some time, but the kid’s movements evened out. He was eventually able to coordinate swinging the rod and releasing the line.
“Okay, let’s go bait our hooks,” I said, and moved toward the plastic container of nightcrawlers I’d left on the bench.
I was mostly going to do this part on my own. Hooks were sharp and dangerous, and he could learn just by watching.
But when I glanced over to George, he was pale, staring at the worms with a stricken expression.
“That’s bait?” he asked, in a small voice.
Patting the seat next to me, I nodded. “Yeah. They’re worms. Fish like to eat them.”
“And you poke them on the hook like that? Alive?”
His horrified frown had me shifting in my seat. “Uh, yeah.”
I guess I’d never considered the life of an earthworm. But to a sensitive kid who loved animals, I could see how this might come as a shock.
Quickly, I thought about what I had in my truck. The food pantry in town was always depleted following Thanksgiving. Using most of their stores, they put together holiday meals for families in need. They usually put a call out afterward to replenish their shelves. I was planning on dropping off a load of canned goods the next time I was in town. They were currently bagged up in the backseat of my truck.
“I have an idea,” I said. “Sit tight.”
George watched me carefully put the lid on the moving nightcrawlers before I hurried over to my truck.
A minute later, I returned to the bench.
Grateful for the pop top, I opened the vacuum-sealed can. “Fish like corn, too.”
“Okay,” the boy said, brightening a little.
He studied the way I carefully loaded each yellow kernel onto the length of the hook. When I was finished with both of our rods, I smiled at George. But he looked uneasy again.
“What’s the matter?”
“How does the fish get the corn off the hook?”
I hesitated. “The fish goes after the hook. The corn is bait.”
“Like a trick?”
“Well, yeah.” My voice was soft when I admitted, “That’s fishing, George. I’d planned on releasing whatever we caught. Right back into the water.”
