What Do Fish Have to Do With Anything?

by Avi

  “Matt,” said Rev. Kaizer, “I’m proud of you. I think it would be a fine thing if you visited him again.”

  “I’m not an angel,” Matt replied in a sulky voice.

  “I never said you were an angel,” his father said. “But as I’ve told you many times, there is goodness inside you as there is in everyone. And now you are in the fortunate position of being able to help this sinful man.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “Son, here is a sick man who needs to unburden himself of the unhappy things he’s done. I know your reputation. Are you fearful of hearing what Mr. Bataky has to say for himself?”

  “I don’t want to.”

  Rev. Kaizer sat back in his chair, folded his hands over his stomach, smiled gently, and said, “I dare you to go back and listen to Mr. Bataky. I dare you to do goodness.”

  Alarmed, Matt looked up. “But . . .”

  “Or are you, being a minister’s son, afraid to?”

  Matt shifted uncomfortably in his seat and tried to avoid his father’s steady gaze.

  Rev. Kaizer offered up a faint smile. “Matt, I thought you never refused a dare.”

  Matt squirmed. Then he said, “I’ll go.”

  Anyway, that’s the way Matt explained it all. And as he said to me, sadly, “What choice did I have? He dared me.”

  We all saw then that Matt was in a bad place.

  So the next day when Matt went to visit Mr. Bataky, the bunch of us — me, Chuck, Todd, and Nick — tagged along. We all wanted to see what Matt would do. We figured it had to be gross.

  Mary Beth opened the door. I think she was surprised to see all of us. But she looked at Matt with hope. “Thank you for coming,” she said in her tissue paper voice. “He’s waiting for you.”

  Matt gave us an imploring look. There was nothing we could do. He disappeared inside. We waited outside.

  Half an hour later, when he emerged, there was a ton of worry in his eyes. We waited him out, hoping he’d say something ghastly. Didn’t say a word.

  Two blocks from Mary Beth’s house I couldn’t hold back. “Okay, Matt,” I said. “What’s happening?”

  Matt stopped walking. “He really thinks I’m a good angel.”

  “How come?” Nick asked.

  “I don’t know.” There was puzzlement in Matt’s voice. “He thinks I’m there to give him a second chance at living.”

  “I don’t get it,” Todd said.

  Matt said, “He thinks, you know, if he tells me all his bad stuff, he’ll get better.”

  We walked on in silence. Then I said — easy like, “He tell you anything, you know . . . really bad?”

  Matt nodded.

  “Oooo, that’s so cool,” Nick crowed, figuring Matt would — as he always did — pass it on. “Like what?”

  Instead of answering, Matt remained silent. Finally, he said, “Not good.”

  “Come on!” we cried. “Tell us!”

  “He dared me to forgive him. To give him a second chance.”

  “Forgive him for what?” I asked.

  “All the stuff he’s done.”

  “Like what?”

  “He said he was talking to me . . . in confidence.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Angels can’t tell secrets.”

  “You going to believe that?” Todd asked after a bit of silence.

  Matt stopped walking again. “But . . . what,” he stammered. “What . . . if it’s true?”

  “What if what’s true?” I asked.

  “What if I’m really good inside?”

  “No way,” we all assured him.

  “But he thinks so,” Matt said with real trouble in his voice. “And my father is always saying that too.”

  “Do you think so?” Chuck asked.

  Matt got a flushed look in his eyes. Then he said, “If it is true, it’ll be the grossest thing ever.”

  “Hey, maybe it’s just a phase,” I suggested, hopefully. “You know, something you’ll grow out of.”

  Matt gave a shake to his head that suggested he was really seriously confused.

  Anyway, every afternoon that week, Matt went to see Mr. Bataky. Each time we went with him. For support. We felt we owed him that, though really, we were hoping we’d get to hear some of the bad stuff. But I think we were getting more and more upset, too. See, Matt was changing. Each time he came out of the sick man’s room, he looked more and more haggard. And silent.

  “What did he say this time?” someone would finally ask.

  “Really bad,” he’d say.

  “Worse than before?”

  “Much worse.”

  We’d go on for a bit, not saying anything. Then the pleading would erupt. “Come on! Tell us! What’d he say?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you: He thinks I’m an angel,” Matt said and visibly shuddered. “Angels can’t tell secrets.”

  As the week progressed, Matt began to look different from before. He wasn’t so grubby. His clothes weren’t torn. Things went so fast that by Friday morning, when he came to school, he was actually wearing a tie! Even his hair was cut short and combed. It was awful.

  “What’s the matter with Matt?” we kept asking one another.

  “I think he’s beginning to think he really is an angel,” was the only explanation I could give.

  Finally, on Friday afternoon, when Matt came out of Mary Beth’s house, he sat on the front steps, utterly beat. By that time he was dressed all in white: white shirt, pale tie, white pants, and even white sneakers. Not one smudge on him. I’m telling you, it was eerie. Nothing missing but wings.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  “The doctor told Mr. Bataky he’s better.”

  “You cured him!” cried Nick. “Cool! That mean you don’t have to visit him again?”

  “Right.” But Matt just sat there looking as sad as Mary Beth ever did.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “I’ve been sitting and listening to that guy talk and talk about all the things he’s done. I mean, I used to think I was bad. But, you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I’m not bad. No way. Not compared to him. I even tried to tell him of some of the things I’ve done.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He laughed. Said I was only a young angel. Which was the reason I didn’t have wings.”

  Matt stared down at the ground for a long time. We waited patiently. Finally he looked up. There were tears trickling down his pale face.

  “I have to face it,” he said, turning to look at us, his pals, with real grief in his eyes. “The more I heard that stuff Mr. Bataky did, the more I knew that deep down, inside, I’m just a good kid. I mean, what am I going to do? Don’t you see, I’m just like my father said. I’m good.”

  You can’t believe how miserable he looked. All we could do was sit there and pity him. I mean, just to look at him we knew there weren’t going to be any more wicked grins, belches, leers, sly winks, wedgies, or flying boogers.

  Life went on, but with Matt going angel on us, our gang couldn’t hold together. We were finished. Busted.

  So I’m here to tell you, when a guy turns good, hey, it’s rough.

  At exactly four o’clock one Tuesday afternoon, Maria O’Sullivan’s own personal phone rang. Absorbed in her sixth-grade history, Maria let it ring a few times, then bounded across her room to snatch up the phone before the answering machine kicked in.

  “Hello?” she said.

  There was no reply. Not a whisper. Not a sound.

  “Hello?” Maria said again.

  For a second she actually thought someone was at the other end listening, but the next moment there was a click and the other party — whoever it was — hung up.

  Only a little annoyed, Maria promptly put her phone down and returned to her desk. Briefly, she glanced at her clock by the phone. One minute after four. Her mom would be back from work in an h
our. Her dad would be home shortly after. She was glad. Being in an empty house — as Maria was most days after school — made her feel lonely. Happily, with homework to absorb her, she settled back down.

  On Thursday after school, Maria had invited her new classmate, Sophie, over. Sophie had not visited before. The two girls listened to the radio, chatted, gossiped, looked through Sophie’s bundle of teen magazines. There was a lot of giggling.

  At precisely four o’clock the phone rang.

  Maria jumped for it. “Hello?” she said.

  There was no answer.

  “Hello?”

  There was still no reply.

  Maria hung up. “I hate it,” she said, “when people get a wrong number and just say nothing. So rude.”

  “I know. . . ,” Sophie said, gazing at the high cheekbones of a model in a magazine.

  “Happens here a lot,” Maria mused.

  “It would be so cool to look like that,” Sophie said and she pouted, imitating a blonde female model.

  Maria glanced at Sophie. Then she said, “My brother was blond.”

  Sophie bent over the magazine. “My mother said I could come here but . . . only if I didn’t talk about your brother.”

  Maria flushed. “How does she know about Brian?”

  “I don’t know,” Sophie said vaguely. “I guess . . . people told her . . . something.”

  Maria said, “But why did your mother say you mustn’t talk about him?”

  “Your brother was . . . weird, wasn’t he?” Then, giggling, Sophie added, “I guess she thinks he might be a bad influence.”

  Maria managed to say, “But he’s not here.”

  Sophie shrugged. “This guy is so cute.” She was scrutinizing the picture of a young movie star.

  Maria knew she would not invite Sophie over again.

  That evening, close to ten, Maria’s mother was saying good night to her daughter when Maria asked, “Mom, why do people call wrong numbers?”

  Sarah O’Sullivan laughed. “Sweetheart, they’re called wrong numbers because people have made a mistake. They don’t mean to do it.”

  “I suppose.”

  “How did you get along with that Sophie? She seemed very nice.”

  Maria’s face clouded. “I don’t like her.”

  “Maria, it’s important to have friends. You have so few.”

  “She said her mother told her she wasn’t allowed to talk to me about Brian. She’s not the only one.”

  Mrs. O’Sullivan sighed. “Sometimes I think it would be better if we moved.”

  “Then Brian wouldn’t be able to find us.”

  Mrs. O’Sullivan considered her daughter, then bent over and gave her a good night kiss. Maria wasn’t fooled. Her talk of Brian had upset her mother.

  “Why does no one want to talk about Brian?” Maria asked.

  Her mother said nothing.

  “You won’t,” Maria said.

  “Maria, there’s little to say. He’s gone. Should I send Dad in to say good night?”

  “No. He won’t talk, either,” Maria said angrily. “I’d rather be alone.” She closed her eyes.

  “Good night, sweet. I love you.” There was sadness in Mrs. O’Sullivan’s voice.

  “Night. . . ,” Maria murmured.

  As Mrs. O’Sullivan left the room, she turned out the lights.

  A few months ago Maria had stuck luminescent stars on the ceiling. For a short time after her lights were turned out at night, they glowed with a soft green shimmer. Now, as she gazed up at them, she regretted having said that she wanted to be alone. She hated being alone.

  It was when she was alone that she thought most about Brian. It was almost a year now since her older brother had left home. Maria never fully understood why he had gone. True, he had been having lots of fights with their parents, but mostly with their dad. About when to come home. Drinking. Not telling the truth. Even stealing. Then suddenly — without warning — he had gone, disappeared. He was sixteen.

  When Maria thought about her brother it made her heart ache. She kept wishing she knew where he was. At first Maria had continued to ask her parents if they had heard anything. They always said no. She was not sure she believed them.

  Lately she realized she had begun to forget what Brian looked like. It gave her a panicky feeling. She’d dug up old photos of Brian and studied them, looking for clues.

  When she did think of him she always thought about him in a particular way: jeans, yellow sneakers, and a bright red T-shirt that revealed his new firebreathing dragon arm tattoo. The tattoo had outraged her parents. But that was the way he had looked for her last birthday party.

  More than anything, Maria wished she could talk to someone about Brian. If she talked to her dad, he cut her off by changing the subject. If she spoke to her mom, Mrs. O’Sullivan became upset and walked away. As for her classmates, Maria had tried, as she had tried with Sophie. People just did not want to talk about Brian. It was as if her brother, by running away from home, had become dangerous.

  It gave Maria a great deal of pain. The pain only seemed to build. She would have given anything to share it with someone. Anyone.

  “Brian,” Maria whispered to the fading stars as she drifted off to sleep, “talk to me.”

  It was not until the following Monday that a call came again. Precisely at four. Maria was sprawled on her bed, reading. The ringing startled her. It was when she began to reach for the phone that she noticed the clock and the time. Only then did she grasp that the phone had rung twice before at exactly the same time — four o’clock.

  Suddenly tense, she said, “Hello?”

  There was no answer.

  “Who are you?” Maria demanded.

  No sound of breathing, or anything.

  She said, “I know you’re there.”

  The caller hung up.

  Maria cradled the phone in her hands for a while, trying to guess who it might be. After all, it was her own private line with its own listing. Whoever was calling could be calling only her. She wondered who in school would play a prank like that. One of the boys, probably. Like Jeff. She liked Jeff. He was always into mischief. Then suddenly a new thought came to Maria: Maybe it’s Brian. Her skin prickled at the notion.

  “Brian . . . ?” she whispered, almost as if trying a new word.

  No response.

  Slowly — Maria’s hand shook a little — she hung up the phone. “That’s so dumb,” she scolded herself. “You just want it to be him.”

  Maria made herself read her book. Later on, she didn’t remember what she had read. She did remember the call.

  During the next few afternoons when it drew close to four o’clock, Maria hung around the phone. It did not ring. When Maria realized she was disappointed she scolded herself. “You are such a jerk. You think it might be Brian,” she said to herself. “It’s not. He’s gone.”

  When after a few days passed and no further calls came, she made herself stay out of the house at four: She went to the library or even walked the dog.

  On Friday she was home, alone. At precisely four o’clock the phone rang.

  Maria gazed at the phone as it continued to ring. The answering machine would turn on after four rings. “I shouldn’t answer,” she told herself. Maria counted the rings. “. . . two . . . three . . . four . . .” She snatched up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  There was no answer.

  “You keep calling at four o’clock,” Maria snapped. “Is this Jeff?”

  There was no answer.

  “I mean . . . who are you!” Maria shouted, with a sudden surge of anger.

  “I’m going to tell the police!” she cried and slammed the phone down.

  Maria sat on the edge of her bed, trembling. She recalled her dad’s stern lecture about strange, obscene, and even automatic telemarketing calls. He had told her not to talk to strangers but to hang up and call him.

  Instead, Maria rang her mother at the shipping company office w
here she worked.

  “What’s up, honey?”

  “Nothing. I just wanted to say hello.”

  “Glad you did. You sound upset. Everything okay?”

  “Yeah.”

  “See you soon. Dad will be there soon.”

  “Bye.”

  It was not until two weeks later that another call came. Maria had almost forgotten about them. Now when the phone rang, her eyes went right to the clock. Four o’clock, exactly. Heart pounding, she reminded herself yet again that it was a mistake to pick up the phone. But she did so on the fourth ring.

  “Hello?” she said, cautiously.

  There was no answer.

  “I know this isn’t a wrong number,” Maria said with irritation. “I mean, you keep calling. Would you just tell me who you are?”

  There was no answer.

  “You are so dumb!” she shouted into the phone.

  Whoever was on the other end did not hang up.

  “Are you a boy or a girl? A man or a woman? Talk to me!”

  No response.

  “What do you want?” Maria asked plaintively.

  There was click at the other end.

  Maria flung the phone down, then threw herself on her bed, buried her face in a pillow, and began to cry.

  “Maria, honey, are you all right?”

  She had fallen asleep. Her father was bending over her.

  Fred O’Sullivan was tall and strong with thick gray curly hair that sometimes made Maria think of a kitchen scrub pad. His eyes were dark, his mouth tight. Sometimes there could be a sternness — a way he clenched his jaw when he had made up his mind — that told Maria it was useless to argue with him. At the moment, however, he looked worried.

  Maria blinked and sat up. “Just tired,” she said.

  “Hard day at school?”

  “Sort of . . .” Maria looked up at her father. She wished she would not blame him for Brian’s going. She did though. All that arguing, fighting, lecturing. Maria believed it was that which drove Brian away.

  “Want to talk about it?” her dad asked softly. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand resting gently on Maria’s hand.