She looks at her own fishing pole, line already in the water. “Um, sure.” She passes her pole off to me a little longingly, but just when I’m about to volunteer myself up as cameraman—or make a strong suggestion that Paul put his phone away—Fran grins. Something has occurred to her because she’s like a dark lighthouse that someone just sent aflame to. “Actually, I’m happy to help.” She does sound happy.
But this is Fran… so the odds of her being up to something are high.
Rosalie pulls the collar of her jacket up. Her nose and cheeks are as pink as a ripe watermelon. She looks as if she’s chilled to the bone, which tracks with the cold look she sends from me to Fran. She likes Paul as much as I do. But Fran only winks back.
“You know what I heard?” Fran says, holding Paul’s phone outward, videoing his every move.
“What?” He smiles for the camera—and though Rosalie and I both have lines in the water, we can’t stop watching the scene before us.
“I heard there are fish in this lake that will eat a man’s hand if given the chance.”
I have no idea what Fran is up to. There is no such legend. She’s so theatrical, and Paul is eating it up.
“Really?” he says with a chuckle.
“Um, not true,” Janice, our fishing guide, says. She’s behind the wheel of this small aluminum fishing boat, one that’s barely big enough for the seven of us. But she’s listening to everything Fran is saying too. We all are.
Fran ignores the woman who’s been taking tourists out on this lake for thirty years. “It’s rare to see one, but they’re out there.”
“No. They aren’t,” Janice says.
Fran doesn’t even glance Janice’s way. She is in full character mode—nothing will stop her.
Zev and Mira listen too. Both have cast and peer out at the water that Fran is attempting to hype up.
“What kind of bait did you use?” Fran asks Paul.
He doesn’t stare at Fran, but right into the camera—they’re playing out this odd scene together apparently. “The fastest worm I could find.”
A fast worm? What does that even mean?
“Aren’t we all using worms?” Mira whispers to Zev.
Then, as if on cue—as if the lake is playing along with Fran—Paul’s pole jerks, and Fran jumps with the yank. His hands tighten around the handle, and his expression of shock is almost sincere.
“It’s a big one,” he tells Fran through a chuckle.
Fran peers into the water and gasps—not nearly as genuine; no, she is still in theater mode. “Itisa big one.”
“The Mackinaw trout can get up to thirty-seven pounds,” Janice says. She stares at Paul’s arrhythmic pole. “He doesn’t have one.”
Fran moves the camera angle of Paul’s phone, slow and deliberate.
“What are you doing?” Paul asks. “Camera on me, Fran. Please.”
“But this fish,” Fran says, as if she’s telling us all a ghost story. “It could be big enough to swallow a man’s hand whole.”
“It’s not,” Janice says.
We’re all watching as Fran ignores Paul’s pleas and moves the angle of his phone down to the water, videoing his line, the sea, and possibly his fish. She lowers her hand until it’s just out of sight. “There he is!” she says just before she lets out a crying howl. Her body jerks as she throws half of herself over the side of the boat.
“My phone!” Paul shrieks, sounding a whole lot like my fourteen-year-old sister.
“My hand!” Fran yells back. She lifts her arm into view,her fingers tucked tightly into the sleeve of her flannel shirt. She lifts her arm, showing it to us as if her hand has been taken.
“Good grief,” Janice mutters.
“No! My phone!” Paul squeals again. This time, he covers his face with both hands, letting go of his fishing pole altogether. The spinning rod bounces up to the bow of the boat, the butt smacking Fran in the head before slipping into the water.
