Steve laughed. He was the nicest man she had ever brought home. Looking back, I can see he was delighted by her right from the beginning, genuinely delighted.
Okay. We lived in a shitty place. A shack on the highway, water dripping through the ceiling. I’m not going to say more. But next door, sharing the same dirt, we had a family from Japan. Asians are supposed to be rich, but these ones weren’t. I don’t know what went wrong. But the man dug a pit, and we thought he was going to roast a pig. We thought he might be Hawaiian. But he lined it with plastic and rocks and some plants and made a pond, and had four koi carps in there.
That sounds nice, Steve said.
A pearl in a toilet, my mother said. One of the koi was orange and white, the colors swirled together, and I named her Angel. And the man put an old wooden chair beside the pond so that I could sit. He never used it. He always stood. But he left this chair for me. I never even spoke to him, or thanked him. I feel so bad about it now. We were really racist back then. This was the early seventies, when I was about your age. But he gave me a place to escape to. I’d always sit out there, usually in the rain, and watch Angel gliding around her tiny pond as if she owned the palace ponds. And I liked that the rain never touched her. I could see the drops on the surface. She’d tilt up to grab food, but otherwise she was hovering just below, safe and removed from everything.
Steve and I didn’t say anything. We all sat in silence, my mother looking down at the table, lost in another time, and I remember thinking she was just like me, as if I had lived already, more than twenty years earlier.
~ ~ ~
Steve spent the night. I could hear their breathing, and small cries from my mother as if she were hurt, but I knew to stay in my room and keep quiet. My mother had explained many times that some parts of her life were hers. I had my three pillows, my pillow palace, a kind of nest or cave, and I sank away there.
In the morning, Steve made cinnamon toast, which was something new. Butter and then sugar and cinnamon. He put one piece faceup on my plate and then cut another piece on its diagonals to make four triangles, and with these he made a pyramid.
Egyptian toast, he said. With cinnamon from the Nile.
What fish are in the Nile?
The Pharaoh Fish, Steve said, and raised his eyebrows. He leaned in close and whispered so my mother wouldn’t hear. They have scales of red marble, very heavy, and fins of gold.
There are no fish like that.
Have you been to the Nile?
No.
Well I used to live there, at the bottom of the river. Don’t tell your mother. The Pharaoh Fish gathered all along the bottom as if they were a garden of gold. They had big lips but never opened their mouths. They were very quiet. But they were keeping all the gold for the next pharaoh.
How come I haven’t heard about the Pharaoh Fish?
Well you have now, and you have to keep it a secret because of the gold. Five thousand years ago, someone told, and the biggest fish had to leave the river and burrow through sand and try to hide. The Great Pyramids are their fins sticking up out of the sand. They were the biggest Pharaoh Fish.
I laughed and punched his arm the way my mother did. No fish are that big, I said. The largest fish is the whale shark.
Now, he said. But not back then.
I was distracted all morning at school thinking about the Pharaoh Fish. I knew Steve was making them up, but I loved the idea of their golden fins and red marble scales, and I could see them all waiting at the bottom of the river, their bellies on sand.
Shalini, I said. We have to make a Pharaoh Fish.
We had just begun art period, and Shalini already had strips of newspaper ready for Lakshmi Rudolph’s legs.
What is a Pharaoh Fish?
They have red scales and golden fins.
I’ve seen golden fish. But I think they’re Buddhist.
Where have you seen them?
On tiles on walls in India, I think. And you can buy plastic ones, or as balloons.
Do people pray to them?
I guess so.
That’s my religion then. I’m Buddhist.
Shalini laughed. You can’t just be a new religion.
There were two ways to make shapes for paper-mache, using wire or balloons, and we had some long skinny balloons, so I blew up one of these and began wrapping it in Shalini’s strips. I imagined great temples with fish altars, and I would become a priestess. I would wear red makeup, with golden lips and eyebrows.
What’s this, Caitlin? Mr. Gustafson asked. He looked out of breath from running around the room. His nostrils working hard.
A golden fish. It will have red scales and golden fins.
Let’s keep focused on task. We want Rudolph to have legs, right, so he can lead the sleigh?
But the golden fish is for my religion. I’m Buddhist.
You’re Buddhist?
Yes.
Caitlin.
I am.
What will your mother have to say about that?
She’ll say I’m Buddhist. I’m a vegetarian, and I pray to the golden fish, and I may become a priestess.
Caitlin. You eat the school lunch. I know you’re not Buddhist. And don’t we already have enough religions? We need a few people to still be Christian.
I pray to the golden fish. This is my god.
Okay, fine. Pray to the fish. I’m going to make a paper-mache of my butt and pray to that.
Mr. Gustafson left then to try to save the sleigh. He had four kids working, but it looked like a fence with scraps blown against it, like something at the dump.
You’re in trouble, Shalini whispered in my ear, leaning close. She was deliriously happy about it. All the little hairs stood up on my neck and I had goose bumps. Shalini could make me shiver, as if my entire body were a bell that had just been struck.
In the aquarium, I found the old man looking at a grumpy silver ghost.
Bright face in a grimace, squared head, and fins of transparent lace. Every movement a performance, fairy flight. I had watched him before, and I was always afraid the other fish would eat his fins. I think that’s why he looked so unhappy. He couldn’t fit anywhere to hide. Always drifting around in the open sections.
He’s from the Mediterranean, the old man said. Very fancy. Some sort of royalty.
Maybe that’s why he’s unhappy.
I’ve never believed the rich are unhappy. I think they close their doors on us and then can’t stop laughing.
Have you seen the photo? I asked.
Yes.
Almost as big as the diver. I can’t imagine this small fish becoming that. And standing straight up and down in the water. I still don’t see how it isn’t just eaten right away.
The poor never get it together, the old man said. They feed on each other. It would be so easy to kill all the rich. There are so few of them. But we never do it.
Killing?
Sorry. I would never hurt anybody, of course. But does it seem fair to be poor?
No.
Well then. I’m okay if someone nibbles this guy’s fins a bit. He looks like a boss, that square shiny face, that mouth. He’s called the dealfish, even, and isn’t that what bosses do, make deals using other people’s lives?
The old man turned away from the tank then and walked across the aisle to where trout hung in some invisible current, all facing the same way, swimming to nowhere.
Hard to get excited about freshwater fish, he said. They’re just like us, nothing exotic. Some sticks and rocks, cold, bundled up in a group, shivering. We’re looking at the good people of Seattle right here.