the fact that he was twelve, they hung together. ( Jayden called
them the Killer Es , which Ellie just didn’t get.) But Eli could also be
kind of a goof. Like, sometimes she thought she ought to be guarding him. She tilted her head at two nearby holes where she’d lowered
stringers. “Could you take those back? I have to break down the tipups, and since I’ve got, like, fifteen of those . . .”
“Me?” Eli wasn’t fond of fish slime, and Ellie had had a very
good afternoon: fourteen black crappies, all ten-inchers. “Well,” Eli
said, twisting to look toward shore and their patient horses waiting
beneath drooping boughs of tall hemlock. Nearby, a clutch of crows
hopped over the snow, probably hoping for a nice steaming mound of
fish guts, while a stern-looking, solitary gull perched on a thumb of
icy rock. “I guess I can wait. You’ll need help with the auger.” Right, so then I carry all the fish and the tackle. On the other hand,
she knew what Eli really wanted to avoid was storing the tackle. Well,
avoiding the place that was near where they stored tackle. Even the
horses hated that part of the woods. She wasn’t wild about it either,
but at least she wasn’t such a girl .
“Well,” she said, withdrawing her rod and reaching, with studied
casualness, to an inside parka pocket. Pulling out a plastic container,
she popped the lid. In a bed of sawdust, warmed by her body heat, were
thick white maggots, each about as long as the tip of her pinky. She
delicately tweezed one fat boy from the wriggling mass. “Oh kaaay ,”
she said, stabbing the maggot with the jig’s hook. It was really a waste;
she’d already hooked one. But Eli needed a fire lit under his butt. “If
you want to waaait and help me with the taaackle . . .”
“God!” Eli’s lips, bright as cherries and almost too delicate for a
boy, corkscrewed. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Nom, nom.” Plucking out another waxworm, Ellie smacked her
lips. “ Taastee—”
“Gah.” Eli did a mock heave, but he was also grinning. Sunny was
what Grandpa Jack would’ve said. “Fine, you win. Just stop .” Eli reeled
up a steel chain stringer and eight dripping black-spotted crappies,
attached via snap hooks through their gills, from an ice hole. “Gah,”
he said again, holding the flapping fish at arm’s length as Roc, a gray
bullet of a mutt, bounded up with Mina on his heels. “My gloves
always smell like fish,” Eli complained as the dogs pranced excited
circles. “Roc always smells like fish. My saddle smells like sardines.”
She bit back a snark about killer farts, although even she was tired
of smoked crappie and bluegill. But a hot dog . . . “At least everyone’s
eating.”
“And you always smell like fish, too.” Eli dragged up the second
stringer. “How much longer are you going to be, so I know when it’s
time to get worried that you’ve been eaten?”
“Oh, ha-ha. Maybe another hour, hour and a half.” It was just
something to say. Since Alex had Mickey Mouse, Ellie hadn’t the foggiest what time it was. “Not too long. It’s still plenty light.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with the tackle?”
“Of course I’m okay. I’m always okay,” she muttered under her
breath, but she called Mina to heel and tipped a cheery wave. The
crows perked up as Eli neared shore, but when he passed to his horse
without stopping, they lifted in a black cloud to scold him on his way.
Only two tip-ups had anything: seven-inchers that she released. With
Mina trotting alongside, she hooked a handle of an old plastic primer
bucket she used for her tackle and headed over the ice to holes she’d
drilled this morning waaay out there.
This lake, which was very deep, was fed by a spring located somewhere off the western shore. That meant the water nearest the spring
was much warmer and the lake never entirely froze. Instead, the ice
sheet petered out in a ragged scallop of slushy ice from which she
always kept a healthy
them the Killer Es , which Ellie just didn’t get.) But Eli could also be
kind of a goof. Like, sometimes she thought she ought to be guarding him. She tilted her head at two nearby holes where she’d lowered
stringers. “Could you take those back? I have to break down the tipups, and since I’ve got, like, fifteen of those . . .”
“Me?” Eli wasn’t fond of fish slime, and Ellie had had a very
good afternoon: fourteen black crappies, all ten-inchers. “Well,” Eli
said, twisting to look toward shore and their patient horses waiting
beneath drooping boughs of tall hemlock. Nearby, a clutch of crows
hopped over the snow, probably hoping for a nice steaming mound of
fish guts, while a stern-looking, solitary gull perched on a thumb of
icy rock. “I guess I can wait. You’ll need help with the auger.” Right, so then I carry all the fish and the tackle. On the other hand,
she knew what Eli really wanted to avoid was storing the tackle. Well,
avoiding the place that was near where they stored tackle. Even the
horses hated that part of the woods. She wasn’t wild about it either,
but at least she wasn’t such a girl .
“Well,” she said, withdrawing her rod and reaching, with studied
casualness, to an inside parka pocket. Pulling out a plastic container,
she popped the lid. In a bed of sawdust, warmed by her body heat, were
thick white maggots, each about as long as the tip of her pinky. She
delicately tweezed one fat boy from the wriggling mass. “Oh kaaay ,”
she said, stabbing the maggot with the jig’s hook. It was really a waste;
she’d already hooked one. But Eli needed a fire lit under his butt. “If
you want to waaait and help me with the taaackle . . .”
“God!” Eli’s lips, bright as cherries and almost too delicate for a
boy, corkscrewed. “I hate it when you do that.”
“Nom, nom.” Plucking out another waxworm, Ellie smacked her
lips. “ Taastee—”
“Gah.” Eli did a mock heave, but he was also grinning. Sunny was
what Grandpa Jack would’ve said. “Fine, you win. Just stop .” Eli reeled
up a steel chain stringer and eight dripping black-spotted crappies,
attached via snap hooks through their gills, from an ice hole. “Gah,”
he said again, holding the flapping fish at arm’s length as Roc, a gray
bullet of a mutt, bounded up with Mina on his heels. “My gloves
always smell like fish,” Eli complained as the dogs pranced excited
circles. “Roc always smells like fish. My saddle smells like sardines.”
She bit back a snark about killer farts, although even she was tired
of smoked crappie and bluegill. But a hot dog . . . “At least everyone’s
eating.”
“And you always smell like fish, too.” Eli dragged up the second
stringer. “How much longer are you going to be, so I know when it’s
time to get worried that you’ve been eaten?”
“Oh, ha-ha. Maybe another hour, hour and a half.” It was just
something to say. Since Alex had Mickey Mouse, Ellie hadn’t the foggiest what time it was. “Not too long. It’s still plenty light.”
“You’re sure you’re okay with the tackle?”
“Of course I’m okay. I’m always okay,” she muttered under her
breath, but she called Mina to heel and tipped a cheery wave. The
crows perked up as Eli neared shore, but when he passed to his horse
without stopping, they lifted in a black cloud to scold him on his way.
Only two tip-ups had anything: seven-inchers that she released. With
Mina trotting alongside, she hooked a handle of an old plastic primer
bucket she used for her tackle and headed over the ice to holes she’d
drilled this morning waaay out there.
This lake, which was very deep, was fed by a spring located somewhere off the western shore. That meant the water nearest the spring
was much warmer and the lake never entirely froze. Instead, the ice
sheet petered out in a ragged scallop of slushy ice from which she
always kept a healthy
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