by Lori Weber
At ten o’clock, I wait for the heavy sound of Mrs. Dwight lumbering down the hall to the fish room. But she doesn’t come. By ten-fifteen I think something must be wrong. Maybe Annie fell, and Mrs. Dwight is waiting for me to haul her up.
Suddenly, Darren gallops down the hallway. “Alby, Alby, my mom, my mom!” he calls.
I drop the soapy rag and run after him. There on the balcony lies Mrs. Dwight, stuck between the chair and brick wall. She looks like one of those beached whales on a tv nature show, all flopped on her side and helpless.
I run up to her and fan her face with my hand. I can tell she’s alive because her chest is rising and falling. I loosen the neck of her t-shirt, which seems to be choking her. It is then that I see the string. It will strangle her if it gets any tighter, so I tug on it lightly, not wanting to awaken her. When she doesn’t seem to notice, I continue to pull until the key emerges from her cleavage. I lift the string gently over her face, loop it over the top of her head and let it slide against her damp hair until the silver key is nestling in my palm.
Then I run back inside and dial 9-1-1.
I don’t know what else to do, so I sit on the ripped plastic chair and continue to fan her from time to time. Annie doesn’t notice that her mother is gone. She continues her baby play, throwing around cheap plastic toys. Darren and the twins are standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning on their bikes as though they can’t decide what their next move should be.
When the ambulance finally arrives, two technicians begin to work on Mrs. Dwight. With impressive strength, they pick up her legs and arms and pull her out of the sun into the cool hall. Darren and the twins come up onto the balcony and huddle at the doorway, watching as their mother begins to revive. A technician helps her raise herself into a sitting position.
“Oh my,” Mrs. Dwight says. “One minute I was watching the baby and the next thing I knew the lights went out.”
The lights went out long before that, I think to myself. I want to expose her lie about watching Annie, but then she faints again. This time her head hits the hardwood floor with a great bang.
The three kids run to their mother, crying, “Mama, Mama.”
“You’d better take these kids inside,” one of the technicians says. “We’ll need to take her in for a check-up. Could just be heat, but you never know.”
I watch as they heave Mrs. Dwight’s heavy body onto a stretcher, then load her into the ambulance. As he’s closing the door, the other technician tells me to call her husband, and I nod to let him know that I will.
Then the ambulance drives off and I’m left alone, the entire Dwight clan, including Mr. Dwight, in my charge.
Just as the ambulance rounds the corner, my mother turns onto the street, returning from her varicose vein appointment. It seems so long ago that she asked me to go with her. She’s walking slowly, the way she always does after her shots. I don’t want her to know that I’m alone. I don’t want her to think she has to help me. The thought of my mother in Mrs. Dwight’s house gives me the shivers, so I settle onto Mrs. Dwight’s plastic chair, and try my best to look casual. She looks over, just as I knew she would, when she’s directly across from me. She waves slowly and I wave back, smiling as though everything is all right. Then she climbs the six stairs to our flat, holding the railing like a very old lady.
Alone, I corral the kids into the living room. They’re a bit stunned by what just happened, even Annie. Darren switches on the tv, an old one that’s thick as a car and sitting on a stand that has only three legs. The fourth leg has been replaced by old telephone books, the kind no one uses anymore, but it still isn’t level and the picture of Big Bird dancing with Elmo is crooked. The three children pile onto the sofa and I squeeze Annie in between them.
“Watch her,” I say, turning for the kitchen, my eyes on the lock to the secret room. My full view of Mr. Dwight’s fish is just minutes away. But first, I have to call him. I take down the fridge magnet from his company and stare at the number for a few seconds, trying to decide what I’ll say. I dial the number, hating the feel of my finger on the greasy buttons of the Dwights’ telephone. A woman with a high-pitched voice answers, “Fortune Fences, bonjour, hello,” and I quickly ask for Mr. Dwight.
“Who shall I say is calling?” the woman asks.
“It’s Alberta. His wife’s babysitter.”
A few minutes later, Mr. Dwight comes on the line. His voice is deep and cheerful.
“Y’ello,” he says.
“Mr. Dwight? This is Alberta. I’m over at your house, and, well, there’s been an accident. Not an accident really, but Mrs. Dwight just went to the hospital in an ambulance. She kind of fainted on the balcony and they took her away. The kids are all here with me, but the ambulance guy said I should call you. I hope you don’t mind.” I blurt everything out quickly. Talking to him makes my knees shake.
“Oh, I see,” he says, not sounding too surprised. “Well, I’ll be there as soon as I can then. Thank you.” He hangs up, leaving me standing with my heart thumping so loud I’m sure it can be heard all the way through the phone wires at Fortune Fences.
I know I have to work fast. Chaos is threatening to break loose down the hall. I can hear Annie whimpering, the twins fighting, and Darren trying his best to quiet them all by shouting, “Shut up!” every few seconds, which revs them up even more. Those kids aren’t used to boundaries. When they play outside they’re like tum-bleweeds in the desert, rolling carelessly along, light and airy. Even on swings they keep wanting to go higher and higher, like they’ve never had anyone tell them it’s dangerous.
Then I remember that I put some orange juice into popsicle trays in the freezer yesterday. I bring the treats down the hall and give one to each child. The popsicles fit into their mouths like plugs, quieting them. I tell them to be careful not to let the juice drip onto the sofa, even though it’s already covered in grime.
I run to the back room, insert the key in the lock and turn it, taking a deep breath. As the lock slides out of the bracket, my heart races. Then I open the door and step inside. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim. When they do, I discover that fish tanks are sitting on shelves that cover every wall. I open the blind a few inches to let in the sun, lighting up the room. All around me, fish are alive with motion, little bulbs of orange, pink, blue, silver, and yellow, some as small as my pinky, others big as my hand. Some are solid colors, others striped or speckled. They quiver constantly, their fins billowing and vibrating.
I walk around in a daze, staring into each tank. The fish’s marble-eyes stare back from the sides of their faces, as if the fish know I’m intruding. They swim in and out of red-haired mermaids, gold treasure chests, sunken ships, and seaweed. In some tanks, tiny structures made of plastic-coated fencing are anchored in the pink and white pebbles. The fish swim elegantly in and out of the holes, as if they’re weaving trails of invisible thread.
I recognize the wire — it’s the same material that sits in bundles in the Dwights’ backyard. Mr. Dwight must have sculpted these playgrounds for his pets. I can see him bent over the kitchen table, twisting bits of wire fencing into interesting shapes with his strong hands, working on each one as though it were a piece of art. He would have taken his time to think about each fish and what kind of playground it needed to make it happy. He must have done it when everyone else was asleep. That was the only time he’d have gotten any peace and quiet around here. I picture myself beside him, watching him work, passing him pliers or wire cutters. We’d work right through the night, getting so into it that time would actually slow down, until the sun came up. Then we’d laugh about how we’d never even noticed the time.
There is no way Mr. Dwight could share his feelings about these fish with his wife. Someone like her, with her stained clothes and bird’s nest hair, couldn’t appreciate anything this beautiful. The kids’ room is still a mess of clothes and boxes. If not for me, they’d be eating on dirty plates with dirty cutlery. The other day I scrubbed the tiles
in the shower with bleach, removing mold and uncovering their pattern of roses.
The longer I stare at the fish, the more alive I feel, as if they’re charging me with electricity. They must have the same effect on Mr. Dwight. If they don’t, he wouldn’t take care of them the way he did, even building them playgrounds.
If only I could find a way to show him how much I like his fish. He’d be so happy to finally meet someone who appreciates them as much as he does. He’d put his arms around me and pull me close, surrounding me like a strong steel fence. I’d have no choice but to lean against him, feeling the beat of his heart. Then he’d bend down to kiss me.
I picture the kiss for a long time, so long that I start to get a warm feeling all over my body, like heat is travelling up my legs. When I imagine his hand brushing back the hair that falls on my face, my whole body shivers, like the fish.
The front door slams shut, startling me out of my daydream. It takes me a few seconds to move, then I run to the window and yank the blind back down. I leave the room and shut the lock, stowing Mrs. Dwight’s key in my pocket. I wasn’t expecting Mr. Dwight home so soon. I meant to clean the place up a bit, to show him what it could look like if someone just put in a little effort.
I can hear him with his children. They’re talking over each other, trying to give him details of what happened. Thank god the living room is so far away down the dim hall. I’m sure he didn’t see me. When I enter the room, all the talking stops. The kids and Mr. Dwight look up at me as though I’m an intruder.
“Oh, hello, Alberta,” Mr. Dwight says. “Thanks a lot for looking after the kids. You can go now if you want to.”
“Oh, that’s okay. It’s no trouble. I was just going to make some Kraft Dinner for lunch. I thought you’d want to go to the hospital.”
“Oh, well, that would be great. Thanks. I’ll call first, just to check.”
I take all four children to the bathroom while Mr. Dwight phones the hospital to find out about Mrs. Dwight. I try to eavesdrop over the sound of running, splashing water and the kids fighting to be next to grab one of the many soap scraps that rim the sink. A sudden vision of my mother’s own neat array of rose-shaped bathroom soap sitting in a cut-glass holder comes to mind. It wouldn’t survive a minute with this crowd.
I don’t know if I should ask about Mrs. Dwight. I figure it would be best not to, if Mr. Dwight wants to tell me he can. Besides, I don’t want to hear her name just now.
“Okay kids. The noodles are on,” Mr. Dwight says, placing a pot of water on the stove. The kids all shout “hooray!” Mr. Dwight lifts the twins, one under each arm, and airplane-rides them into their chairs. Darren dive-bombs into his. I’m still holding Annie.
“Who wants milk, juice?” he asks. Hands shoot up. Mr. Dwight pours each child a drink.
“I can finish the macaroni and cheese,” I say. I balance Annie on my hip, the way I’ve seen tv moms do, and pour the noodles into the boiling water.
Mr. Dwight gently nudges me aside, his hand on my shoulder. “I’ll take over. Don’t want Annie-Banany getting burned, do we?” The way he says “we” makes me want to burst.
I settle Annie into her high chair, then help Mr. Dwight at the stove. He scoops and I serve. Finally, we each take a bowl for ourselves.
“Well, bon appétit, everyone,” Mr. Dwight says. The kids are already digging in, half-starved. They don’t seem to find it strange that their father is the one feeding them, which makes me wonder if they’re used to eating this way, with him in charge. For all I know, he does supper every night, while Mrs. Dwight vanishes to lie down somewhere. I wouldn’t put it past her.
It’s hard to eat in front of Mr. Dwight. My fork feels heavy, like it has to travel really far to reach my mouth. Between bites I look up at him. His blue eyes are so light, they remind me of the fish, with their slightly transparent bodies.
He doesn’t look worried. I know what worry looks like from my parents. When they worry, the skin above their eyebrows creases. For all I know, Mr. Dwight is relieved that his wife isn’t here. Maybe her insane laugh and dirty clothes get on his nerves too. In fact, this is probably the calmest meal he’s ever eaten.
Whenever he catches my eyes, he smiles in a way that makes my stomach flip.
“Well, kids,” he says at the end of the meal. “I don’t want you to worry about your mama. She’s fine. I called the hospital. She’s just really tired. You know how that happens sometimes. She’s having a good sleep, getting all rested up so she can come back and take care of you again. I’ll go up and see her later, after she’s had more rest. Okay?”
Darren and the twins nod their heads vigorously.
After lunch, we scoot the children back down the hall. Mr. Dwight tells them to watch tv. “You’re not allowed out. Not without your mama to watch you,” he says. I feel a jab when he says that, it’s so ridiculous.
Annie is tired. I lay her down in her crib and she falls fast asleep.
“Let me help clean up, Alberta,” Mr. Dwight says.
“Oh, you don’t have to. I can do it.”
“Oh, I’m sure you can, but I’d like to help.”
Mr. Dwight scrapes the plates over the garbage while I fill the sink with soapy water. Every time he reaches over me to set a dish in the water, his arm brushes my shoulder. Then he picks up a dish towel and begins to dry. It all seems so normal, like this is our house and our family.
When he’s dried the last dish, Mr. Dwight says, “Do you know if Angela fed my fish today? I know she usually sneaks down the hall to do it when the kids are outside.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Mr. Dwight pulls a key from his pocket and lets himself into the secret room, leaving the door wide open. I watch from the sink as he shakes food into the tanks, whistling. Fish rush up to the surface in a surge of color.
“Hey, Alberta! Do you want to come and see them?” he calls out.
Maybe this will be my chance to show him how much I like the fish. “Okay,” I say, trying to sound casual.
Mr. Dwight pulls up the blind right to the top, fully illuminating the room. He points to the tanks and tells me their names. “We’ve got angelfish, butterfly fish, catfish, zebra fish, mollies, bumblebee fish, rubies, kissing fish, goldfish. You’ve got to be careful what kind you put together in the same tank. Mix the wrong ones and they just tear each other apart. Put the right ones together and beautiful things can happen.”
Mr. Dwight looks at me and smiles. Our heads are so close, inches away from a tank that is lit by a blue bulb. It’s like the glow puts us in another world.
Mr. Dwight takes my hand, very gently, and pulls me closer to the tank near the door. “Do you know what these are?” he asks. I shake my head, trying to calm my breathing. “These, Alberta, are gouramis. Those are kissing ones, with those huge puckered lips. They can grow up to a foot long, but not in this tank. I’ll have to get a bigger one. These pearl gouramis look gentle, don’t they?” He points to fish that are light orange, with pearly shapes and a horizontal black bar on their bodies. I nod.
“Don’t be fooled. The males will tear each other to pieces, especially if there’s a female in the tank.” He stares at me hard, watching to see my reaction. When I don’t say anything, he continues. “There’s tetras in all these tanks. We’ve got glowlights, so called because of how they’re so transparent.” He points to fish that look plastic, except for bright orange and red stripes on their sides.
“And red-eyed tetras and silver dollars. Pretty things, but very shy. That’s why I gave them so many hiding places.” The tank he’s looking at is loaded with rocks and driftwood. “I’ve seen them knock themselves out in a frenzy they scare so easily. That’s also why their tank is high up, away from the kids’ reach.
“Those orange and white ones there, shaped like discuses, are cichlids. They need very warm water or they die. Then the barbs here. Some of them are kind of vicious. You have to be careful what kind you mix. Like that tiger barb, or rai
nbow shark. Neither likes a communal tank. The loaches are a riot. The clown loach likes to lie on its side cause it’s shy, but I think he’s just giving a performance. You know? Playing hard to get.”
Here, he lingers and stares at me again. I feel like he’s waiting for my reaction, but I’m completely tongue-tied. All my intentions of telling him how much I love the fish are evaporating, or else they’re stuck deep down inside me, hiding in a cave whose door is covered by a huge boulder.
“I’ve got some saltwater ones, but they’re harder to do, so I’m starting off slow there. My favorite are these clownfish. They swim funny, more like a waddle.” He points to a tank full of bright orange fish with white vertical stripes and mimics a waddle with his hands. The stripe around the fish’s heads actually look like bandages, the kind you see wrapped around wounded soldiers.
“These tomato clownfish are really pretty, I think.” He bends down and points at some fish that are bright red, with only one white stripe over their heads, like nurses’ caps. A big shoe sits in their tank, with open holes where the laces would go. “Then I’ve got some rabbit fish too, but that’s all the saltwater ones for now.”
We wind our way right around the room, to the very last tank. The only fish Mr. Dwight hasn’t introduced me to are little ones sitting in tanks high up on a wooden shelf, kind of out of sight. Maybe they’re insignificant.
We just stand there quietly for a few minutes, watching the rabbitfish, which is kind of rectangular, mostly white but with yellow and black patches, swim in front of us. I can hear Mr. Dwight breathing beside me, expectant.
“Well, Alberta. What d’ya think?” he asks finally.
I think so many things I don’t know how to express them all. I’ve never seen so much color and life in one place, all at the same time.
This is my moment. I have to show Mr. Dwight that I understand the fish and what they mean to him. I have to show him that they mean the same to me. I lean toward him, letting my shoulder touch his arm. Then I turn my face up to him.
