The fish bite.”
Mr. Clem smiled. “You’re a good girl. Just be careful, okay?” Then he walked back to his car and drove away.
I continued fishing for the rest of the afternoon. I was nowhere closer to saving Mother’s business than I’d been before I’d started my investigation. In fact, it was just the opposite: I was more confused than ever about Mr. Clem.
But then I remembered what Daddy used to say about thinking. He claimed the brain works best when you stop thinking and start fishing.
And just then I got a bite.
I reeled it in slowly. It was a beautiful channel catfish with iridescent gills that sparkled in the sunlight like jewels. Probably a five-pounder, I thought. Big enough to eat, but I didn’t like to kill fish. Neither did Daddy. We’d always operated on a catch-and-release policy.
I gently removed the hook. As I did, I saw that the fish had something small and white in its mouth. It fell out on the grass as I tossed the fish back in the lake.
It was a tooth. A human tooth. I threw it in the tackle box and walked home.
That night after dinner (Salisbury steak TV dinners and burnt Parker House rolls—again), I took my Pertinent Facts & Important Information book out to the front porch and began to write another letter.
Dear Daddy, Wayne Junior, and Lilac Rose,
Well, I have lots to tell you about an investigation I’ve started on that fella named Clem I wrote you about last night. But first I want to say that I used Daddy’s tackle box today. I’m guessing you don’t need it where you are, Daddy, but I wanted to let you know. Anyway, I didn’t catch much today. Just a catfish that had a tooth in its mouth. A human tooth! Can you imagine some unlucky fisherman losing a tooth while trying to open a beer bottle?
I wrote for more than an hour that night, mostly about Clem and the things he told me. I ended the letter like this:
P.S. Mr. Clem says swimming in lakes is very dangerous and only foolish teenagers do it. What do you make of that, Wayne Junior? (Don’t worry. I won’t rat you out to Mother.)
Fifteen
Parade of Fools
The annual Fourth of July parade was always a big deal in Digginsville. Kids decorated their bikes with crepe paper and rode down Main Street and around the little cluster of side streets we called the neighborhood. Members of troops, clubs, and associations carried banners made from bedsheets and marched behind the bike riders. Anyone with a fancy car drove it behind the marchers.
When I came downstairs for breakfast that Fourth of July, I found Mamaw in our kitchen. She had filled Lilac Rose’s old baby carriage with my dolls and was feeding them breakfast.
“The babies are going to be in the parade,” she announced.
I stared at my grandmother. She was still in her nightgown. Her hair looked like a gray tumble-weed.
“Have you told Mother you’re doing this?” I asked a little meanly.
“ I’m the mama,” Mamaw said sulkily, stroking a life-size baby doll and pressing a Cheerio to its red plastic lips.
This was a disaster! How had she even reached the dolls off the high shelves in the basement where I’d hidden them the night before?
“I’d sure hate to see those pretty babies get run over by a fire truck,” I said. “You remember how the fire truck always drives by at the very end of the parade, don’t you?”
Mamaw bit her bottom lip. “I don’t like when my babies get hurt,” she said sadly.
Mother came into the kitchen. She was wearing a sleeveless white dress with a belt that made her look thin as a broom handle. She’d gotten even skinnier since the crash.
“Park the carriage in the breezeway,” she ordered. “Babies aren’t allowed at the parade. Too dangerous for them. Now go get dressed.”
Mamaw did as she was told. Her brain wasturning to mush, but even she recognized the futility of disobeying Mother.
Shortly before ten o’clock, we went outside. Uncle Waldo was standing in front of his house with a coffee cup in
Mr. Clem smiled. “You’re a good girl. Just be careful, okay?” Then he walked back to his car and drove away.
I continued fishing for the rest of the afternoon. I was nowhere closer to saving Mother’s business than I’d been before I’d started my investigation. In fact, it was just the opposite: I was more confused than ever about Mr. Clem.
But then I remembered what Daddy used to say about thinking. He claimed the brain works best when you stop thinking and start fishing.
And just then I got a bite.
I reeled it in slowly. It was a beautiful channel catfish with iridescent gills that sparkled in the sunlight like jewels. Probably a five-pounder, I thought. Big enough to eat, but I didn’t like to kill fish. Neither did Daddy. We’d always operated on a catch-and-release policy.
I gently removed the hook. As I did, I saw that the fish had something small and white in its mouth. It fell out on the grass as I tossed the fish back in the lake.
It was a tooth. A human tooth. I threw it in the tackle box and walked home.
That night after dinner (Salisbury steak TV dinners and burnt Parker House rolls—again), I took my Pertinent Facts & Important Information book out to the front porch and began to write another letter.
Dear Daddy, Wayne Junior, and Lilac Rose,
Well, I have lots to tell you about an investigation I’ve started on that fella named Clem I wrote you about last night. But first I want to say that I used Daddy’s tackle box today. I’m guessing you don’t need it where you are, Daddy, but I wanted to let you know. Anyway, I didn’t catch much today. Just a catfish that had a tooth in its mouth. A human tooth! Can you imagine some unlucky fisherman losing a tooth while trying to open a beer bottle?
I wrote for more than an hour that night, mostly about Clem and the things he told me. I ended the letter like this:
P.S. Mr. Clem says swimming in lakes is very dangerous and only foolish teenagers do it. What do you make of that, Wayne Junior? (Don’t worry. I won’t rat you out to Mother.)
Fifteen
Parade of Fools
The annual Fourth of July parade was always a big deal in Digginsville. Kids decorated their bikes with crepe paper and rode down Main Street and around the little cluster of side streets we called the neighborhood. Members of troops, clubs, and associations carried banners made from bedsheets and marched behind the bike riders. Anyone with a fancy car drove it behind the marchers.
When I came downstairs for breakfast that Fourth of July, I found Mamaw in our kitchen. She had filled Lilac Rose’s old baby carriage with my dolls and was feeding them breakfast.
“The babies are going to be in the parade,” she announced.
I stared at my grandmother. She was still in her nightgown. Her hair looked like a gray tumble-weed.
“Have you told Mother you’re doing this?” I asked a little meanly.
“ I’m the mama,” Mamaw said sulkily, stroking a life-size baby doll and pressing a Cheerio to its red plastic lips.
This was a disaster! How had she even reached the dolls off the high shelves in the basement where I’d hidden them the night before?
“I’d sure hate to see those pretty babies get run over by a fire truck,” I said. “You remember how the fire truck always drives by at the very end of the parade, don’t you?”
Mamaw bit her bottom lip. “I don’t like when my babies get hurt,” she said sadly.
Mother came into the kitchen. She was wearing a sleeveless white dress with a belt that made her look thin as a broom handle. She’d gotten even skinnier since the crash.
“Park the carriage in the breezeway,” she ordered. “Babies aren’t allowed at the parade. Too dangerous for them. Now go get dressed.”
Mamaw did as she was told. Her brain wasturning to mush, but even she recognized the futility of disobeying Mother.
Shortly before ten o’clock, we went outside. Uncle Waldo was standing in front of his house with a coffee cup in
Similar Books
