THE LAKE
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and one large fish with a spotty complexion. George had to row with
Bette on the edge of her seat. They spoke with a certain casual habit.
Finally, I heard Bette ask George about my illness.
"Poliomyelitis," he said, with pride.
"Jerry, aren't you going to tell me your name?" she asked me.
I turned to see if Mamma was at the shore yet; I wondered
what delayed her. The two other row-boats were being tied to the
posts.
"Answer her!" George shouted.
"I don't want to. I want to fish. You promised me I could hold
the fishing line."
"Since you are so stubborn, I'm not going to let you," said
George.
"But you promised."
"I'm going to fish by myself," said George. He picked up the
pole, and the tin can.
"You promised me, George."
"I didn't."
"You said you would. When Mamma comes. . . . "
"Don't bother me!" he roared.
Bette stared at me peculiarly.
George fitted a worm onto
his
hook with a gruesome determina–
tion. His enormous shadow lay like a hood over me, extinguishing
the sunlight.
"Care for a smoke, George?" Bette asked.
"Sure," he said.
She lit two at the same time, and gave him one. He inhaled
with a confidence that told me this was not
his
first cigarette. I
reflected that I would have to tell Mamma about it. She snapped
shut her pocket-book. So that George should not see my anger, I
studied the frenzied pattern of its colours.
George stepped firmly to the boat's prow. I slid over a bit as
he tilted us. George tested the reel, and, throwing his
~
back,
hurled out the line. It glistened. The hook landed close enough for me
to follow its course. I tried to move back, but the precariousness of
the boat, near overturning and near balancing, made me wait.
As
he reeled in, I said:
"George! I'm going to fall out!"
He glanced at me. "No, you're not. You're all right there."
On
his
second casting, I slipped to the edge, and my body fell
