After I toss out my fishing line, I push the bottom of my cane pole into the soft riverbank, so I can sit on the ground and hold it with my knees. My pole is special – green and blue paint swirled around three yellowy bamboo pieces. Daddy bought it for my seventh birthday last summer. He even put on a blue and yellow bobber to match its colors instead of a white and red one. But, the bobber hasn’t moved all morning; not even one nibble. Its shiny yellow top floats on the dark water where two pale green dragonflies hover above it. I wish they were fairies who’ve come to take me far away from this place.
When the dragonflies move to the opposite bank, I raise the bobber to check my bait. The once pink worm is now yucky white. Some bugs skim across the river’s surface, daring the fish to snatch them. They skittle away when I swing my line toward them and the bobber plunks on the water. Secretly, I hope no fish tries to eat the worm because I feel bad when their mouths tug on the hook.
Everyone knows when the sun rises high in the morning, the fish stop biting. I tried to explain this to Momma earlier this morning when she said she was taking us to fish in the river behind Grandpa’s tavern.
“Nonsense,” she said. “You’ll be in the shade. The fish don’t know where the sun is.” She has frog eyes that pop out of her face. When they look like they’ll burst, I know she’s ready to spank us kids. “Put on your sandals and get in the car.” I moved before she could swat me.
Even though the tavern is just an hour’s drive from where we live in the city, it seems like it takes a thousand years. When we arrive, Momma covers us with greasy bug-spray that gets in our mouths and makes our lips puff up. “Stay out of the water, and don’t come up to the tavern until I call you for lunch.” Then she pushes us out the back door.
Time goes so slow when we fish without Daddy or Grandma. “I told you not to say anything to Mom. Now we have to stay down here extra-long because of you.” Kelly, my older sister, flares her Ferdinand the Bullnostrils when she smirks at me. She’s ten and thinks she knows everything. Ryan, our five-year-old brother, parrots her. “Yeah, because of you.” He looks at Kelly for approval. She flashes her fake smile at him – those giant front teeth of hers look like pieces of Chiclet chewing gum.
Kelly uses one of Daddy’s rods. The river isn’t wide enough for casting. Each time she throws out the line, the lure lands in the grass on the other bank. When she reels it in, mucky green and brown stuff covers it. She didn’t ask Daddy’s permission, but she lied to Momma that Daddy said it was okay. Why Momma believes everything Kelly says makes me mad. Maybe it’s because they look alike – they have straight dark brown hair, and brownish-yellow eyes, just like Grandpa.
When Daddy’s with us, he always makes us laugh when he calls to the cows in the pasture across from us. If he whistles, they hurry to the water’s edge to see what we’re doing. “Those are the most curious cows,” he says. They’ll watch us until something else grabs their attention.
Grandma only comes here from the city on the weekends; I think she’s afraid of being alone at the tavern with Grandpa. She doesn’t like to fish either. Instead of a hook, Grandma takes a slice of Wonder Bread and wads it into balls around the sinkers – small weights – attached to the fishing lines below the bobbers. “The fish can eat without hurting their mouths,” she says. Sometimes, she gives them Velveeta cheese.
Most of my fairy tale books are birthday and Christmas gifts from Grandma. If she were with me, we’d look for mushrooms near rotting tree trunks because everyone knows elves live near mushrooms. I could walk through the trees by myself, but I’m afraid that I might become lost. Plus, I don’t want Kelly or Ryan to touch my cane pole.
Ryan’s using just the top part of a cane pole that Daddy rigged for him because he’s too short to handle a real pole. He’s antsy and starts to pester Kelly to let him try Daddy’s rod. She gives him a big shove. When he starts to cry, she whispers to him, probably something about me.
“Hey, dork!” Kelly’s voice is so loud that the cows look at her at the same time I do. “Go get some candy from Grandpa, but don’t let Mom know you’re in the tavern.”
Kelly puts down the rod; she’s already made a fist with her right hand. She’s ordering me to go because if Momma catches me, Kelly will fib and say she never told me to get candy. I may be afraid of Momma, but Kelly scares me more. Every kid I know – cousins, neighbors, classmates – does what Kelly commands because she can knock over anybody with one punch. Sometimes, though, Kelly can be nice. She’ll put the worms on my hook for me.
I stand and wipe the black dirt from the back of my shorts. Kelly catches me looking at my fishing pole.
“We won’t touch your stupid pole,” she says. “We promise. Right, Ryan?”
Ryan, her stooge, says, “Right.”
I don’t believe them. I have no choice but to trudge up the dirt path that leads to the trees and into the open field behind Grandpa’s tavern. Instead of going in the back door, I’ll walk to the street and use the front door, so Momma doesn’t see me.
This town is so tiny – just one street with a church, a Post Office, and some beat-up looking houses. The tavern is next to a small grocery store that smells like old cheese and cabbage. On the other side of the street, there are two bars that we’re not allowed to go in. I don’t know what the difference is between Grandpa’s tavern and those bars. The same drunk people weave in and out of all three.
The bell on the tavern’s door jingles when I go in. Grandpa is behind the large wooden curved bar washing glasses from last night’s customers. Only one man sits on a stool. He looks like a drawing of a grimy Rumpelstiltskin– a goblin man – from one of my books.
“Hey, girl! Sit on the floor and spread your legs.”
The man smells like cow manure and dirty clothes. His stink hides the tavern’s spilled beer and toilet odors. Instead of running to Grandpa, I stare at the stranger. His eyes are almost closed; he chuckles and lifts his jigger of whiskey to his mouth. It isn’t even lunchtime, and he’s “boozing,” as Grandma would say.
“You watch your mouth.” Grandpa moves toward him. “That’s my granddaughter you’re talking to.” I can’t hear what the man says to Grandpa because I’ve gone through the swinging door that separates the tavern from the kitchen. Momma is at the table reading the newspaper with my baby brother on her lap.
“Momma, that man told me to spread my legs.”
Her back goes straight, and she stares at me with those frog eyes. They look as if they’re going to explode out of her face. Instead of saving me, she’s going to yell.
“What were you doing in there? Why aren’t you fishing?” She grabs my arm and squeezes it hard. “I told you not to come up here until I called you for lunch.”
Momma’s fingers left red marks on my arm, but I won’t tell her that Kelly demanded that I get candy and I won’t let Momma see me cry. She doesn’t care.
I go out the back door, hating her almost as much as I hate coming here. Daddy would have punched that man. Daddy would have hugged me. Daddy would be fishing with us.
I cross the field to go to the path that leads to the river. The grass is so high that I could hide; no one would find me. If Grandma were with me, we’d pick wildflowers and watch butterflies. Insects buzz around the Queen Anne’s Lace and the Purple Flox; their hum is friendly – not like Kelly, who’ll shout when she sees me without candy. I won’t go back to the river; I’ll lie in the grass and look at the clouds until Momma calls us for lunch.
Someone’s muttering. I push my back hard against the ground. The dirty goblin zigzags past me looking at the trees that lead to the river. “Little bitch,” he says, “she’s gonna spread her legs.”
Only when he’s gone, do I breathe again. I’ll get Grandpa, but Kelly’s screaming something. He must have her. I stand and dash toward the trees.
“You have a fish!” Kelly’s yelling about a dumb fish. She doesn’t know that danger is coming. The man is at the top of the slope. He slips and falls, and then rolls the rest of the way down. My brother and sister turn when they hear his grunts, but they don’t see me.
A sound like a police siren fills my ears. It’s me, screeching as loud as I can. I leap like a teenage ninja warrior from the top of the path. As I float in the air, I become as powerful as the evil fairy Maleficent. The cows stop grazing and run toward the river, but I have no time to look at them.
The goblin stumbles toward Kelly – mud covers his pants and hands. He grabs her and starts to drag her toward some trees. Her face is icy white like the dead worm on my hook. Her mouth freezes open in shock. I’ve never seen Kelly afraid before. I will save her because I am Maleficent – and the drunk has no princely powers.
“Get Grandpa!” I yell to Ryan, who drops my cane pole and scampers up the path.
My pretty pole’s tip bends into the water; the blue bobber dances up and down; Daddy’s power is in the pole. I yank it upward. A small carp dangles on the hook.
“Let her go!” My Maleficent voice’s might surprises me, but now, I am armed. The man stops; Kelly kicks at him and forces her heels into the soft ground. She will not go without a fight.
“There’s two of you.” Confusion crosses his unshaven face. He drops her arm and staggers toward me. He will not touch me.
I swing my pole at him. The fish falls from the line. The hook, free of its burden, whips through the air. It catches the corner of his eye. I pull hard.
“Goddamit!” He yowls like a cat. “Goddamit!” Blood dribbles on his face. Kelly runs to me. We sisters will battle him, together, until Grandpa comes.
“What’s all the hollering?” The cows’ owner stands across the river. “Earl, what the hell are you doing with Joe’s grandkids? Do I need to come over there?” His voice comforts me; he wades into the water. His cows follow.
“I was just having a little fun.” Earl, an ugly name for an ugly man, starts to slink away.
“Get the hell out of here.” Grandpa is at the top of the slope. He sounds out of breath from running.
The farmer stands with my sister and me. “You girls okay?” We nod, yes. Grandpa walks over to us.
“Joe, maybe it ain’t such a good idea to let your grandkids fish by themselves.” The farmer’s hands are on his hips. His overalls are wet up to his waist. “And, maybe it ain’t such a good idea letting Earl get drunk like that.”
Grandpa ignores him. The farmer picks up my cane pole. “That’s one pretty pole.” He wraps the line to keep the hook from swinging and hands it to me. “Now you girls go on up to the house. I need to talk to your grandpa.” He pats us on our backs. We don’t know what he and Grandpa say to each other.
For the rest of the summer, Momma doesn’t take us fishing again. Sometimes, on the weekends, Daddy loads us into the car for the hour drive to the tavern. One day, I saw the farmer in his pasture. I waved my cane pole at him. He waved back.
* * *
When I was old enough to stay home alone, I refused to go to the tavern. I don’t know if my mother ever told my father about the drunk who intended to rape her daughters – we don’t talk about such things in our family. As for Kelly, she kept going to the tavern and met other kids who lived in that town. She married Earl’s son. She claims that I made up the story about Earl, that it never happened. My cane pole hides among Dad’s other fishing poles and rods. If Kelly ever has daughters, I will give it to them along with my fairy tales; there’s still power in both.
When Cheryl Sim was a little girl, her father gave her a cane pole. She stopped fishing with him after she became a diplomat and moved overseas. She met her husband in Somalia. They live in the Washington, D.C. area.