Aquarium (18 page)

That’s crazy.

You call me crazy one more time and I will cut you open with a knife.

Look, I’m sorry. But please stop. Why can’t you just stop?

Because I didn’t get to be selfish.

Steve knelt beside my mother where she curled in bed, put his arm over her. Sheri, he said. I love you, and I won’t leave you. And Caitlin will always love you more than anyone else. She watches you in every moment, and whatever you’re feeling in that moment determines whether the world is good or about to end. She’s your daughter.

He laid his head against hers, arms wrapped around, and I could see her convulse beneath the sheet, short quick tugs from crying, but no sound. I ran to her and put my arms around also.

Sheri, he said. Things could be easier for you now. Let them be easier.

But I hate him so much.

Maybe it’s because you love him. Something left over.

You’re a bastard.

That’s right. I’ll be whatever you need me to be.

Mom, I said. I’m sorry.

I could feel my mother convulse again, soundless. I held her as tightly as I could.

You’re sorry, she finally said. After how awful I’ve been to you. Well, I guess that decides it. Fuck. I can’t believe that piece of shit gets to have his way again. It’s not fair.

S
teve made clam chowder with razor clams from Alaska. As big as his hands, brown shells brittle and sharp. I froze these last summer when I was in a hurry, he said. You dig after them with a shovel. At low tide. The sand is black. Then you’re on your knees or even lying down on the wet beach as you dig in with your hand, sometimes all the way to your shoulder. They’re unbelievably fast, and you’re grabbing at this hose which is their mouth and butt, called a siphon, but sometimes you grab the shell and it shatters and that’s how you get cut.

The siphon on each clam long and dirty cream. Steve wedged a shell apart, pulled out the meat, cleaned the stomach, rinsed, and then chopped the clam into small bits.

How do you know where to dig?

They leave a sign in the sand. Called a keyhole if it’s clear or a dimple if it’s already filled in, or even a doughnut if you can see sand humped up all around the hole.

And why do they have their mouths next to their butts?

Seems like a bad choice. I’d hate to wake up one day and find my butt next to my mouth.

I laughed and hit Steve in the arm. She was taking a shower after cleaning her room, so he was all mine at the moment.

See how the shells look like trees? Steve said.

What?

Like a cross-section, if you cut a tree trunk. They have rings, and those really are growth rings, just like on a tree.

Do the trees know about this?

Steve laughed. That could mean trouble for the clams. You’re right.

My mother emerged, her hair wet, wearing a long flannel shirt and no pants.

Whoa, Steve said. I like that look.

The shirt was held together by only one button, very low. My mother moving in for the kill. Come here, she said. Dinner will have to wait.

So I was left alone in the kitchen thinking of Shalini, this unbearable feeling of wanting to pull at the air. I wouldn’t see her until Monday, and it was only Friday night. I found her mother’s phone number and dialed.

Shalini’s father answered. This is late to be calling, he said. But I’ll allow it this once.

I miss you, I whispered when she came on the line.

Why weren’t you at school?

I wanted to explain to her, but it was all too enormous. I didn’t know where to begin. I don’t know, I said.

You don’t know?

Just call me back now and invite me for a sleepover tomorrow. We won’t tell my mother I called first.

Okay, but your family is very strange.

Yes.

I hung up the phone then, quietly, and waited. I could hear my mother and Steve having sex. I wanted to know what it was like, what they were doing. I tried to imagine it and couldn’t imagine anything. They sounded so desperate. I could only remember the feel of Shalini’s skin, her heat and breath.

The phone rang and I jumped, startled.

You are cordially invited to the Anand residence, Shalini said, then laughed. We await the pleasure of your company.

Yes, I said, loud enough for my mother to hear. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

You sound like a robot.

Yes, we remember where. Thank you.

You’re so weird. My mother says you can come after lunch again, but we have to sleep this time. I was so tired last time.

You’re not going to sleep, I whispered. Not even five minutes.

Shalini laughed.

I sat in the kitchen alone afterward, still waiting, and felt hot and jittery, as if Shalini were right here. I wanted her in my mouth, some instinct to devour. I would swallow her whole and keep her inside. My hands were tingling and my legs felt weak. I could hardly breathe.

The moaning had stopped from my mother’s room, and soon they reappeared, my mother wearing jeans this time, her shirt buttoned. I wanted to ask, What did you do?

Who was that on the phone? my mother asked.

Shalini. She invited me for a sleepover tomorrow. Can I go? Please?

My mother smiled. Sure. And I’m sorry about what I said, sweet pea. I’m sure she is important and that you will remember her.

I could never forget her.

My mother kissed me on the forehead and then sat on a kitchen stool next to Steve. She smelled like him.

Steve wasn’t dicing the last clams. He spread them out wet and glistening on the cutting board, then dipped in egg and rolled in bread crumbs. Clam fritters, he said. Horse ovaries, before the chowder.

Horse ovaries? I asked.

Fancy French term for appetizers. He winked at me. This is hot culture you’re getting here.

My mother laughed.

He melted butter in our largest frying pan and laid in the breaded clams. Then he returned to the chowder. He was cooking onions and garlic in butter at the bottom of our largest pot. There are three secrets in every restaurant, he said. Do you know what they are? He lifted his eyebrows at me.

I don’t know.

You’re not trying.

I know, my mother said. The higher the price, the less food you get.

True, Steve said. True. But three secrets for every restaurant, cheap or expensive.

The food is from yesterday? I asked.

Butter, Steve said. Butter is secret number one. Then salt and sugar. Anything you order will have butter, and you’ll think it’s rich and worth the money you’re paying. Salt makes you taste it and want more. Sugar makes you think it’s subtle, that there are other flavors here. But even cardboard would taste good in butter, salt, and sugar. The three food groups.

Well, my mother said. That’s my last time going to a restaurant.

As if we ever go to restaurants, I said.

Watch it. And why can’t we go to restaurants now? This is when the fairy tale begins. Remember?

Steve was ignoring us, tossing the diced clams into the pot, handful after handful.

Well? my mother asked. Don’t I get to go to restaurants now?

Yes, I said. He’ll take us to restaurants.

But you don’t know, do you? There’s not really any deal. We’re acting like there’s a deal, but nothing has been agreed.

He’ll say yes.

But yes to what? What’s the deal? Because if I’m going to quit my job and go back to school, all on trust, trusting someone who ran away last time, what guarantee do I have?

You could have a contract, Steve said.

Steve was stirring the clams now, and I knew he always meant well, but I had this terrible feeling that everything was falling apart again.

Yes, my mother said. A contract.

She was looking up, thinking. It will say we get to live at his house rent-free and he’ll pay for school and everything else.

You can probably register the contract against his house in some way, like a mortgage, so that if he breaks the terms, you get the house.

My mother brightened at that idea, and I thought of my grandfather, in his broken car, all the windows smashed, every panel dented, thinking that his house would be next, that he’d come home one day from work after he was supposed to be retired and find she’d taken it apart piece by piece or set it on fire. I could imagine her doing that, setting fire to his house just to watch it burn.

I want this contract tomorrow, my mother said. I don’t want to wait.

But you need a lawyer, Steve said.

No. I want the contract tomorrow, signed with a notary, just in simple terms easy to read. It’ll say we can live in his house rent-free and he’ll pay me $25,000 now and $2,500 each month, and if he doesn’t I get his house, and when he dies, I get everything, his house and anything else.

Mom, I said. Please don’t.

You wanted this, Caitlin. This is the fairy tale. This is how we know the prince will be good, because we have a contract like a knife at his back. In the real version of Cinderella, there must be knives we don’t see. I bet it’s a sexual harassment suit. The prince, a politician, fondles Cinderella at a dance and she threatens to expose all, so he has to bring her to the castle to keep her quiet, and they make up the glass slipper thing as a cover.

You should be a lawyer, Steve said. That’s some twisted shit.

Maybe I will be. Who knows. But first I need this contract. I need to know whether I’m still going to work on Monday.

My mother was pacing. She was on fire. Everything sounded like anger, like nothing had changed.

I’ll write it down tonight, she said. And we’ll make him sign tomorrow. Will he be at the aquarium?

I don’t know, I said. It was only school days.

He’ll be there. He wants to see you, so he’ll be there. He wants to play family, so we’ll give him the weight of a family.

But I’m going to Shalini’s.

Not now. You want your grandfather, right?

D
read. I went to sleep with it and woke with it. My mother had found a new way to separate me from my grandfather. He would refuse to sign, and then everything would be his fault.

Steve helping her. They worked late into the night and again until noon.

We have to call Shalini, I said.

Quiet, my mother said. We’re almost finished. She and Steve huddled together at the kitchen table around his laptop screen, proofreading.

I think it’s good, he said, sitting back with his hands folded on top of his head. It’s a new life. It changes everything for you.

Sorry, she said. Let me just finish reading. She was bent close to the screen, as if searching for something, her mouth open. Okay, she finally said. I think that’s it. She turned to kiss Steve. Thank you.

We have to call Shalini, I said.

Okay, okay. I’ll call and then we’ll go print out, then the aquarium, then a notary.

And just tell him there will be a new contract, Steve said, revised after a lawyer takes a look. But I think this one is good.

I stood less than five feet from my mother and Steve, but I didn’t exist. Steve didn’t care that we weren’t calling Shalini, didn’t care what my grandfather would have to sign away, didn’t care that I might lose him. Shalini, I said.

Fucking eh, my mother said. I’m calling now. She went to the phone and looked up Shalini’s number. When someone answered, she explained too quickly. Something’s come up, she said.

Let me talk with Shalini, I said, but my mother gestured for me to back off and then hung up.

Don’t look so sour, my mother said. You’re getting everything you wanted.

Then we were in Steve’s pickup, a red Nissan 4x4. I crammed into one of the jump seats in the king cab, sitting sideways, my feet up on box speakers, the music loud and grinding, some sort of hard rock.
Black hole sun, won’t you come, and wash away the rain
. . .

When we passed the exit for the shipping port, my mother gave it the finger. Fuck you, she yelled, and Steve grinned.

We passed the exit for Gatzert, too, and the aquarium, and not long afterward turned off and parked and the music ended and my ears were ringing. This’ll be quick, Steve said. I’ll just run in and print.

Is this where you live? I asked.

Yep.

I want to see.

Steve grinned. Well, it is a kind of palace, so I guess it shouldn’t be missed.

Inside was like a garage, all gear everywhere. Skis and fishing poles, buckets, hip waders, bikes, helmets, ropes. A bench press taking up most of the tiny living room, a stereo with huge speakers. Groceries on the counters, not put away in the cupboards. A printer on the small kitchen table, stacks of papers, and he sat there with his laptop, my mother standing behind him.

His apartment smelled like the sea, like saltwater and seaweed and rot. A big crab pot the smelliest thing. Other nets and floats beside it.