Aquarium

~ ~ ~

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.