After, as they were gathering their belongings to go, she stopped him a moment. “Why, Devon? Why do you do all these nice things for other people? I know plenty of Christians who go to church on Sundays and recite a bunch of Bible verses and call it good. Why do you go to all this extra trouble?”
He shrugged. “It just says so in the Bible.”
She mulled that over, not really understanding. Devon dug in his backpack, pulled out his thick black worn-leather Bible, and turned to the first page. Rebecca gazed at the pages, slightly yellowish with age. It was the kind of book that looked like it’d been really handled. A brown stain, maybe coffee or soda, was dribbled at the edge, and on the right side, Rebecca could see births, deaths, and marriages written in a neat hand. On the left, written in bold hand, were more words. Devon turned the book so she could see. The pages looked delicate, but Devon handled it like it was a tool, not some fragile artifact. The births and deaths page had a strip of Scotch tape over a large, diagonal tear.
“Faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead. James 2:17,” Rebecca read aloud.
“That was Mama’s favorite scripture.” Devon traced the words with his finger. “She said you can’t earn your way into heaven, but if you really, really believe, then you oughtta want to do some good things to help people. Like Jesus did.”
“Wouldn’t it be nice if people actually did that,” she muttered. “Most of the Christians I know spend a lot more time judging instead of doing good stuff in the world.”
“Not your Granny.” Devon’s eyes were wide, and she knew she shouldn’t have said that. He was a kid, for goodness’ sake. Plus, he was right.
“No, definitely not my Granny.” A little stab settled in her chest. “And not you, either, clearly. You know what, I shouldn’t have said that. It’s not true.”
“I know some people like that too, Miss Becca. Just ’cause you’re Christian doesn’t make you perfect. It only means you’re going to heaven someday. But the way I see it, you got to do stuff. And even though I’m a kid, I can do a lot.”
“I wish more people felt the way you do, Devon.”
He shrugged, snagged one last fry.
“Most people I know do,” he said. “Most people are pretty good deep down. That’s what Mama always said. You just gotta get to know them.”
???
When she got home, Granny had already headed to church for her knitting circle. The four o’clock burgers meant Rebecca wasn’t hungry, and she wandered the house, restless, though from the day or the talk with Devon, she wasn’t certain. She didn’t feel like working, and she’d already done her run that morning.
Climbing the stairs to her room, she glanced at the framed Bible verses and pictures on the wall, and her eye fell on a photo from that first summer in Dahlia, when Gramps had taken her fishing and she’d caught her first largemouth bass, a fourteen-inch fish Granny had cooked for supper that night. That had been a good day, she remembered, one of the first truly happy memories they’d made that summer.
Then she realized exactly how she wanted to spend her evening.
The Wahca River was deserted when she arrived, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was her first time fishing in twenty-three years, and she didn’t want anyone to see how rusty she was. She set her rod and tackle box down, closed her eyes a moment to savor the silence and the scent of loblolly pines and cedars.
A crackle startled her, and she looked up to see a squirrel bound out of a tree, notice her, then scramble back quickly. She grinned at it. Hey, little guy. I won’t hurt you. She didn’t blame him. She’d run, too.
Like Gramps had taught her all those years ago, she found a branch and dug a foot-and-a-half-deep hole in the ground. She propped the fishing rod in the hole, ratted through the mini tackle box for a red rubber worm, and secured it to the hook. Then she flipped the reel to release the line, swung her arm back and cast in a decently smooth arc right where she was hoping to land. Nice. Sometimes, it really was like riding a bike.
She settled the rod back in its little prop hole, dug in her backpack for the thin blanket, and spread it out on the ground.
But forty minutes later, she didn’t have a single nibble on her line. She was bent over, sifting through the tackle box for another fishing lure, when she heard voices behind her.
“Hey Daddy! Isn’t that your friend?” a boy asked.
She looked up to see Josh Jamison and his son JJ, the sandy-haired, freckle-faced mini-Josh, approach. Their dog nosed behind them, a bright blue collar and tags jangling merrily as he sniffed and pawed at moss and smells galore. They, too, had fishing rods, and JJ carried a big white bucket. Josh smiled apologetically.
“Mind if we crash your party? I’ll share.” He held up a large Styrofoam container labeled “live bait” and raised his eyebrows in question.
She found herself grinning back at them. “Sure. Nothing’s biting, though.” She motioned to the river, where her line was still drifting somewhere in the depths of freshwater.
“Whaddaya have on it?” JJ peered up at her.
“A red rubber worm. That’s probably my problem.” She shrugged sheepishly.
“Oooh, oooh, Dad, can I put one’a the worms on her hook? Please? Please, can I?” He hopped on one foot, clasped his hands together dramatically, and Josh and Rebecca laughed.
“He’s totally your kid,” she said.
Josh’s smile looked mischievous. “Got that right. Of course, kiddo. As long as Miss Rebecca’s okay with it.”
