“How about you go top off the car while we check in? Good practice for High School,” Father said. A bit theatric as he handed me the keys, Dottie watching from beneath the sign for ‘Cooper’s Resort on Lake Santee,’ I could tell he was nervous. This was a big weekend, the widower’s latest audition.

“Such a young man you’re becoming,” Dottie added, stepping out of the shade to join him. They certainly looked the part, standing together, framed by the lake all glittering and blue. Father, long and regal; his collar crisp, dark hair parted and gleaming in the sun, only a few hints of grey. Dottie, too tall most of the time, fit beside him, her permanent smile suspended beneath cat-eyed sunglasses, hair wrapped as if we’d driven down in some fancy convertible rather than all cramped into the Ford.

“And take your brother,” he added, pointing out a station adjacent to the resort, a pair of gas pumps out front, leaded and self-service. Just a few hundred yards down the road, it felt like a test. But the kind of test I liked. A test I could pass.

“Let’s ride,” Frank said, suddenly behind me, grinning toothily. He didn’t look much like Father. Stout and freckled, his hair buzzed short to minimize time wasted in the shower which only highlighted his ears and coke-bottle glasses.

“Four hours in the car and you’re ready to jump back in?” I asked.

“Gonna give that front seat a try,” he replied. “And they got fishing stuff,” pointing out the sign above the gas pumps, ‘Cooper’s Gas and Tackle’ displayed in the same script as the resort’s, though more faded, bleached by time and sun.

It felt strange to be behind the wheel without Father, though his presence lingered in the sterile interior, so neat and tidy. So unlike it used to be when it was Mom’s car. She’d been driving his truck when it happened; he’d never tried to replace the truck. Now the Ford was his and it reflected as much. The clutter banished. The flyers, the candy wrappers and the Crayola masterpieces gone, only a torn sleeve of Rolaids to mar the perfection.

“How’s the water look?” I asked Frank as he slid onto the bench seat beside me.

“Gets deep fast. Clear though.”

“See any fish?” I started the engine.

“Nah, but they’re out there. We’ll get ‘em, don’t you worry.”

I wasn’t worried. We’d been fishing since before I can remember, skiffing swamps with Mom’s brother John, but it had become tedious for me, the outings a chore in service of my brother’s obsession. He hardly had the temperament for it, impatient and barely able to sit still, but he sure loved the catching. And with Uncle John, we always caught fish. Too many fish, more than you could count. One on the line before the last was off the boat. Frank couldn’t get enough. Each catch a hit of dopamine, mainlined to the cortex. I just tied the knots.

“They got little boats we can use,” he said, thumbing back at the resort, “You pedal ‘em like a bike. Look slow but they got mounts for the rods and a place for the tackle box, perfect for fishing.

“That’ll be fun,” I said, half listening, backing out of the parking space, I could feel Father’s gaze. We rolled past the resort’s office. Dottie waved. I turned on the blinker.

“Hammer it,” Frank said, as we approached the road, preparing to leave the lot.

“Hammer it?”

“Yeah, let’s see what this baby can do!”

“So just floor it?” I asked, waiting for a lone car to pass.

“Yeah, let her rip. He won’t notice,” Frank added, looking back over his shoulder at the office. “They’re busy inside. Hammer it!”

“Pedal to the metal?” CLICK CLICK went the blinker.

“Do it. He wouldn’t get that mad. Might even be impressed.” Frank encouraged. I eased onto the blacktop. “Shoot, he would probably mind if we took off and kept going, leave him and Dottie to their own selves for the weekend.”

“Yeah, right.”

“It be a helluva thing,” he went on, “Two men on the road.”

“Is that what we’d be?”

“Make a run for the border, leave them to their canoodling,”

“You don’t think he’d be worried?” I responded, flicking on the blinker once more. “If we just took off?”

“With Dottie around? Might not even notice we’re gone.”

“That’s dumb Frank, would just ruin everyone’s weekend,” I replied as we pulled to stop alongside the gas pumps and glorified shack that was ‘Cooper’s Gas and Tackle.’

The inside was packed, every inch utilized. Row upon row of hooks, weights, lures and baits. Countless variations in size and shape. Every color and pattern one could imagine. Ordered and organized, an immaculate kingdom squeezed into a hundred square feet. There was barely room to walk down the aisles and Frank was lost in it, studying each display with a quiet solemnity that would shock every one of his teachers, somehow oblivious to the monster perched on the far wall. I could hardly see anything else. Massive and glistening, its silver-dollar eye stared right back at me through a taxidermist’s glaze.

“That, my friend, is an ocean fish. An ocean fish I caught right here in this lake,” came a voice from below the beast. It took some effort to pull my eyes downward, to the bulky middle-aged man behind the register.

“An ocean fish? Like a fish from the ocean?” I asked, my gaze drifting back up to the leviathan. It resembled fish I’d caught before, only on a different scale and somehow meaner. Its fins thicker, the spines longer and more menacing, but most of all, the size of it. It spanned the whole wall; its mouth, gaped wide in perpetuity, looked fit to swallow a medium-sized child or vitamin-adjacent teenager.

“That’s right, a fish that’s supposed to live in the ocean,” he replied, as smoke drifted from the ashtray beside him.

“How’d it get here?”

“Well, that there’s a striper” he pronounced the word with hard I and soft R, taking a drag on his cigarette. “Striper are like salmon, they live in the ocean but they start in freshwater. Swim up rivers to lay their eggs.”

“Like salmon? Out West?” This rang a bell. I’d seen these fish on a nature program. Torpedoing up waterfalls as grizzly bears snatched them from the air.

“Yeah, that’s right. Though it wasn’t quite so perilous for the striper. At least not until Roosevelt built the dam in ‘42,” he said with a nod out toward the lake.

“The dam?”

“Yeah, you see, this lake ain’t natural; it’s man-made. Used to be a valley with a river running through. The dam blocked the river and flooded the valley. Now it’s a lake.”

“Why’d Roosevelt want a lake?” The shopkeeper was talking like he knew this Roosevelt personally; I figured I’d at least act like I knew who the man was.

“To make electricity.”

“Of course,” I nodded along, confounded as to how a lake could make electricity.

“And to be a sportsman’s paradise,” he continued after another drag, “They stocked it with trout as soon the water stabilized and those buggers took off. Thriving and multiplying. It was only a couple years before the water was teeming. I mean they’d wake you up in the morning with all the splashing. It didn’t matter what bait you used, you hardly had to try. Drop a hook; catch a fish. People came from all around.”

“Roosevelt must have been pretty pleased.”

“Oh, tickled I’m sure, but it didn’t last. Just when things got booming, the trout disappeared. It started slowly and then all of a sudden. Gone. You couldn’t catch a fish to save your life. Feds came back. Dumped more stock into the lake, ole Cooper even paid for a couple truckloads himself, but no dice. They just disappeared, like the lake itself swallowed ‘em up.”

“Where’d they go?” I asked, stepping aside to let Frank pass, heedless in his own world, perusing each aisle.

“Well, you see, the striper eggs from that last run before the dam, they hatched. And when it came time to head back out to the sea, they found concrete and turbines blocking the way. Trapped in the lake, they slowly grew,” he continued, easing back into his chair. “Trout are usually the top predator in the lake, apex of the food chain. They’re bold and aggressive; makes ‘em easy to catch. They’d never known fear, at least until the striper got big. Built for a completely different world; to rub shoulders with sharks and the like, the trout didn’t stand a chance.”

“So, the striper ate them?”

“They feasted,” he replied with a nod.

“How’d you figure it out?”

“Well, there began to be rumors about the lake. Stories of people hooking up only for something to snatch it off their line, of monsters breaking gear, but it was the stock trucks that finally keyed us in,” he replied, “You see the striper learned pretty quick that those trucks meant dinner, the sound of the diesel pulling up to the lake brought ‘em in like a bell. Hard not to notice. That many big fish near shore, churning up the water. That last load they dumped, it was a frenzy; total slaughter. Jaws and fins erupted as soon as those troutlings hit. Snapped up in minutes; I doubt one fish made it 50 yards.”

“Tough break for the trout,” I observed, “Moving into a new home only to be devoured like that.”

“Yeah, terrible for them, no doubt. Quick, though. Would have been paradise but for the demons in the garden,” he replied.

“So, what happened?” I asked.

“At first, Cooper and some of the others tried to switch everyone to striper fishing. Why catch measly old trout when you contend with a monster, a real trophy fish? But catching striper ain’t like catching trout; can’t just drop a worm off the side of a canoe and wait. Striper need the hunt. Need the chase. They won’t take a worm or a plastic bait. They need to smell the fear, to taste the blood. You need live bait. Live bait that can see ‘em coming. And if you hook up, you best be prepared. Try it in a canoe and you’re going for a swim. People used to catching trout just didn’t take to it; pretty soon they hired some of us locals to clear out the striper,” he recalled.

“That’s when you caught this one?”

“Yep, not the biggest pulled out of the lake but the biggest one I got. Sixty-three pounds, twelve ounces,” he replied, jabbing his thumb at the fish mounted above.

“A helluva thing.”

“And a helluva fight, took an hour to get him into the boat,” he recalled, becoming more wistful. “Best days of my life. Trolling shad on saltwater rigs like we was on the Chesapeake, getting paid to do it.”

“How’d long it take before you got ‘em all?” I asked. Turning to gesture at the lake, I caught Frank’s back as he exited, the door swinging shut behind him.

“Oh, we could never get ‘em all. Got a bunch, but could never get them all. On account of the forest.”

“The forest?”

“Oh yeah, the forest. The valley was mostly clear of trees when they flooded it but not completely. There was a particularly large tract near the dam. Old-growth pine. Those trees still stand. On a clear day, you can just see the tops of them, reaching for the sky,”

“Trees under the water?”

“Acres, and the striper learned to love ‘em. Soon as you’d hook up, they’d dive, get tangled up in the branches leaving no choice but to cut the line. Before long we were losing more gear than it was worth; the paychecks dried up.”

“They’re still out there?”

“Maybe a few. Any left would be thirty years old, now. They can’t breed in the lake; biologist says they need flowing water or some such, so all this time, no baby striper. When the last one goes, that’ll be it.”

“You think they’ll stock the lake again after they’re gone?”

“I doubt it,” he replied. “It’s recreational, now. Swimming, boating. Asinine shit like that. What are you here for?”

“I’m gonna learn how to waterski.”

“So, just the gas, then?”

“Yeah, just the gas.”

Frank was waiting in the car when I came out, smiling down at some shiny treasure in his palm.

“What you got there,” I asked, my mood souring when he opened his hands to reveal a giant fish hook. “Did you steal it?” I asked, glowering down at him.

“Yeah, look at this thing. It’s huge,” he replied, apparently oblivious to my disapproval as we pulled away.

“Why?”

“You was talking and nobody was paying attention. I never seen one so big.”

“Damn it Frank, just cause you can steal something doesn’t mean you should.”

“Just cause you can’t doesn’t me you shouldn’t.”

Frank woke me up the next morning before dawn. Bubbling with enthusiasm, it took an effort to bundle him out of the thin-walled cabin without waking anyone else. There was a chill in the air and a thick mist hanging over the lake as walked to the paddle boats, me carrying the poles, him rifling through the tackle box. We left the dock with a hint of dawn in the east, the fog lending a ghoulishness to our passage that was lost on Frank.

“What ya think, Marty? Three casts? If it even takes that many with the rattler. Uncle John gave it to me. It rattles as you pull it through the water. Fish can’t resist; the sound of it pulls ‘em in. You just wait,” he boasted as I tied the lure onto his line.

He cast with a grunt and the rattler vanished into the soupy air. Frank began to retrieve as soon as it splashed, steady at first then adding subtle jerks on the rod to make it appear more life-like in the water. I watched the line retract from the fog, waiting for a strike, that jolt of energy that came with a hit, but the rattler returned to the boat unmolested and Frank heaved it in the opposite direction.

“Not the first, but maybe the second,” he said as it landed, unseen, in the distance. Not the second, though. Nor the third or fourth or fourteenth. He stopped counting at thirty. The sun rose, burned off the fog and we started changing baits. We tried spoons and spinners, artificial worms, and even a rubber frog. Then we moved spots and tried them all again. Nothing. Not a single bite. And Frank’s mood darkened with every futile cast.

“It’s almost 10,” I said, holding up my watch for him to see. “We need to be heading back. Dad rented the boat starting at 11 and he’ll be pissed if we’re late.”

“I think I felt a bite on that last one,” he replied. “The spinner’s really starting to catch the sun, they’ll be drawn to that shine.”

“Yeah, they will, but we still got to head back.”

“Just a few more casts.”

“We gotta go. We can try again tomorrow. I heard live bait works best here. Maybe we can find some worms or crickets or something.”

“Live bait?” he said, perking up a bit as he stowed the rod. “Yeah, that could work. What fish could resist the real deal?”

There was a breeze at our back and we made good time but the sun was higher now and seemed to lens onto the little boat, cooking us like ants under a magnifying glass. We made it back to the dock drenched in sweat. Dottie met us with tea and neat, little white-bread sandwiches.

“What are those?” Frank asked after downing a cup of tea.

“Cheese and cucumber sammies,” she replied, refilling his glass. The tea was so sweet it had separated into layers that swirled around each other, resisting the compulsion to merge and homogenize. I held out my own cup for a refill.

“Just cheese and cucumber? No meat?” Frank asked, in disbelief.

“Umm, no. No meat,” Dottie replied, a little taken back by the premise.

“What’s the point?” Frank asked walking away, not responding so much to Dottie as the universe itself. I took one of the sandwiches and stuffed it in my mouth.

“Yum,” I said through a mushy bolus of bread. It was bland but refreshing. She’d trimmed the crusts and cut each down to identical rectangles which I found pleasing. I took another, more out of aesthetic appeal than anything else.

“Marty, you look more like your father every day,” she said taking one for herself. “The girls in High School are going to swoon.”

“Hmm,” I mumbled in reply, the sandwich paste in my mouth. She said my name with an easy familiarity. Marty. The word particularly grating from her lips. Mother had called me Martin, my real name, but for four years it’d been Marty and only Marty. I had grand plans for High School, introducing myself as Martin on the first day and never looking back. But those were just plans, optimistic intentions I hadn’t worked up the courage to share with anyone yet.

“Where is Dad?” I asked, finally managing to swallow, searching for Frank or any kind of distraction to break the awkward moment.

“He’s bringing the boat around. Should only be a minute.”

I spotted Frank, digging in the landscaping around the resort’s office.

“Here he comes,” she said pointing out towards the water where Father was easing up to the dock.

“I’ll go help him tie up,” I said, walking away from Dottie, though he had everything secured by the time I got there. The boat was sleek and shiny, plated in mahogany and plush seating, the engine elegantly concealed by polished wood yet palpable in the deep rumble emanating throughout.

“How’d it go this morning?” Father asked as I came up beside him.

“Nothing.” I replied, “Not a single bite.”

“That bad, huh? How’s Frank handling it?”

“He’s not; hasn’t given up yet. I think he’s digging for worms at the moment.”

“I believe he’s found one,” Father said, nodding back to shore where Frank was scampering out of the bushes, something prized between his fingers. Dottie made her way down the dock to meet us.

“A perfect day to be on the lake,” she said, her smile and cat-eye glasses directed at Father.

“Marty, you go grab Frank; we’ll load up.” His eyes trained on Dottie; the conservative one-piece failed to disguise her hourglass figure.

“Sure thing.”

I found him near the bank, hunched over his pole, a bare hook tied to the line, the uncut tail of his knot an affront to my sensibilities.

“Time to go,” I said from above.

“I know. I’m coming,” he replied, not looking up. A worm wriggled in his grimy fingers, trying in vain to avoid the barb. Then Frank was up and moving, stepping toward the shore and throwing in one fluid motion. “Just one cast,” he said as the worm hit the water.

“Just one,” I agreed.

He took his time reeling it in, pausing frequently to let the bait sit. Waiting. “Alright,” I said when the worm finally broke the surface. He cast it back out, no hesitation. “Damn it, Frank. They’re waiting.”

“I’m coming,” he said as I turned and stalked down the shore. He didn’t move until I reached the pier; a few tentative steps, dragging the worm through the shallows as he begrudgingly followed.

Father sat aboard the boat, impatient in the driver’s seat, Dottie glistening in the sun beside him. The breeze had stilled and it was hot. “He’s coming,” I said when I reached them.

“Hot damn!” Frank hollered and I turned to find his rod bent over, the tip dancing in an unmistakable rhythm. A fish! He had it out of the water in seconds, dangling from the line as he ran to meet us, a familiar grin on his face.

“See Marty, just needed one more cast.”

“Well, how about that?” exclaimed Father, joining the enthusiasm.

“Yes, well done Frank,” added Dottie, confused by the whole thing.

“Now I’m ready to ski,” said Frank as he took hold of the fish to remove the hook. “Just needed one. Couldn’t get skunked.”

“A nice one, too,” I said.

“Yeah, not bad. Strange he was hiding in the shallows, big guy like this,” he replied.

“My, it’s a bright one today,” said Dottie from the boat, attempting to fan herself with a hand.

“It’ll be better once we get going,” reassured Father. “The wind will cool you off. Frank, throw him back and hop in.”

“He swallowed the hook,” said Frank. “The whole thing, I can’t get to it.”

“You got the pliers?” I asked, moving to join him.

“Nah, its mouth’s too small. They wouldn’t fit. What kind is it?” he asked.

“Trout I think,” taking the fish from him.

“Don’t worry, dear. It won’t be long now,” Father reassured Dottie. “Boys let’s go.”

“Where are the needle-nose?” I asked Frank.

“Back on shore,” he answered. “I could run get them?”

“Come on Marty. Let’s go,” Father repeated.

Frank was right, the hook was too deep in the fish’s gullet to reach; feeling agitated and flustered, there was nothing to do but pull. It came free with a sickening squelch, a piece of innards still ensnared along with most of the worm.

“Lucky worm,” commented Frank as I tossed the fish back into the lake where it floundered, mortally wounded but not yet dead. I tried not to think about it as we pushed off.

Frank and I sat in the back together watching the fish slowly sink, glimmering in its last throes. Suddenly a great maw rose from below, encircling the dying fish, engulfing it whole, before snapping shut. I caught a flash of stripes and the swipe of a tail and it was gone.

“Striper!” Frank and I exclaimed in time, my heart set racing with the engine as it roared to life and the boat took off.

We cruised for nearly an hour, exploring the lake. The steady thrum of the inboard, the wind in my hair, it was hypnotic. I soon forgot about the fish. When we finally stopped, it was time to learn to ski.

Being the oldest, I was to go first. I listened intently as Father explained the process; his instructions detailed but entirely confusing. Hold on tight but don’t pull. Let the boat do the work. Hips forward, shoulders back. I tried to keep it all in my head, floating in the water as the rope slowly tautened.

“Tips up,” Father called from the boat. I strained to raise the wooden skis a bit further out of the water. The engine throttled and before I knew it, I was up, the skis gliding across the surface, me standing upon them. I reacted without thought, pulling the rope in to my chest. For an instant, I was staring up at the sky, a few puffy clouds here and there. Then impact, skis out from under, water up my nose.

“Keep your arms straight this time,” Father instructed as he circled around for a second attempt. A face plant this time, vaulting over the skis, my arms rigidly straight.

“Let the boat do the work but you gotta push back a little bit,” was Father’s advice. I pushed back on the next try, pushed back hard and the rope popped out of my hands, flying back at the boat.

“You gotta hold on. Don’t let go of the rope,” Father growled, coming around again, frustration beginning to show. That time, I didn’t let go. Lost both skis and dragged for what felt like half a mile, but I didn’t let go.

“God damn it, Marty. You’re just getting worse.”

“Don’t use His name that way!” Dottie scolded.

“Sorry, Dottie,” Father apologized before calling out to me, “Wait there, we’ll go back for the skis.”

The boat roared off leaving me alone, afloat in my life jacket, the shore distant, barely visible. A puffy cloud moved in front of the sun, casting a shadow across the lake and I remembered the striper, the gaping maw in the depths. A cold chill crept in. I imagined a horde of them schooling below, tried fruitlessly to spot the danger I felt lurking, just beneath my daggling toes.

In the distance the boat idled, Frank leaning over the side to retrieve one of the skis I’d lost. “Take your time,” I muttered under my breath, lifting my legs to my chest. They seemed miles away, the lake an abyss with me bobbing on the surface. Suddenly I wanted out, had to fight the urge to swim for it. Panic threatened to overwhelm but I refused to give in, telling myself that there was nothing to fear. That it was silly to be afraid. Striper eat fish, they don’t attack people. If they did, I would have heard about it, right?

After what felt like an eternity, I heard the engine rev and spotted the boat coming around. I willed my knees from my chest, letting my feet hang down once more.

“You OK?” Frank asked as he tossed me the skis, backlit by the sun, now free of the cloud’s shadow.

“Fine,” I answered, desperately wanting to give up, to climb aboard and be free of the water, done with waterskiing.

“You’re looking kinda pale?”

“I’m fine,” I replied. He threw the rope.

Whether terror or repetition made the difference, I got up that time. Shoulders back? Arms straight? I couldn’t tell you; it just came together and I found myself atop the water. Skiing.

The boat reached steady speed and things stabilized a bit but not as much as I’d expected. It was a constant struggle to stay upright and keep the skis going in the same direction. I held on for as long as seemed necessary, a minute or two, and then released the rope to glide back down into the lake.

I made it back to the boat in time for an argument.

“You’ve lost too many pairs, Frank,” Father said, as I climbed out of the water.

“But I can’t see without ‘em.”

“You don’t need to see. Just hold on, let the boat do the work.”

“Don’t need to see? That’s crazy. How will I know what I’m doing? I won’t fall. I won’t lose them.”

“Yes, you will. Everybody falls. Leave the glasses in the boat.”

“I won’t fall. But if I do, and I won’t, I’ll grab ‘em before they sink.”

“Leave them in the boat.”

“But I can’t see!”

“Damn it, Frank!” He bellowed, Dottie an impassive observer.

“Fine,” Frank relented, taking off his glasses.

“Good job, Marty!” Father exclaimed, finally turning to me. “You were really starting to get the hang of it at the end there. Next time try to keep your hips a little more forward.”

“Yeah, great job, Marty,” Dottie echoed as she handed me a towel. There was a splash at the back of the boat as Frank got ready for his turn.

“You remember what I was telling Marty?” Father called out as he worked the skis onto his feet.

“Oh, yeah. I got it. Hips up, tips back. No problem,” Frank replied, squinting in the general direction of the boat.

He did it, first try. Just popped up like he’d done it a thousand times before. Then he was off to the races, gliding back and forth, over the boat’s wake, graceful and smooth; following some unseen track like he was born on the water.

Before long, one of his hands released the rope and slowly moved down to the pocket of his trunks. Smooth and subtle, he pulled out his glasses and put them on, the whole operation barely noticeable. Father’s attention was on driving, navigating between the other boats that crisscrossed the lake, and on Dottie, scrunched beside him.

With vision restored, Frank really got going. Turning harder and slashing across the surface, generally having the time of his life. He leaned into the skis and leveraged, gaining enough speed that it felt like he might catch the boat. When others passed nearby, he’d cut right at them before turning on a dime to send a rooster-tail of spray flying their way.

We came across a big cabin cruiser plowing through the lake and Frank tried this trick; the passengers clapped as a few drops of water impacted their soaring hull, though he didn’t see them. Zooming away in the opposite direction, waving at some swimmers near the shore, he also failed to see the wake that trailed the larger vessel. Our boat lurched over the big waves as Frank carved his little semi-circle. He came around with speed only to meet a wall of water. Too steep to ride over, his skis dug in and stopped. Frank kept going. Tumbling end over end, skipping like a stone until he slowed enough to sink.

The boat didn’t turn or slow, continuing forward as if nothing had happened. “He’s down,” I shouted up at Father and Dottie, waving my arms to get their attention.

It wasn’t until that evening that Father noticed Frank’s glasses were missing, the three of us sitting around the table waiting for dinner.

“Remember, you gotta be back by nine tomorrow. Service on the Lake starts at ten and you gotta get cleaned up before. Can’t have you smelling like fish in front of all those church people...,” he trailed off when he noticed Frank squinting.

“God…Damn…It,” he pronounced each word deliberately but low, so Dottie wouldn’t hear from the kitchen. “What happened to them?”

“I think they fell off the boat,” replied Frank.

“Fell off the boat?”

“Yeah. They were gone when I got done skiing. Figure they bounced out when we hit those waves,” Frank expanded, looking directly at Father as he spoke.

“Jesus, Frank! Is that four pairs this year? Those things are expensive. I can’t afford…,” he trailed off as Dottie entered carrying a roast chicken on a platter.

“You’re gonna have to help pay for the next pair,” he continued once she returned to the kitchen, leaving the chicken on the table between us. I furtively tried a bite. “Maybe then you’ll be more careful.”

“She forgot to salt the bird,” I broke in, trying to change the subject.

“What?” Father replied, losing his train of thought.

“The chicken. She didn’t salt it before she cooked it,” I repeated.

“You’re supposed to wait for the blessing,” he scolded.

“Oh, right.”

“And there’s a shaker right there, just add salt now,” he added.

“Not the same. You salt before to keep the moisture in. It’s all dried out now,” I explained.

“It’s fine, Marty. Don’t worry about it.”

“We should just let Marty do the cooking” Frank jumped in, “He’s better at it.”

“Don’t start Frank. We can’t have Marty taking care of us forever,” Father explained before turning directly to me and adding, “You’re gonna be a man soon.”

My instinct to calm the situation fled, his words an affront. I only cooked what Mom taught me, reproductions. The same food but by my hands. The wrong hands, apparently. I searched for the words, anger rising, but Dottie came in with peas and potatoes, and I deflated. The moment passed.

It was Frank’s turn to say Grace, Father nodding along through the stumbles. He damn near wore out the salt shaker but finished that bird and afterwards took Dottie out to socialize with some of her friends from church who were also staying at the resort, leaving us boys to tuck in early.

“Mom would’ve loved this place,” Frank said from the bunk above me after we turned off the lights.

“Yeah, she loved the water,” I replied. “Always loved the water.”

“Bet she wouldn’t have kept her hair dry like old Dottie.”

“She would have skied.”

“Skied? No way.”

“Oh, yeah. Mom loved to ski. She taught Dad. That’s why he knows what to do. Her and Uncle John used to ski all the time, ‘fore he got fat,” I recalled for him. “She was good, too. Like you.”

“Like me?”

“Just like you.”

He woke me before dawn again, though not quite as early as the day before. The fog was just as thick but moving, pushed along by a breeze, the eastern horizon an angry red. He’d been up awhile, already gotten a fish.

“Where’d you get the bucket?” I asked as a decent-sized trout sloshed about within.

“Round back of the resort,” he replied, “Saw it yesterday when I was digging worms.”

“Why’d you keep the fish?”

“Bait.”

“Bait?” I repeated, still a bit groggy.

“Tie this on for me?” he asked, handing me the giant hook he’d stolen from the tackle shop two days before.

“You were listening! To that old guy’s story about the striper, you were listening,” I exclaimed.

“’Course I was listening, I’m always listening,” he said, still holding out the hook to me. “How ‘bout we get a monster for our wall?”

“Hang it in the dining room? Have dinner every night with a big old fish,” I replied, smiling as I took the hook. “Dottie would love that.”

“She’d shit a brick,” Frank laughed.

So, I tied on that big hook and Frank carefully threaded it through the fish’s mouth as we peddled away from the dock. Once we reached the end of the pier where we’d seen the striper the day before, he gently cast it in and we waited. Watching the bait swim in lazy arcs, its flanks shimmering just below the surface. Minutes dragged by in silence.

“Anything happening?” Frank finally asked.

“Nah, it’s just lolling about in the water,” I replied, having forgotten about his lost glasses; that he couldn’t see.

“Maybe we should paddle around?” he suggested. “Pull it behind us?”

“Yeah, cover more ground that way.”

The sun had risen, though it remained masked by thick clouds; the fog lingered. We set off in no particular direction.

Our bait seemed to enjoy the ride, gliding around behind the paddleboat, skimming back and forth just at the edge of my vision in the mist. “What’s he doing now?” Frank asked.

“Waterskiing,” I answered. “Turning and burning, just like you were yesterday.”

“Waterskiing?” he replied with a laugh. “Everybody’s doing it now.”

It’s hard to say how far we churned through the fog, or for how long. Socked in like a ship in a bottle, our entire world a patch of water, a paddleboat and a waterskiing fish. Eventually, the breeze picked up and distant thunder rumbled across the lake.

“What’s that?” Frank asked, noticing a jiggle on the rod tip. I glanced back at the bait. It didn’t seem to be enjoying itself anymore. Darting around, erratic.

“Seems spooked,” I answered. “Something…,” Just then it leapt, sidelong and twisting, as a pair of jaws rose from below, barely missing the desperate trout. A massive, spiked dorsal fin cut the surface as the striper twisted in pursuit, churning the water and rocking the boat. The trout jumped again but the old striper would not be fooled twice, snatching the fish as it landed. A snap of jaws and Frank’s reel began to squeal.

He hooted in delight, the rod bent double, and loosened the drag, letting the fish run. The fog had begun to clear. Trees were becoming visible along the shoreline and a light rain started to fall. The fish continued to take line; I suddenly noticed the dam looming ahead.

“It’s running for the forest!”

“Forest?” Frank replied, confused.

“There’s a forest. In the lake,” I tried to explain.

“Uh, what?”

“Trees standing on the bottom, a whole mess of them near the dam. The striper tangled up in them when they got hooked. It’s why they never could catch them all.”

“Well, shit,” said Frank, tightening up the drag on the reel. “I guess I missed that part of the story.” The line stopped feeding out and Frank leveraged himself against the mighty pull; the boat began to move.

“Pedal!” he shouted and we got to it, slowly arresting the motion. The boat came to a halt, fins and paddle balanced in a reluctant stalemate. Time passed unperceived as we fought, neither side gaining headway, our every effort matched by the fish. I could see the resort in the distance ahead, I imagined Father waiting impatiently on the dock. Service on the Lake would start soon, we would never make it.

Thunder rumbled, closer. The rain fell harder. Waves sloshed up the side of the boat, rising with the wind. Gusting in our faces, pushing back, lending the slightest advantage to the fish. We began to move. Backward, slow but inevitable. Lightning struck, followed almost instantly by an explosion of thunder. I felt a panic seeping in, a cold terror, but Frank met the squall head-on, shouting curses into the wind and laughing.

“Keep peddling,” he called out over the tempest. “Storm won’t last long,” though it only seemed to be strengthening. The rain came in sideways, stinging, soaking to the bone, hiding the shoreline once more. Frank kept up his encouragement, kept us fighting, but the fish gained steadily as the storm peaked.

It moved out quicker than it had come and we found ourselves floating on glass. The line, still taut, disappeared straight down into the clear water. I could make out the tops of branches, haunting fingers reaching up from the depths.

“Well, ain’t that a thing,” Frank muttered, giving a yank on the rod. I noticed movement below, a shape drawn downward in time with Frank’s pull on the line.

“I think I see something,” I said, “Give it some slack.”

“See what?” he asked, feeding out line. The shape began to rise.

“Something. Keep going.”

“The fish?” he asked, breathless.

“Yeah, maybe.” It got closer. I could make out stripes. Frank kept giving slack.

“I think I see it,” he said, squinting into the water. The fish was only a few feet down and continuing to rise. “A big boy!”

It stopped just below the surface. Slanted upward, it seemed to be considering us.

“What’s it doing?” I asked, confounded.

“Come to see the ones that hooked it?” Frank postulated, holding the fish’s gaze as he set the pole aside.

“Why’d he want to do that?” I asked as Frank’s hands found the bowline used to tie the paddleboat to the dock, his eyes locked on the striper’s.

“To gloat, maybe?” he replied, as he smoothly wrapped the rope around his ankle.

“To gloat?” I said, studying the fish, hovering over a backdrop of branches, motionless except for the occasional flick of a fin to keep it stable, solemn in his freshwater prison. “Thirty years, he’s only known the lake.”

The boat rocked suddenly and there was a splash as Frank dove, launching himself at the fish. His ankles disappeared, the bowline tied around one, and chaos erupted as the two struggled beneath. Frank managed to get a grip on the jaw and wrap his legs around; he held on like some aquatic bull-fighter as it thrashed. The fish seemed as shocked as me by the sudden turn of events, unsure of how to respond at first, and then it dove, straight down, making for the depths. The boat lurched as the bowline pulled tight, resisting the strain.

“Let it go!” I shouted, but Frank couldn’t hear under the water, nor would he have listened. The boat continued to rock, the fish attempting to pull it under. It gave a final heave, sinking the bow enough for water to splash over, and then it was spent. Exhausted by the fight, it gave up.

Frank broke the surface with a gasp, grabbing onto the boat with one hand, the other still locked onto the fish’s jaw.

“Hurry, gill tie him before he gets a second wind,” Frank said between breaths, extending his ankle toward me with bowline attached to it. I quickly undid his knot before threading it through the fish’s mouth and out one of its gills, securing it to the boat before pulling Frank aboard.

He collapsed into a puddle, bloodied and battered, and began to laugh. A winded chuckle at first, that grew. Infectious. I found myself joining him, cackling unrepressed as my adrenaline faded and awareness seeped in.

“I think we missed church,” he said, as the giggles subsided.

“Yeah, but we got a hell of a thing to show for it,” I replied, eyeing the leviathan floating beside us. It was nearly as long as the boat and must have weighed nearly as much as Frank. I started pedaling to get us underway, back toward the resort.

“You think if we get him past the dam, he could make it to the ocean?” Frank asked, taking hold of the steerage and turning us around. I studied the concrete behemoth that loomed ahead. The dam wasn’t as tall as it seemed at a glance, but deeper. A pile of loose stone sloping up from the water, not too steep to climb. I assumed it was symmetric, the same gentle slope on the far side.

“Don’t see why not,” I replied. We made for the base of the dam, the striper gliding alongside.

“Gonna have to hurry to get him over before he suffocates,” Frank said, jumping out as soon as we reached the shore. “It’ll take both of us to carry him. Hurry now!”

The fish flexed its fins when as stooped beside it, the spikes precariously close to my eyes, but didn’t thrash at our touch. Slippery and firmer than I expected, a torpedo made flesh, it remained strangely impassive as we lifted it from the water.

The climb wasn’t steep but the footing was treacherous, Frank constantly pushing the pace. There was a muted rumble in the air that grew as we clambered up the rocks. We reached the top, the fish still gasping and twitching every now and then, only to be stymied by a fence, chain-linked with rolls of barbed wire atop. It seemed to come out of nowhere to Frank, still mostly blind, but he hardly slowed. Following it, squinting down, until he found a gap in the base.

“Here,” he said, “We can fit under,” already on his knees. I held up the fence as we wriggled through then turned to the fish. It was beginning to look haggard, its eyes dimming, gritted with dirt, but still gasping, still alive as Frank pulled it under. Sensing the urgency, he didn’t wait for me and began dragging it onward, across the causeway and down a grassy decline.

I watched them go, finally taking in the far side in horror. Expecting a gentle slope like the one we’d just scaled, I found instead a cliff, sheer and absolute, higher than seemed possible, straight down to depths unseen. And blind Frank was barreling right towards it.

“Frank Stop!” I yelled, shaking the fence to get his attention over the roar of the spillway. He didn’t hear, nor stop, instead gained speed, the fish gliding more easily, downward on the wet grass. And then he slipped. Feet out from under, hand still locked on the striper’s jaw, he thudded to a halt and I let out a sigh of relief. But the fish kept going, continuing its downward slide on the slick ground. Its turn at locomotive, Frank became the load, the one hooked and being dragged. Unaware of the danger, unwilling to let go, they picked up speed and the edge drew closer.

“Frank!!!,” I screamed again, and he seemed to hear, looking back in my direction, his eyes unfocused. An instant and then they were gone, disappeared over the ledge. Vanished.

I don’t remember squirming under the fence but I found myself on the other side screaming, running to the edge, sliding on my knees to look down. The drop was horrendous. Hundreds of feet to a raging froth but Frank was right there, a mere arm’s length away.

He hung by a rail in one hand, the fish in the other, his feet dangling hundreds of feet in the air. Determined and unfazed by the peril, Frank was swinging, back and forth, gaining momentum with each oscillation, lending velocity to the fish until he released, flinging it skyward to soar, a bird in flight. It hung in the air for an instant, striped magnificence, then it began to fall. Tumbling downward, end over end, to disappear in the torrent below.

Frank reached for my hand and I pulled him up, dragged him away from the edge, holding him tight until we reached level ground and for a while after. Fighting back tears. Sobbing.

Far below, the rage of the spillway calmed to become a river, peaceful and winding, barely more than a stream. The great white belly of the striper shone like a beacon as it floated along, a passenger inanimate, bobbing and spinning on the current until it disappeared around a bend.

“Do you think he’ll make it,” Frank asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I answered, my voice hoarse. “He’s on his way.”

We didn’t get back to the resort until after checkout. The Ford already packed, Father waiting on the dock, enraged until he saw us. Frank, slashed and punctured, bruises already showing. Me, shell shocked, gashes down my back from the fence. His fury faded faster than the morning’s storm.

We drove away from Lake Santee in silence with a story no one ever really believed. Frank, slumped in the back seat, eyes closed; me, feeling much the same but at least able to take in the scenery.

“Did you have a good weekend, Marty?” Dottie asked when the quiet got to be too much.

“Martin,” Frank said, not opening his eyes. “His name is Martin.”