"What can I do for you, buddy?"

"Snickers," he said, hoarse as a bullfrog.

"Snickers?"

He nodded, feeble but encouraged.

"We got us one!" yelled Ernie. "Otis! Where's Otis?"

"In th' head. You take it!"

Father Tim had heard of total pandemonium, but he'd never seen it 'til now. Six people erupted into a full horde, and swarmed around him like the armies of Solomon.

"We got a fish here! Yee-hah!"

"Got another one right here. Take it, Madge!"

He looked at the throbbing lines crisscrossed over and around the stern like freeways through L.A.

"That's a keeper!" Pete gaffed something and pulled it in.

"Way to go, Roger!"

He saw the rainbow of color that shimmered on the big fish as it went into the box, where it thrashed like a horse kicking a stall. Pete pulled out the gaff and hosed blood from the deck.

The captain was fishing off the bridge; everybody was fishing. He heaved himself from the chair, out of the fray, and huddled against the cabin.

In the fighting chair, Madge was crouched into the labor of hauling in something big.

Otis had his thumb on her line, helping her raise and lower the rod. "You got to pump 'im, now," he said, clenching his cigar in his teeth.

"Oh, law! This must be an eighteen-wheeler I've got on here!"

"Keep crankin'!"

Captain Willie called over the speaker, "Please tend to the left-hand corner, Pete, tend to the left-hand corner, we got a mess over there."

"A fishin' frenzy," muttered Pete, streaking by in a blur.

Madge cranked the reel, blowing like a prizefighter. "This fish is killin' me. Somebody come and take this bloomin' rod!"

"Don't quit!" yelled Sybil, aiming a point-and-shoot at the action. "Keep goin', Chuck would be proud!"

"That ain't nothin' but solid tuna," said Otis. He helped Madge lift the rod as the fish drew closer to the boat.

Father Tim rubberlegged it to the stern and looked over. The black water of the morning had changed to blue-green, and the fish moved beneath the aqua surface, luminous and quick.

He thought it one of the most beautiful sights he'd ever seen.

"Here it comes!"

He stepped back as Pete darted to the right of the fighting chair, lowered the gaff, and hauled the tuna onto the deck.

"Way to go, Madge!"

"Beautiful! Beautiful!"

Whistles, cheers, applause.

"That'll weigh in seventy, seventy-five pounds," Otis said, as Madge staggered out of the chair, grinning into Sybil's camera.

The captain was catching fish, Ernie was catching fish, Roger was catching fish.

"Got a fish on th' line!" yelled Pete. "Who'll take it?"

"I'll take it!" As Father Tim thumped into the fighting chair, hoots of encouragement went up from the entire assembly.

He was back from the dead, he was among the living, he was ready to do this thing.

"How was it, darling?"

"Terrific!" he said, kissing her. "Wonderful fellowship, great fellowship-fellows in a ship, get it?"

"Got it. And the weather?"

He shrugged. "A little rough, but not too bad."

"What's for supper?" she asked, eyeing the cooler he was lugging.

"Yellowfin tuna and dolphin! Let's fire up the grill," he said, trotting down the hall, "and I'll tell you all about it!" By the time he hit the kitchen, he was whistling.

She hurried after her husband, feeling pleased. He'd come home looking considerably thinner, definitely tanner, and clearly more relaxed. She'd known all along that buying him a chair with Captain Willie was a brilliant idea.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

Letting Go "Turn around a minute and don't look," Roger said.

Father Tim turned and faced the book room, where Elmo sat on the windowsill, licking his paws after a meal of thawed finger mullet.

"OK, you can look now."

Roger had positioned the carved head on the body of the green-winged teal; the duck was gazing at him in a way he found positively soulful.

"Aha," he whispered.

"I set the eyes a while back and forgot to show you."

"It'll be as close to th' real thing as you'll ever see in this life!" Ernie Fulcher was grinning as if he were personally responsible for the whole deal. "Fact is, you can compare it to th' real thing right now, if you want to. We got one we keep in th' freezer for when he needs somethin' to go by."

"That's OK," said Father Tim, not eager to see a dead duck in a Ziploc bag.

"Until I set the eyes," said Roger, "it didn't have any character at all, there was no personality. The eyes lying on the worktable are nothing, but set them in place and this piece of wood becomes a duck."

"Amazing! Just amazing."

"I've got to burn all the feathers, now they've been chiseled, then I'll gesso everything and start to paint. See these speculum feathers on the wing? They'll be green, and the under-tail coverts here, they'll be a champagne color."

Roger passed his handiwork to Father Tim, who took it, feeling oddly reverent.

Though he didn't know why, and he certainly didn't know how . . . this was his duck.

He was getting ready to leave when Junior Bryson came in, looking as if he'd lost his last friend.

Lucas's tail thumped the floor in greeting.

"I done it," Junior said.

"Done what?" asked Ernie.

"Talked to Ava's daddy."

"Come and sit down," said Ernie, pulling out a chair. "You want a Pepsi, have a Pepsi! Or get you a root beer."

Junior shook his head at Ernie's offer and thumped down at the table, looking, thought Father Tim, considerably pale around the gills. He changed his mind about leaving and sat down with Junior.

Roger placed the duck in its carry-box.

Roanoke lit a Marlboro.

Silence.

"Well?" said Ernie.

Junior sighed. "Well, I finally worked up th' nerve to call 'er daddy, so I got th' phone book that has Swanquarter, and found a Goodnight listed in it."

"Smart!" said Ernie.

"It wadn't too smart," said Junior. "I was thinkin' her daddy's name would be Goodnight, but then, when th' phone started ringin', it hit me that Goodnight was prob'ly her married name an' she might answer th' phone."

"Right!" said Ernie, hoping for the best.

"I was about to hang up, when a man answered. That kind of th'owed me. I thought it might be, like, you know, a boyfriend. But it was her daddy, Mr. Taylor. He lives at Ava's."

Roanoke blew a smoke ring. Lucas's yawn sounded like a squeak from a door hinge.

"Well, I'd practiced what I wanted to say, but when he answered, I forgot everything."

"Right," said Ernie. "It usually works that way."

"So, anyhow, I said, 'This is Junior Bryson from over at Whitecap, Ava might of mentioned me.' "

"That was a good start."

"He said, 'Are you th' fella plays Scrabble and fishes?' " Junior's face brightened momentarily. "I said, 'Yessir.' He said, I like a fella says yessir, most people've forgot about sayin' yessir.' "

"And what'd you say?"

"I said 'Yessir, you're right about that.' "

"Common ground!" exclaimed Ernie. Roger and Father Tim nodded their agreement.

"So I said I was hopin' Ava might go out with me, I do Sound an' ocean fishin' both, an' have a little boat I take crabbin' an' all, I could offer her a variety of fishin' options."

"That should of done it right there!"

"I said I'm pretty sharp at Scrabble and could prob'ly give her a good run for th' money."

"An' what'd he say?"

"He said she beats th' stuffin' out of him all th' time, not to mention beats her sister an' some of th' neighbors."

Ernie whistled through his teeth.

"I told him about my job, how I was Employee of th' Month back in April an' all. . . ."

"What else?"

"I told him I own my own house an' keep my truck washed an' waxed, that I change th' oil myself an' just put on a new set of Michelins." Junior looked exhausted.

"That's all your cards right there," said Ernie. "You laid 'em on th' table, that's all a man can do. So what'd he say?"

Junior looked at his hands. "He said I sounded pretty decent an' responsible."

Ernie beamed. "Then what?"

"So then I told him I hadn't heard back from Ava, an' wondered if he'd be willin' to give his permission for me to take 'er out an' all."

Father Tim glanced around. Roanoke was cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. Roger was pondering the situation intently. Ernie looked nervous.

"So he said, 'Well, son, I like what you're sayin', I really do, and I thought those snapshots showed a fine-lookin' fella, but your letter failed to convince Ava that you're a Christian, and that's a requirement of hers as well as mine.' Then he said she wrote me a note a day or two ago and he guessed I hadn't got it yet."

Ernie looked disgusted. "Shoot, maybe you don't want to go out with somebody that could whip your butt at Scrabble. You thought of that?"