Edward Is Only a Fish (5 page)

“You can stay with me,” said the woman as she handed out her cookies to the left and to the right. “I have a big sturdy kitchen with a cast-iron skillet and a kettleful of hot-cross buns.”

“You can stay with me,” said the fire chief as he—one, two, three, four—gobbled up his cookies. “I have a snug little room at the back of my house with a quick slick floor and a roaring red fire.”

“You can stay with me,” said the mayor as she sealed up her cookies in a glossy white folder. “I have a bright clean office at the top of my building with a clock and a desk and a shiny pot of coffee.”

“But I want to stay with Edward!” cried Mr. Billingsly. “I want to eat a tangerine and sit in the tub and sing cowboy songs to my best friend, Edward, and our fourteen calico cats.” The stray dogs at Mr. Billingsly's feet began to snuffle and cry. “I want to go home!”

Nine

THE E & B GOLDFISH EXPRESS

It was beginning to get dark. Edward blinked up at the red rays of the sun as it slipped down into the gaps between the houses. The shadows of the houses rolled out across the shadows of the trucks, the shadows of the people, the shadows of the black cats in the black, black trees.

The fire chief stepped up with his ax. “I am going to break down the door to get rid of this water.”

“But that would be dangerous,” said Mr. B as he pulled himself back to his feet and wiped the mud from his glasses. “You might wash my friend Edward away.”

“We could catch him in a net,” said the woman. The cats meowed in agreement.

“That would be impolite,” said Mr. B as he climbed back onto the bicycle. “You do not throw a net at your friend. And besides, it's his house now. He can do whatever he pleases.” Mr. B picked up the tangerine and tucked it under his arm. He turned back to look at the house for the very last time.

“Good-bye, Edward. I am going to buy myself a brand-new house. I am sorry that we will not be able to celebrate your birthday this year, but … well … good-bye. I will miss you very, very much.”

There was no time to waste. Edward untangled the string from the covered-wagon kite. He was thinking about the birthday cake Mr. B baked for him last year.

“But he is too small a fish to be living by himself,” said the mayor as she gathered up her papers. “There should be a big fish in that house, to take care of him, to be the boss of the house, and to tell him what to do.”

“I do not want another fish in the house,” said Mr. Billingsly. “Edward is the only fish for me.”

Edward spun the string out across the room, over the arms of the hat rack, and into the hallway.
Zip zip.
He was thinking about the toy train Mr. B had named after him—The E & B Goldfish Express.

The woman with the cookies pressed her face against the window. “But who is going to feed him when we are gone? Who is going to bring him his food?”

“We will feed him,” said the cats. “We would love to feed him.”

“But how is he going to buy the food, where is he going to get the money?” said the mayor.

As the firemen gathered up all their ladders and hoses and helmets and axes, the fire chief climbed halfway into his Jeep and then stopped. He looked back at the house, then shook his head slowly.

“It looks like Edward is going to have to get a job,” he said.

Down the hall went Edward, through the door and into the bathroom. The white line trailed out behind him like a string on the end of a tiny golden kite.

“But he is only a fish,” said the woman. “What kind of job could he get? What does he know how to do?”

Inside the bathroom, Edward paused above the bubbling waters of the tub. Way down at the bottom lay the white rubber stopper.

“He knows how to swim,” said Mr. Billingsly.

“That's not good enough,” said the fire chief as his men climbed back into their trucks.

Edward dived down beneath the faucet and tied the string tight around the handle of the stopper. He was thinking about the bedtime stories Mr. B would read to him every night, the stories about puddles and ponds and rivulets and rivers and bayous and lakes and oceans.

“He knows how to play,” said Mr. Billingsly.

“No time for that now,” said the mayor. “He is going to have to go to work.”

Edward swam back into the living room, following the string as he went.

“He is going to have to go to school,” said the chief.

“So that he can get a job,” said the mayor.

“So that he can pay for his food,” said the woman.

“So that the cats will have something to feed him,” said the chief.

The string led Edward back through the darkness to the rim of his fishbowl. He was thinking about how lonely Mr. Billingsly would be without him.

“But how is he going to…”

On and on went the voices outside. They sounded like the burbling and the gurgling of the water down a drain. Edward sank down to the bottom of his fishbowl, down beneath the arms of his purple plastic umbrella, down into the lap of his yellow plastic lawn chair. What good is a gigantic house if the only one who can fit inside it is you? He wrapped his tail around the pole of the umbrella, braced his fins against the arms of the chair, took the string in his mouth, shut his eyes, arched his back, and pulled with all his might.
Pop!
went the plug.
Glug-glug, glug-glug.
It is a very hard job, a very tiring job, to always be the boss of the house. Edward sank down to the bottom of his bowl and promptly went to sleep.

Ten

HIGH AND DRY

Edward woke to the sound of dogs barking. The house was filled with people—the fire chief, the mayor, the woman, the firemen, the neighbors—all gathered round the warm, bright fireplace roasting hot dogs and talking and laughing together. Everything was back in its place. The toy train ran round and round on its track. The cats were back on the hat rack, a half-dozen stray dogs snapping at their feet. Over in the corner sat Mr. Billingsly at the piano—“Yippee-kai-yi-yay, get a-long you lit-tle dog-gie…” Over on the kitchen counter sat Edward's fishbowl, dry as a duster and filled to the brim with coconut macaroons.

“Well,” said Edward, “it sure doesn't look like there's any more room in that fishbowl for…” He gave a start and then glanced around him. He was surrounded by beautiful white sand. Next to his lawn chair stood a pipe-cleaner palm tree, and next to that a lifeguard stand made out of toothpicks. On top of the stand was a sign that read
LAKE EDWARD—SWIM AT YOUR OWN RISK
. At the foot of the stand was a big silver whistle, and over in the corner—rising up in the distance like the sun in the morning—was a nice, ripe, juicy tangerine.

“Lake Edward,” said Edward. “I like the sound of that. Lake Edward.”

His new aquarium stretched from one end of the counter to the other. Not quite big enough for everybody, but …

Maybe someday Edward would teach them all how to swim—Mr. B and the chief and the woman and the mayor and the cats and the dogs and the neighbors—and they would all go away on vacation together.

Or maybe not. Edward looked around him. Water lilies bloomed in a roof above his head. A bright fire glowed through the bubbles and the glass. The house was filled with singing. It had been a day of captures and a day of escapes and a day to return to safe waters. Maybe the best part of vacation was coming home again.

Henry Holt and Company, Inc. /
Publishers since 1866

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Henry Holt is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, Inc.

Text copyright © 1994 by Alan Sincic

Illustrations copyright © 1994 by R. W. Alley

All rights reserved.

Published in Canada by Fitzhenry & Whiteside Ltd.,

195 Allstate Parkway, Markham, Ontario L3R 4T8.

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ISBN 0-8050-3491-9

First Edition—1994

eISBN 9781466885097

First eBook edition: October 2014