Swallowing, I forced my hand to dig inside the mud again.
“So Don Martin,” I said, “this morning I walked past that house again, the one that got burned in the fire.”
He was barely listening. He’d just picked up a colossal worm and flashed it dangerously close to my face so I would appreciate its size.
“I tell you what,” he said, “I dare you to find a bigger worm than this.”
What were we, ten years old?
I sighed.
No, we were men. Competitive. Daring. Not easily revolted men.
Despite my disgust, I wasn’t about to let him win the challenge.
I dug with my full hand, letting the dirt build up under my nails and between my fingers. Among handfuls of soil, gray worms squirmed to the surface. As I collected a few of them and compared them in length to Martin’s impressive catch, my revulsion diminished. Soon, I was finding worms at a faster speed than Martin and couldn’t help but enjoy the race we’d immersed ourselves into. Much to my dismay, I giggled—it had been an unconscious reaction and now I was going to pay for it. Martin stopped his search and stared at me. For a moment, there was silence. I bet my cheeks were as red as a handful of cherries.
I returned to the task of finding the longest worm and felt a thick one between my fingers. It was as long as a cigarette holder.
I presented my catch. We stood too close for comfort—I could smell Martin’s citric cologne masked under the unmistakable scent of moist soil. I took a step back.
“Fine, I concede. You win,” he said. “Now let’s go get some fish.”
*
After casting our rods （mine took some effort to get in right） I sat on a rock next to Martin, our boots resting by the edge of the water. We sat there quietly for a moment, staring at the water’s surface and its calming effect.
“You grew up here?” I asked after a few minutes.
“Yes, but I went to school in Colombia. I owe my education to Don Armand.”
As his line stiffened, he reeled it in.
No catch.
He patiently cast his rod again.
“Don Armand paid for my boarding school and college after my father passed away,” he said.
“You went to college?”
He didn’t seem like the type. My husband fit my idea of what a university graduate ought to look like, not Martin. Then again, this trip seemed to be challenging all my preconceived notions about others.
“What did you study?” I said.
“Agronomy.”
“That makes sense.”
For a moment, the only sound was the gurgling of the brook.
“So, what happened to your father?” I finally said.
“He drowned.”
His bluntness disconcerted me. Involuntarily, I faced the water. I regretted asking, but he didn’t seem to mind the subject.
“He’d gotten drunk the night before and in the morning, he went for a swim. Some think that he got a cramp, but I think he was still drunk.”
“Did he”—I lowered my tone—“did he get drunk often?”
“No. That’s why he got so drunk this time. He couldn’t handle his alcohol.” He faced the pond, pensively. “I think it finally caught up with him.”
“What?”
“His mistakes.”
I wanted to know more, but I didn’t think Cristóbal would’ve asked. Besides, after the giggling fiasco, I didn’t want to call more attention to myself. Honestly, I was surprised Martin hadn’t realized I was a woman yet. He seemed like an observant man.
“Well, that’s all in the past. It doesn’t change anything,” he said with a hint of bitterness.
His fishing rod stiffened, then gave a small jerk. Martin stood up and pulled on the pole.
“It’s a big one.” He reeled and pulled the rod, exposing a bass that must have been at least six pounds.
As the fish wiggled, Martin removed the hook from its mouth, then inserted a needle with a long string through its mouth and gill, and tied it. He stuck the needle in the ground, letting the fish’s body remain inside the water stream. “To keep fresh,” he said. He didn’t talk about his father anymore and I didn’t dare ask. I had to strike a balance where I could earn his trust without overwhelming him with questions.
I had minimum luck with my own fishing, but at least I caught a couple of small bass. Then came the gory task of washing the fish and cutting them open to remove their insides. I marveled at Martin’s skill, his precision for cutting, his speed. His hands were large, masculine, his fingernails soiled. It was fascinating to watch.