I got worried and asked for a transfer from Ohio to be nearer to Dad. I got it too. They set me up to manage the store in New Rochelle. Not the best place. Sort of an old store with problems, but just what I needed. I took an apartment in Larchmont. That gave me plenty of time to see him. At first, I’d get to his place and fix him breakfast so it’d be ready about an hour after sunup. Like Mom would have done. To fit his natural schedule. Like when he had a dog. But without a dog, he’d no interest in getting up. Even with me there. Since I had to go to work, I didn’t even see him those mornings.
I changed my routine. Stopped going by in the morning and went by to make supper. At first Dad would just sit there. His once black hair now snow white. Usually unshaven. Always quiet. Happy to see me though—I could tell. He’d get up, sometimes even give me a hug and a pat on the back.
Then one day, out of the blue, he said it, “Son, I gotta get me a pet. My life isn’t complete without me helping someone.”
“Sure, let’s get you a dog, Dad.”
“I don’t want a dog.”
“What d’ya mean, you always had a dog.”
“Too much responsibility.”
“Well, we can go to the rescue and get one that’s older. House-broken already. A dog will get you out of your funk.”
“I don’t think so.”
I didn’t listen. I went out and got him a mutt from the pound. It seemed to be a sure bet. But some days later, when I came one evening to make dinner, I noticed the dog wasn’t in the room.
“So, where’s the dog?”
“I told you, I didn’t want a dog.”
“Maybe I should have let you pick your own dog, Dad. You do need a pet. So let’s go on Saturday. This time, you do the selecting. You said it yourself, ‘I’ve always had a dog.’ It’ll get you out of the house, get you talking with the neighbors again.”
“I never talked to neighbors. And I ain’t starting now. I don’t even know if I’d like them.”
“You’ve walked your dogs for more than twenty years in this place. What do you mean you don’t know the neighbors? That’s impossible.”
“I’ll get my own damn pet.”
And so, it was that one day the next week, I came over to cook dinner: pork and beans and salad. When I got there, I noticed that the kitchen was a bit cleaner than when I usually started my cooking. There were only a couple of dishes in the sink and no grease or crumbs on the counters. When I mentioned the cleanliness, my father just smiled. Then he added, “I got me some new responsibilities now, and I take ’em seriously.”
That got me thinking about his needing a dog again. And after we were sitting down to eat, I raised it again.
“I thought you were going to pick out your own dog. When are we going to do that?” Dad just nodded in the direction of the bookshelf off to the left behind me. I knew he had a few books, including a couple on dogs. So I figured he was telling me he was reading up on breeds.
“Jesus, Dad. You don’t need to read about them, just get one.” Again, Dad didn’t say anything. He just shrugged me off and again nodded toward the bookshelf. I was annoyed but didn’t turn around. After some more long silences, I picked up the dishes. Turning and getting up to put them in the sink, I couldn’t miss the addition to the bookshelf.
“You got yourself a pet goldfish, Dad? Is this some sort of joke?”
“She’s Charlemagne. And she ain’t a goldfish. She’s a sailfin molly.”
“Sorrrrrie!” I exhaled and took in his seriousness. “Well, so much for the housebreaking and dog walking.”
A few days later, I arrived and Dad’s welding gear was on the kitchen table. The rest of the kitchen was still clean. Dad still looked scruffy but seemed less depressed—almost alert. “Hey Dad, are you selling this gear?”
“Hell no, David. I’m using it.”
I didn’t think to ask for what. But over the next days the projects proliferated. First there was a ramp up the stairs to the front porch. I wondered about that. Dad certainly didn’t seem headed for a wheelchair anytime soon. When I asked why he built it, he just shrugged. Soon thereafter, I found the welding gear outside, along with my old American Flyer red wagon.
My attempts at communication about the changing debris on the porch yielded no response. Of course, this aroused my curiosity. Over the next week, a rather extensive steel and glass project was being built as an attachment to my wagon. When it was done, it had a sealable top. It occupied the entire base of the wagon. A few days later, nary a trace of Charlemagne was left on the bookshelf.
“Where’d the molly go, Dad?”
“Front porch. Watching what’s happening.”
“Fish don’t watch what’s happening.”
“Charlemagne does.”
I got worried. My dad was always a bit different. But this was extreme. I was thinking of contacting Cal. He knew I was seeing Dad regularly, but he was so far away, he couldn’t really get involved. So I let it go. And then, for about a week, maybe more, I couldn’t get back to the house. I was dealing with complaints about customer service in the appliance department. That was the meat and potatoes for Sears, and Chicago had called about it. All I could do is phone. I’d ask how things were, and I’d get a one word answer. I hoped the calls were telling him I was there if he needed me.
A couple more weeks went by, and I got a call from Mrs. Polakoff’s son-in-law. He and his wife had moved in after Mrs. Polakoff had died. Ed was worried that my father had lost his way. Neighbors noticed that Dad had returned to walking every morning, afternoon, and evening. They were concerned because he was wheeling his fish in an aquarium attached to an old wagon and apparently talking to the fish as if it were a dog while he walked the fish around the neighborhood. I told Ed I’d get back to him.
As I ratcheted up my worries about Dad, the customer-service problems had to be put on hold. I couldn’t deal with two emergencies at once. First, I called Cal. But the call didn’t go well. After the filial pleasantries and preliminaries, I remember something like this:
“Tell me again, why are you concerned, David?”
“Dad’s walking his fish around the neighborhood and talking to it like a dog.”
“Is he hurting or disturbing anyone? Destroying property?”
“No.”
“Is he disoriented in other ways?”
“No.”
“How does he possibly walk a live fish?”
“He built an aquarium. Welded it, you know, and then welded the whole contraption to my old wagon.”
Perhaps Cal’s silence reflected his absorption of this detail, but I rather think he was suppressing a laugh. “Well he surely doesn’t exhibit dementia, does he?”
“No, probably not.”
“Dad’s walking his fish around the neighborhood hardly cuts it as a reason for me to get off assignment at this moment. Good luck David! And thanks for being there for us.” Then he hung up.
I got to the house that night. Dad was well shaved, fully dressed, and in good spirits.
Digging into the tomato soup I’d made, I began, “Dad, I hear you are taking Charlemagne out for walks.”
“Yup. She loves it.”
“How do you know?”
“She’s much more lively and less depressed. And her color is better.” I put down my spoon and walked out the front door and checked. There was the fish, still atop her red American Flyer throne. The molly did seem perky, but I couldn’t see a change in her color. I came back in.
“Dad, do you really think the fish is better off with the walks?”
“Of course. Fish are social animals. They live in schools. You know that. She’s got to know her neighbors.”
“But fish don’t even live out here in air. They only know the world in water.”
“Of course. Charles is in water. Always.”
I hadn’t heard him call her Charles before. It took me aback. Charles was legged, not finned.
“You mean Charlemagne?”
“’Course. Look, she needs her social time. You can’t just isolate a pet.”
“But her social time would be with other fish, under water.”
Dad just sat there, taking this in. Then he said “Isn’t there gonna be more than soup?”
“Aren’t you concerned about what the neighbors think? I mean taking a fish for a walk could be seen as a sign of lunacy.”
“I don’t even know the neighbors. Fuck ’em. Why would I care if they thought I was crazy? What’s for the rest of this meal? Stop giving me the fourth degree.”
“We got tuna salad, and it’s third degree.” Then I dropped it. The next day I called Ed, told him not to worry, my Dad was doing fine, better than any time since my Mom died in fact. And I went back to my store’s problems.
The weeks that followed were easy. Things went smoothly at Sears. Charlemagne was getting her socials. Dad was getting out and getting exercise. So what if he had some idiosyncrasies? He wasn’t out to win the esteem of his neighbors.
But then one day, while working on a sales projection report, I got a call from the Mamaroneck police. “We’ve got your Dad. You’ve got to come down and get him.”
“What? Is he locked up?”
“We didn’t lock him up, we pulled him out of the Long Island Sound.”
“Jesus, is he OK?”
“Well, he’s a bit damp behind the ears. He may need a little care.”
“But where? Was he swimming?”
“Just get down here, and then we’ll discuss it. Be sure to bring him some dry clothes . . . Oh, and a warm blanket if you can.”
So I picked up some dry stuff and went down to the police station. Dad was a sorry sight.
“What happened, Dad?”
“They left Charlemagne in the middle of the Sound. She’s going to die if we don’t pull her out.”
The officer rolled her eyes. “Who the fuck is Charlemagne?”
“A fish,” I replied.
“Well, your father was drifting off the Larchmont Manor Park shore. He was holding onto something that weighed him down. A crowd of people had gathered and were telling him to come back. He said he couldn’t get out because of a wagon. Mr. Plixit jumped in to help him to shore, but he started fighting Mr. Plixit. Almost drowned him. They called the police, and we got him out. I don’t know what this wagon crap is all about. You’d better make sure he gets into some kind of home—gets evaluated, if you know what I mean.”
After Dad got on the dry clothes, we left the station and I got Dad’s side of the story. Plixit wouldn’t help him pull out the wagon and tried to force him to let it go.
“David, we’ve got to rescue Charlemagne. She’s out beyond the gazebo. About ten feet, I think. We should be able to find her.” He looked desperate. All the improvement I had witnessed was lost.
“Why’d you do it Dad? Why’d you put the wagon in the water?”
“You told me I had to. You were right. Charlemagne wasn’t interested in her neighbor’s dogs. She needed the sea.”
So, of course we went to Abe’s sporting goods, picked up a scuba mask, and then went to the Manor Park. As I stripped to my skivvies, I specified my conditions.
“Look Dad, I’m doing this for you. Not for Charlemagne. But you have to agree, if I save her, you don’t go into the water with her anymore. Deal?”
“You help me get her, and it’s a deal.”
I looked into his eyes: he was sincere.
I waded in. It was cold, but bearable. There was a lot of seaweed and not much light. It took a good fifteen minutes or so to locate the wagon. It was only visible when the sun peeked out from the clouds for a minute and shone on the stainless-steel frame of the aquarium.
I dove down, found the handle, and struggled to get it to come toward the shore. Once it got close, I realized it was far too heavy to pull over the rocks. Luckily, a crowd had gathered around Dad, and when I got the wagon up on the first rocks, about half out of the water, they stared in amazement. I must have been a sight. Balding, graying at the temples, already with a beer belly more appropriate for someone twenty years older, pulling on a wagon handle over the barnacles. Dressed in my skivvies and a big black diving mask with a yellow breathing snorkel.
I looked at them and asked for some help. After a half a minute of hesitation, a couple of young guys pulled off their shoes and pants and came down into the water. The three of us were able to land that weird contraption welded onto my American Flyer. Once up on the grass, I inspected Charlemagne. She was quite alive.
The next day I began to look into nursing homes. I visited a few. What can I say? We all know what those places are like. I couldn’t do it. But I’m a manager, someone who is supposed to think creatively. So I tried.
I put the ad on Craigslist.
Free room and board for dog walker who is willing to take elderly man on walks, call Sears in New Rochelle and ask for the store manager or dial extension 073.
The ad got a lot of bites. I interviewed about five or six of them and chose Debbie. She was sixty-seven, strong, healthy, and fourteen years younger than my father.
She cooked lasagna, meatloaf, sauces, desserts. A far better cook than I am. Dad put on weight again. They got along. I even heard them talking a few times. She walked with my father. Pretty soon she was walking most of the dogs in the neighborhood, and Dad went along. Charlemagne was still healthy, and I moved on.
When Sears offered to put me in charge of a K-Mart back in Ohio, I took it. It may not be my preferred reassignment, but it removed me from the everyday watch of my Dad. I worried less.
I was going to see Debbie and Dad about once a month. It would just be for an overnight, so I didn’t witness all the day-to-day routines. Because I hadn’t witnessed it or heard about it, I assumed Dad had given up some of the more bizarre behavior that had brought on the crisis.
But last time we got together, it was for a big shindig called by Dad for Charlemagne’s third birthday. Cal even got there; flew in from somewhere abroad. There was cake and ice cream and Cal’s imported prosecco. He also brought an unusual fancy and expensive fish food for Charlemagne. Charlemagne seemed pleased with her treat. Dad even swore he could see her wag her tail. Anyhow, after Cal presented Charlemagne with her birthday present, he popped open the prosecco, poured each of us a glass, and toasted the fish:
“Here’s wishing you, and your master, a wonderful year of companionship!” We all assented and drank up.
Sotto voce, Debbie informed Cal and myself that we should get a second fish now, before Charlemagne’s demise, “After all, what do you think the life expectancy of a goldfish is?”
“A molly,” I corrected.
“Whatever.” But she had a point. So I made the next toast.
“Happy birthday, Charlemagne. Here’s hoping we find you a wonderful partner and tank mate to keep you social and happy during your fourth year.” Dad did not take my toast well. He was dead set against my implication of another fish.
“What are you talking about, David? How can you expect someone my age to take care of two pets?”
“Well, you’d have my help,” Debbie pointed out.
“What do you mean you couldn’t feed two fish?” chimed in Cal.
“It’s not the feeding, Cal. It’s the walking. I might not be able to build another tank or even if I could, I couldn’t handle two tanks on that little wagon. What if Debbie gets sick or we’re snow-bound? I can’t do it.”
Cal and I glanced at each other in surprise. This was the first we heard that Dad was still walking the fish. Anyone looking at us would have seen we were both horrified.
But before anything more could be added, Debbie said a second fish would take some pressure off; after all, it would let Charlemagne be social all the time, even on days she wasn’t walked.
“I’ve heard with more than one fish in a tank, the more aggressive ones kill the others. What makes you think Charlemagne won’t be eaten alive by your ‘partner’?” countered Dad.
“Or even that Charlemagne might be the most aggressive?” I put in.
“Don’t be ridiculous, David. Charlemagne is obviously not aggressive.”
Taking out his phone, Cal said this was precisely what one could discover on the web. “Let’s see now. Is the plural of ‘mollys’ y-s or i-e-s?”
“You’re in the word business.”
“Come on, bro, don’t be a smartass—you know it’s all video now. Ahh, i-e-s. Mollyfish.com, nifty. And there it is: I can click directly on ‘tank mates,’ what could be easier? Holy sheez! Debbie’s right. Right here it says, your molly could be getting lonely! I can’t believe it.”
“Come on, Cal, let me see that,” insisted Dad. Cal handed him the cell phone. Of course, Dad didn’t have the right glasses on, but Debbie grabbed the phone and read it out loud. Then she got to the part about how some fish, including mollies, give birth to live, swimming babies. I was amazed.
“Yeah, but what about the aggression factor?” Dad asked.
“It discusses that too,” continued Debbie. “Here it says mollies are very laid-back and easy to get along with. They’re communal.”
“Just like us,” Dad said.
Cal and I glanced at each other, raised our eyebrows. I gave him a thumbs-up.
DIEM PERDIDI
JULIE OTSUKA
She remembers her name. She remembers the name of the president. She remembers the name of the president’s dog. She remembers what city she lives in. And on which street. And in which house. The one with the big olive tree where the road takes a turn. She remembers what year it is. She remembers the season. She remembers the day on which you were born. She remembers the daughter who was born before you—She had your father’s nose, that was the first thing I noticed about her—but she does not remember that daughter’s name. She remembers the name of the man she did not marry—Frank—and she keeps his letters in a drawer by her bed. She remembers that you once had a husband, but she refuses to remember your ex-husband’s name. That man, she calls him.
She does not remember how she got the bruises on her arms or going for a walk with you earlier this morning. She does not remember bending over, during that walk, and plucking a flower from a neighbor’s front yard and slipping it into her hair. Maybe your father will kiss me now. She does not remember what she ate for dinner last night, or when she last took her medicine. She does not remember to drink enough water. She does not remember to comb her hair.
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