COLD FISH
When little Daisy Adams woke up early Sunday morning, she found her goldfish floating upside down in his bowl, electrocuted. His fins were crispy at the edges and his veins popped out with fluorescent blue. Since Martian, which was his name, was Daisy’s favorite companion, and since this was not, after all, a case of aquarium malfunction as the goldfish was in a bowl, that morning the Adams household was both a crime scene and a fugue.
Accusations flew. Who was where, when, at what time of night and had anyone entered her room with any kind of appliance? Why was Martian, poor Martian flying belly-up fried blue? Who or what could have perpetrated this dreadful abomination?
Daisy’s mother, who had had her nails done the day before, implored Daisy’s father to take care of the fish to save her from chipping the polish. Daisy’s father thought his daughter was ridiculous and hysterical. It was only a stupid goldfish, and this seemed like a perfect moment for Daisy to learn the lessons of life and to toughen up.
“This is the real world. In the real world, things die. Go scoop the creature out and bury it yourself. It’s not my responsibility.” He tore into a strip of bacon, gnashing his teeth, absorbed in the stock report and refused to acknowledge his heartbroken daughter.
Daisy simply left the table, sat in her room and cried.
The Friday before, having had enough of her husband always subjecting the household to trauma, Daisy’s mother visited a high-powered attorney, Arthur Ratz, and told him that under no uncertain terms she was finished with her marriage. It was kaput, the end, and she wanted more than anything to be free. But...how much money would there be? Arthur Ratz did all the necessary calculations and told Daisy’s mother that there would not be enough to maintain the house, the vacations, the manicures, the pedicures, the facials, the waxing, the education, the five star dinners, the personal trainer, the gardener, the maid, and the masseuse. Unless Daisy’s mother wanted to get a job. And then she could at least keep the house and the education and maybe a monthly manicure.
So Daisy’s mother went home and ground her teeth into a smile.
Now here she was on Sunday morning, begging her husband to please do something to alleviate Daisy’s crying and at least cop up to his role in the mysterious death of the fish. Daisy’s father refuted his wife’s accusations and would not budge.
Daisy cried and cried—while her beloved Martian decomposed in his bowl, a gruesome sight.
In the middle of the night, Daisy woke in a start from a nightmare in which a milk delivery truck smashed into her parent’s car, decapitating the entire family and turning their heads into doll parts. She tossed and turned, unable to get the image out of her head. She re-orchestrated the pillows to no better effect. Her stomach hurt. Her mind raced. She opened her eyes and there, phosphorescing in the moonlight, was Martian.
It was more than she could bear.
Daisy swung her feet over the edge of the bed, bolting upright and scanned the room. Yellow masking tape. Check. Scissors. Check. Wax paper. Check. Rubber gloves. Check. Daisy collected her makeshift forensic kit and cordoned off the scene of the crime. Once she had stripped and stretched the yellow tape in a boxing ring around the bowl, Daisy snuck down the hall to her mother’s bathroom and stealthily stole her ultraviolet drying lamp—which in addition to curing nail polish, had one other beneficial property: it could expose fingerprints.
Daisy clicked on the light, and there they were: two perfect prints. She pulled on the rubber gloves, drew up a ream of scotch tape spread between two fingers to collect her prints and froze. She found herself staring straight into Martian’s shocked bug-eyes. He was no longer the glimmering orange fish she had won throwing a ping-pong ball into a bowl at the hometown fair. His fins, once a magnificent plume, had shriveled, and his body, once round and fast, was listless and puffed. His scales were disintegrating in the water.
Daisy drew in her breath and refocused. She placed the tape directly over the prints, pulled them up, and secured the tape across a sheet of wax paper.
It was 2am.
She was exhausted.
Not wanting her hapless fish to suffer any further indignity, Daisy went downstairs, grabbed a spoon and a paper bag from the kitchen, and undertook the emotionally arduous task of removing Martian, interring him in the garden between the poppies and the hydrangea, both strange and discolored by the night light.
“Please, whoever is Up There, please take good care of Martian. He was beautiful and he was my best friend.”
Daisy shuffled back to her room and crawled back into bed.
On Monday, Daisy went to school, catatonic. When the teacher called on her, she answered in monosyllables. When Gilbert, her ever-ebullient classmate, smiled and said hello to her, she looked at him as if he were an unknown disease. That night, she cut her food into little bits and swirled them around in mashed-up piles until her mother scolded, “Daisy, you need to eat,” and her father spat at her for creating waste: “Do you know how much money that cost!?! Do YOU? Do you have any idea how much money it takes to feed you? You had better finish EVERY BITE on that plate!”
All of her school reports that week embraced the morbid: the science of decomposition, what happens when we die, how electrocution works, and all the methods by which one could commit suicide. This last one terminated abruptly because her teacher, Miss Beatrice, cut her off with the words, “Wow, Daisy, you are a very thorough researcher” before calling in the school counselor.
The school counselor then notified her parents, who sat in the principal’s office stone-faced, insisting that Daisy was being melodramatic; her goldfish had died but, other than that, nothing bad was happening at home.
They smiled with big teeth.
They were a perfect family.
That night at dinner, Daisy’s father verbally hammered on Daisy for forty-five minutes until her stomach squeezed into such a tight labyrinth of knots she couldn’t even digest her peas. Daisy’s mother drummed her fingers on the table and repeatedly refilled her wine glass but stayed quiet except for a side comment here or there about how perhaps this wasn’t helping and maybe the answer was to buy Daisy a new fish. Or a dog. She had read an article that dogs were good for people with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and perhaps this is what Daisy was going through and that the suicide oral report was just a sign.
Daisy didn’t care about having another fish or a new dog or anything for that matter. She just wanted to get up and leave. But she didn’t dare. She just sat there, and floated that small part of her self that was a self up into the air away from words like “idiot” and “loser” and “failure” and “attention-hog” and into a bubble of fantasy where people who spoke like that had their tongues cut off and everyone shunned them for the morale murderers that they were.
When Daisy was finally dismissed, she escaped to her room and stared at the prints, taped securely to the wall next to the window. Now how was she to determine to whom they belonged? She gazed into the trees, imagining snakes strangling the vines and poisoning the fruit. Maybe that’s what she would do tomorrow’s oral report on: poisonous snakes. It was sure to be a crowd pleaser, at least for the young boys.
And that’s when Gilbert appeared.
His head materialized at the window so abruptly, Daisy screamed. But because her throat was still tied up from the blunt force of her father’s words, no sound emerged. The boy from her class motioned for her to open the window and finally, with some trepidation, she did.
“Hello.”
“Hi Daisy,” he said breathlessly. “Come follow me.” Gilbert grinned a grin so big that the gap where he lost his teeth last night showed. “I want to show you something.” Daisy furrowed into the ground.
“C’mon. C’mon!” Gilbert prodded. Daisy climbed down the tree with Gilbert, the escape itself presenting a thrill through her body and the fresh evening air smelling that lovely perfume of rotting leaves.
She followed Gilbert through her yard, down the street and around the corner to Gilbert’s house. He opened the criss-crossed gate and motioned her in. Within several feet she saw the litter: a bunch of potbellied pigs grunting happily as they suckled their mother who lay on her side and watched her babies drink.
“This is Winston, that one is Buckle, and this one is Penelope. Maybe when they get to be a bit bigger, you could take her home.” Gilbert offered.
Daisy didn’t say anything. It was a lovely idea, but she was afraid of waking to spare ribs in her bedroom in the same way she rose to crispy fillet. The little piglets stopped nursing and wandered blindly around.
“Here, pet one.” Gilbert offered.
Daisy did so. They were funny creatures. The babies were soft, but the mother was wiry.
Penelope crawled into Daisy’s lap.
Gilbert smiled at Daisy. “She likes you.”
Daisy nodded, but said nothing.
“I’m sorry about your fish.”
“Thank you,” Daisy said, softly.
“What happened to him?”
“I don’t know.” Daisy frowned. “He was electrocuted.”
“That happened to me once. Our aquarium shorted.”
“He wan’t in an aquarium. He was in a glass bowl.”
“Oh.” Gilbert looked as confused as Daisy felt.
Daisy looked at him conspiratorily: “I have fingerprints.”
Gilbert’s eyes widened. “You think they were murdered?”
Daisy nodded, sighing, “I have no way to prove it though.”
Gilbert picked up Penelope, who had started squealing, and brought her closer to the mother sow.
“You know that guy around the block? That man with the mustache and all those tattoos?”
Daisy nodded: “He always looks at me as though I’m in trouble.”
“He’s a cop.”
“That would probably be why.”
Gilbert laughed. “You’re funny.”
Penelope came back over to Daisy and nuzzled against the bony girl.
“It’s late. I should probably go home.”
“You want to come over tomorrow and see them?” Gilbert offered.
“Ok,” she replied. And then, for the first time all week, Daisy smiled back.
A week after the acquatic Armaggedon, Daisy jotted off a book report on forensic science as applied to deceased household pets, and then got permission to eat dinner down the street with her new friend Gilbert and his family.
Gilbert answered the door with a big smile and a pig in each hand.
“Hello Daisy! We’re having artichokes for dinner!”
Daisy had never heard of an artichoke, but it sounded exotic and macabre all at the same time.
“Here. Take Penelope!” Gilbert thrust the piglet into Daisy’s arms and motioned for her to follow him. They went outside and fed the pigs fresh tomatoes and secured the grunting beasts in their pen.
“Let’s go.”
“Where are we going?” Daisy asked.
“You’ll see.” Gilbert grinned.
It was amazing, thought Daisy. This boy is always happy. She wondered what that was like.
Gilbert scampered down the street, Daisy in tow, until they stood in front of the police officer’s jarhead-trimmed yard.
“No, Gilbert.” Daisy tugged on his arm to go.
“He’s really nice.”
“He’s creepy.”
Gilbert wasn’t listening. He had already run up and knocked on the door. She saw the door open and the man emerge from his house. Gilbert was talking. He gestured towards Daisy who ducked behind a street shrub, her heart pounding. Before she knew it, there were footsteps. She was engulfed by an assertive shadow.
She looked up at the officer. He regarded her curiously.
“Gilbert tells me you have an unsolved crime.”
Daisy nodded, but did not speak.
“What kind of a crime are we talking about here?”
Daisy stalled from the discordant symphony that was her nerves.
The officer waited patiently.
“My goldfish died.” As soon as she blurted it out, she thought she sounded ridiculous. She then struggled to articulate what happened. “You see, he was electrocuted…”
Strangely enough, the man neither ridiculed nor dismissed her. He crouched down to her level, listened patiently to her story, and nodded at appropriate intervals.
“You’re Ray Adams’ little girl.” It was a declaration more than a question.
Daisy nodded.
“I know him.” His brow creased. “I wish I could help you. But I’m a highway patrolman, not a homicide detective. And we don’t have approval to use state resources for electrocuted goldfish.” He hesitated and looked at her. “But you know, Martian—that was his name, right?”
Daisy nodded again. His tone soothed.
“Martian was very lucky to have a friend like you. And you are very lucky to have a friend like Gilbert. The great thing in life is that even though we can’t choose our families, we can choose our friends.”
Daisy’s eyes widened. She exhaled. For the first time in her entire life, someone understood.
The officer saw her see him seeing her. He saw her longing for help and shook his head at the vast wasteland of powerlessness that spread before him. It was the worst part of his job: witnessing the carnage of unprosecutable crimes. He sighed and patted her on the head. “You’re quite an intelligent and resourceful young lady. I don’t think I’ve ever lifted fingerprints, and I’ve been a cop for thirteen years!” He chuckled and straightened up.
“Gilbert, tell your folks I say hello.”
“Yes, sir.”
The highway patrolman started back up the walk.
“Officer, sir,” Daisy said, quietly.
He looked at her. She searched for a way to say everything but when faced with the canon of words in her head, she found nothing.
“Thank you.”
It didn’t seem like enough, but the officer beamed. Daisy blushed and then trailed along behind Gilbert on the way back to his home.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.” Gilbert said.
“Oh, no, Gilbert. You were great.” Daisy assured him.
They walked along in silence until they reached Gilbert’s door.
“Do you like artichokes?” he asked.
“I’ve never had one.”
“They’re the best!” Gilbert trumpeted.
As was Gilbert’s family. During the entire meal, everyone laughed and talked and told funny stories and jokes and played games. Daisy was amazed. She couldn’t believe that people actually lived that way.
Recess was much more fun the next day. Instead of collecting insect bodies and cataloging them in her scrapbook, Daisy followed Gilbert to the jungle gym.
“Watch this Daisy!” Gilbert hung upside down from the bars and stuck his tongue out.
“I can do that too!” Daisy climbed up to join him.
They hung upside down from the bars, their hair spiking towards the ground and their faces flushing bright red.
“What are you doing your report on this afternoon?” Gilbert asked.
“Pigs.” Daisy said.
“I wish I’d known. I would have let you borrow Penelope.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Beatrice would like that.”
“That would be so funny. To have the pigs squealing around the room!”
Daisy and Gilbert laughed.
“You know, Daisy, you can have Penelope.”
“Don’t you want her?”
“We have four. That’s a lot, my dad says. I just thought you would like her. But if you can’t, then you can always visit.”
Daisy fell silent. She was not sure that was a good idea. But she promised Gilbert she would ask.
Dinner was a particularly fraught affair that evening. Mr. Allen had lost money in the stock market and had come home early to find Mrs. Allen entertaining the pool boy with a drink. It was innocuous enough, but the impression was there.
Daisy was oblivious to this. Her usual pallor had been replaced by a flush of energy. She told her mother about Gilbert and the pig.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” It was an apocalypse, not a thunder. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?”
“Ray, is that really necessary?”
“You don’t have the right to speak to me. You don’t have any rights here.”
“I have the right to speak. I have rights.”
“Not after today.”
“Oh, please. He was thirsty. It’s hot outside. He wanted a soda.”
“He’s a pig. I’ve had enough of pigs. You bring any other pigs into this house, I’m making them into bacon.”
Daisy’s eyes grew wide and then narrowed. Her stomach revolted. Enough. She picked up her napkin and wiped her mouth and then set it down on her dinner tray. With one fell swoop, knife, plate, spoon, fork, and crumpled napkin lifted, and Daisy marched out the front door and down the street.
Her mother and father sat, dumbfounded, their mouths wide open in mid-bicker, their food trajectory halted mid-air.
Daisy rapped on Gilbert’s door. His father appeared moments later, his look one of surprise.
“Daisy?”
Daisy shrunk a little until Gilbert materialized behind his father and threaded himself around his father’s legs.
“Daisy!”
Daisy smiled at Gilbert and tentatively made her request. “Hi Gilbert. Hello Mr. Wright. I was wondering if I could join you for dinner?”
Gilbert looked up expectantly at his father.
His father questioned Daisy: “Do your parents know you are here?”
Daisy nodded, then cast her eyes down at her half-eaten food. “Well, sort of.” She peeked back up at Mr. Wright, all her hopes and fears brimming across her eyes.
“We’d love to have her, wouldn’t we Dad?”
Mr. Wright evaluated the little girl gripping her tray with bare white knuckles, then glanced up the street at the dark, somber, twisted trees that encircled the house where Ray Allen was spewing epithets to his wife and disparaging his daughter in a voice loud enough to boom across the neighborhood.
“Yes, Gilbert, we would.”
“Come on, Daisy. Come sit by me.” Gilbert grinned that magnificent warm grin. Daisy felt at ease. “After dinner, we’ll go feed Penelope.” She now had a friend. And a pig–maybe more of a rental pet than a real one, but still it was better than not having anything—or anyone.
Daisy had found a place to be happy, but she never did figure out how her goldfish was electrocuted.
That remains a mystery to her to this day.