A Different Pond

Dad wakes me quietly so Mom can keep sleeping. It will be hours before the sun comes up. In the kitchen the bare bulb is burning. Dad has been up for a while, making sandwiches and packing the car. “Can I help?” I ask. “Sure,” my dad whispers and hands me the tackle box. The streetlights look brighter and the roads aren’t so busy before the sun comes up. Dad turns on the heater and tells me stories.

A kid at my school said my dad’s English sounds like a thick, dirty river. But to me his English sounds like gentle rain.

We stop at the bait store on Lake Street. It always seems to be open. “You’re here early today,” the bait man says. “I got a second job,” my dad explains. “I have to work this morning.” “On a Saturday?” the bait man asks. My dad nods. I feel the bag of minnows move. They swim like silver arrows in my hands. It’s still dark when we get to the pond. We park the car and climb over the divider between the road and the trees. My dad holds my hand and walks ahead through the tangle and scrub. “Step where I step,” he says.

I am thinking about what Dad told the bait man. “If you got another job, why do we still have to fish for food?” I ask. “Everything in America costs a lot of money,” he explains. I feel callouses on his hand when he squeezes mine.

Sometimes a Hmong man is at the pond. He speaks English like my dad and likes to tell funny jokes. Sometimes there is a black man there, too. He shows me his colorful lure collection. This time it is just me and my dad.

“You want to put a minnow on the hook?” Dad asks. I want to help, but I shake my head no. I don’t want to hurt that little fish, even if I know it’s about to be eaten by a bigger one. My dad smiles. He isn’t upset with me.

Dad hands me a sandwich, cold bologna between two pieces of bread. “Careful of the spicy stuff,” he says. There’s half a peppercorn, like a moon split in two, studded into the meat. “I used to fish by a pond like this one when I was a boy in Vietnam,” Dad says, biting into his sandwich. “With your brother?” I ask. He nods, then looks away. Dad tells me about the war, but only sometimes. He and his brother fought side by side. One day, his brother didn’t come home.

The bobber dips in the dark and Dad pulls. “Got one!” he says, almost shouting. A crappie! And soon another “Can I help?” I ask. He nods and I use two hands to help guide the fish into the bucket. The fish feels slimy and rough at the same time. Dad laughs at the funny face I make.

Dad smiles, his teeth broken and white in the dark, because we have a few fish and he knows we will eat tonight.

Time to go home. Dad must get ready for work. He washes his hands with a small nub of green and white soap. Then I do the same.

I look at the trees as we walk back to the car. I wonder what the trees look like at that other pond, in the country my dad comes from.