“You don’t care about touching them?”

“Not really,” she says, “but I’m not going to thread your hook.”

I run to the shed for my fishing stuff and then we walk down to the shore of Lake Boon. I’ve got an old wooden rowboat there, one I’ve had since I was a kid. I keep it turned upside down on the yellow reeds, with the oars underneath. It’s green, because that was the color of the primer I used when I was twelve and decided to paint it. Except I never got around to buying the paint.

This is my favorite time of the day at the orchard. The water sings to us as I row into the center of the lake. Jane sits across from me, prim, with her hands in her lap. She’s holding the jar of worms.

“It’s nice out here,” Jane says. Then she shakes her head. “That’s an understatement.”

“I know it. I come out here almost every Sunday if I get the chance. I like feeling that I’m part of this picture, kind of.”

“I must be ruining the harmony, then,” Jane says.

I open up the tackle box and take out a hook and a leader. “Not at all. You’re just what this place needed.” I point to the jar. “Hand me a worm?” Jane unscrews the lid and pulls out a fat worm without a second thought. “You should try catching the first bass.” I hand her the fishing rod. “You know how to cast?”

“I think so.” I tell her to aim for the lily pads behind me. She stands up precariously, balancing the boat under her feet, and releases the catch on the reel. She whizzes the line over my head; a really good cast, actually. Then she chokes up on the line a little and sits back down. “Now I just wait?”

I nod. “They’ll be here soon. Trust me.”

I like fishing because it reminds me of Christmas, when you’re handed a box and you don’t know what’s inside. You get a tug on your line and you have no idea what you’re going to pull up-bass, sunfish, pickerel, perch. So you reel in, but slowly, because you don’t want the excitement to be over too quick. And then there’s something thrashing on the end of your hook, scales catching the sun, and it’s yours, all yours.

We sit in the calm cradle of the rowboat, letting the sun drip down the necks of our shirts. Jane holds the cork grip of the rod lightly, and I think, please God, don’t let her drop if it she gets a bite. The last thing I want to do is to lose my lucky rod overboard. She leans back against the bow of the boat, balancing her elbows just so. The backs of her legs rest on the seat, supporting the rest of her. “I should have told you this before,” I say, “but I hope you know you’re welcome to use the phone. If there’s someone you need to call in California. Your husband, or whoever.”

“Thanks.” Jane gives me a perfunctory smile, and rolls the fishing rod around in her palm. If you ask me, she should call that scientist guy. He’s probably going out of his mind wondering if she’s all right. At least I know that’s the way I would be if my wife up and left me. But I don’t say anything. If I’ve asked Jane not to interfere in the way I run my life, I’m sure as hell not going to meddle in hers.

Jane asks me when everyone else gets up on Sundays, and I’m about to answer when the tip of the rod jerks down violently. Her eyes fly open, and she grabs tight onto the rod while the bass starts running with the line. “It’s strong!” Jane cries, and as she says this the bass leaps arching its back, trying again to make a getaway. “Did you see it! Did you see it?”

I reach over the side of the rowboat and pull the end of the line up. The fish comes out of the water, blue-green. The hook is caught in the corner of its jaw, and still it does not give up without a fight.

“Well,” I say, holding up the bass. Its hinged mouth, a perfect round O, is translucent. You can see right through to its insides. It’s tail flaps back and forth, curving the body into such a half-circle it seems impossible the fish could have a spine. I hold it up on the line in such a way that one filmy green eye stares at me, and the other one at Jane, taking us both in at the same time. “What do you think of your fish?”

She smiles so I can see all her teeth-neat and white and even, like the small rows on Silver Queen corn. “He’s delightful,” Jane says, poking a finger at the tail. As soon as she touches the fish it thrashes in her direction.

“Delightful,” I repeat. “I’ve heard them called ‘huge,’ or even ‘feisty,’ but I can’t say as I’ve ever heard a fisherman talk about a ‘delightful’ catch.” As I talk I run my free hand down the slippery body of the fish. I can’t touch it too much because then it’ll smell like human when I release it back into the water. I edge the hook back out of its hatched jaw.

“Watch this,” I say, and holding the fish over the water, I release it. It floats for a second near the surface of the lake, and then with a mighty whip of its tail it dives so deep we lost track of its movements.

“I like the way you set it free,” Jane says. “How come you do that?”

I shrug. “I’d rather catch it again for sport than fry up such a tiny fillet. I only keep the fish if I know I’m going to eat it.”

I hold the rod out to her again, but she shakes her head. “You try,” Jane says.

So I do, pulling up in rapid succession a sunfish, two small-mouth bass and another large-mouth. I hold each one up into the sun, glorifying the catch, and pointing out to Jane the differences between each. It’s only when I cut the last bass free that I realize Jane’s not really listening. She’s holding her right hand with her left, cradling it in her palm, and squeezing her forefinger. “I’m sorry,” she says when she sees I’m looking at her. “I’ve just got a splinter, that’s all.”

I take her hand and after holding the cool fish I’m surprised at the heat of her skin. It’s a deep splinter, fairly far below the surface of her skin. “I can try to get it out now,” I say. “You don’t want it to get infected.”

She looks up at me, grateful. “You’ve got a needle in there?” she asks, nodding towards the tackle box.

“I’ve got clean hooks. That’ll do.”

I take a brand new hook out of its flimsy plastic wrapper and bend it so that it is straight, like a little arrow. I don’t want to hurt her too much, but the point of a hook is constructed to grab onto whatever flesh it catches, so that a fish can’t free itself. Jane closes her eyes and turns away, offering her hand. I scrape at the surface of her skin with this needle. When blood comes, I dip her hand into the water to clean it.

“Is it over yet?”

“Almost,” I lie. I haven’t even come close to the splinter. I dig and dig through the layers of her skin, looking up from time to time to see her wince. Finally I nudge the silver of wood up, and then using the hook, I push it to an upright position. “Easy now,” I whisper, and then I bring my teeth to her forefinger, pulling out the splinter. Holding her hand under the water, I tell her she can look now.

“Do I want to?” Jane says.

Her upper lip is quivering, which makes me feel awful. “I’m sorry it hurt, but at least it’s out.” She nods bravely, looking just like a little kid. “I guess you never wanted to be a doctor.”

Jane shakes her head. She pulls her hand out of the water and looks critically at her finger, assessing the damage. When the pit of skin begins to fill with blood, she closes her eyes. I watch her take her finger and stick it in her mouth, sucking the wound dry. I should have done that, I think. I would have liked to have done that.