Chapter 9 - He Saw the FishThe first thing Roy noticed was the bank.
Grass covered it.
No erosion.
No standing mud.
Cattails grew along one edge.
A small dock extended over the water.
A solar aerator hummed quietly.
Feed barrels sat beneath a simple shelter.
Everything looked inexpensive.
Everything looked intentional.
Mrs. Bell sat on her porch.
She saw Roy.
“Took you long enough.”
Roy ignored her.
“Where’s Maggie?”
Mrs. Bell pointed.
“Minding the failure.”
Roy walked downhill.
Maggie stood at the shallow end holding a net.
She saw him.
Her expression remained calm.
That bothered him more than anger would have.
“Hello, Uncle Roy.”
Roy stopped several steps away.
“You look…”
He did not know how to finish.
Older?
She looked nearly the same.
Tied-back hair.
Practical clothes.
Same face.
But she no longer carried herself like someone waiting for an adult to approve the next move.
“I heard you had fish.”
“I do.”
“How many?”
Maggie did not answer.
She moved the net through the shallow section.
Lifted.
A large carp thrashed once.
Then settled as she supported it with both hands.
Roy stared.
The fish was thick through the body.
Nearly two feet long.
“That came from here?”
“Yes.”
Roy looked at the pond.
At first he saw only reflections.
Maggie scattered a small handful of pellets.
One carp rose.
Then five.
Ten.
Twenty.
The surface suddenly filled with separate backs, fins, and mouths.
Below them, darker shapes moved.
More fish.
Many more.
Roy stepped closer.
“How many?”
“Started with four thousand.”
“I heard a lot died.”
“Some.”
“How many?”
“Seventy-three in the oxygen crash. A few more later.”
“You sold a bunch early.”
“Six hundred.”
Roy nodded as though that confirmed something.
“So what’s left?”
“A little over twenty-two hundred.”
Roy turned.
“Twenty-two hundred?”
“Approximately.”
“That many?”
“Most are market weight or close.”
Roy stared into the water.
The pond refused to agree with the story he had built.
Maggie lowered the carp carefully.
It disappeared.
Then she walked toward a small table and returned with a spiral notebook.
Roy recognized the bent corner.
The notebook from Sunday dinner.
“You kept that?”
“I filled it.”
She opened it.
The first pages contained pond dimensions.
Stocking estimates.
Feed projections.
Then water readings.
Roy saw July.
73 dead.
He looked up.
“That’s when I heard you failed.”
“One of the times people said that.”
Maggie turned the page.
Ammonia spike.
Pump failure.
Bicycle sold.
Aerator purchased.
Six hundred fish removed.
Storm overflow.
Commercial order.
Eleven pounds above contract.
Roy read slowly.
Eventually he reached the financial pages.
Feed.
Fingerlings.
Equipment.
Maintenance.
Sales.
Revenue.
Profit.
His finger stopped.
“This number is after expenses?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Roy looked across the low field.
He had farmed long enough to know exactly what marginal soybeans earned on ground like this.
He calculated.
Then did it again.
“You made more from this quarter acre than beans would make.”
“Yes.”
Roy sat on the dock.
For a while he said nothing.
Then:
“You could have asked me for help.”
Maggie stared.
“I did.”
Roy looked up.
“When?”
“That Sunday.”
The words landed quietly.
Roy remembered Maggie pushing the notebook toward him.
He remembered refusing to open it.
Maggie closed the cover.
“I didn’t need you to guarantee it would work.”
Roy looked at her.
May you like
“I needed you to believe the question was worth looking at.”
For once, Roy had no answer.
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