He’s my favorite fish, I said, still whispering. I ask everyone what their favorite fish is, and I always hope they’ll say the ghost pipefish.
Well he’s my favorite now, because of what you’ve said. The old man looked up at the signs above the tank. Randall Halimeda Ghost Pipefish.
A light flutter of fins, and the fish turned away, became nearly invisible, so thin, suspended in nothing. Some days I waited here and never saw him, only a black tank nearly empty, a dark wall of rock in shadow, a few drab seaweeds along the bottom, camouflage he never used, as if he knew all was staged and no predator coming. This tank could seem like nothing, and then it could dazzle.
Well, the old man said. You see that and it’s hard to care about the others. And I have to say, I’m surprised at how many fish here don’t look like fish. A leaf giving birth to stars is exactly right, and you’d never see that on your plate.
I don’t eat fish, I said.
No, no. I shouldn’t either. I’ll stop.
I love them too much.
Yes.
What was your favorite fish until today?
I come from Louisiana. Long ago. And they have giant catfish there, fish you wouldn’t believe, living down in the mud. They’d never get one in this aquarium. The real world is too big.
What do they look like? I’ve only seen regular catfish, and small tropical ones from the Amazon, white with black spots.
These are plain. Dark backs, black or brown, rough-looking with some spots, but no regular pattern. White bellies, an obscene white like fat. They look almost like tadpoles, baby frogs, because the belly is so big and rounded and the rest of the body in one long slab, much slimmer. And it doesn’t look like flesh. It looks like yuck, like whatever makes frog. But it’s hundreds of pounds, longer than a person and much thicker. With stubby little front fins like arms that didn’t grow. Long white tendrils around a big hole of a mouth.
It sounds awful. Why is it your favorite?
Because they make dinosaurs possible. If you look long enough at a catfish that big, and think of it lying around in a shallow muddy river, you can imagine the huge leg of a dinosaur stepping into that river. You can go back a hundred million or two hundred million years and touch the world before we existed. Those catfish are leftovers.
I want to see one.
Well maybe someday we’ll go to Louisiana together.
I want to go now.
Me too. We could travel and see a lot together. Mexico, maybe, and see manta rays doing backflips.
Really?
Yeah. They leap out of the water there, doing backward somersaults. You wouldn’t believe it. Huge manta rays, and you can see fifty of them, or a hundred, all at one time. The Sea of Cortez.
Promise you’ll take me there.
I will.
~ ~ ~
Steve came to dinner, his harmonica in his T-shirt pocket. I was waiting for him to play, but my mother had made me promise to behave and not ask for anything. Think of yourself as a barnacle, she had said. You are a barnacle, just enjoying the water and maybe collecting a little plankton, but not moving or asking anything.
So I sat glued to my chair, encased in my calcium carbonate shell, and I had my small fan out, waving in the current, ready to collect anything interesting, but so far it was boring adult talk about nothing.
We were having hamburgers, my mother’s specialty. She mixed green onions with the ground beef, several eggs and bacon bits. That was the hidden bacon. Then she had big strips of bacon across the tops of the burgers, and a lot of barbeque sauce. Potato salad on the side, and barbeque chips and pickles, orange soda. She called it picnic dinner, and I was savoring every bite because I would be a vegetarian soon.
Steve was jolly. He wasn’t fat, like most jolly people, but he’d sort of shake up and down in his chair laughing as if he were fat. And what my mother was saying wasn’t even funny. He’d bring his napkin up to his mouth with both hands to wipe the barbeque sauce, even though it was only a small paper napkin, and when he did this, you could see how big his biceps were. He was wearing a black T-shirt that had nothing on it. Just these big veined biceps bulging under pressure and then relaxing again.
What’s your favorite fish? I blurted out finally. There was no easy way to do it. They were going to talk all night without me.
Caitlin, my mother said.
It’s okay, Steve said. Favorite fish. There are so many. Your mother says you go to the aquarium every day.
I do.
What’s your favorite fish there?
I asked you first.
Steve leaned back and did his jolly bouncing chuckle. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that, he said. That brings me right back to the playground.
Well?
Okay, he said. I worked on fishing boats in Alaska a few summers, and my favorite fish was the halibut.
I like halibut.
They’re pretty cool.
So why are they your favorite?
My mother nudged my foot under the table and then gave me a look. Think barnacle, she said.
Come on, I said. Tell me.
Okay. I like them because they have both eyes on one side of their head, both resting on top and the other side of their face is blind, without eyes, always buried in silt or mud, faced downward into nothing. I like that blind side to them, the idea of it. It says something about us, I think.
So deep, my mother said, and threw a balled-up napkin at him.
I like that, I said.
Halibut used to be my favorite for a different reason, Steve said. I used to think they started with one eye on each side of their head. Swimming along normally, like any other fish, like a salmon. But then they hit puberty, and one eye migrated over to the other side of their face and their jaw twisted up in this grimace and they could no longer see straight and had to hide on the bottom.
Hm, my mother said.
Oh, sorry, Steve said.
No, I think it’s great you’re talking about puberty to my twelve-year-old daughter, ha.
Sorry.
It’s fine. As long as it’s about fish, she’s fine.
I don’t see what the big deal is, I said.
That’s exactly right, my mother said. And we hope to keep that going another year or two.
What about you, Sheri, Steve said to my mother. What’s your favorite fish?
I never get to go into the aquarium. I just pick her up. Being a parent is a lot like running a service: taxi, laundry, cooking, cleaning, tutoring, counseling, excursions.
You must have a favorite, though?
I don’t have time for favorites. I work, I take care of Caitlin, and that’s it.
Sorry, I said.
No. No. God, you must both think I’m awful right now, that I’m a terrible mother. I love you, sweet pea, and I love everything we do together. I’m just saying there’s not time to focus on anything else.
Steve had his napkin up, in both hands, as if he were going to wipe his mouth, but he wasn’t moving.
Sorry, my mother said. You must be wondering why you’re seeing me.
Well, you’re hot. That’s one reason. Steve did his chuckle bounce, and my mother smiled despite herself. And you can wrestle containers and cranes, so that’s useful. In case I’m ever in a situation where containers are coming after me.
My mother gave one of his biceps a love punch.
But what’s your favorite fish? I asked.
Maybe from childhood, Steve suggested.
She never talks about that, I said.
Oh.
Wow, my mother said. There’s no limit to how far I can sink during this dinner. Okay, one fish. I must be able to think of a fish. I’m thinking of the supermarket, the fish section, but I’m guessing you want something not on ice or wrapped in plastic.