The Fish
Marooned on his bed, Jaime wished he could go outside to play, but he’d forgotten how. Rocks were rocks, and sticks weren’t snakes, and worms were gross, and he didn’t have any friends at all. He knew he would just stand around until he went back inside again.
He twisted his hands in his shirt, then his shorts. So bored.
Bored. Bored bored bored. Boring boring boring.
“Jaime.”
He jerked his hands away from himself, flushing hot. His mom was in the doorway and he didn’t know how long she had been there.
“What?” he said, looking up at her. And suddenly he was scared.
Somebody was dead. Like when his teacher died last year right at her desk ack-my-heart, or when Grammy died and he had to kiss her chemically stinky cheek, or when his baby brother died in his crib all-of-a-sudden.
“What, Mommy?” Jaime’s voice rose and broke.
She blinked. “Jesus, Jaime, relax. Gloria across the street wants to know if you can feed her fish this summer. She’s going somewhere.”
Tears juddered precariously on his lower lids, but the relief that flowed over him was cool and sweet.
“Well?” she said.
He cleared his throat. “Uh, what kind of fish?”
“She’s on the phone, Jaime.”
“Um. Is she going to pay me?”
“Two hundred dollars.”
“Whoa!”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yeah, sure!” Jaime said.
“Come up for lunch when you’re ready. You look pale.” And then she went away.
Jaime loaded up his TV tray with the lunch his mom had left on the counter and went back to his room to watch shows on Netflix. He chewed through it all and watched the shows and when his mom brought him a bowl of peanut butter ice cream with caramel Magic Shell he ate it too.
He scraped the bowl slowly and waited for Netflix to ask him if he was still watching. He wanted to sleep instead of going over to talk to Gloria. She was weird. She wore a lot of stuff on her face, and bright dresses, and she was really, really big. His dad said one time that she was eating herself into an early grave. Jaime wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded mean. He got an image of Gloria—dressed in one of the billowy dresses she called moo-moos—crouched in her backyard, bringing handfuls of dirt into her red painted mouth, digging her grave with her fingers, and swallowing it in dry gulps.
Jaime burped and tasted peanut butter and pizza flavor. Netflix asked him if he was still watching and that meant it was time to go.
“I’m going,” he called as he walked up the stairs.
“Mm-hmm,” his mom said from the living room. Did she have a smile in her voice?
He crept the rest of the way up and poked his head around the corner. No, she was just sitting on the couch with her eyes closed. Her glass of white wine had been poured all the way to the top and condensation pooled gold on the glass coffee table.
He turned and walked out into the strong afternoon light.
“Jaime!”
“Hi, Mrs. Gloria,”
She smiled, dimples popping out on her cheeks. “How cute is that! Gloria is fine. Come on in!” She waved a short hand towards a door off the foyer. “You have to meet my fish, they are very impressive.” She rolled her eyes like she was making a joke, but Jaime didn’t think she was.
He started to follow her when she gasped and pointed down at him. “No, no, no!”
Jaime stopped short and looked down. Was she pointing at his wiener? He squinched his face and tried not to blush, but it happened anyway.
“No shoes!” she sang finally. “No shoes in the house!”
Oh. Jaime got heavily to his knees and rolled backwards to sit down. He reached for his shoelaces, missed, then heaved again, catching them.
She was silent and Jaime’s face got hotter when he climbed awkwardly to his feet.
She smiled too big, that aren’t we friends, aren’t we the same smile she always gave him, and ushered him through a door. A massive fish tank set into a heavy oak cabinet dominated the center of the room.
“Check them out,” Gloria said.
He walked forward and stared into the tank. Three giant silver fish with prehistoric jaws and long, slim bodies arrowed through the water. Their bewhiskered mouths skimmed the surface.
“Three feet long,” she said. “So cool, right?”
He leaned forward and his breath fogged the glass.
“That’s five-hundred gallons of water,” she said. “You could fit in there, even.”
The fish shot through the water. Back and forth. He could see muscles flexing under smooth scales.
“Three feet long,” she repeated. She had followed him and her face was lit with the blue-green light of the tank. “That is very unusual for this breed.”
She bent down and rustled around next to him and then a fleshy knot of brown-pink earthworms plunged into the water from above. The fish twisted gracefully and slurped the worms into their cool throats. The food was gone in one breathless moment.
Those worms are still alive in their bellies, Jaime thought.
“See how they eat?” she said.
Jaime nodded.
“They are predators,” she said. “They are carnivores.” She pointed at the soft-lit cupboard under the tank and ticked off the creatures living there: “Mealworms, feeder frogs, earthworms, bloodworms, crickets.”
“Awesome,” he breathed. “Frogs, no way.”
“Frogs, yes way,” she said seriously. “I’ll show you.”
Jaime watched as little caterpillar-y mealworms, tiny red bloodworms, dry twitching crickets, and finally, a green frog with startled eyes and a gooey mouth, were swiftly gulped by the three predators in the tank.
He nodded through the rest of her directions, and accepted the stack of instructions with a silver key attached to the top. But he wasn’t listening.
He was watching the fish.
When he got home, his mom was still on the couch with her eyes closed. The wine bottle was on the coffee table now too. He ate his dinner and that night, he dreamed he was a fish. A predator. He slurped flexing earthworms down his cool throat and felt them squirm in his belly. He swam around his blue-green world, sliding his slim, silver sides against cold glass.
Jaime watched from the front lawn as Gloria packed up her car and finally left with a little wave. Within a few minutes he was standing in front of the tank, watching.
Beautiful. Jutting jaws. Strong fins. The way the water flowed around them.
He opened the cabinet under the tank and looked into the cardboard carton full of earthworms and dirt. He tapped the plastic side of the feeder frog cage.
Today he was supposed to give the fish one of the baggies of bloodworms from the little cabinet fridge. It was heavy and it squished when he poked it. He lifted it and cradled it in his arms. Almost automatically he patted it, and it reminded him of patting his brother’s diapered bottom.
He opened the bag and sniffed. It didn’t smell bad. Dark and roundly fishy. Sort of minerally too, like wet rocks. He rose on his tiptoes, stomach pushing into the glass front of the tank, and poured out half of the bag. The little red worms bloomed into the tank. The fish went into a frenzy, sucking them into their mouths and dispersing the cloud with their whipping fins.
Jamie watched in delight as they cleared the whole tank in less than a minute. He poured the rest of the bag and watched again. Silver. Flashing. Sleek.
The baggie was mostly empty, but a few tiny bloodworms curled wet against the sides. He stuck in a finger and scooped one out. It writhed gently on his finger. Its blindly seeking head nudged his skin over and over. He watched it, fascinated, and then, almost without thinking, he popped his finger into his mouth and swallowed the little red worm whole.
It didn’t taste like anything. But he thought he could feel it in there, slipping down his throat, dropping into his empty stomach.
Jaime watched the fish cruise around the tank. He licked the inside of the bag and swallowed the rest of the bloodworms down.
When he got home it was still quiet and cool, as it always was. He glanced at the stack of grilled cheese sandwiches on the kitchen counter. He read a note from his father on the fridge: Have to work. Be home late. Don’t wait up. He poured a glass of water and drank it. He thought about the little worms in his stomach, swimming around in the water.
Nothing left to do but go to his room. He could see the ocean from his window if he craned his neck a little. It was dark blue today. No whitecaps at all. He couldn’t see the beach, but he knew it would be covered with people and umbrellas.
It used to be fun to go to the beach. Two summers ago—before the little brother died all-of-a-sudden—they went every weekend. Jaime and his dad would swim and swim. You’re just like a couple of fish, his mom would say, laughing and holding her sunhat on her head with one hand.
Last summer they only went once and his mom stayed home by herself. Jaime didn’t want to take his shirt off so his dad dove into the seaweed-choked ocean to swim by himself.
Eventually, the whole world was just waves and water and clots of seaweed. His dad was gone so long that Jaime knew that he was eaten up by sharks. That he was stung and poisoned by jellyfish. That he was tangled in the brown sea ropes and pulled under, swollen and purple faced, his lungs full of dark, fishy water.
Eons later, when his dad finally broke free of the water, grinning and blowing with cold, Jaime burst into tears. His dad had patted his shoulder, thwut thwut thwut, on the sweat-soaked fabric. What’s wrong, champ, what’s wrong, son? Eventually Jaime was hustled to the car. They ate a big chicken dinner and a pink frosted cake and nobody said anything.
Now, Jaime turned away from his window and pushed his face deep into his pillow. He lay in his bed and thought of the worms in his stomach. Was it weird that he ate them? He thought it was. He fell asleep, his body spread-eagled facedown on the bed, and dreamed he was a fish. Silver silver silver.
It was dark when he woke up. His knees hurt and he could feel painful pillow lines crushed into his cheek. Confused, he checked his phone to see that it was late-late.
He walked upstairs and into the dark kitchen. The room was lit with the soft glow of inset light. It was clean. The new porcelain sink shone dull ivory white, like human teeth.
Empty.
He left the kitchen and went into the dining room. Steak, cooled and congealed, nestled in a pool of white hard fat. Waxy mashed potatoes in a bowl. Green beans. A loaf of French bread. Butter.
Jaime stood at the entrance to the dining room and looked at the table in confusion. He had a sudden urge to pee, and he cupped his hand over himself.
“Mom?” he said, but his voice came out in a high wobbling moan.
“Mommy?” he tried again.
Jaime turned slowly and walked up the stairs towards his parent’s room. He was certain, suddenly, that she was dead. He would open the door and she would be curled up, naked, in the little brother’s empty crib. She would be grey like the little brother was when he died. She would be stiff and cold and grey and dead.
He thought he could smell something bad behind the closed door. Sour, like old wine. The smell curled out from the gap at the bottom.
“What’s going on, son?” his dad’s voice said behind him
Jaime screamed and a stream of hot urine ran down his leg.
When Jaime sobbed that his mom was dead, his dad yanked the bedroom door open and ran across the room. Jaime gasped when his father pulled his hand back and slapped his mother across her slack face. She woke up, slurring and crying, gasping that she was sorry. Jaime took a step inside and his foot slipped in a puddle of thin puke. It stunk and soaked through immediately and he yanked his wet sock off with a shudder. His dad pulled his mom into his arms and she sobbed into his neck. Jaime watched silently until his dad looked over his shoulder and made a shooing motion at him.
He hid his peed-in shorts under the mattress. He put on a dry pair of pajamas. He climbed into bed. He went back to sleep.
It was full daylight when he woke up, and warm already. Birds chatted to each other and the sun spread out in a shimmering band over the ocean. With the good smells of Sunday breakfast, coffee, and car-washing soap in the air, the night before felt like a dream. When he went upstairs to the breakfast table, his mom smiled at him and kept pushing scrambled eggs around in a hot pan. Her blue dress hung on her thin shoulders, she had pink stuff on her cheeks, and her lips were bright red. Jaime didn’t like it. When Jaime’s dad came in and patted him on the shoulder, Jaime flinched.
His mom brought all the food to the table and it seemed like it wouldn’t fit: Scrambled eggs with pockets of melting cheese, French toast, maple syrup with canned oranges, bacon, sausage, English muffins, a towering stack of cinnamon toast spread with butter and white sugar.
His dad tucked into a plate of eggs and sausage. His mom took one piece of cinnamon toast and crumbled it slowly onto her plate.
Jaime looked down at his own full plate. He thought the bloodworms from yesterday might still be in his stomach. He gulped down a glass of water and stared at the food.
The table was silent and after a while he looked up to see both of his parents watching him.
“Go on and eat som—” his mom started to say.
“What are you up to this summer?” his dad interrupted.
“He’s taking care of Mrs. Mori’s fish!” his mom said.
“Not baseball? Or something athletic?”
Jaime frowned. “No,” he said.
The table was silent again and then his mom gestured at Jaime’s plate, “Eat something, Jaime,” she said, scooting two more sausages next to the others already nestled on top of the eggs.
“For God’s sake!” His dad slammed his phone down beside his plate. The corner caught on the bowl of syrup, and it wobbled precariously.
For a moment, everything was still. His mom stood up slowly and left the room. Jaime stood up too. His father was staring at his hand.
Jaime watched the fish for most of the afternoon. Before he left, he dropped handfuls of earthworms into the tank.
He swallowed one himself, and forced it past the reflex in his throat that made him want to throw it back up.
He thought he could feel it in his stomach all through dinner, so he poured down glass after glass of water to keep it alive for as long as possible.
He watched his dad eat a plate of pot roast. His mom searched through her meat for the smallest bit of fat or gristle and she scraped it away and hid it under her slice of bread. She drank from a glass of red wine, and every time she took a sip her eyes shifted to his dad. Jaime just had water. No one said anything.
For the rest of the summer, Jaime went over every day to feed the fish. He shared their meals with them and he thought they liked his company. He ate the crickets and they crunched like paper against his teeth. He swallowed the earthworms whole and he could feel them arching as they went down his throat. He bit through the hard-shelled mealworms and they exploded a gush of sour jelly on his tongue. The frogs crumpled against his teeth—full of wet snapping bones and dark veins—and went down in two swallows. He started riding his bike to the pet store every other day for food.
His mother made him breakfasts and lunches and dinners (tacos Tuesday, and lasagna on Wednesday, and chicken with gravy on Sunday) but he shunned it all. She started to eat the food on his plate in big mock bites. See? See? It’s not hard, please, eat something, you’re going to die. He turned his face away from her chewing mouth.
He was eating something. He was eating up the mealworms and the crickets and the scared little frogs. And he felt strong. He was a carnivore, like his fish. A predator. Every day, after he shared in their meal, he stood on a chair and pushed his face into the water. He opened his eyes and watched the fish slide by, thrilled by the feel of their gaping mouths and their tickling mustaches against his lips.
Jaime’s clothes went past hanging on him to simply falling off. His knees stopped hurting. His dad bought him clothes and left them in a plastic bag on his bed. His mother cried when she saw Jaime in his new jeans. You are going to die, I can see through you.
Jaime didn’t think he was going to die. He was healthy. He was getting strong too, like the fish. She took him to doctors and they took his blood and said that he was fine. They gave his mom sideways looks and asked her how she was feeling. After the last appointment his mom cried and bought a bag full of chicken sandwiches with extra mayo and curly fries. He just looked out the window while she ate everything herself. See? See? It’s not hard, just eat, dammit, eat.
By the end of August he was playing soccer with the other kids in the park. He could run and jump and climb trees. When he went to the beach, he took off his shirt and swam out into the grey-green water.
“Summer is almost over,” his mother said one evening at the dinner table. She slid a piece of pizza onto his plate and dunked her own into ranch dressing. “Eat something, will you please? You don’t want to go to school looking like a dried-up skeleton.”
“Leave him alone, Courtney. He’s looks fine.”
“He is starving himself to death,” his mother said, and Jaime could see chewed food in her mouth.
His dad left the table and went to the basement.
His mom finished her slice and then ate the pizza that was on Jaime’s plate, staring at him. “You know,” she said, “Gloria is coming back tomorrow.”
Jaime paused in the drinking of a large glass of water. He had forgotten all about Gloria. He felt a thick flush of jealousy. He got up abruptly and went to his room.
The sun had dropped far beneath the ocean and the moon hung low on the horizon—fat and orange—when Jaime climbed out of his window and ran swiftly across the street. He let himself into the house and walked in bare feet across the moonlit parlor.
He could see them in their tank, slender, like him. Flashing flashing flashing moonbeams off their sides. Jaime thought they knew he was coming. He stripped off his clothes and stood naked in front of the tank, his skin reflecting the light. He paused there and looked at his reflection in the glass. Flat stomach, thin silvery-purple stretch marks, long muscles in his thighs. He climbed up on the chair, pushed off the heavy cover, and slipped into the tank. His body displaced a great wave of water that darkened the white carpet to grey. When the waves subsided, he submerged his head, eyes open.
He could feel his body swaying with the movement of the water, and then, as it calmed, with the movement of the fish. He shuddered with joy at the feel of their bodies moving by his, at the feeling of their flesh against his flesh. He clasped a fish in his hands and it flexed—one smooth muscle—and squirted away. Ecstasy shot through him. He seized the next one, held it against his chest as it twitched and jerked against his skin. He held it there, digging in with his fingers, scales under his fingernails, blood blooming in the water.
The fish slipped away from him. It jumped, almost all the way out of the tank. He could see the crescents his nails had made in its smooth sides. He could see the scales he had ripped out floating in the water. His body buzzed with an intense thrill. He seized another fish and bit his teeth deep into the cold muscle beneath its jaw. Red blood spurted into his mouth and the pulse of life frenzied him. He tore into the ridged body, gulping, and swallowing madly.
When Mrs. Mori arrived home the next morning, Jaime watched, floating, as her red mouth stretched into a scream that he could barely hear under five hundred gallons of water. He looked at her through the glass—through shreds of muscle and translucent bone, scales and blood—with his eyes wide. He hadn’t thought quite this far ahead. She turned and ran out of the room. He surfaced for a quick breath and submerged himself again.
He thought that maybe, if he stayed under long enough, he wouldn’t have to take as many breaths. He thought that maybe, if he stayed under long enough, he could be a fish.
Bron Treanor grew up in the Northern California redwoods. Her writing is eclectic, but doesn’t stray far from horror. She currently teaches Writing Studies at American University in Washington, D.C.
