Deep, Deep Ocean

by Carter Bowman

  I could still not entirely accept relief as I watched the pillows of foam build around me. Not having managed to shake off the weight of the night, I was having trouble bringing the stream of warm water into focus. My mind was trying to fill the gaps of the evening, replacing one shadow with another until the whole ordeal was a mess of memory.

  “I’m ready,” I called out once the water covered my legs. I could already feel my fingertips pruning beneath the surface.

  My father came into the bathroom, sleeves rolled past his elbows. His tie was tucked beneath the top button of his shirt. I would never understand why being a grown-up meant having to wear a tie to work. They only got in the way, falling into soups and onto wet bathroom countertops. I remembered having to wear a tie to Aunt Susie’s wedding. I had been allowed to choose whichever one I wanted from the children’s section of TJ Maxx, and had settled on a red and blue piece that was almost the same color as Spiderman’s costume. I had not looked like Spiderman though — I looked like an eight-year-old who could not eat pasta without getting pesto all over his new tie.

  The inspiration for the Spiderman tie had come from the secret knowledge behind the real reason my father wore red and gold to work. I knew that these were his favorites because, like me, he wanted to be Iron Man. Tony Stark was the leader of The Avengers, and the hero who always had something clever to say before climbing into his super suit and blasting away the bad guy. I knew that my father wore Iron Man’s colors because he loved superheroes as much as I did. I picked out red and gold ties for him every year at Christmas, and every year he wore them happily.

  “Iron Man is the best hero because he did the best with what he had,” my father told me one morning, pouring water over my hair, a nutty brown the same color as his own. “Other heroes are handed their powers — Thor, Captain America, the Hulk…”

  “Captain America is boring,” I had said. “All he has is a shield. Nobody wants a shield.”

  That had made my father laugh. He played with my hair, sculpting a mohawk like a shark fin.

  “Exactly. When you don’t make choices for yourself, you usually end up being pretty boring. Iron Man doesn’t have any powers, unless you count being clever.”

  “Being smart isn’t a superpower,” I had responded, dunking my Aqua Battle Batman action figure beneath the water.

  “He used his brain to make those suits, and because he has the suits, he can protect people. Being intelligent doesn’t make him a hero — Iron Man is a superhero because he uses his cleverness to do the right thing even when it seems impossible.”

  I hadn’t known what my father meant by this at the time. I only knew that Iron Man was the best because everyone looked to him when the explosions started.

  This morning, the tie tucked into my father’s shirt was not red and gold. The striped pattern of blue and white poking from his button up were Captain America’s colors.

  “You’re not wearing your red tie today,” I said as my father got on his knees beside the tub.

  My father looked down at his tie, not understanding the question. “No, I guess not.”

  Without further comment, he took the large cup from the bathroom counter and dunked it beneath the foam. Warm suds fell over my head, pushing hair in front of my eyes.

  “They’re coming out with a Justice League movie,” I said. “It’s going to have Aquaman and Cyborg and everyone else who’s been in movies.”

  “That movie is going to be a little violent for you, Silas,” said my father. He poured another cup of water over my head. He did not make a mohawk out of my hair.

  “You let me see The Avengers,” I said. The two of us had snuck off to the movie without telling Mom earlier in the summer. The action had been unlike anything I’d ever seen, and even though I hadn’t been able to fall asleep until past four in the morning, it had been worth every second.

  “And I got in a lot of trouble for that,” said my father. Another cup of water fell over my head.

  “What’s so special about Aquaman anyways?” I asked. If I could get Dad talking about one of his many stories from the comics he read as a kid, he might get excited enough to take me when the movie came out. I didn’t know he had gotten in trouble for taking me to see The Avengers. It never occurred to me that grown-ups could get in trouble.

  “He swims in the water and can talk to fish,” my father responded.

  I had to wait until the water dripped from my face and lips before I could speak. If I tried to talk I would get a mouthful of bitter soap.

  “That sounds like a pretty cool power,” I said. “Do you think he can talk to anglerfish?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, he should be able to talk to all fish. But what about fish that aren’t actually fish?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Like the whale? It swims around, but did you know it’s not even a fish? What about dolphins? They aren’t fish either.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can the fish talk back? I know octopuses are supposed to be really smart. Are they smarter than the rest of the fish? Will that be in the movie?”

  “Silas!” My father stopped pouring water over my head. He put one hand on the bridge between his eyes and squeezed.

  “I’m sorry,” I stammered. I wasn’t sure what I was sorry for, but I knew that when grown-ups looked like they had a headache it was usually because I was being a bother.

  “It’s fine,” said my father. He did not look fine. He picked up the cup, stirring it beneath the water. Aqua Battle Batman hid at the bottom of the tub near my ankle.

  “Don’t you think you’re getting a little old for superheroes?” asked my father. A few drops of water had splashed onto his white shirt. The stain was still white — it was just water after all. But it was darker. A darker white. Was that possible?

  But you love superheroes, and you’re a grown-up, I thought.

  “Maybe,” I said.

  “I just think it’s time to look at things your own age,” said my father. “It’s Fall. Now’s a good opportunity to pick a sport. Soccer or football, maybe? You’re tall enough to play either.”

  I did not want to play soccer or football. Despite being the second tallest in class, I wasn’t fast like Trevor or able to jump and touch the backboard like Alex.

  Some kids were really into gym class — becoming worked up enough shout and yell when the referee called them out in dodgeball. I even saw Jackie get hit by the ball once but refuse to sit even when the other kids yelled at her. Ms. Patterson, the gym teacher, didn’t blow her whistle, so Jackie had kept playing. I never really cared if our team won or lost. Getting hit by a dodgeball seemed like luck, and since I could never hit anyone myself, I lost interest quickly. Kickball was even worse. I would stand in the outfield, my legs never seeming to reach the ball fast enough when it came my way. The ball would go bouncing away on the green lawn and the other kids would call out my name like I had disappointed them all personally.

  I said, “I don’t want to play sports.”

  “It’s normal for boys your age to pick a sport about now,” said my father.

  “It’s not normal for me.”

  “You can’t be a superhero. You’re about to start the fourth grade; it’s time to start thinking a little more like a grown-up.”

  I wondered if that was how my father had become a roof salesman. He had looked at the list of things he could be, and seeing that Iron Man wasn’t on the list, settled for giving people roofs instead. It was hard to tell him what direction I wanted to go instead because I had not been shown this list yet. I liked reading, and looking at fish in my books, but those weren’t jobs. Jobs were things parents put on a tie for so their families could go to Peanut Park. I wasn’t sure how playing football would prepare me for a job selling roofs.

  My father finished washing my hair with the big cup, setting it back on the bathroom counter. My hair had gone limp, bunched in spikes against my head from the water.

>   “I’ll let you towel off and get dressed.”

  My father left me alone in the bathroom as the last bubbles fizzled away. For the first time, I hated not having any clothes on in the bathtub. I’d never noticed it before. Being naked was a natural part of taking a bath — but it didn’t feel right in the cooling water with too few bubbles to hide beneath. Maybe I would wash my own hair from now on.

  Climbing out of the bath, I wiped the towel back and forth around my body, trying to create some warmth against the chilly air. Mom had stopped laying outfits on my bed when she had come back from the hospital, so I was responsible for dressing myself now. It wasn’t something we’d ever talked about, but I’d managed to reach the point where she rarely told me to go back upstairs and try again now.

  I crept downstairs a few minutes later, not feeling prepared to see my family yet. Their voices were coming from the kitchen, so I settled myself in the living room where only their voices could reach me.

  “It’s the beginning of the month, why is Anthony making you stay late?”

  The voice belonged to my mother.

  “He says we need a big push this month, and this is the best way. There’s a lot of clients that call for evening meetings.”

  “People that call in even though your numbers haven’t gone up,” said my mother. Her voice sounded frustrated, angry. I wondered if Anthony knew Mom didn’t care for him, commenting that his hair was too greasy and his wife wore too much makeup when his name was mentioned at dinner.

  “Times are tougher,” said my father. There was some note in his voice that rang the same way as when he told me that superheroes were for kids.

  “Well, it’s awfully convenient that Anthony suddenly needs all this extra work the moment he came home.”

  “I’m not having more ridiculous conversations,” said my father’s voice. His tone had risen in pitch and volume to match my mother’s now. Her’s was scarier though. Her’s meant punishments and long, painful silences until she had finished stewing.

  “Fine. Go. Just go to work and come home whenever you feel like it. It’s not like you’re doing a whole lot around here anyways.”

  With that, my father stormed past the living room and out of the house. As he passed, his blue and white tie flapped with each pounding step. The door crashed against the old house as he left, the car engine starting up a moment later. I was old enough to know that people didn’t get along all the time even when they loved each other, but this was something I hadn’t heard before.

  A sniff came from the kitchen.

  I looked out the window at the still-summer morning. Dad had already vanished down the same bend that took him out of the neighborhood and into the part of his life I never saw. He would be back, of course, but it felt like some part of him was different — like the part of my Dad that made him mine had left even before stomping out of the house.

  A single cloud passed across the sun, dimming my home. It wasn’t enough for rain, but the thought brought to mind that mysterious water for a second time. The puddles, and the shadow above my father’s bed last night. The monster in my house did not seem to have sucked his blood, but it had taken something else. I was still scrambling for the missing pieces of the puzzle, but the creature in my house was moving, it was stealing, and I wanted it gone.

  Chapter Three

  There was a monster in my house, hiding in some out-of-the-way nook. My parents locked the doors each night, meaning that, aside from my father leaving in a rush this morning, no one, and nothing, had gotten in or out of the house. The idea of a monster lurking in the walls, or nestled beneath some loose floorboard did not make me as afraid as I thought it ought to. I knew how this was supposed to work after all — I was the main character and the bad guy was a monster who had to be found and beaten up. How I was going to beat up the monster was still vague, but I would solve that problem when I needed to. The hero always figured out a way when the time came — that’s what made them heroes.

  I couldn’t tell Mom. She wouldn’t believe me if I told her there was something in the house making Dad act mean. Grown-ups, especially parents, were good at coming up with ideas but bad at listening to them. This did, however, leave the problem of hunting a monster without her noticing. I walked into the kitchen, ready to ponder this conundrum over breakfast.

  My mother did not say anything as I entered the room. She was trying to force Christopher into a pair of red pajamas. His eyes were awake, but his limp body refused all her efforts.

  Taking the bowl of shredded wheat from the cabinet, I repeated the same pattern of making cereal I had completed only a few hours ago. The process was putting me in an introverted mood, my thoughts thrown back and forth between the two meals. Neither my mother nor I made any effort to start a conversation. The first time her cell phone on the kitchen table buzzed, she ignored it. The second time it buzzed, she examined the phone’s screen, but put it back down without responding.

  “Hey, Mom?”

  “Yes, sweetie,” she responded, automatically.

  “Where do we keep the things from Maggie’s aquarium?”

  My mother’s face scrunched the same way my father’s had.

  “It’s for a game,” I said, evading any suspicion.

  “I don’t know, Silas. It’s all probably in the garage. Why do you need it?”

  “It’s for hero stuff,” I responded. Inside I was glad I did not have to lie entirely.

  My mother turned her attention back to Christopher. “Well don’t go messing things up looking for it. That garage is already a nightmare.”

  “No problem,” I said, jumping from the kitchen table chair and dumping my used bowl on top of the previous one before bolting to the garage.

  Eating breakfast — watching the cereal vanish and reappear in the milk—had given me an idea. The monster must be some kind of fish, some sea creature from the deep reaches of the ocean — deeper even than the last chapter of my book. Not only had its skin been that same ghastly shade as those eerie creatures, but it had left the drippings of its watery habitat behind it.

  That’s why it’s leaving water everywhere. We lived close enough to the beach that it had become lost and was forced to hunt on land.

  I rummaged through the garage, turning over flower pots and limp bicycle tires as I searched for the remains of Maggie’s fish tank. Two springs ago, Maggie had won a goldfish at the elementary school fair after landing two rings on open glass bottles of soda. Not wanting to lose her new pet, she had begged Mom and Dad for a proper tank to take care of her prize. They had bought the bowl, chemicals, and even a fake rock tunnel for the goldfish to swim in and out of. That little fish swam through the tunnel for three months before Maggie came home from school to find it floating at the top of the bowl. No tears were shed, but Maggie had refused a new fish when Dad offered to take her to the store. The fishbowl had remained empty in her room until it began growing green algae around the rim. Mom made her dump the water and clean the bowl out, and the home for her dead fish had been left in the garage ever since.

  Dad had asked me if I would like to have a fish of my own once the time of mourning for Maggie’s goldfish was over. I had liked the idea at first — owning a piece of the ocean that could live in my bedroom. Then I thought of the lifeless eyes on the surface of the water, the muscus-like film already growing over its dead body. I had refused.

  I found the bowl, still filled with sparkling rocks, beneath my scuffed skateboard. Tucked inside the bowl were all manner of chemicals nestled beside a small orange tin. I pulled the tin from the bowl, examining the label in the weak light of the garage. Above a goldfish looking back at me were the words “tropical fish flakes.” I wasn’t sure if a monster from the seas of New Jersey could be considered tropical, but I was sure that, like people, fish probably enjoyed food from all over the world.

  Putting the tin of fish food in my pocket, I returned the aquarium to its home on the bottom of the garage pile. Above me, a board had been r
emoved from the garage roof that looked into the attic. I wondered if the monster was watching me at this moment, hiding in the rafters. I put my hands in my pockets and began whistling, a talent I had picked up only last year and was rather proud of. If the monster was watching me, I wanted it to think I was only absently looking for some way to spend the day. I carried the skateboard with me back into the house, the perfect misdirection.

  “You’d better not be planning to ride that indoors,” said my mother when I returned from the garage.

  “Nope,” I responded, honestly. I couldn’t explain that the skateboard was just a decoy, the real objective of my trip concealed in my pocket. “It’s just for the game I’m playing.”

  “Well, why don’t you go and play it outside?” said my mother.

  This did not work with my hunting plans. The monster was inside the house, and trying to lure it outside would only be giving up my already shaky advantage.

  “I’ll be quiet,” I said. It was an easy promise to keep.

  Luckily, Mom was too concerned with Christopher’s sudden meltdown to make things any more difficult for me, so I slipped out of the room and back upstairs, hunting tools in tow.

  The puddle at the top of the steps had all but evaporated overnight. Though the wood was still damp, the thick water had shrunk to the size of the piece of cardboard adults put under their drinks at restaurants.

  I checked along the hallway, even poking my head into my parents’ bedroom, searching for another puddle, any sign that the monster had been in the house. Settling on the idea it was the only clue the monster had left behind, I returned to the top of the steps and removed the tin from the pocket of my shorts.