Fish in the Sky (27 page)

“I was thinking, you see, because I really need a partner, if you were maybe interested in coming with me.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know.”

“You know, it’s not the kind of dances you dance at school dances; these are real dances, waltzes and things like that. It’s maybe twice a week. Then we would have to practice, of course, on our own. Don’t you think it would be fun? We could easily practice here in my basement. There’s lots of room. And Mom and Dad have tons of CDs with the right kind of music.”

She goes on talking and explaining waltzes to me and quickstep and rumba, and I can’t put a word in because she is so eager and happy to be able to talk about something so we aren’t just sitting in awkward silence.

How lovely and sweet she is to me, just because I fell in love with her and wrote her poems. How utterly caring she is not to make jokes about it, or tell anyone, but instead invite me into her home and give me lemonade. And as a poet’s reward, she invites me to dance with her. In a spring class, in ballroom dancing, where we would learn quickstep and rumba and then practice in her basement all summer.

Sometimes it happens, every million years or so, that two stars come so close to each other that they almost touch. But just barely. And only every million years or so.

“The thing is,” I say, after a short silence, “that I’m moving away.”

“Away?” she says, surprised, her eyes growing wider.

“Yes,” I say. “To my father’s.”

“Where is that?”

“In the country.”

“So far?”

“Yes.”

Again there’s silence in the living room, long enough for me to hear the ticking of a grandfather clock, which I hadn’t noticed before. It stands by the wall, behind the dining-room table, and beside it hangs a small painting, a portrait of an old lady with a colorful shawl over her shoulders. The low ticking of the clock is both soft and resilient, and I can just imagine that when the clock strikes, the sound is somehow in harmony with everything in here; a refined sound, made by a small silver hammer on copper springs. And I realize suddenly that time doesn’t stand still in this house any longer.

“When do you leave?”

“Soon.”

“You’re going for good, then?”

“I don’t know. Most likely.”

“I see,” she says in a low voice. “It’s a bit of a surprise.”

“Yes,” I say.

Then we’re silent for a while, sipping our lemonade. The ticking clock becomes uncomfortably loud in my ears.

“Well,” I say, “I really have to go now.”

I stand up from the chair, and the creaking leather follows my movement. When I’ve stood up, the leather continues to creak softly, moving back into shape, like the skin on the palm of a hand, opening slowly.

She follows me across the carpet, into the tile-decorated hall. While I put my shoes on, she stands before me with her arms crossed over her chest and has put her hair behind both ears. Suddenly her eyes are so wide and her face doesn’t radiate the charming smile it did. When I’ve put my coat on, she looks so small and thin with her arms crossed like that, tight to her red sweater, the collar of her white shirt lying over the collar of her sweater. I try not to look straight at her but just a little past her, because her eyes are looking at me searchingly and I know my face is red.

“Thank you,” I say, and nod, and then have just about enough courage to look her in the eye for a brief second. But then something passes quickly over her eyes; the wishing stones are glittering in the deep clear water. She places her arms around my neck, embraces my head, and places her warm cheek next to mine.

“Oh, Josh,” she whispers.

She holds me tight, and her heart is beating hard into my thick coat. I look over her shoulder at my hand, gently stroking her back, her long black hair. I rest it there for a while. The grandfather clock strikes the hour, and the sound is exactly as I imagined it. I close my eyes, feeling her hair under the palm of my hand, her hands wrapped around my head, our bodies tight together, her breath caressing my cheek.

Isn’t it strange how the sweetest dreams are just about to come true, the moment you realize they’re just that — sweet dreams — and you can’t wait to wake up to the reality of your true self?

The church is full to the brim, and the air vibrates from the thundering organ and the voices from the choir. Trudy and I move our lips with a hymn book in our hands, but Mom sings loudly by my side. All of those who endured the long winter in the half-empty church, while God slept, sit here now. But all the others praise him only on this day, just in case. There’s no loose floorboard by my feet where we sit now, but that doesn’t matter because I don’t need to wake God up today. If my mom’s singing doesn’t keep him awake and make the resurrection happen, I can’t imagine what else could bring Jesus back to life.

Dad called the other day to talk to her. I was lying on the living-room floor, pretending to watch a movie, but all my attention was focused on the hallway, where Mom was sitting with the phone in her hand. For a long time, she said nothing but just listened to what he was saying. When she finally spoke, her voice was so low that I couldn’t hear a thing. After their conversation was over, she sat by the phone for a while, distant and distracted, but then she went into the kitchen, and a moment later, I could smell cigarette smoke. When the movie was over and I had finished the chocolate cookies and my drink, she came into the living room with a cup of coffee and sat in her chair. Then I could tell that the time had come. Right there in the stillness of the evening before we would say good night to each other.

“Do you want to go to your dad’s?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, but immediately felt I didn’t want to have to say this. But I had to say it anyway. It was what I wanted.

“Well, dear. So you’ve been thinking things over?” she said.

“Yes,” I replied, picking up loose threads from the gray carpet, rolling them into a ball between my fingertips.

“That’s good. I think it will do you both good. Boys need their fathers as well, you know.” Then she was silent for a moment, before continuing, making it sound as if these were quite practical and appropriate measures.

“He’s going to help you with math, he told me. I think your headmaster will agree to letting you take the summer exams in the country, if it can be arranged. It will all turn out fine, I’m sure of it.”

But when she said this it was like something had broken inside me. Not with any noise, but silently. Blinking, I crawled up on my knees and hid my head in her lap.

“I also want to stay here with you,” I whispered.

“Of course you do,” she said, stroking my hair. “But sometimes we have to choose. That’s life.”

She took my head in both her hands and looked at me for a long time: her eyes blue, with thin white patterns in the blue; around her pupils a dark blue circle, which made the white even whiter, the blue even bluer. Her face in the half-light was so young and fresh, her hair wavy and her forehead smooth. Her eyebrows delicate and her nose straight. When she smiled, the corners of her mouth made dimples form in her cheeks and her eyes brighten.

“But you must promise me,” she said, “never to shirk your duties. Sometimes we feel life is not fair, but then we shouldn’t run away, but face our problems and hope for the best. That’s how you become a grown-up,” she said, and her eyes sparkled like she was looking into my soul.

The thundering organ fills the church with a blasting sound again, and the singers raise their powerful voices. At once, the bright sound of a trumpet soars, weaving itself in with the majestic harmony, and everybody stands up. It is a bit hard not to join in the singing because I can feel my soul expand inside me. And why shouldn’t I sing properly if I feel like it? So I raise my voice with the choir, in the safe shelter of my mom’s singing.

Christ is in his place on the altar painting, floating in midair between heaven and earth. Above him is the eternal light of the heavens, but below him Roman soldiers are rolling in the dirt. It looks like any moment now, Jesus will glide up and out of the painting. His face is handsome and bright, and his long hair falls in soft waves over his naked shoulders. He is probably quite relieved to be free from the tomb. Maybe he was worried that the angels weren’t going to be able to lift the stone. He is on his way to his father, and I know he must be looking forward to meeting him, just as I am. And even though, as it says in the Bible, it was two thousand years ago that he went up to heaven, I still wish him a safe journey in my mind, just in case.

When we’re home, Mom makes herself some coffee and starts to prepare the Easter dinner. Trudy and I, however, finish moving her furniture into my room. My books are now in boxes, which I have stacked up against the wall in the small room that used to be her room. It will be my storage room now. The things from my desk filled up a whole box: drawings, notebooks, paint, pencils, brushes, and a small jar with shiny coins from the beach. I took the postcards from Dad off the wall and put them in the shoe box, then placed it in the box and closed it. On top of that one, I stacked two boxes filled with books.

We carry my bed, my chair, and my desk into the storage room. Trudy will keep my bookcase for her books. Finally there’s nothing in the room to suggest that I was ever here, except for the fish tank on the chest of drawers in the corner. The sound of the water pump is different now that Trudy’s furniture is in here.

Mom puts the lamb in the oven and adjusts the timer on the stove while Trudy takes a bath and puts on her favorite dress. I fetch the plates, glasses, and silverware and place it all on the dining table in the living room. When the doorbell rings, I go to the door. There stands Auntie Carol, in her best Sunday dress, with rollers in her hair under her scarf. She always asks Mom to do her hair for holidays and celebrations. She has a huge plate in her hands.

“There,” she says, handing me the plate. “I’m not buying chocolate eggs for half-grown men.”

Under the shiny plastic cover is the one and only pear tart, just because I’m leaving. She really can be so kind.

She hangs up her coat and sits in the kitchen and starts to take the rollers out of her hair. Then the chatting and familiar kitchen noises begin. Carol struggles to watch quietly when things are being done differently from how she would do them. She insists the potatoes should be caramelized. Mom asks her to make the sauce instead, because she does it so much better then Mom ever could. And they joke with each other, with aprons over their pretty dresses, and Mom hurries to do Carol’s hair so she can start making the sauce. Trudy sits at the kitchen table, her face made up, earrings dangling down to her naked shoulders. She is opening cans of green peas and carrots. She is anxious and excited today, and I know why. Her new boyfriend has asked her to the movies tomorrow night. He doesn’t have a motorcycle but a real monster of a car with fat tires and spoilers and all. It’s probably much more enjoyable riding in that kind of vehicle than hanging on to the back of a motorcycle in all kinds of weather.

The lamb is on the table. There are glistening caramelized potatoes in a bowl, steam rising from the red cabbage, green peas, carrots, and sweet-smelling sauce. Grandma’s silver spoon stands upright in dark-red cranberry sauce in a small crystal bowl. Mom pours my favorite soda mix in the high glasses with the sandblasted flower pattern. Auntie Carol, with her hair beautifully done, carves the lamb, since she is so clever with the knife, as Mom puts it.

When Trudy and I are finishing clearing the table, and Mom and Auntie Carol are in the kitchen washing up, the doorbell rings. There stands Peter in the dim light; it’s almost dark. He places two fingers at his brow and flicks them away casually. “Sir.”

I repeat the gesture, and we laugh as we go inside.

“Come on in,” I say. “There’s a huge slice of pear tart in here with your name on it.”

On the dining-room table is the mouthwatering pear tart from Auntie Carol, the ultimate prize. I dig the knife into the soft icing and cut a big piece for Peter. We sit for a long while just gobbling up this unbelievable treat, our only conversation our happy sighs and murmurs of satisfaction.

With our stomachs full and smiles on our faces, we go up to my room. Peter stops on the threshold because nothing is the way it used to be.

On the floor is my suitcase, ready to go.

“When are you leaving?”

“Dad’s on his way now.”

Peter sits on my cousin’s bed. He looks a little confused, like he doesn’t know what to say. Finally he stands up, walks over to the fish tank, and looks into the water for a long time, like he’s searching for something.

“I guess we won’t be publishing the magazine, then?” he asks.

“I guess not,” I say.

“It was a really good idea, anyway,” he says.

“Yes, it was. It was a great idea,” I say.