What Do Fish Have to Do With Anything? Page 2

  “Who’s they?” Willie asked.

  The man pointed to the cake box. “The people on the box,” he said.

  In his mind Willie repeated what he had been told, then he gave the man the second piece of cake.

  The man took it, saying, “Good man,” and he ate it.

  Willie grinned.

  The next day was Saturday. Willie did not go to school. All morning he kept looking down from his window for the man, but it was raining and he did not appear. Willie wondered where he was, but could not imagine it.

  Willie’s mother woke about noon. Willie sat with her while she ate her breakfast. “I found the cure for unhappiness,” he announced.

  “Did you?” his mother said. She was reading a memo from the convenience store’s owner.

  “It’s ‘What a person needs is always more than they say.’”

  His mother put her papers down. “That’s nonsense. Where did you hear that?”

  “That man.”

  “What man?”

  “On the street. The one who was begging. You said he was unhappy. So I asked him.”

  “Willie, I told you I didn’t want you to even look at that man.”

  “He’s a nice man. . . .”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ve talked to him.”

  “When? How much?”

  Willie shrank down. “I did, that’s all.”

  “Willie, I forbid you to talk to him. Do you understand me? Do you? Answer me!” She was shrill.

  “Yes,” Willie said, but he’d already decided he would talk to the man one more time. He needed to explain why he could not talk to him anymore.

  On Sunday, however, the man was not there. Nor was he there on Monday.

  “That man is gone,” Willie said to his mother as they walked home from school.

  “I saw. I’m not blind.”

  “Where do you think he went?”

  “I couldn’t care less. But you might as well know, I arranged for him to be gone.”

  Willie stopped short. “What do you mean?”

  “I called the police. We don’t need a nuisance like that around here. Pestering kids.”

  “He wasn’t pestering me.”

  “Of course he was.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Willie, I have eyes. I can see.”

  Willie glared at his mother. “No, you can’t. You’re a fish. You live in a cave.”

  “Fish?” retorted Mrs. Markham. “What do fish have to do with anything? Willie, don’t talk nonsense.”

  “My name isn’t Willie. It’s William. And I know how to keep from being unhappy. I do!” He was yelling now. “What a person needs is always more than they say! Always!”

  He turned on his heel and walked back toward the school. At the corner he glanced back. His mother was following. He kept going. She kept following.

  People are always saying, “Nothing’s worse than when a kid goes bad.” Well, let me tell you, going good isn’t all that great either. Tell you what I mean.

  Back in sixth grade there was a bunch of us who liked nothing better than doing bad stuff. I don’t know why. We just liked doing it. And the baddest of the bad was Matt Kaizer.

  Matt was a tall, thin kid with long, light blond hair that reached his shoulders. He was twelve years old — like I was. His eyes were pale blue and his skin was a vanilla cream that never — no matter the season — seemed to darken, except with dirt. What with the way he looked — so pale and all — plus the fact that he was into wearing extra large blank white T-shirts that reached his knees, we called him “Spirit.”

  Now, there are two important things you need to know about Matt Kaizer. The first was that as far as he was concerned there was nothing good about him at all. Nothing. The second thing was that his father was a minister.

  Our gang — I’m Marley, and then there was Chuck, Todd, and Nick — loved the fact that Matt was so bad and his father a minister. You know, we were always daring him to do bad things. “Hey, minister’s kid!” we’d taunt. “Dare you to . . .” and we’d challenge him to do something, you know, really gross. Thing is, we could always count on Matt — who wanted to show he wasn’t good — to take a dare.

  For instance: Say there was some dead animal out on the road. We’d all run to Matt and say, “Dare you to pick it up.”

  Matt would look at it — up close and personal — or more than likely poke it with a stick, then pick it up and fling it at one of us.

  Disgusting stories? Someone would tell one and then say, “Dare you to tell it to Mary Beth Bataky” — the class slug — and Matt would tell it to her — better than anyone else, too.

  TV and movies? The more blood and gore there was, the more Matt ate it up — if you know what I mean. MTV, cop shows, all that bad stuff, nothing was too gross for him.

  And it didn’t take just dares to get Matt going. No, Matt would do stuff on his own. If anyone blew a toot — even in class — he would bellow, “Who cut the cheese?” He could belch whenever he wanted to, and did, a lot. Spitballs, booger flicking, wedgie yanking, it was all wicked fun for Matt. No way was he going to be good! Not in front of us.

  Now, his father, the minister, “Rev. Kaizer” we called him, wasn’t bad. In fact just the opposite. The guy was easygoing, always dressed decently, and as far as I knew, never raised his voice or acted any way than what he was, a nice man, a good man. Sure, he talked a little funny, like he was reading from a book, but that was all.

  Did Matt and his father get along? In a way. For example, once I was with Matt after he did something bad — I think he blew his nose on someone’s lunch. Rev. Kaizer had learned about it. Instead of getting mad he just gazed at Matt, shook his head, and said, “Matt, I do believe there’s goodness in everyone. That goes for you too. Someday you’ll find your own goodness. And when you do you’ll be free.”

  “I’m not good,” Matt insisted.

  “Well, I think you are,” his father said, patiently.

  Matt grinned. “Long as my friends dare me to do bad things, I’ll do ’em.”

  “Never refuse a dare?” his father asked, sadly.

  “Never,” Matt said with pride.

  Rev. Kaizer sighed, pressed his hands together, and looked toward heaven.

  So there we were, a bunch of us who knew we were bad and that it was doing bad things that held us together. And the baddest of the bad, like I said, was Matt — the Spirit — Kaizer. But then . . . oh, man, I’ll tell you what happened.

  One day after school we were hanging out in the playground. The five of us were just sitting around telling disgusting stories, when suddenly Chuck said, “Hey, hear about Mary Beth Bataky?”

  “What about her?” Matt asked.

  “Her old man’s dying.”

  Right away Matt was interested. “Really?”

  “It’s true, man,” Chuck insisted. “He’s just about had it.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Don’t know,” said Chuck. “He’s sick. So sick they sent him home from the hospital. That’s why Mary Beth is out. She’s waiting for him to die.”

  “Cool,” said Matt.

  Now, Mary Beth was one small straw of a sad slug. She had this bitsy face with pale eyes and two gray lines for lips all framed in a pair of frizzy braids. Her arms were thin and always crossed over her chest, which was usually bundled in a brown sweater. The only bits of color on her were her fingernails, which, though chewed, were spotted with bright red nail polish — chipped.

  So when we heard what was going on with Mary Beth and her father, we guys eyed one another, almost knowing what was going to happen next. But, I admit, it was me who said, “Hey, Spirit, I dare you to go and see him.”

  Matt pushed the blond hair out of his face and looked at us with those pale blue, cool-as-ice eyes of his.

  “Or maybe,” Todd said, “you’re too chicken, being as you’re a minister’s kid and all.”

  That did it. Course it did.
No way Matt could resist a dare. He got up, casual like. “I’ll do it,” he said. “Who’s coming with me?”

  To my disgust the other guys backed off. But I accepted. Well, actually, I really didn’t think he’d do it.

  But then, soon as we started off, I began to feel a little nervous. “Matt,” I warned. “I think Mary Beth is very religious.”

  “Don’t worry. I know about all that stuff.”

  “Yeah, but what would your father say?”

  “I don’t care,” he bragged. “Anyway, I’m not going to do anything except look. It’ll be neat. Like a horror movie. Maybe I can even touch the guy. A dying body is supposed to be colder than ice.”

  That was Matt. Always taking up the dare and going you one worse.

  The more he talked the sorrier I was we had dared him to go. Made me really uncomfortable. Which I think he noticed, because he said, “What’s the matter, Marley? You scared or something?”

  “Just seems . . .”

  “I know,” he taunted, “you’re too good!” He belched loudly to make his point that he wasn’t. “See you later, dude.” He started off.

  I ran after him. “Do you know where she lives?”

  “Follow me.”

  “They might not let you see him,” I warned.

  He pulled out some coins. “I’m going to buy some flowers and bring them to him. That’s what my mother did when my aunt was sick.” He stuffed his mouth full of bubble gum and began blowing and popping.

  Mary Beth’s house was a wooden three-decker with a front porch. Next to the front door were three bell buttons with plastic name labels. The Batakys lived on the first floor.

  By the time Matt and I got there he had two wilted carnations in his hand. One was dyed blue, the other green. The flower store guy had sold them for ten cents each.

  “You know,” I said in a whisper, as we stood before the door, “her father might already be dead.”

  “Cool,” Matt replied, blowing another bubble, while cleaning out an ear with a pinky and inspecting the earwax carefully before smearing it on his shirt. “Did you know your fingernails still grow when you’re dead? Same for your hair. I mean, how many really dead people can you get to see?” he said and rang the Batakys’ bell.

  From far off inside there was a buzzing sound.

  I was trying to get the nerve to leave when the door opened a crack. Mary Beth — pale eyes rimmed with red — peeked out. There were tears on her cheeks and her lips were crusty. Her small hands — with their spots of red fingernail polish — were trembling.

  “Oh, hi,” she said, her voice small and tense.

  I felt tight with embarrassment.

  Matt spoke out loudly. “Hi, Mary Beth. We heard your old man was dying.”

  “Yes, he is,” Mary Beth murmured. With one hand on the doorknob it was pretty clear she wanted to retreat as fast as possible. “He’s delirious.”

  “Delirious?” Matt said. “What’s that?”

  “Sort of . . . crazy.”

  “Oh . . . wow, sweet!” he said, giving me a nudge of appreciation. Then he held up the blue and green carnations, popped his gum, and said, “I wanted to bring him these.”

  Mary Beth stared at the flowers, but didn’t move to take them. All she said was, “My mother’s at St. Mary’s, praying.”

  Now I really wanted to get out of there. But Matt said, “How about if I gave these to your father?” He held up the flowers again. “Personally.”

  “My mother said he may die any moment,” Mary Beth informed us.

  “I know,” Matt said. “So I’d really like to see him before he does.”

  Mary Beth gazed at him. “He’s so sick,” she said, “he’s not up to visiting.”

  “Yeah,” Matt pressed, “but, you see, the whole class elected me to come and bring these flowers.”

  His lie worked. “Oh,” Mary Beth murmured, and she pulled the door open. “Well, I suppose . . .”

  We stepped into a small entrance way. A low-watt bulb dangled over our heads from a wire. Shoes, boots, and broken umbrellas lay in a plastic milk crate.

  Mary Beth shut the outside door then pushed open an inner one that led to her apartment. It was gloomy and stank of medicine.

  Matt bopped me on the arm. “Who cut the cheese!” he said with a grin. I looked around at him. He popped another bubble.

  “Down this way,” Mary Beth whispered.

  We walked down a long hallway. Two pictures were on the walls. They were painted on black velvet. One was a scene of a mountain with snow on it and the sun shining on a stag with antlers. The second picture was of a little girl praying by her bed. Fuzzy gold light streamed in on her from a window.

  At the end of the hall was a closed door. Mary Beth halted. “He’s in here,” she whispered. “He’s really sick,” she warned again. “And he doesn’t notice anyone. You really sure you want to see him?”

  “You bet,” Matt said with enthusiasm.

  “I mean, he won’t say hello or anything,” Mary Beth said in her low voice. “He just lies there with his eyes open. I don’t even know if he sees anything.”

  “Does he have running sores?” Matt asked.

  I almost gagged.

  “Running what?” Mary Beth asked.

  “You know, wounds.”

  “It’s his liver,” Mary Beth explained sadly, while turning the door handle and opening the door. “The doctor said it was all his bad life and drinking.”

  Dark as the hall had been, her father’s room was darker. The air was heavy and really stank. A large bed took up most of the space. On one side of the bed was a small chest of drawers. On top of the chest was a lit candle and a glass of water into which a pair of false teeth had been dropped. On the other side of the bed was a wooden chair. Another burning candle was on that.

  On the bed — beneath a brown blanket — lay Mr. Bataky. He was stretched out on his back perfectly straight, like a log. His head and narrow chest were propped up on a pile of four pillows with pictures of flowers on them. At the base of the bed his toes poked up from under the blanket. He was clothed in pajamas dotted with different colored hearts. His hands — looking like a bunch of knuckles — were linked over his chest. His poorly shaven face — yellow in color — was thin. With his cheeks sunken, his nose seemed enormous. His thin hair was uncombed. His breathing was drawn out, almost whistling, and collapsed into throat gargles — as if he were choking.

  Worst of all, his eyes were open but he was just staring up, like he was waiting for something to happen in heaven.

  Mary Beth stepped to one side of the bed. Matt stood at the foot, with me peering over his shoulder. We stared at the dying man. He really looked bad. Awful.

  “I don’t think he’ll live long,” Mary Beth murmured, her sad voice breaking, her tears dripping.

  Matt lifted the blue and green carnations. “Mr. Bataky,” he shouted, “I brought you some flowers to cheer you up.”

  “His hearing isn’t good,” Mary Beth said apologetically.

  Matt looked about for a place to put the flowers, saw the glass with the teeth near Mr. Bataky’s head, and moved to put them into the water. In the flickering candlelight, Matt’s pale skin, his long blond hair, seemed to glow.

  Now, just as Matt came up to the head of the bed, Mr. Bataky’s eyes shifted. They seemed to fasten on Matt. The old man gave a start, made a convulsive twitch as his eyes positively bulged. Matt, caught in the look, froze.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . an angel. . . ,” Mr. Bataky said in a low, rasping voice. “An angel . . . from heaven has come to save me.”

  Matt lifted his hand — the one that held the carnations — and tried to place them in the glass of water. Before he could, Mr. Bataky made an unexpected jerk with one of his knobby hands and took hold of Matt’s arm. Matt was so surprised he dropped the flowers.

  “Father!” Mary Beth cried.

  “Thank . . . you . . . for coming, Angel,” Mr. Bataky rasped.

 
“No . . . really,” Matt stammered, “I’m not — ”

  “Yes, you’re an angel,” Mr. Bataky whispered. His eyes — full of tears — were hot with joy.

  Matt turned red. “No, I’m not . . .”

  “Please,” Mr. Bataky cried out with amazing energy, “I don’t want to die bad.” Tears gushed down his hollow cheeks. “You got to help me. Talk to me. Bless me.”

  Matt, speechless for once, gawked at the man. With considerable effort he managed to pry Mr. Bataky’s fingers from his arm. Soon as he did he bolted from the room.

  “Don’t abandon me!” Mr. Bataky begged, somehow managing to lift himself up and extend his arms toward the doorway. “Don’t!”

  Frightened, I hurried out after Matt.

  My buddy was waiting outside, breathing hard. His normally pale face was paler than ever. As we walked away he didn’t say anything.

  Now, according to Matt — he told us all this later — what happened was that night Rev. Kaizer called him into his study.

  “Matt, please sit down.”

  Matt, thinking he was going to get a lecture about visiting Mary Beth’s house, sat.

  His father said, “Matt, I think it’s quite wonderful what you’ve done, going to the home of your classmate’s dying father to comfort him.”

  “What do you mean?” Matt asked.

  Rev. Kaizer smiled sweetly. “A woman by the name of Mrs. Bataky called me. She said her husband was very ill. Dying. She said you — I gather you go to school with her daughter — came to visit him today. Apparently her husband thought you were an . . . angel. It’s the first real sign of life her poor husband has shown in three days. And now, Matt, he’s quite desperate to see the angel — you — again.”

  “It’s not true,” Matt rapped out.

  “Now, Matt,” his father said, “I found the woman’s story difficult to believe, too. ‘Madam,’ I said to her, ‘are you quite certain you’re talking about my son? And are you truly saying your husband really thought he was . . . an angel?’

  “And she said, ‘Rev. Kaizer — you being a minister I can say it — my husband led a bad, sinful life. But there’s something about your son that’s making him want to talk about it. Sort of like a confession. Know what I’m saying? I mean, it would do him a lot of good. What I’m asking is, could you get your son to come again? I’m really scared my husband will get worse if he doesn’t.’”