Aquarium

by David Vann

  He chuckled. Yeah. A living piece of history. I was nineteen when I joined up, so I was on the young end.

  What happened?

  Oh, you don’t want to know.

  But I can’t imagine anything.

  I was the same as I am now, a mechanic. I worked on diesel engines in tanks and trucks and even a few small boats. So imagine a mechanic but dressed like soldiers you’ve seen in the movies. None of the exciting scenes, but just a lot of mud and oil and tools and the tanks not working most of the time. War is mostly repairs and delays and always having to move again. Like the first few minutes of the movie, but repeated endlessly.

  What are you talking about? my mother asked. She had appeared suddenly with Steve.

  Oh, my grandfather said. Nothing. Caitlin was asking about when I was in the war. But there’s nothing to tell, really. Just fixing engines.

  I thought you never talked about the war. Mom always said you didn’t want to talk because you had some terrible times and were all broken about it. What happened to that? Now you talk about it to my daughter, whatever she wants to know?

  Sheri, I’m sorry. There were some bad times, but I try not to think about them, you’re right, and I wasn’t going to tell her any of that, of course.

  Well it’s time to tell. I want to hear. What were the bad moments?

  Sheri. It’s 1994. He had his arms out, indicating everything around us, an entire world. It’s a Saturday. You’re just settling in. We should go out to dinner. No one wants to hear about a war from another time.

  I do. I want everything you never gave us before.

  My grandfather had his mouth open but wasn’t saying anything. How would I know where to start? he finally asked.

  Start with what explains you. It should explain why you left. Something that happened in the war or earlier in your life that made you leave, because I have to find some way not to hate you so much. I’m giving you a chance here.

  There are no stories like that, no stories that can explain. I was a coward and I ran away. I did something unforgivable, and I know I can’t make up for it, and I’m sorry.

  That’s not enough. You’re going to search until you find something, and you’re going to tell me. Right now.

  Sheri. Please.

  You do it now or we’re gone. You give me some way to have some sympathy for you as I stand in this nice house, all lovingly redone, and think about the broken house you left us in, with its leaky roof and no heat and no insulation and nothing. Tell your sob story about the fucking war, whatever it was that my mom thought you were so broken about.

  My grandfather closed his eyes. No story ever explains. But I’ll give you what you want. I think I know the moment you want, because I made a kind of decision. There was some change. But I can’t start the story at the beginning. I’ve never been able to do that. I have to start at the end and then go back, and it doesn’t finish, because you can go back forever.

  Do it, my mother said.

  I don’t think Caitlin should hear.

  She can hear.

  Okay. You’re her mother.

  That’s right.

  So I won’t give the awful details, but I was lying in a pile of bodies. My friends. The closest friends I’ve ever had. Not piled there on purpose, but just the way it ended up because I had been working on the axle, lying on the ground. And the thing is, the war was over. It had been over for days, and we were laughing and a bit drunk, telling jokes. There was something unbearable about the fact that we’d all be going our separate ways now. The truth is that we didn’t want to leave. We wanted the war over, but we didn’t want what we had together to be over. I think we all had some sense that this was the closest we’d ever be to anyone, and that our families might feel like strangers now.

  So that’s it? You couldn’t be a father and husband because you weren’t done being a buddy?

  No. No. It’s the way it happened, in a moment that was supposed to be safe. After every moment of every day in fear for years, we were finally safe, and that’s when the slugs came and I watched my friends torn apart and landing on me, dying. That’s the point. We were supposed to be safe. And with your mother, too, I was supposed to be safe. A wife, a family. The story doesn’t make any sense unless you know every moment before it, every time we thought we were going to die, all the times we weren’t safe. You can’t just be told about that. You have to feel it, how long one night can be, and then all of them put together, hundreds of nights and then more, and there’s a kind of deal that’s made, a deal with god. You do certain terrible things, you endure things, because there’s a bargain made. And then when god says the deal’s off later, after you’ve already paid, and you see your friends ripped through, yanked like puppets on a day that was safe, and you find out your wife is going to die young, and you get to watch her dying, something that again is going to be for years, hundreds of nights more, all deals are off. Nothing is owed.

  So that’s it?

  My grandfather looked collapsed, sitting there on the couch with his head down and hands hanging. Yes, he said. I forgot that I owed you, that you were a child and should be given everything. I forgot that my wife was owed something, also, that my deals weren’t only with god, that the deals weren’t only about me. It’s a terrible thing to forget. I was selfish. And I’m sorry. I have to admit, though, I do understand why I left, and I forgive myself for leaving. I guess I didn’t realize that until right now, having to say all this, but I do forgive myself, or at least I understand why I did it, which maybe is the same thing.

  Well, my mother said. Congratulations.

  My grandfather had a grim smile, then, very strange. Yes. Congratulations. One life can never know another’s.

  We were at a chowder house, a fish restaurant, expensive. More expensive than any other restaurant I’d ever been to. My mother did that on purpose, I knew. She was burning through what would have become her own money, but still she wanted to punish him, and this was one way, to make him watch his dollars disappear.

  Have you decided? the waiter asked. I was still panicking over the menu. There was nothing inexpensive. It wasn’t like other menus. The types of fish were listed at the top, and then you could pick how it would be prepared, and pick side dishes and combinations. The menu was like a math problem, and all the numbers too high.

  I’ll have the king crab, my mother said. And the moonfish.

  The moonfish is amazing, the waiter said. An excellent choice. It’s very rare that we have it on the menu, flown in fresh from Hawaii. And it should be only lightly seared, very lightly. It has such a delicate, buttery flavor, and that’s gone if you sear it a moment longer.

  How much does that cost? Steve asked.

  It’s sixty-five dollars for the moonfish, and really the best choice we have on the menu tonight.

  Sheri, Steve said.

  He’ll have the moonfish also, my mother said, pointing to Steve. My father is treating tonight.

  Excellent, the waiter said.

  I’ll have the moonfish also, my grandfather said.

  Did you know he’s a war hero? my mother asked, raising her voice, so that others would hear, pointing to my grandfather. World War II. He watched his buddies die.

  I’m sorry, sir, the waiter said quietly, and thank you for your service.

  He also abandoned his dying wife. My mother still speaking in this loud voice, people looking at us. I was fourteen and got to take care of her and watch her die. Maybe not so heroic, that part. But I think we have to forgive our heroes anything, because they watched their buddies die. What do you think?

  The waiter wore a small smile that was a wince. He said nothing, and for what seemed like a long time, our small side-room of the restaurant and its half-dozen tables were silent.

  I’m sorry, my grandfather said. I deserve all that.

  Then it was quiet
again. I thought Steve would say something, defend my grandfather, but he didn’t. If he had, I think he would have lost my mother right then.

  My grandfather handed his menu to the waiter, then Steve did the same, and my mother, and the tables around us began talking quietly again.

  And for you? the waiter asked me. His voice was barely more than a whisper, and I felt sorry for him.

  I can’t eat fish, I said. I love them too much.

  Oh, he said, and then my grandfather said, I’m so sorry, Caitlin. I forgot. Do you have anything on the menu that’s not fish?

  We do have a burger, and also a simple pasta marinara.

  Pasta, please, I said, and my grandfather said, Me too, instead of the fish.

  My mother folded her arms and looked down at her napkin. I’m sorry, she said when the waiter had left. That was too much. I came here to punish you, and apparently to punish Caitlin, also, without even realizing it. But that’s not me. I don’t want to be mean like that.

  Steve put his arm around her, and she leaned onto his shoulder. She was starting to cry, but careful not to make any sound. I was afraid to move, afraid to say anything, and I think my grandfather was too. So we just sat there and waited until she wiped at her eyes and sat up straight again.

  What do you think you’ll study? my grandfather asked, maybe just to break the silence. But it was good that he was the one to speak.

  Oh, my mother said. I have to do my GED first. I can probably take a course to study for that. Then maybe a community college for the first two years, something easy to get into, and I’d like to work hard and move on to something better for the last two years. But I don’t know what subject yet.

  We can do our homework together, I said.

  My mother smiled. Yeah. That’ll be fun, sweet pea. But your old mother is out of practice, so you’ll have to encourage her. Right now, I can’t really imagine doing homework.

  We hadn’t touched the bread, but Steve passed it around now and poured a bit of olive oil onto each of our small plates.

  A dense white bread better than any I’d had before, and oil that was green and not at all like what we had at home. I love this oil, I said.

  Our little gourmand, Steve said.

  I just thought I might be a chef, my mother said. But then I realized they have late nights. And doctors go through endless residencies and night shifts. And lawyers have ridiculous hours also and have to fight every day. And business school leads to the biggest shark tank. Are there any jobs that don’t involve giving up your life?

  My hours are all right, Steve said. You can make choices. I went for less money and more free time.

  The key is to escape doing labor for hourly pay, my grandfather said. I never escaped that, and I’m sorry you were stuck there, too, for so many years. Any sacrifice you make to escape is worth it, I think. How many tens of thousands of hours was I reminded of exactly what I was, standing over an engine, working with my hands. The problem was that my thoughts didn’t count, and who I was didn’t count, and there was no shape to any of the work. Just an endless series of engines that someone else could have fixed. It was like not being there but having to be there anyway, and that feeling from work infected the rest of my life, even though I like working on engines. It was the fact of not being free and not mattering. So I hope you’ll do something that doesn’t make you disappear.

  Thank you, my mother said quietly. That does help. That’s how it was for me too. I was there but not there.

  Well you won’t be going back Monday morning, Steve said. That’s pretty cool.

  Yeah, my mother said, but she looked overwhelmed and tired. Slumped down in her chair.

  The king crab arrived then. Enormous legs white and red on a long platter, and my mother sat up.

  That’s a big one, Steve said.

  And here’s some melted butter, the waiter said, setting down a small steel cup. Enjoy. And then he was gone, out of there quickly.

  We can share this, my mother said.

  I can’t, I said.

  It’s not a fish.

  I know. But they’re in the aquarium. I don’t love them in the same way, but still I think of those legs moving, reaching up toward the glass.

  Okay, my mother said. Please don’t say anything more. I want to enjoy. I don’t want to imagine my food moving. My mother had a bit of a smile when she said it, though, and it felt like the weight was off us. Steve grinned and grabbed a leg and snapped it.

  You can use the olive oil instead of butter, he said. Healthier, and I think it actually tastes a lot better. He poured oil onto his bread plate and my mother nodded and he poured onto hers, also, and they dipped long sections of white meat edged in red. Meat made of small strands all radiating from the center, as if the crab had been born in a burst of light, a small sudden explosion on the ocean floor, unnoticed. That’s what I saw then, darkness and cold at depth and each crab winking into existence. They seemed as alien as that, not born of this world.

  We all went to bed early that night. I think we were avoiding the possibility of another argument. The house quiet. My grandfather just on the other side of my bedroom wall, so close. Our heads maybe two feet apart as we slept, and I wondered whether he had done this on purpose.

  My mother and Steve behind the other wall. I was in the middle, safe. I wished we could be like nurse sharks or clown loaches, just piled up together in the corner of one room, sleeping on top of each other, suspended in the one element, no separation of air, but at least we were all here under one roof and rooms touching. Only Shalini was missing.

  It felt very strange to sleep in a new home. Eyes closed, snuggled under the enormous comforter, the bed so much softer than any I’d experienced before, something I could sink into, but I was trying to feel the outlines of the house, trying to reach into every corner to make it familiar. Like sonar in dolphins, closing their eyes and feeling their way through darkness, knowing shape and void. Was it a sense like touch or like sight?

  And sharks, able to sense electromagnetic fields. Brains tiny and prehistoric, without feeling or memory or thought but somehow knowing the electrical weight of every living thing, even the faint movement of a fish’s gills or the beating of its small, simple heart. I wanted to know this, too, to have the darkness light up with every movement and breath. I could understand it only as a kind of vision. Impossible to imagine the contact of a new sense.

  I wanted to live submerged. The problem was air, too thin and cold, all contact lost. Shalini seemed forever away, unreachable, and even my mother and grandfather. The room would become solid again, walls something that could not be reached through, everything hidden, and I’d open my eyes and see only faint outlines of all that enclosed.

  I finally slept, somehow, and when I awoke it was to the smell of bacon. My room cold and comforter soft and warm, and this was perfect, to hide away, smelling breakfast.

  I waited until my mother knocked at my door, softly, and then opened it and peered in. Morning, sweet pea, she said. Steve made pancakes.

  Mm, I said.

  My mother came in and sat beside me on the bed, brushed the hair back from my face. How do you like your new home? she asked.

  I love it.

  Me too. It’s different to live in a nice place, to look up at the dark wood beams in the ceiling. To not have everything cheap. I can’t explain it, but I feel different inside, as if a nice floor and this furniture can change what I’m worth, the core of me. I know it shouldn’t be like that, but I feel it anyway. A kind of warmth, or relaxing, like it’s easier to breathe.

  My mother no longer so hard, so mean. I wanted her always to be like this, softened and happier, but I knew her anger could come back at any moment, without warning.

  Plates are on the table, Steve called out.

  My mother gave me a pat on the leg. Time to get up, sleepyhead. You can just
wear your pajamas and slippers.

  My stomach was growling, so I was up fairly quick. It was much warmer in the main room. Steve and my grandfather and mother all sitting at the table, already started eating. I had to pee, and I loved the bathroom with its old toilet that had a water tank up high and a chain to pull with a white porcelain handle. Wood floor in here too, no disgusting carpet anywhere, and a claw-foot tub. It was a big bathroom, which was why my grandfather’s bedroom was so small. A fancy mirror and slats of wood halfway up the walls.

  I pulled the handle and washed my hands and looked at myself in the mirror, hair sticking up on one side from my pillow. Eyes sleepy, but I looked happy. Pale skin that seemed very thin. If I were a fish, I’d be something for a cave, pale and big-eyed and not used to light. Bones showing through. I puffed my mouth, tried to imagine gills. The sides of my jaw almost the right shape. My hair sticking up could almost be a dorsal fin, a bit lopsided. But my stomach was growling, so I needed to move out of this cave to feed.

  My plate was already piled with pancakes and strawberries and bacon. Yay, I said.

  Steve smiled. He liked to have his food appreciated.

  This is a big step up from my usual cereal, my grandfather said.

  There was a knock then, and I knew it was Shalini. I screamed and ran to the door and could hear her scream even before I opened it. We collided in a hug and jumped up and down.

  I’m sorry, her mother was saying. You’re having breakfast. We’re too early. I told Shalini, but she demanded to come.

  My mother was laughing, though. Caitlin didn’t even tell us. This was arranged on the sneak.

  No, Shalini’s mother said. I’m so sorry. I’ll take her back home.

  It’s fine, my mother said. It’s funny.

  Shalini and I were hugging, and I felt a flush of heat, and I knew we had to not do this in front of everyone, so I grabbed her hand and pulled her toward my bedroom. You have to see, I yelled. It’s the most beautiful house, and the best bedroom.

  I pulled her in and slammed the door shut and then we were kissing. Her soft purplish lips, so delicious. I kept looking at them and then kissing and then looking again, wanting her mouth, and she was laughing. Her eyes the darkest eyes and brightest at the same time, gold somehow in a deep dark chocolate brown.