by Alan Sincic
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
One: How Wet Can You Get?
Two: The Biggest of the Big
Three: Fourteen New Friends
Four: One Hug Is Too Many
Five: The Cow in the Bottle, the Horse in the Mail
Six: Captured!
Seven: Dogs on the Rooftop, Fire in the Tub
Eight: The Best Fish in the World
Nine: The E & B Goldfish Express
Ten: High and Dry
Copyright
To
Carole (the Big Fish) and Casey (the Little Fish) and all the Florida Fishes who listened to this story
—A. S.
To
Mark Fisher III
—R. W. A.
One
HOW WET CAN YOU GET?
Edward the fish watched Mr. Billingsly run the bathwater again. The white suds made it look like a Boston Cooler—ginger ale and vanilla ice cream all whipped up together in a froth. Edward wished that he could be swimming around in a Boston Cooler. Edward wished that he could take a trip to Boston to visit the famous Boston Cooler in the center of Boston Harbor, 650 times bigger than the bowling ball-sized fishbowl he was living in now. Edward wished that he could take a vacation.
Mr. Billingsly left the water running while he ran outside to pluck a tangerine from one of the tangerine trees in the backyard.
“Take it from me, partner,” said Mr. B as he hip-hopped across the floor in his bare feet, “nothing tastes better in the tub than a nice, ripe, juicy tangerine.”
Whoomp! The fishbowl shook as the door slammed behind Mr. Billingsly. Edward swam around and around in his tiny circle of water. He tried to imagine what a tangerine would taste like, or what a tangerine blossom would smell like, or what a vacation to Jamaica, a trip to the nation of Jamaica, a dip in the tangerine-flavored waters of the Jamaican nation would feel like, but Edward was a fish, and fish do not get to take a vacation.
The water sang a tune as it tumbled out the spout, like a piper and a drummer in a marching band.
Ba-bam-bam-bam! Ba-bam-bam-bam!
It was Mr. Billingsly. He stood at the window with a towel around his waist and a tangerine tucked under his arm. He was pounding on the door, shaking the water from his arms and his legs, and chattering through his teeth in the wind.
“Edward! Edward!”
Edward held his breath and popped his head out of the fishbowl.
“Edward! I’ve locked myself out of the house. Open the door, Edward, open the door!”
Edward blinked his eyes at Mr. Billingsly. He liked Mr. B. He liked the cowboy songs Mr. B would sing to him and the rain dance Mr. B would dance for him and the sourdough Mr. B would bake for him, but Edward was a fish, and fish do not know how to open the door.
While Mr. Billingsly ran around and around the house, pounding at the doors and the windows, the bathwater bubbled up and over the soap dish and the washcloth and the silver platter of corn bread he was saving for later in the day. It was picking them all up and carting them all away. It was rolling out over the walls of the tub like an avalanche.
“Turn off the water, Edward, turn off the water!” cried Mr. Billingsly. He was calling down through the kitchen chimney. “Stay calm, Edward, stay calm! Go over to the faucet and turn the water off!”
Edward was very calm. In fact, Edward was almost peaceful. The water rolled itself out across the blue tile floor. It was very beautiful in the morning light, like a blanket of melted butter on a bed of blueberry toast.
“Do you hear me, Edward?”
The water licked up the stamps in Mr. B’s book of stamps—slurp, slurp, slurp—and swallowed them whole. Brick by brick, Mr. B’s sugar-cube castle—sssssssss-ssssssss—dissolved into a sugary goo. Boot by boot, Mr. B’s cowboy boots floated out of the closet and down the hall—clippity-clunk, clippity-clunk, clippity-clunk—as though they were taking themselves out for a walk.
“Turn off the water, Edward!”
Edward decided that, well, maybe it would not be such a good idea to turn off the water after all. Water is good. Everybody likes a drink of nice cold water. It’s water that makes the plants grow. It’s water that makes the clouds burst and the rapids run, that puts the snow into snowmen and the hurry into hurricane. Without water there would be nothing but a big empty hole where the ocean is supposed to be. Water is good.
“Edward!”
And besides, Edward was a fish. Fish do not know how to turn off the water.
Two
THE BIGGEST OF THE BIG
Blub-blub. Mr. B’s yellow-checkered walking shorts disappeared beneath the water. Blub-blub, blub-blub. Down went Mr. B’s eagle-feather war bonnet from Buffalo Gap, South Dakota. Blub-blub, blub-blub, blub-blub. One by one, the portraits of Mr. Billingsly’s parents and grandparents and great-grandparents held their noses and leaped into the rising water.
By and by, even Mr. B’s cats began to notice the change in the weather.
“Meeeeooow!… eeeoow … eeeoow-eow-ow-ow-ow!”
They skittered across the top of Edward’s fishbowl—zip zip zip zip, fourteen in a row—and then landed, hissing and spitting, high up in the branches of Mr. Billingsly’s silver-plated hat rack. Edward wondered why they were so upset. He wondered what could be chasing them. The only thing that he could see was a few pieces of furniture floating across the living-room floor.
Ta-tat, ta-tat, ta-tat … ta-tat, ta-tat, ta-tat …
Edward wheeled around. It was Mr. B’s covered-wagon kite, already half underwater, rattling back and forth against the garden window. Edward pressed his face against the walls of his fishbowl and smiled. He knew what this was about. The kite was trying to break out into the sky on the other side of the glass. It was trying to take itself out for a little vacation.
Ta-tat-tat-tat.
The water poured into every corner of the house, into every socket of every pocket, every lock and every locket, every cranny, every nook, every page of every book. It poured into the thimbles and into the pots. It danced across the countertops and shimmied up the windowpanes and giggled its way down into the cracks between the floorboards. At last it rumbled up over the top of the fishbowl.
“Ki-yi-yippee-kai-yay!” cried Edward as he shot straight up toward the ceiling. He looked like a balloon when you cut the string and it shoots straight up into the sky.
He scurried to the piano and bounced along the keys. “I can play whatever I want!”
He crashed into Mr. Billingsly’s jar of cherry jelly beans and snatched them up as they fell. “I can eat whatever I want!”
He flew from one end of the house to the other with a snip and a snap of his tail. “I can swim wherever I want!”
Far above him chugged the telephone like a tugboat out to sea. “I am a dolphin,” hummed Edward, “scooting quick across the bay.”
Far below him rolled the hills and the valleys of Mr. B’s electric train set. “I am an eagle,” cried Edward, “sweeping tall across the sky!”
Alongside the track was a small brown box with a glimmer of light underneath it. Down Edward swooped. It was … no, it wasn’t a box. It was a station for the trains, a tidy little station house with a porch and a swing, and a cow and a stable, and a tidy little man dealing cards upon a table. Edward imagined that the tiny stationmaster was Mr. Billingsly, begging for
someone to build him a larger house.
“I am bigger than you, little man,” said Edward. “I am the biggest of the big, and if you want a bigger house, then you are just going to have to—”
Rinnng! Rinnng!
“Pardon me. My phone is ringing.”
Edward darted over to pick it up. Maybe it was the mayor of Boston, home of the Boston Cooler, calling to congratulate him on his vacation.
“Edward?” said Mr. Billingsly. “Is that you, Edward?”
His voice sounded funny, as if he were trying to gargle and talk at the same time. “Stay calm, Edward. Don’t panic! Go into the bathroom and pull out the plug. Pull out the plug in the bathtub.”
Mr. B was right. The important thing was to stay calm. On his way over to the refrigerator to fix himself a bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate coconut sprinkles and half a teaspoon of butterscotch topping, Edward thought about the tub.
“Edward? Do you hear me, Edward?”
On his way back from the refrigerator Edward thought about the tub, and the water in the tub, and the silent rubber plug at the bottom of the tub. A fresh red strawberry drifted across the room and into his mouth. And drifting right behind it? A bite-sized piece of strawberry shortcake. Maybe it would not be such a good idea to pull out such a calm, calm plug. Maybe it would be better, calmer and better, for the plug to stay where it belonged.
“Edward! Edward!”
That is, if it were even possible for a fish to pull out a plug.
Three
FOURTEEN NEW FRIENDS
Edward glided over to Mr. Billingsly’s easy chair and settled in to enjoy his lunch. It was Edward who was in charge now. It was Edward’s turn to be the boss of the house. On the floor in front of him lay Mr. B’s green and gold and purple crayons. On the wall behind him stood a long white patch of wallpaper, blank white wallpaper. The crayons seemed to be pointing up at the wall. The wall seemed to be leaning down toward the crayons. Edward seemed to be … well, there would be plenty of time for all that. The best thing about vacation was all the—
“Eeeedwaaaard.… Oh, Eeeedwaaaard.…”
It was the fourteen cats in Mr. B’s hat rack.
“Do you think…,” said the fat cats on top.
“… that it would be possible…,” said the medium-sized cats in the middle.
“… for you to give us a little hand?” said the skinny cats on the bottom with their tails dragging in the water. “We do not know how to swim.”
“Swimming is simple,” said Edward. “You just waggle your tail.”
“But Edward,” said the fattest of the fat cats, “I do not want the water to ruin my chocolate and vanilla and butterscotch tail. Come give me a ride on your back.”
“But if I come too close, you are going to eat me.”
“Absolutely not, Edward,” said all the cats at once. “We love you, Edward. We are your friends. We would never eat you.”
“But what about the paw prints on the rim of my fishbowl? What about the claw prints on my tiny yellow lawn chair? And my umbrella—the tip of my umbrella has been nibbled away. You are always trying to eat me.”
The water rose up to pluck the hats from the hat rack and, one by one, carry them away. The cats climbed higher.
“We just wanted to wash the honey off our claws, sweet Edward, to wash them off in the fresh clean bowl,” said the skinny cats. They smiled and blinked their eyes.
“We just wanted to cool our paws, dear Edward, to cool them off in the clean cool water,” said the medium-sized cats. They licked their lips and purred a little tune.
“We just wanted to dip our tongues, kind Edward, to dip our tongues in the bright blue water,” said the fat cats as they stepped up onto the heads of the skinny cats, as they climbed still higher to the ceiling. “It was the water that we wanted, Edward, it was the water.”
“So you want to be friends with me? With a fish?”
“Especially with you, Edward,” said the cats as they polished their teeth with the backs of their paws. “We like fish very much. We have always liked fish.”
“And I am the boss of the house?”
“Absolutely. You are the boss of the house.”
“Very well, then.”
Edward gathered up all the hats that were still afloat and put them in a line. Then, very gently so that they would not tip over, he tied them together with the drawstring from Mr. B’s red leather Stetson.
The water bubbled higher. The cats squeezed together at the top of the rack like a stack of flapjacks stuck together at the end of a fork.
“All aboard!” cried Edward as he pulled his line of hat boats, his line of flat boats, his fancy line of cat boats into place alongside the rack.
The cats scratched and pushed and clawed their way into the bowlers and the boaters and the trenchers, the fedoras and the derbies and the yellow-tasseled fezzes, the busbies and the toppers and the braided-silk sombreros. As he settled down into his very comfortable houndstooth hunting cap with the felt brim and the ostrich feather on the crown, the fattest of the fat cats leaned over and whispered into Edward’s ear, “Take us over to the window, Edward, open up the window and let us go free.”
Edward whispered back: “Shhh. You seem to forget that I am a fish. Fish do not know how to open the window.”
Instead—and very slowly because he was so little and the cats were so big—Edward clenched down on the drawstring and towed them all out the door,
down the hall,
through the kitchen,
and directly into Mr. B’s gigantic redbrick oven.
Edward listened to the voices echoing out the oven door. They sounded like a box of rusty violins.
“Help! He’s going to cook us in the oven!”
“Help! Help! He’s going to serve us up for dinner!”
“Help! Help! Help! We are going to be eaten by a fish!”
Four
ONE HUG IS TOO MANY
“Shh!” said Edward. “Stop your caterwauling and listen. Listen to the sound of the water.”
The cats stopped. They crouched in their hat boats and cocked their ears and whimpered and cried in the dark.
Gurgling and burping, the water climbed the walls of the oven, brick by brick. Slowly it lifted the cats up higher, up into the chimney and—gurgle-burp, gurgle-burp—out onto the roof.
“We did it! We did it!” they sang as they tumbled out into the light. “Brave we are, brave are we, we have saved ourselves from the water tree!”
Thirteen of the cats—black with soot and dragging their hats behind them—skittered across the shingles and down the drainpipe and out across the lawn, but the fat cat, the fattest of the fat cats, tiptoed back over to the chimney.
“Edward! Oh, Edward!”
“Yes?”
“You were so good to us, handsome Edward,” she purred as she reached down into the water with her paw, “that I would just like to give you a little hug.”
She was squinting down into the water now, her whiskers twitching left and right. “Come closer, brave Edward, so that I can hug you.”
“But you are already waving to me,” said Edward as he watched the glint of her claws in the sunlight, “and I think that is plenty enough.”
The claw swept down into the water again, this time a bit deeper.
“Oh no, Edward, that is not enough, a wave is not nearly enough.”
“Then you can blow me a kiss.”
“No, not enough. A kiss is not enough.”
“You can sing me a little song, then. A thank-you song.”
No-not, no-not, no-not enough,
And don’t try to put them together.
A wave and a kiss and a song is a treat,
But a hug would be even better.
“Well, then,” said Edward as he darted back down the chimney and into the safety of the house, “if a wave is not enough, and a kiss is not enough, and a song is not enough”—the cat’s sharp claws screeched and scratched agai
nst the bricks of the chimney—
Then maybe you should pen me,
Maybe you should lend me,
Maybe you should send me
A let, a let, a letter.
Five
THE COW IN THE BOTTLE, THE HORSE IN THE MAIL
The water grew calmer now. The covered-wagon kite rattled to a halt. The furniture stopped its dancing. Clouds of sweet tea came rolling out of the kitchen cupboards—mint medley, vanilla almond, blackberry currant—and covered the floor in a faint purple haze.
“Now that I am the boss of the house,” said Edward in a voice that made the frying pans shake and the spatulas tremble and the cheese graters tumble from their cheese grater shelves, “there are going to be some changes around here.”
There was no answer. The stationmaster in the station house looked down at his cards. His herd of tiny cows grazed back and forth across their flannel-board meadow. And off in the distance, out beyond the mountains of the spices and the valleys of the mixing bowls, a pepper-shaker horse with his salt-shaker cowboy whirled in the current like a bronco in a rodeo ring.
“Rule number one,” said Edward as he plucked out the stationmaster and dropped him onto the wobbly kitchen counter.
“I can do whatever I want, whenever I want, and you have to do what I say.”
The counter wobbled. The stationmaster nodded.
“Rule number two,” said Edward as he scooped up the cattle with a sweep of his fin and plopped them down beside the stationmaster. “You’ve got to live where I tell you to live, but I get to live where I want.”
The stationmaster nodded. The cows all nodded.
“Rule number three,” called out Edward to the cowboy and his horse in the distance. “You go to bed when I say go to bed, and I go to bed when I want.”
The cowboy nodded, but he didn’t say a word. Up and down and up and down. He was too busy hanging on to his hat.