hand. Smiles. Shouts Dorotea’s name.
They sell fishing gear in the back of the hardware store in Bath. A giant with a beard and huge round knees sits on a stool tying leaders. Her father looks up at the rack of fishing rods, thumbs up his glasses.
The giant says, I help you folks?
My daughter here would like a fishing pole.
The giant reaches into a cupboard, pulls out a Zebco all-in-one spinning kit. Hands it to Dorotea, says, This’ll be perfect for just about anything you’d ever need. Comes with spinners and everything.
Dorotea holds the package at arm’s length, studies the reel, the blunt two-piece rod. Chrome-plated guides. The plastic wrap. On the tag a cartoon bass curls out of a cartoon pond to devour a treble-hooked lure. Her dad puts his hand on her head, asks Dorotea how she likes the looks of it.
She doesn’t like the looks of it at all: it’s blunt, clumsy-looking. No coils of fly line. No elegance. She imagines chunks of flesh glommed on her hook, her reel rusting, the boy laughing at her.
Daddy, she says. I want a fly rod. This is for bait-fishermen.
The giant roars. Her father rubs his jaw.
The giant rings up Dorotea’s fly rod on a black cash register. His huge fingers count change.
Don’t know a single girl that fly-fishes, the giant says. Never heard of girls fly-fishing, really. He says it kindly. Eyes on Dorotea. Fingers like fat pink cigars.
I’ve flung a fly myself, he continues. I’m still learning it. I suppose we’re all still learning. You learn and learn and then you die and you haven’t learned half of it.
He shrugs his hilly shoulders, hands her father change.
You’re new here. He talks only to Dorotea.
We just moved to Harpswell, she says. Daddy’s working at Bath Iron Works. He designs ships. It was his first day today.
The giant nods, glances down at her father. Her father’s hands open, close.
We lived in Ohio, he mutters. I did hullwork on lake freighters. Thought we’d come up here, give it a shot. A man only gets so many chances is what I figure.
The giant offers another shrug. Smiles. Says to Dorotea, Maybe we could fish together sometime. We could try down by Popham Beach. They been getting into some nice cows down there. Schoolies race the shallows at slack tide. Get one of those on your little rod there and look out.
The giant smiles, sits back on his stool. Dorotea and her father leave the store, drive past the ironworks, the shipyard and the vast iron warehouses, a high chain-link fence, cranes swinging, a green-hulled tug at dry dock dripping rust. From the top of MillStreet Dorotea can see the Kennebec River rolling heavily into the Atlantic.
In the evening Dorotea sits on her sleeping bag and fits her rod together. Two pieces join together, screw on the plastic reel, feed fly line through the guides. Tie on a leader.
Her dad in the door frame.
You like the rod, Dorotea?
It’s beautiful, Daddy. Thank you.
You going to fish in the morning?
In the morning.
Your mother say anything?
Dorotea shakes her head. She thinks he will say more but he doesn’t.
After he leaves she holds her breath, takes her new fly rod, and climbs out her window. She walks beneath the dark pines, feels her way in the moonless night. She reaches the firelight, hears a guitar and singing, sees the boy on his log. She crouches under the pines and watches. Thinks of her father saying a man only gets so many chances. Puts her hand in her pocket. Feels the three streamers there, their hook points, their feathers. She shuts her eyes. Her hands shake. A hook pricks her finger.
She stands, balks, turns around, walks to her left, to the ocean. She clambers over rocks, shadows among shadows. Stands at the sea’s fringe, sucks a drop of blood from her fingertip. She has the shakes. Holds her breath to fight them.
She holds the air in her lungs and stands very still and listens. The silence of Harpswell rises up in her ear like a wave and breaks into a rainbow of
They sell fishing gear in the back of the hardware store in Bath. A giant with a beard and huge round knees sits on a stool tying leaders. Her father looks up at the rack of fishing rods, thumbs up his glasses.
The giant says, I help you folks?
My daughter here would like a fishing pole.
The giant reaches into a cupboard, pulls out a Zebco all-in-one spinning kit. Hands it to Dorotea, says, This’ll be perfect for just about anything you’d ever need. Comes with spinners and everything.
Dorotea holds the package at arm’s length, studies the reel, the blunt two-piece rod. Chrome-plated guides. The plastic wrap. On the tag a cartoon bass curls out of a cartoon pond to devour a treble-hooked lure. Her dad puts his hand on her head, asks Dorotea how she likes the looks of it.
She doesn’t like the looks of it at all: it’s blunt, clumsy-looking. No coils of fly line. No elegance. She imagines chunks of flesh glommed on her hook, her reel rusting, the boy laughing at her.
Daddy, she says. I want a fly rod. This is for bait-fishermen.
The giant roars. Her father rubs his jaw.
The giant rings up Dorotea’s fly rod on a black cash register. His huge fingers count change.
Don’t know a single girl that fly-fishes, the giant says. Never heard of girls fly-fishing, really. He says it kindly. Eyes on Dorotea. Fingers like fat pink cigars.
I’ve flung a fly myself, he continues. I’m still learning it. I suppose we’re all still learning. You learn and learn and then you die and you haven’t learned half of it.
He shrugs his hilly shoulders, hands her father change.
You’re new here. He talks only to Dorotea.
We just moved to Harpswell, she says. Daddy’s working at Bath Iron Works. He designs ships. It was his first day today.
The giant nods, glances down at her father. Her father’s hands open, close.
We lived in Ohio, he mutters. I did hullwork on lake freighters. Thought we’d come up here, give it a shot. A man only gets so many chances is what I figure.
The giant offers another shrug. Smiles. Says to Dorotea, Maybe we could fish together sometime. We could try down by Popham Beach. They been getting into some nice cows down there. Schoolies race the shallows at slack tide. Get one of those on your little rod there and look out.
The giant smiles, sits back on his stool. Dorotea and her father leave the store, drive past the ironworks, the shipyard and the vast iron warehouses, a high chain-link fence, cranes swinging, a green-hulled tug at dry dock dripping rust. From the top of MillStreet Dorotea can see the Kennebec River rolling heavily into the Atlantic.
In the evening Dorotea sits on her sleeping bag and fits her rod together. Two pieces join together, screw on the plastic reel, feed fly line through the guides. Tie on a leader.
Her dad in the door frame.
You like the rod, Dorotea?
It’s beautiful, Daddy. Thank you.
You going to fish in the morning?
In the morning.
Your mother say anything?
Dorotea shakes her head. She thinks he will say more but he doesn’t.
After he leaves she holds her breath, takes her new fly rod, and climbs out her window. She walks beneath the dark pines, feels her way in the moonless night. She reaches the firelight, hears a guitar and singing, sees the boy on his log. She crouches under the pines and watches. Thinks of her father saying a man only gets so many chances. Puts her hand in her pocket. Feels the three streamers there, their hook points, their feathers. She shuts her eyes. Her hands shake. A hook pricks her finger.
She stands, balks, turns around, walks to her left, to the ocean. She clambers over rocks, shadows among shadows. Stands at the sea’s fringe, sucks a drop of blood from her fingertip. She has the shakes. Holds her breath to fight them.
She holds the air in her lungs and stands very still and listens. The silence of Harpswell rises up in her ear like a wave and breaks into a rainbow of
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