Chapter 6
Questions a Woman Don’t Ask a Man
Now every mountain has a fishing hole.
Not every creek, mind you.
Every mountain.
A fellow might tell you where he fishes, but he’ll seldom tell you where he catches ’em.
There’s a difference.
Joseph Daniel had one of those places.
He’d found it as a young’un following an old man that wasn’t near as forgetful as he pretended to be. The man didn’t lead him straight to it, but close enough. Twenty years later Joseph still visited that little pocket of water whenever supper needed catchin’.
It wasn’t much to look at.
Truth be told, if you didn’t know it was there, you’d walk right past it.
Most folks did.
That suited Joseph just fine.
The trout certainly didn’t seem inclined to tell anybody.
Now Joseph had another little secret tucked away along that same stretch of creek.
Right before you came to his fishing hole, a limestone bluff leaned out over the water just enough to make a little shelf. Wedged beneath that rock hang, where the creek stayed cold all summer long, sat an old mason jar.
Most folks would’ve guessed it held drinkin’ water.
It didn’t.
Joseph made his own applejack.
His daddy had taught him years ago that when you froze sweet cider, the water turned to ice before the alcohol did. Knock the clear ice away, freeze it again, and before long a fellow had himself something mighty respectable.
Joseph wasn’t much of a drinkin’ man.
One swallow while fishin’ was about all he ever wanted.
Haulin’ that jar back and forth through the woods seemed foolish, so he’d tucked it beneath that overhang years before.
Nobody knew it was there.
At least…
Nobody had until this afternoon.
Joseph rounded the bend with his cane pole balanced across one shoulder and stopped so suddenly the bait bucket swung into his shin.
Well…
Hell-fire.
Miss Shelia.
She was sittin’ right above his applejack.
Her shoes were off.
Her feet dangled in the cool water.
She wasn’t fishin’.
She was watchin’ leaves drift downstream like she’d been born to sit on creek banks.
Joseph scratched the back of his neck.
Now he’d found himself in a proper pickle.
If he kept walkin’, she’d surely see where his fishin’ hole was.
If he turned around, he’d go home without supper.
And if she happened to notice that mason jar…
Well…
That was none of her business either.
His stomach growled just then.
That settled one problem.
He sighed loud enough for her to hear.
Miss Shelia turned around with a smile bright enough to shame the sunshine.
“Well hey there, Joseph!”
“So much for sneakin’,” he muttered.
“What was that?”
“Nothin’. Afternoon, Miss Shelia.”
“You fishin’?”
“I was fixin’ to.”
“You picked a pretty day.”
“I reckon.”
She scooted over on the rock.
“Come set a spell.”
Joseph eased himself onto another rock a few feet away.
From where he sat, he could just barely see the shoulder of the mason jar beneath the water.
Now…
Last time he’d been there…
The creek had been about an inch below the shoulder of that jar.
Today…
It looked…
About an inch below.
Unless…
The creek had come up.
He studied the current.
Didn’t rain this week.
Snowmelt?
No.
That was long gone.
Miss Shelia was sayin’ something.
“…and Aunt Ruby laughed so hard she near swallowed her dentures…”
“Mmm-hmm.”
He wasn’t listenin’.
He was judgin’ creek levels.
Or maybe…
She’d found the jar.
Taken herself a little sip.
Added creek water back.
Lord…
Would she even think to do that?
He frowned at the water again.
Was the lid turned that way before?
Or had—
“Joseph?”
“Huh?”
“I asked if you’d ever been to Atlanta.”
“No ma’am.”
Her eyes lit up.
“Oh! Me and my sisters went one time.”
Joseph laid his cane pole beside him and listened.
“I can’t believe we survived!” she announced.
He smiled.
That sounded like the beginning of a fine story.
She leaned closer.
“We was lookin’ through the side window of a bank…”
Her hands flew through the air.
One sister screamed.
One man hollered.
Somebody had a pistol.
Everybody was runnin’.
Joseph found himself leanin’ in.
“…and when we finally got home…”
She lowered her voice to a whisper.
“I told my sisters, ‘Don’t tell Mama.’”
Joseph laughed so hard he had to wipe his eyes.
“I reckon that’s sound advice.”
“You promise?”
“Promise what?”
“Not to tell Mama.”
“I reckon I can keep that secret.”
She beamed.
Joseph realized something.
He hadn’t thought about his fishin’ hole in near ten minutes.
He hadn’t looked at the applejack neither.
Then…
GRRRRRRRRRR.
His stomach growled loud enough to scare a kingfisher off a sycamore limb.
Miss Shelia blinked.
Joseph shut his eyes.
“Hell-fire.”
“I’ve gotta step over into that thicket a few minutes. Reckon you’ll still be here when I get back?”
Now every mountain girl knew there were certain questions you didn’t ask a grown man headed into a thicket.
Miss Shelia only smiled.
“I reckon I ain’t got nowhere else to go.”
“Don’t catch ‘em all while I’m gone.”
He started toward the trees.
Then…
Almost against his own will…
He glanced back toward the applejack.
Looked about the same.
Maybe.
Twenty feet into the woods, hidden by a jumble of laurel and moss-covered stone, lay a little pocket of water most folks would’ve sworn didn’t exist.
Joseph had found it years before on a cold morning when he noticed fog risin’ straight out of the rocks.
He’d dropped in a line.
Then another.
By supper he’d caught enough trout to feed himself for a week.
The hole had never disappointed him.
It didn’t this afternoon either.
By the time Miss Shelia had begun wonderin’ if he’d gotten lost, Joseph came back through the trees carrying a bucket near full of trout.
Her eyes got as big as silver dollars.
“Lawd have mercy, Joseph! Where’d you find all them?”
Joseph glanced toward the applejack.
Looked about right.
Or maybe not.
“Your Mama know you say that?” he asked.
She clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Oh! Don’t tell Mama!”
“I reckon I won’t.”
“Now answer me.”
“Answer what?”
“Where’d you catch all them fish?”
Joseph grinned.
“Miss Shelia… there are certain questions a grown woman don’t ask a grown man.”
“I thought that was only about thickets.”
“It applies to fishin’ holes too.”
She pouted.
“I guess I still ain’t grown.”
Joseph walked over, picked up her bucket, and without another word dropped all but two of his trout into it.
He floated the bucket the short distance between them.
“There.”
She caught it before it drifted away.
“Oh!”
“I wasn’t expectin’ that.”
“Now you can run along home and show your brothers and sisters the fish you caught.”
She stopped.
Her eyes narrowed.
Then she smiled.
“It ain’t even a lie.”
Joseph made a little shooing motion with his hand.
She started toward the trail.
Then spun back around, threw one arm around his neck, kissed him quick on the cheek, and darted away before either one of them had time to think about it.
“Thank you!” she called over her shoulder.
“This is gonna be the best fish story ever!”
Joseph watched her disappear down the trail, sloshin’ trout water down the front of her dress.
He stood there longer than he intended.
Rubbed the cool spot she’d left on his cheek.
Then reached beneath the limestone ledge and pulled out his mason jar.
His thoughts weren’t on the applejack anymore.
They were on Aunt Ruby’s dentures.
A bank robbery in Atlanta.
A little mountain girl who talked enough for three people.
And a promise…
Not to tell Mama.
He took a swallow that was a good bit bigger than usual.
Completely forgot to judge whether she’d watered it down.
Then…
His stomach growled again.
“Well,” he sighed.
“I still gotta clean these two fish.”