Box

24

Faith Hemphill has seahorses.

Hundreds of them.

In tanks, covering every square inch of wall space in the room.

The tanks are different shapes, sizes and colors, but all contain seahorses.

“Pick a favorite,” she says.

“There are hundreds. It would take me all day.”

“Welcome to my world!” she says.

Then-I shit you not-she starts introducing them to me, one-at-a-time.

“This one’s George,” she says. “And this here’s Lucas. That’s Gracie. And this little guy’s Jimmy. Hi, Jimmie!” she says. “There’s Lucy, and…and…there’s Desi, and Fred.”

She focuses harder. “Where’s Ethel?”

She searches the tank. “Ethel?”

She looks at me. “Where’s Ethel?”

“I don’t know. She was here a minute ago,” I say, trying to be funny.

“You think that’s funny?” she snaps.

I shrug.

“Oh!” she says. “Thank God! There she is, behind the seaweed. See her?”

“Uh huh.”

“Ain’t she glorious?”

“Stunning!” I say, though I can’t tell one from another.

“This one’s Betty, this one’s…oh, my goodness!”

“What now?”

“Elizabeth.”

She turns to me again.

“Elizabeth hardly ever comes to this neighborhood!”

“Fascinating,” I say.

“You know what I think?” she says.

“What’s that?”

“I think she likes you.”

“How can you tell?”

She smiles, then changes the subject. “Guess how much these tanks and seahorses are worth?”

“I have no idea.”

“Guess.”

“Five thousand dollars.”

She laughs. “I didn’t ask you what you think I invested. I asked what you think they’re worth. These are all mine. I started with a hundred. Each individual horse was hand-picked from a reputable breeder.”

“Hand picked?”

“Yes, of course. They’re registered.”

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all. The cheapest horse in these tanks would sell for eighty dollars. And the tanks run a thousand dollars each.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

“In that case they must be worth-” I try to do the math. “Seventy-five thousand dollars?”

“Closer to eighty-five.”

“So, you raise them and sell them for a profit?”

“I never sell my babies till they die.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll tell you more about that in a minute.”

“Are they hard to keep alive? Hard to care for?”

She gives me a look. “Are babies hard to keep alive? Are babies hard to care for?”

“Human babies?”

“Yes, I’m asking you about human babies.”

“I’ll go out on a limb and say yes, human babies are hard to care for.”

“You’re damn right they are!” she says. “And seahorses are far more fragile than human babies.”

“How so?”

“They’re susceptible to disease and bacteria. And they can’t be left alone, even for a day.”

“That sort of describes human babies too, doesn’t it?”

“Are you serious? Human babies can be left alone for days in a temperature-controlled environment.”

“You know this from personal experience?”

“I do. I used to run a daycare. But that was in a different life. These days I never leave my horses for more than four hours at a time. If you want to take me out, give me notice, and have me back in four hours.”

“Glad you told me.”

“If I’m gone they won’t eat. If they go twenty-four hours without eating, they die.”

“Ever thought about getting an automatic feeder?”

She snorts. “You don’t know shit about seahorses, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Would you use an automatic feeder for a baby?”

“A human baby? My gut reaction is no.”

“Damn right. And automatic feeders don’t work for seahorses, either.”

“Because?”

She frowns. “Are you for real? Automatic feeders? For seahorses?”

“I feel stupid for suggesting it.”

“Well, don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ll learn. Wait till you start scrapin’ ’em!”

I look at my watch. “Oh, shit!” I say.

“What’s wrong?”

“I had no idea it was almost noon! Darn!”

“Don’t even think about leavin’,” she says.