Fish in the Sky (19 page)

“If I had all the answers you needed, then your existence would be perfectly without purpose. You have to find your own answers.”

He stands up like he wants to leave. But I don’t want him to leave; I don’t want to lose him. He runs his fingers through his hair, and I suddenly feel such a strong emotion, such affection. And I no longer care if he thinks he’s wiser than he is, because I used to be him. Everything he tried has made me who I am now; everything he sowed, I have reaped. How could I forget that he used to be me?

“People often forget who they used to be,” he says, and puts his cap on.

The breeze has become colder, and he puts his hands in his pockets.

“If you forget yourself, though, you could lose yourself and then there’s nothing left,” he adds.

“Nothing?”

“Well, flesh and bones and a heart that beats and a brain that thinks and hands and feet that move and a mouth that speaks. But the real you is not there anymore.”

“Where will I be, then?”

“How should I know?” he says. “You’d probably be where you lost yourself.”

“Can’t you stay with me?” I ask. “And help me through all this?”

“I can’t hold your hand all through your teens, Josh. These are the years you have to learn to handle life. And yourself,” he says, and sits back on the red rock. “I mean, who did I have when I was growing and changing? Nobody! Unless you count God Almighty, perhaps.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“If you just think of me once in a while, think back to the time when you were me and remember how you felt, how you always found answers to every question, how everything you did was almost perfect, then maybe it won’t be so bad. It will be difficult, but not hopeless.”

“But what happens when I’ve learned to handle life and myself? What happens then?”

“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “Maybe then another Josh will appear, the one that takes over from you. Maybe human beings never go past twelve years old; maybe every year you live is like a month in a usual year. Then when the year ends, it never comes back, except in memory. But at the same time, a new year begins and a new life. And the Josh that comes after you has to learn his lessons, ask his own questions, and find his own answers. Maybe this human existence is something like that.”

“Maybe,” I say, deep in thought.

“Yes, maybe,” he says, and we look for a long time out over the water where the eiders rise and sink on the undercurrent in a gentle rhythm like a single soul in many bodies.

It’s become dark. The lights on the island across the bay glitter in the distance, and the beam from the lighthouse cuts through the darkness with a lazy pulse. I’ve made a little fire in front of my hollow because I want to sit here a little longer. A moment ago, I thought he was gone. Then I stood up and gathered some pieces of wood and made a small pile. But when I sat by the fire and looked into the flames, it felt like he was still sitting on the red rock over there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a handful of warm light fall on his face.

“Do you think Jesus really existed?” I ask without taking my eyes off the flames.

“I guess so,” he says.

“But do you think he really did perform all those miracles that are in the Bible?”

“Maybe,” he says.

“But, I mean, how did he walk on water, huh? It’s impossible.”

“Anybody can do that,” he says, like there’s nothing to it.

“Not me.”

“Sure you can,” he says. “If you think a little, then you understand you can.”

I think for a long while, rack my brain, and try to come up with all kinds of methods, but I’m no closer to a solution.

“Think harder.”

“Did he use a float?” I ask hesitantly.

“Of course not.”

“I don’t know how he did it, then,” I say. “Are you telling me that you’ve walked on water?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah? When?”

“Do you have any idea how much effort it is to learn to walk on your own two feet and keep balance?”

“No.”

“Well, that was my miracle,” he says. “And to learn to talk and read. And not least to think. Don’t you understand? Walking on water is conquering what seems impossible. Turning water into wine is changing what you have into something better.”

“But these were miracles. I can’t do any miracles.”

“It’s up to you. Have it your way. But if you’re going to mature at all, you’d better start doing some miracles on yourself.”

“But I don’t believe in Jesus. He’s either a lamb or a shepherd, a god or a man. And I’m bored in church.”

“You don’t have to believe in anything if you don’t want to. But if you’re going to walk on water, you have to believe in yourself at least. Or else you sink.”

There’s a thin mist over the bay now, and the lights on the island have disappeared. Everything is dark and black, the rocks around me, the sky above me, the sea below me. And it’s cold. Only the small fire warms my face and hands and throws a red glow on the rocks. The embers light up and fade in the wood with a low crackle. Tiny tongues of flame lick the gray wood until they turn black, shrink, and break and crumble down between the rocks.

“Mom believes in the Bible and God and all that,” I say.

“That’s her choice, the thing she clings to,” he says. “But it doesn’t matter. You can believe in one thing today and something else tomorrow, but it has nothing to do with life. The only thing that matters is knowing what you’re going to do, and then doing it.”

The flames lower and the light subsides until the tongues of fire become as small as candle flames. Finally, only the embers are left in the black darkness.

The sea is lapping under the rocks, and the undercurrent has become heavier. The black water gleams as a wave rises and then falls with a tired sigh on the rocks, trickling under them and in between them. It takes a long time to trickle away, thick and slow like tar, and when the ocean has dragged it back, it’s like it hesitates for a while, holding its breath for a moment, before it breathes the wave out again, slowly, sleepily, and the wave falls in, embracing the rocks below me.

“I miss Dad,” he says in a low voice.

Then I feel how lonely he is and scared, despite his courage and wisdom, and I want to embrace him, encourage him, and show him that whatever happens, he’ll always have me. I wish I could take him in my arms and be his friend and comforter. But he’s gone, and there’s nobody here by the burned-out embers except me.

I’m a twinkling star, far away in space, on a billion-light-year search for another star so the two of us can twinkle together, side by side, rotating around each other. But stars only
seem
to be close to each other; in fact, there’s a vast, unbridgeable gap between them. They travel at different speeds in different directions, and each one is on its own path. I will never ever get close enough to any of them so I can twinkle with it for a while. That happens very seldom, maybe only every million years or so.

I wake up to the tinkling of bracelets and whispering in the hall, and at once I realize that the starry space is just the darkness behind my eyelids and I watch my star twinkle and sparkle and grow smaller and smaller until it disappears. There’s a noisy crackle of leather on the other side of my door and a strange smell that seeps in by the door frame; a strong smell of gasoline and sweat. Then the blood-red face of Gertrude appears in the doorway.

“I need to ask you a favor,” she says, and her slithering body twitches in the doorway. “Can you stand guard for us and let us know when your mom comes home?”

“Us?” I ask at the same moment that marvelous Mike appears behind her with a wolfish grin under his long hair.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, although such a question is a bit stupid.

“Oh, please,” Gertrude says, irritated, and points Mike to go into her room.

He drags himself over the floor, points a finger at the falcon, and says, “Cool,” and then swings with rubber legs into her room, and a loud creaking is heard as he throws himself on her bed.

“This is the least you can do for me,” Gertrude says, and the bracelets tinkle with impatience.

“Am I supposed to stay awake all night while you two are . . . ?”

“Haven’t I done lots of things for you?” she hisses in my face. “I’ve given you money and everything. God, you’re petty.”

She could beat me up, but that wouldn’t change anything, I’m not going to sit here like an idiot while they’re going at it next door. Gertrude can do whatever she wants; that’s her responsibility and I’m not going to have any part in it.

“You can stand guard yourself. Maybe you could even take turns,” I say, and grin, because that’s obviously not what they intend to be doing. I stand up from my bed and sit triumphantly at my desk. The falcon stands erect by my side, and both of us look, gloating, at my poor cousin, who doesn’t know what to do. But then she suddenly bends down toward the bed, slides her hand under the mattress, and snatches the magazine from under it with two fingers. I freeze in fright, jump to my feet, and try to get it from her, but she retreats, laughing, into her room.

“Maybe you want your mom to find this by accident?” she says, leafing through the magazine.

“Give it back,” I sneer, but I’m in shock and I don’t really know what to say.

“Must be quite exciting licking the paper . . .” she says, giggling.

She has everything, and I have nothing. She calls the shots.

“I’ll keep this while you stand guard. If you spill the beans, I’ll do the same,” she says with cruel gentleness in her face, and closes the door.

Then they start to whisper and giggle on the other side of the door, and now and then they laugh out loud. They’re leafing through the magazine and laughing because they know what I’ve been doing with it. My sins are public now, and I’ll never be able to look anyone in the face again; I’m damned.

And the game starts behind the door.

“Ouch, Mike; stop, Mike; don’t, Mike,” she squeals, but she doesn’t mean a word she says. The only thing that can be heard from him is snarling and growling.

Little by little, the sounds of her voice subside, the bed creaks like somebody is constantly sitting down and standing up, sitting down and standing up, and I can’t pretend that this isn’t interesting anymore. I go to the door, stand close, and listen. But I’m not going to stoop so low as to peek through the keyhole, just listen.

The human being is the only creature on the planet that is controlled by the hunger for sex alone. It’s not like people are necessarily thinking about having babies — quite the contrary. The sexes use each other to fulfill their lust. The female puts on perfume and dresses so that most of her flesh is visible so the male gets water in his mouth and becomes mad with lust. The only thing humans have in common with other animals is the fact that it is the female who decides where and when this game takes place. And they never seem to get enough.

A long sigh comes through the door and is followed by some sort of neighing from Mike. Then I bend down to look through the keyhole. They are, however, still fully clothed, mostly anyway, but my cousin is lying under him and has her long legs hooked together behind his back.

“Do it,” he hisses.

“No,” she hisses back. “Not now. Not here.”

Then I hear the rattle of keys by the front door. I bang the door vigorously.

“She’s coming,” I call, and keep looking through the keyhole.

Mike flies up from the bed, puts on his jacket and his shoes, opens the window, and carefully climbs out. I run to my window and see him jump from the drainpipe, sit on his bike, start it, and roar away.

Mom comes up the stairs and appears in the doorway, looking at me with astonishment.

“Are you awake?”

“I was just finishing doing math for school tomorrow,” I say, and yawn. “But now I’m going to bed.”

She says good night, turns off the light, and closes the door.

I sneak up to Gertrude’s door and peek through the keyhole and watch her undress with a dreamy look on her face. She moves as if her head is shrouded in some strange fog. It takes her a long time to take off her leggings, stroking her hands down her legs, and finally she crawls under her comforter with a sigh of pleasure.