The Country Ahead of Us, the Country Behind (9 page)

“Yeah,” said Ken. “You want to go to the arcade with me?”

“I can’t,” said Paul. “My parents won’t let me.”

“Neither will mine,” Ken said.

At night, every light turned off but the one in the aquarium, Paul watched his fish from the safety of his comforter. Their eternal passivity struck him as offensive: their hearts should boil over, they ought to dash their brains against the glass. But they were only fish and so they hovered, ghosts of themselves, unrealized souls. They could not concoct a plan of escape or rail against their condition. There was no identifiable question for them to ask, and anyway their world was warm and luminous and food appeared in it at regular intervals. What would it mean to be a fish and did they hear him when he spoke out loud? And when his face was pressed against the glass was he there for them, or was he nothing? And what did they make of the formality of their world, its lines and corners, its cramped geometry? Were their brains pitched to the proper degree of uselessness, in order that contented lives might be lived in such conditions as these?
Even a fish must experience captivity as some agonizing, ceaseless form of suffering. There together, living out entire lives in maddening, langorous comfort, they must gently become unhinged in the head; either that or die. And so they circled, or hung in the void, or sulked, inert, above the gravel. They hated and ignored one another endlessly, and when the light in their home went off at night they slept with thankfulness that their world had been erased until morning returned it to them. And this they lived through—Paul decided—with thoughts commensurate to their station in the order of being, as it had been explained to him at school recently: these fish, because they were not anything but fish, were condemned to only the faintest understanding of matters, perhaps to none at all; no one knew.

Paul, on the other hand, would grow older and understand. In fact he was beginning to understand already; he was twelve.

“Piranhas?” the man at the pet shop said, cleaning his glasses on his shirttail. “Piranhas are vicious, all right? They’ll mess up your other fish in no time.”

“I saw this movie,” said Paul. “They eat you.”

“Only if you go in the water,” said the man with a wink. “Come here and have a look.”

They went down between the rows of aquariums. They came to a tank with rust-red gravel, algae mottling its sides. The man stopped by it, grave-faced. Then, strangely, he began to hum the theme from
Jaws
.

“Piranhas,” he announced. “There.”

Paul looked in. A dozen fish traveled in a group restlessly,
silver, deep-bodied, blunt-headed animals, no bigger than fifty-cent pieces.

“A lot of people buy them,” the man explained. “Basically you’ve got two choices. You start a separate piranha tank—nothing but, just piranhas, that’s all. Or you throw them in with your other fish and raise them vegetarian-like. Never let them get the taste of meat, pretty soon they’re docile like the rest. You have to figure there’s an instinct, though. They start in chewing on someone’s fins or tail, pull them quick—they’re trouble.”

“Pull them?” Paul said. “Where?”

“You can flush them down your toilet,” the man explained. “They won’t live up around here—too cold.”

He leaned down and tapped on the aquarium glass. The piranhas flashed away for a half-second, a wave of movement, undulant, then fell back into their silent weaving.

“Check this out,” the man said. “Their teeth are like little triangles. That’s real teeth—dentine and enamel. Little razors, two rows of them.”

Paul leaned down with his hands on his knees. The man put his index finger against the aquarium glass and pointed, absurdly, at the moving fish. “Teeth,” he said. “Vicious little suckers.”

“How much are they?” Paul asked.

The man looked at him. He took off his glasses, then looked again. He kept blinking.

“You’re interested,” he said. “Well, let me tell you something. Piranhas are a
habit
, okay? You get dedicated or you flush them. There’s no in between. You feed them meat they get expensive, you don’t they get boring—just another fish. You understand what I’m saying?”

“I think I do,” Paul answered.

“Good,” said the man. “Fine.”

They stood there for a moment looking in at the piranhas. “Well,” said the man. “I’ll leave you alone here so you can mull it over. You let me know what you decide.”

“I’ll take eight,” Paul told him. “How much are they?” “Eight?” said the man. “You’ll need another tank for that, you know. Eight? That’s a lot to start with.”

“I like them,” Paul said. “They’re interesting.”

Ken stood looking into the new aquarium, situated next to the first one. “All right,” he said, bending down to look more closely. “Just like the ones in the
movie.”

Paul sat down on the edge of his bed. The piranhas spoke for themselves.

“What do you feed them?” Ken said.

“Whatever,” Paul said. “You know.”

“Like what?”

“Like tuna fish, mainly. Other stuff.”

“Insects?”

“No.”

“Like what then?”

“Tadpoles,” Paul said. “I got them at school. They’re in that jar over there.”

“Cool,” Ken said. “I want to see.”

“It’s not that big a deal,” Paul said.

Ken picked up the jar of tadpoles. “Can I dump some in?” he asked. “Please?”

“Go ahead,” Paul answered.

They watched together while the piranhas ate. It was quite leisurely, finally. No mad frenzy. They maneuvered, the tadpoles
wriggled to no avail. Calm feeding.

“See?” Paul said. “I think it’s from living in the tank or something. They don’t go crazy like in the movie.”

“The movie was better,” Ken agreed.

“I read about them in the encyclopedia,” Paul said. “They live in this river somewhere. A cow comes in, they turn it into a skeleton. They swim around in big groups, hunting. They find another fish, they eat it. People, too, sometimes. Natives washing their clothes and stuff.”

“No kidding?” Ken said. “For real?”

Paul didn’t answer. He lay back on his bed.

“Hey,” said Ken. “Why don’t you feed them something big, maybe? Maybe they’ll go crazy eating it.”

“Like what?” Paul said.

“Like a goldfish or something. You know, a fish. Throw one in and see what happens.”

“What for?” said Paul.

“You know,” said Ken. “So they can
eat
it.”

“I thought about that,” Paul said.

They were evil, he saw at night, blind in their purpose, communally devoted to the shedding of blood. Watching them Paul understood the liberation that came with such a shared lust: the piranhas—it was their instinct—had stepped across an invisible boundary, relinquishing their identities in exchange for the assurances of cooperation with ten thousand others. He could not even feel, rightfully, that he owned them really; they defied proprietorship; their allegiance was to one another. They were a single organism, each a part of something larger than the self. And none was
alone—they brought what made them whole with them into captivity, then clung to it in defiance of reality. As with the other fish, on nights before, he imagined them engaged in their former lives—undulating with thousands of other fish of like kind, the scent of meat propelling them all across the river currents, the warm, safe riot of the hunting attack, the rapture of blood. He dreamed that in some other life he had known this feeling, too: safe among masses of those like himself, engaged to the pit of his being in a world of purpose, passion, sustenance, action, and finding within its context that impossible thing, love, boundless acceptance, a rightful place in things.

One night, having watched them late, he went out onto the deck of the house. He wanted, if possible, to see the stars or moon—whatever was up there: anything. But instead his parents were in their hot tub kissing violently, and his father’s hands were on his mother’s breasts; they surged up out of the water together and his father’s pale, starved rump emerged and his mother’s brown heels were pinned against his father’s hamstrings. He saw that theirs was an angry passion that would not be satisfied; that love was like everything else in their lives; he felt this, watching them—the violence of their dissatisfaction with everything.

His mother kissed his father’s neck, his hairy shoulder, his earlobe, and then her cheek was against his and she was staring into Paul’s eyes. “Get out of here,” she snarled. “Honestly, Paul.” Paul’s father swiveled and stared at him, too. “Paul,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

They fell apart into the water. His mother took a glass of wine from the edge of the tub. His father laughed into the darkness.

“What’s so funny?” Paul said.

“How about giving us a little privacy?” said his mother.

“Sorry,” Paul said. “It was an accident.”

“Go to bed,” said his father. “It’s late, Paul. Okay?”

He laughed again. Paul’s mother took another sip from her wine. She moved over onto his father’s lap.

“Are you getting the message?” she said to Paul. “Leave already, okay?”

He went in and fed a blue gourami to the piranhas. They worked on it together, methodically. They nipped out a piece here, a piece there, tail and fins first, then along the flanks, finally at the back of the head. The gourami turned belly up before long. Later Paul fished out the skeleton.

He fed them the red-tailed shark the next night. It was no contest—they ate her with astonishing speed. The pair of severums went in together. The tiger barbs had to be tired out. The Dempsey fought, then died and was devoured. The elephant fish was the last to go. They accosted her from all sides; the blood was substantial. She floundered and the piranhas stripped flesh from her flanks until everything was gone but the bone.

Later the housecleaning woman, Molly, came into Paul’s room and saw the empty tank with its hood left open, the water circulating through the filters, the pump humming along, the thermostat light glowing—but no fish, nothing, just water. She mentioned this curiosity to Paul’s mother.

“They all died,” Paul explained to her. “That’s what.”

“Well, did you take care of them?” said his mother. “Did you feed them?”

“I took care of them,” Paul said. “Sure I fed them.”

“Well, then what happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, what did you do with them?”

“I flushed them down the toilet.”

“Oh, God,” said his mother. “Honestly.”

His father came into his room that night. He sat on Paul’s desk and put his feet on Paul’s chair. He looked at the fish tanks and sighed.

“I see you split up the piranhas,” he said. “How come, Paul? What’s the deal?”

“They’ll get bigger,” said Paul. “This gives them more room.”

“Don’t you think they’re big enough already?” asked his father. “They’re getting
huge.”

“No way,” said Paul.

They were silent for a moment. The filter pumps hummed. The television was on upstairs.

“You have to get rid of these piranhas,” said his father. “And I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

“How come?” said Paul.

“Because they’re
strange
,” said his father. “That’s why.”

“What’s strange about them?”

“They’re just strange. They’re strange, Paul, you can’t have them in your room like this. They—”

“Come on,” Paul said. “Please?”

His father shook his head. “You have to get rid of them,” he said. “That’s all there is to it.”

“No way,” Paul said. “Come on, Dad.”

His father leaned around the doorjamb. “Kim!” he yelled. “Come down here!”

“Come on, Dad,” Paul said one more time.

His mother came in. She looked at each of them, one at a time. “Now what?” she said. “What is it?”

“Confrontation,” said his father. “You’re better at it, Kim.”

“He’s twelve,” said Paul’s mother. “You can handle it.”

“I’m keeping my piranhas,” Paul said.

“No you’re not,” said his mother.

“Yes I am,” said Paul. “They’re not hurting anything.”

“Listen,” said his mother. “The piranhas are going. Is that understood? Just remember who paid for all those fish in the first place. I paid, I’m going to make the decisions.”

“I wanted to use my Christmas money,” Paul said. “All right, fine—I’ll get rid of them. Then I’ll buy some more with my
own
money.”

“No you won’t,” said his mother. “This is it with the tropical fish, Paul. You’ll have to find a more appropriate hobby.”

She went over and pulled the plug on the electric pumps. The bubbles stopped running through the filters.

“Leave it unplugged,” she said. “I’m serious.”

“Maybe Paul can take them back to the pet store,” said his father. “Wouldn’t that be better?”

“Paul can resolve this however he sees fit,” said his mother. “Just as long as he gets them out of here.”

There was silence then. Paul curled up on his bed. He pulled the pillow over his head, tucked his knees against his chest and swore under his breath at both of them.

“Did you hear me, Paul?” said his mother.

“Get out of here,” Paul yelled. “I mean it.”

*  *  *

Paul, in the morning, put the piranhas in the hot tub. They died immediately; he left them there.

He told Ken about it. They skipped school in memory of the dead fish. “My parents suck,” Paul said.

“So do mine,” answered Ken.

“I hate them,” said Paul. “Big time.”

“Same here,” Ken said.

They walked across the golf course together. They cut across a sand trap to the ninth green. It had begun to rain; no one was golfing.

“I just want to
kill
them,” Paul said.

“I want to kill mine, too.”

“What’s the best way?”

“Poison their food.”

“Cut them up with an ax while they’re asleep.”

“Cut the brake line in the car.”

“Shoot them in the back while they’re taking a shower.”

“We can trade,” Ken said. “Like on television. You kill mine while I kill yours.”

“I know,” said Paul. “With a
chainsaw.”

They sat on a bench. It was raining harder now. Cars went by on the road. Paul imagined how it might be to kill his parents. The thought caused him only minor remorse, because he felt certain they deserved it, somehow.