Page 104 of Mom Ball

I do as I’m told. Timothy grabs my phone. “Mama, Nate called us.”

“You can call him back.” I smile to myself. We haven’t talked since last night.

“There are no bars.”

“I hope not. Catfish Camp is supposed to be a family place, but you never know around here.”

“No, Mama, no signal bars.”

I lift my chin in acknowledgement, then refocus on the back of Georgia’s SUV. “We’ll call soon enough.”

I grip the wheel. Every day we talk for at least a quick minute, and he texts me throughout the day. I know Timothy wants to tell him about the game, but I simply want to say “I love you” and hear it back.

Every second I regret not saying it in person before he left. But I was caught off guard and didn’t want it to sound like a desperate attempt at keeping him. When he told me the next night on the phone, I had to tell him back.

Georgia puts her blinker on beside a light-up sign that reads “Fresh-Caught Cats.”

“They serve cats?” Timothy snarls.

“No.” I laugh. “It’s short for catfish.” Dear God, I hope that’s true.

We park in a gravel lot that’s poorly lit. Lights from inside somewhat show the way to a metal building with a catfish above the door. Rustic letters spell out “Catfish Camp” under it.

Georgia parks beside us and comes to my door. “Carlton is inside getting us a table.”

“Okay.” I stare at her a minute.

“Oh yeah.” She moves aside so I can get out.

Timothy and Herrington follow behind us, talking about video games. I triple-check the lock on our car just to be safe.

Sounds of voices and silverware greet us as soon as we open the old screen door. The inside is actually cozy and welcoming. Thank you, God!

I have to admit I expected something along the lines of Enchilada, with hush puppies instead of chips.

“Welcome to Catfish Camp. How many?” a middle-aged woman greets us.

“We’re with the team.” Georgia grins.

“Okay.” She gives us a puzzled look, then smiles. “Right this way.”

We follow her past the tables and booths, through a swinging door. If we end up in a kitchen, I’m leaving.

No kitchen. It’s a back room full of men. Huge, tall men. Georgia’s jaw drops, and the woman nods toward the tables. About twenty pairs of eyes study us.

“This is the only team here,” the hostess says.

“Yeah . . .” Georgia presses her lips together.

“I think we’re the first ones here of our team,” I say.

“Let me get y’all a table.” The woman laughs and leads us to the front.

Carlton stands and waves. He’s sitting at two tables pushed together in the corner. Georgia waves at him and trots in front of us. “That’s our team,” she says to the hostess.

“Gotcha.” She grabs several rolls of silverware from a bucket and follows us.

Georgia and Carlton do this weird greeting where they touch cheeks and kiss the air. It has Victorian British vibes. The woman places a rolled napkin in front of every chair. More of our people arrive and find us.

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