by David Vann
It sounds awful. Why is it your favorite?
Because they make dinosaurs possible. If you look long enough at a catfish that big, and think of it lying around in a shallow muddy river, you can imagine the huge leg of a dinosaur stepping into that river. You can go back a hundred million or two hundred million years and touch the world before we existed. Those catfish are leftovers.
I want to see one.
Well maybe someday we’ll go to Louisiana together.
I want to go now.
Me too. We could travel and see a lot together. Mexico, maybe, and see manta rays doing backflips.
Really?
Yeah. They leap out of the water there, doing backward somersaults. You wouldn’t believe it. Huge manta rays, and you can see fifty of them, or a hundred, all at one time. The Sea of Cortez.
Promise you’ll take me there.
I will.
Steve came to dinner, his harmonica in his T-shirt pocket. I was waiting for him to play, but my mother had made me promise to behave and not ask for anything. Think of yourself as a barnacle, she had said. You are a barnacle, just enjoying the water and maybe collecting a little plankton, but not moving or asking anything.
So I sat glued to my chair, encased in my calcium carbonate shell, and I had my small fan out, waving in the current, ready to collect anything interesting, but so far it was boring adult talk about nothing.
We were having hamburgers, my mother’s specialty. She mixed green onions with the ground beef, several eggs and bacon bits. That was the hidden bacon. Then she had big strips of bacon across the tops of the burgers, and a lot of barbeque sauce. Potato salad on the side, and barbeque chips and pickles, orange soda. She called it picnic dinner, and I was savoring every bite because I would be a vegetarian soon.
Steve was jolly. He wasn’t fat, like most jolly people, but he’d sort of shake up and down in his chair laughing as if he were fat. And what my mother was saying wasn’t even funny. He’d bring his napkin up to his mouth with both hands to wipe the barbeque sauce, even though it was only a small paper napkin, and when he did this, you could see how big his biceps were. He was wearing a black T-shirt that had nothing on it. Just these big veined biceps bulging under pressure and then relaxing again.
What’s your favorite fish? I blurted out finally. There was no easy way to do it. They were going to talk all night without me.
Caitlin, my mother said.
It’s okay, Steve said. Favorite fish. There are so many. Your mother says you go to the aquarium every day.
I do.
What’s your favorite fish there?
I asked you first.
Steve leaned back and did his jolly bouncing chuckle. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that, he said. That brings me right back to the playground.
Well?
Okay, he said. I worked on fishing boats in Alaska a few summers, and my favorite fish was the halibut.
I like halibut.
They’re pretty cool.
So why are they your favorite?
My mother nudged my foot under the table and then gave me a look. Think barnacle, she said.
Come on, I said. Tell me.
Okay. I like them because they have both eyes on one side of their head, both resting on top and the other side of their face is blind, without eyes, always buried in silt or mud, faced downward into nothing. I like that blind side to them, the idea of it. It says something about us, I think.
So deep, my mother said, and threw a balled-up napkin at him.
I like that, I said.
Halibut used to be my favorite for a different reason, Steve said. I used to think they started with one eye on each side of their head. Swimming along normally, like any other fish, like a salmon. But then they hit puberty, and one eye migrated over to the other side of their face and their jaw twisted up in this grimace and they could no longer see straight and had to hide on the bottom.
Hm, my mother said.
Oh, sorry, Steve said.
No, I think it’s great you’re talking about puberty to my twelve-year-old daughter, ha.
Sorry.
It’s fine. As long as it’s about fish, she’s fine.
I don’t see what the big deal is, I said.
That’s exactly right, my mother said. And we hope to keep that going another year or two.
What about you, Sheri, Steve said to my mother. What’s your favorite fish?
I never get to go into the aquarium. I just pick her up. Being a parent is a lot like running a service: taxi, laundry, cooking, cleaning, tutoring, counseling, excursions.
You must have a favorite, though?
I don’t have time for favorites. I work, I take care of Caitlin, and that’s it.
Sorry, I said.
No. No. God, you must both think I’m awful right now, that I’m a terrible mother. I love you, sweet pea, and I love everything we do together. I’m just saying there’s not time to focus on anything else.
Steve had his napkin up, in both hands, as if he were going to wipe his mouth, but he wasn’t moving.
Sorry, my mother said. You must be wondering why you’re seeing me.
Well, you’re hot. That’s one reason. Steve did his chuckle bounce, and my mother smiled despite herself. And you can wrestle containers and cranes, so that’s useful. In case I’m ever in a situation where containers are coming after me.
My mother gave one of his biceps a love punch.
But what’s your favorite fish? I asked.
Maybe from childhood, Steve suggested.
She never talks about that, I said.
Oh.
Wow, my mother said. There’s no limit to how far I can sink during this dinner. Okay, one fish. I must be able to think of a fish. I’m thinking of the supermarket, the fish section, but I’m guessing you want something not on ice or wrapped in plastic.
Steve laughed. He was the nicest man she had ever brought home. Looking back, I can see he was delighted by her right from the beginning, genuinely delighted.
Okay. We lived in a shitty place. A shack on the highway, water dripping through the ceiling. I’m not going to say more. But next door, sharing the same dirt, we had a family from Japan. Asians are supposed to be rich, but these ones weren’t. I don’t know what went wrong. But the man dug a pit, and we thought he was going to roast a pig. We thought he might be Hawaiian. But he lined it with plastic and rocks and some plants and made a pond, and had four koi carps in there.
That sounds nice, Steve said.
A pearl in a toilet, my mother said. One of the koi was orange and white, the colors swirled together, and I named her Angel. And the man put an old wooden chair beside the pond so that I could sit. He never used it. He always stood. But he left this chair for me. I never even spoke to him, or thanked him. I feel so bad about it now. We were really racist back then. This was the early seventies, when I was about your age. But he gave me a place to escape to. I’d always sit out there, usually in the rain, and watch Angel gliding around her tiny pond as if she owned the palace ponds. And I liked that the rain never touched her. I could see the drops on the surface. She’d tilt up to grab food, but otherwise she was hovering just below, safe and removed from everything.
Steve and I didn’t say anything. We all sat in silence, my mother looking down at the table, lost in another time, and I remember thinking she was just like me, as if I had lived already, more than twenty years earlier.
Steve spent the night. I could hear their breathing, and small cries from my mother as if she were hurt, but I knew to stay in my room and keep quiet. My mother had explained many times that some parts of her life were hers. I had my three pillows, my pillow palace, a kind of nest or cave, and I sank away there.
In the morning, Steve made cinnamon toast, which was something new. Butter and then s
ugar and cinnamon. He put one piece faceup on my plate and then cut another piece on its diagonals to make four triangles, and with these he made a pyramid.
Egyptian toast, he said. With cinnamon from the Nile.
What fish are in the Nile?
The Pharaoh Fish, Steve said, and raised his eyebrows. He leaned in close and whispered so my mother wouldn’t hear. They have scales of red marble, very heavy, and fins of gold.
There are no fish like that.
Have you been to the Nile?
No.
Well I used to live there, at the bottom of the river. Don’t tell your mother. The Pharaoh Fish gathered all along the bottom as if they were a garden of gold. They had big lips but never opened their mouths. They were very quiet. But they were keeping all the gold for the next pharaoh.
How come I haven’t heard about the Pharaoh Fish?
Well you have now, and you have to keep it a secret because of the gold. Five thousand years ago, someone told, and the biggest fish had to leave the river and burrow through sand and try to hide. The Great Pyramids are their fins sticking up out of the sand. They were the biggest Pharaoh Fish.
I laughed and punched his arm the way my mother did. No fish are that big, I said. The largest fish is the whale shark.
Now, he said. But not back then.
I was distracted all morning at school thinking about the Pharaoh Fish. I knew Steve was making them up, but I loved the idea of their golden fins and red marble scales, and I could see them all waiting at the bottom of the river, their bellies on sand.
Shalini, I said. We have to make a Pharaoh Fish.
We had just begun art period, and Shalini already had strips of newspaper ready for Lakshmi Rudolph’s legs.
What is a Pharaoh Fish?
They have red scales and golden fins.
I’ve seen golden fish. But I think they’re Buddhist.
Where have you seen them?
On tiles on walls in India, I think. And you can buy plastic ones, or as balloons.
Do people pray to them?
I guess so.
That’s my religion then. I’m Buddhist.
Shalini laughed. You can’t just be a new religion.
There were two ways to make shapes for paper-mache, using wire or balloons, and we had some long skinny balloons, so I blew up one of these and began wrapping it in Shalini’s strips. I imagined great temples with fish altars, and I would become a priestess. I would wear red makeup, with golden lips and eyebrows.
What’s this, Caitlin? Mr. Gustafson asked. He looked out of breath from running around the room. His nostrils working hard.
A golden fish. It will have red scales and golden fins.
Let’s keep focused on task. We want Rudolph to have legs, right, so he can lead the sleigh?
But the golden fish is for my religion. I’m Buddhist.
You’re Buddhist?
Yes.
Caitlin.
I am.
What will your mother have to say about that?
She’ll say I’m Buddhist. I’m a vegetarian, and I pray to the golden fish, and I may become a priestess.
Caitlin. You eat the school lunch. I know you’re not Buddhist. And don’t we already have enough religions? We need a few people to still be Christian.
I pray to the golden fish. This is my god.
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.
Overtime, 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 ar
e 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.