2. Logan
2
LOGAN
Nobody told me that catfishing meant sitting under a sky full of stars, the lake shimmering in the moonlight, while a fire crackles behind you, sending warmth up your back as you sip on a cold beer. The younger kids are all tucked safely in their beds, tuckered out after a long afternoon at the lake. The older kids are here with us, their excitement matching the stillness of the night.
“I’m not touching that,” Hayley says, scrunching her nose at something Jacob holds out—something called “stinky bait.” She looks at it like it’s going to eat her before she can even use it to try to catch a fish. “No,” she says firmly.
“If you want to fish, you have to bait your own hook,” Trixie, the oldest of Emily’s little sisters, says. “It’s the rule.” She rummages through a bag, pulls out a hot dog, and holds it up. “You can use this,” she suggests, “but you won’t catch as many as you would with the stinky bait.”
“I don’t want to touch the stinky stuff,” Hayley declares, folding her arms.
Paul chuckles, resting his hand on top of her head. “You don’t have to touch anything you don’t want to, but you’ve been warned—no stinky bait, fewer fish.” Her face scrunches up as she reluctantly pinches off a bit of the bait, which looks like clay but smells far worse and baits the hook with it.
“Need some help?” Paul asks.
“No, I got it,” she says confidently, though her first cast plunks into the water just a few feet away.
“Try again,” Paul encourages her.
This time, the line sails out about 20 feet, creating ripples on the glassy lake surface as the weight plunks into the water. Hayley sets the hook just like Mr. Jacobson taught them earlier, part of his ten-minute crash course on casting, reeling, and the finer points like never tying the line to your toe unless you want to risk losing it when a fish bites.
Hayley settles into her folding chair, her feet dipping into the cool water, staring at the quiet lake where Jacob caught a catfish half an hour ago. Since then, she’s been sulking, determined to catch one of her own.
Trixie feeds the hot dog that Hayley turned down to her great big dog with a shrug. He has been lying at her feet all night.
I cast my line, and it lands with a less-than-impressive plop right in front of me. Paul chuckles as Kit, who’s perched on the edge of a smaller chair right next to me, giggles. “You think that’s funny?” I ask her, grinning. “Let’s see you do better.”
Kit doesn’t hesitate. She baits her hook with the stinky bait—no complaints—then swings the rod back, sending the weighted hook soaring toward the middle of the lake. “Good job,” I say, proud of her.
A tap on my shoulder makes me turn. Paul holds a flashlight to his mouth, mouthing something. I squint, trying to read his lips. It’s hard to pick up voices when everyone is murmuring and trying to be quiet. And it’s really hard to read lips in the dark. He shines the light again and asks if I want a beer. I nod, taking one as I tighten my fishing line that has gone slack.
Hoppy and Matty are sitting beside Kit and me, their fishing poles steady in the water, waiting for a bite. Hoppy, usually unable to sit still for long, is unusually calm tonight, mesmerized by the rhythmic lapping of the lake against the shore.
Mr. Jacobson had made a promise earlier that anything the kids caught would be cooked for dinner tomorrow night, and they all took that challenge seriously.
Suddenly, Mr. Jacobson winks at me and says, “Kit, can you hold this for a minute?” He passes her his rod, and she’s now holding two—her own and his. Then, his pole jerks in her hand, and she squeals with excitement, trying to give it back to him.
Mr. Jacobson, now leisurely rummaging in the cooler, glances over casually. “Reel it in for me, will you? My hands are full,” he says.
I take Kit’s rod as she jumps up, pulling with all her might until a shiny-skinned catfish flops onto the shore.
“What do I do now?” she asks, her voice breathless with excitement.
Mr. Jacobson strolls over, removes the fish from the hook, and ties it to a string that already holds Jacob’s fish, which he has anchored to the shore. “Good catch,” he says, tossing the fish back into the water to keep them fresh. “Next time, I’m keeping my rod,” he adds with a laugh.
And so the night unfolds—one by one, the adults pass their poles to the kids just as the fish bite, watching them reel in their catches, their faces lit up with joy. Even Gabby hands her rod to Seth, who’s never caught a fish like this before, and he reels it in with pride. By midnight, the yawns begin to spread, and soon, even the adults start to fade.
“Time for old men to head to bed,” Mr. Jacobson announces, reeling in his line. One by one, we follow his lead. All the kids caught at least one fish and some even more. When the last of the rods and gear are stowed away and the fish packed in ice, we head back up the hill. Mr. Jacobson putters off on his little red golf cart. Jake hops in with him at the last minute, and Alex and Trixie hitch a ride on the back. Trixie’s great big dog lumbers along behind.
As we walk, Kit looks up at me. “Why do the fish need to be cleaned? They just came out of the lake.”
I laugh. “Not that kind of clean.”
“We have to prepare them so we can eat them,” Sam explains, the chef of the group and probably the only one of us who’s ever “cleaned” a fish. “Catfish are tricky. You have to peel the skin off.”
“Gross,” Kit says, wrinkling her nose.
“So cool,” Jacob says at the same time.
The kids race ahead, leaving the six of us—Paul, Matt, Sam, Pete, Edward, and me—standing at the water’s edge. The moonlight shimmers on the lake’s surface, casting a silvery glow on everything. The gentle rustle of leaves and the soft sound of the water make the moment feel powerful and soft at the same time.
“I don’t want to clean the fish,” Paul admits with a sheepish grin. “But I definitely want to eat them. Is that weird?”
“I won’t tell if you won’t,” Edward says.
Sam, shining his flashlight at his face so I can read his lips, takes in a deep breath of the cool night air. “This place is magic,” he says, his voice filled with awe. “We should do this every year.”
Paul finishes his beer with a loud burp, and Pete laughs.
“I’m heading to the cabin,” Edward says, stretching. “The baby will be up soon, and I want to get a few quiet moments with her in that big rocking chair on the porch before Avery wakes up to feed her.” He walks off in the darkness, chatting with Penny as they walk away. Edward adopted Penny a few months ago, but so far, she still calls him Edward. I have a feeling it doesn’t bother him. He’s her dad in every sense of the word.
As we walk up the hill, I spot Gabby and Seth walking hand in hand in front of us, the moonlight casting long shadows behind them. “Do you think he’s ready to get married?” I ask Matt.
“He’s ready,” Matt says, a certainty in his voice.
“What makes you say that?” I ask. They’re so young, with their whole lives ahead of them.
“He told me last week that he feels like he’s a better man when he’s with her. That was enough for me,” Matt replies, grinning. “I think we’re out of Reeds to marry off after this one,” he adds with a chuckle.
“There’s a whole new batch coming up soon enough,” I remind him.
Matt groans. “I’m not ready to even think about that yet.” He pauses as we near his cabin, then asks, “Do you ever wish you’d done anything differently?”
I think about it, the night air cool on my skin, and shake my head. “Not a thing.”
He smiles, gives my shoulder a light punch, and heads inside.
When I get to my cabin, Kit is already talking softly with Emily in the kitchen. I usher Kit to bed, tucking her in for the night. Emily’s still moving around quietly when I find her again, her face lit by the soft kitchen light. “Did she wake you?” I whisper.
“I was half-awake anyway,” she murmurs, smiling as I kiss her shoulder. “You smell like fish.” Her nose wrinkles. “And something stinky,” she says with a playful shove. “Go shower, then come back.”
I take the fastest shower of my life, and when I climb into bed, she curls into me, her leg draped over mine.
“I want to hear all about fishing tomorrow,” she says sleepily.
Or at least I think that’s what she said—the moonlight through the blinds is just enough to catch her lips moving as I drift off, the peaceful feel of the lake still resonating in my soul.