Aquarium (5 page)

Okay, fine. Pray to the fish. I’m going to make a paper-mache of my butt and pray to that.

Mr. Gustafson left then to try to save the sleigh. He had four kids working, but it looked like a fence with scraps blown against it, like something at the dump.

You’re in trouble, Shalini whispered in my ear, leaning close. She was deliriously happy about it. All the little hairs stood up on my neck and I had goose bumps. Shalini could make me shiver, as if my entire body were a bell that had just been struck.

In the aquarium, I found the old man looking at a grumpy silver ghost.

Bright face in a grimace, squared head, and fins of transparent lace. Every movement a performance, fairy flight. I had watched him before, and I was always afraid the other fish would eat his fins. I think that’s why he looked so unhappy. He couldn’t fit anywhere to hide. Always drifting around in the open sections.

He’s from the Mediterranean, the old man said. Very fancy. Some sort of royalty.

Maybe that’s why he’s unhappy.

I’ve never believed the rich are unhappy. I think they close their doors on us and then can’t stop laughing.

Have you seen the photo? I asked.

Yes.

Almost as big as the diver. I can’t imagine this small fish becoming that. And standing straight up and down in the water. I still don’t see how it isn’t just eaten right away.

The poor never get it together, the old man said. They feed on each other. It would be so easy to kill all the rich. There are so few of them. But we never do it.

Killing?

Sorry. I would never hurt anybody, of course. But does it seem fair to be poor?

No.

Well then. I’m okay if someone nibbles this guy’s fins a bit. He looks like a boss, that square shiny face, that mouth. He’s called the dealfish, even, and isn’t that what bosses do, make deals using other people’s lives?

The old man turned away from the tank then and walked across the aisle to where trout hung in some invisible current, all facing the same way, swimming to nowhere.

Hard to get excited about freshwater fish, he said. They’re just like us, nothing exotic. Some sticks and rocks, cold, bundled up in a group, shivering. We’re looking at the good people of Seattle right here.

I wish people looked like this, I said.

Ha. You’re right. It would be an improvement.

The trout eyes looked alarmed, always, as if any sudden movement could make them bolt. Mouths about to say something, just starting to open.

I wish they could speak, I said.

What would they say?

I studied the trout. Come back, I finally said. Join us. Watch out.

The old man chuckled. Water’s cold, he said in a trout voice. Can someone turn up the heater? And how about throwing a can of corn in here?

And some bread, I said. Cinnamon toast. My mother has a new boyfriend, named Steve. He made me cinnamon toast this morning.

Does your mother have a lot of boyfriends?

Some.

And what’s she like with her boyfriends?

I don’t know.

Is she happy?

I guess.

Hm. I hope she’s happy.

I didn’t like talking about my mother with the old man. He had never even met her. I walked away toward the river otters. They always cheered me up. I leaned my forehead against the cold glass and watched them run and slide into each other.

Not a care in the world, he said. He had followed me. They live only to play.

Dark slick bodies so smooth and fast, twisting around each other, leaping out of the water and running on their fins. They were like nothing else. The penguins were close, maybe, but not really. I wanted to be a river otter even more than I wanted to be the ghost pipefish. Making new clusters of stars was no good if you ended up alone.

O
vertime, my mother said when I got in the car.

Okay, I said, but I wasn’t happy. I wanted to go home to have dinner and sleep. We woke up at five every morning to leave by six, because my mother had to start work by seven.

We drove down Alaskan Way in the rain and then crossed over Harbor Island and the West Seattle Bridge onto West Marginal Way Southwest. Land of the container. Stacks of them everywhere, red and blue and white.

Colors of the flag, I said.

What?

I just realized, the containers are all the colors of the flag. And the ships are red or blue on their hulls, and white above, and the cranes are red.

You’re right, my mother said. I never noticed that. Good eye. Black on the sides of the hulls, and some green and gray mixed into the containers, but yeah, mostly it’s all one big flag. Your mother is Betsy Ross.

It was getting dark as we pulled in, headlights on, the air streaked. Big floodlights higher up, all the sky lit and falling. My favorite kind of rain.

It’ll be a late one, my mother said. Midnight. So here’s ten dollars for the food truck, when you get hungry. I’ll come see you on my break, at about nine, no later than ten.

My mother had several smudges of oil on her cheeks. Her ponytail flattened from her helmet. Be good and don’t wander off. She kissed me then and grabbed her helmet and jogged away across the pavement.

Overtime was two or three times a week, but we never knew when. My mother always said yes, because this was our way to get ahead. Pay and a half, which meant almost fifteen dollars an hour.

I sat in the car awhile, listening to the ticking of the engine as it cooled and pinpricks of rain on the roof. The bench seat going cold, windows fogging. Flashing yellow lights on the smaller cranes as they found each container a home, red lights high on the cranes that reached over the water and unloaded ships. White light for each small box that held a person. My mother one of the darker shadow figures on the ground, without light.

I always wondered what was inside the containers. From all over the world, holding anything. Customs officers in their new Jeeps always here, checking, opening steel doors and shining flashlights.

The car too cold, so I stepped carefully through puddles to the ramp that led up to the lounge. Wheelchair access, but why would anyone in a wheelchair come here? A portable office with fluorescent lights, thin gray carpet, and bare walls. Plastic chairs, several bulletin boards, and three customs officers stirring cups of coffee in a corner, talking quietly.

At the other end, a small office where a secretary sat during the day, but no one at night. I knew them all from school holidays, when I spent a lot of time here. Darla, who liked my drawings and always talked with me, Liz, who didn’t like kids, Mary, who listened to music and could never hear me, and several others. There were other portable offices next to this one, and everyone kept moving around, carrying papers and coffee mugs and rain jackets.

I settled in for the long wait. I had my homework, which wasn’t much, but I unzipped my backpack and pulled out the math book. Fractions and percentages. Mr. Gustafson had taught us to tell stories from our own lives for each problem. If ten people made a family, and my mother and I were the only two, we were one-fifth of a family. If a shark swam into a school of forty fish and ate 10 percent, there were four less fish.

Do you have a parent here, or guardian?

It was one of the customs officers. He was staring down at me, holding his coffee. Short hair, older. A gun on his hip.

Leave her alone, Bill, one of the others said.

How old are you?

I’m twelve, I said. I was afraid of this man. He wanted to hurt someone. That was clear.

Where is your parent or guardian?

My mother is working overtime.

Single mother?

Bill. Cut it out.

Bill ignored them, kept staring down at me. What’s her name?

Sheri Thompson.

Sheri Thompson. You tell her to come see me. Inspector Bigby.

I couldn’t move. He was like a dog, watching and ready to bite. Skin reddish, weathered, shaven but all the dark holes of his whiskers visible. Then he turned away and the others laughed and they walked out.

This portable like its own tank, lit from above, but at the aquarium, they were careful which fish went together. They would never have let Bill in. Real life was more like the ocean, where any predator might come along at any time.

I couldn’t do my homework. I couldn’t focus. I put away the math book and just sat there alone for hours, afraid to move, listening to the rain on the roof and the diesel engines of the cranes. I was afraid Bill would come back, afraid also that he was out there looking for my mother. I didn’t know what he’d do if he found her. I didn’t know whether we were in trouble.

When my mother finally arrived, I ran to her.

She picked me up, something she never did anymore.

What happened? she asked. What’s wrong?

I tried to answer, but I was crying against her neck, these awful out-of-control sobs.

She set me down. Caitlin, you have to tell me, right now.

Inspector Bigby, I said. He asked if I had a parent, and he wants to see you. He’s one of the customs officers.

My mother looked out the window, as if he might be watching us right now.

His first name is Bill, and he’s mean, and they were laughing.

Come with me right now, she said. We’re going to the car. Walk fast.

I grabbed my backpack and we hurried through the rain, exposed for anyone to see. Big floodlights.

I jumped in and my mother held the door. I have to tell my foreman I’m leaving, she said. I’ll be right back.

Don’t go, I said. I told him your name.

It’s okay, Caitlin. It’s going to be okay.

My mother jogged away then through the rain, still wearing her helmet. I was afraid she wouldn’t come back. Bill would take her in his new Jeep to some prison even though she hadn’t done anything wrong, and I would never see her again. Locked away somewhere.

And she was gone a long time. Needles of rain on the roof of the car, bright lights in a darkness swallowing my mother.

But she did return, and we drove slowly through the yard, to the gate where she stopped and gave her ID, and then we were free, back on West Marginal Way Southwest and then the bridge.

When we arrived home, my mother parked in front of our apartment, turned off the engine, and slumped forward against the wheel.

I’m sorry, I said.

No, sweet pea, she said, quiet now. It’s not your fault. And it will never happen again. I think there’s some law that says I can’t leave you alone, without an adult. So I won’t do overtime. We should still be okay. I’ll have enough for rent, and food and gas, and you have your aquarium pass. I can afford the water and heat. We just won’t have any extras. I’ll cancel the phone and TV, if I can.

Will we still get ahead?

My mother laughed. Sweet pea. You’ve been listening to me too much. It’ll be okay. I won’t be putting anything into retirement for me or college for you. That’s what I meant by getting ahead. Maybe saving for a house, but that wasn’t happening anyway. But you can still go to college. You just have to study hard, okay?

D
uring art period, I made a paper-mache of Inspector Bigby. I didn’t use a balloon, because I was going to be sticking him with a lot of needles. I wadded up newspaper and then wrapped it in wet strips. I would paint his head red and uniform white.

And what is this? Mr. Gustafson asked.

Inspector Bigby.

Is he part of the Buddhist pantheon?

What?

Is he one of your Buddhist gods, like the golden fish? Will he be riding in the sleigh?

No.

Well then?

I ripped Inspector Bigby into pieces, tore at the newspaper and let it fall to the floor. Then I started crying. I couldn’t help it.

Great, Mr. Gustafson said. Just what I need. Shalini, can you take Caitlin to the bathroom to cry?

Everyone was looking at me. I kept my head down as Shalini led me out by the hand. I could see her golden bracelets, hoops that slid and bounced, and we escaped down the hallway to the bathrooms.