Gina Margolies

Fishbowl Effect

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Dear Harold,

 

I fed your fish today. I fed your fish yesterday. I have fed your fish every day for every one of the sixteen days since you went away. It makes me feel close to you, even closer than when we sat on the only couch that doesn’t have your newspapers all over it to watch the movie you wanted to watch. I know how much you love those fish and how upset you would be if they were not cared for properly. I don’t like it when you are upset, not even when I am the one who should be upset, like the time you didn’t notice I was storing my clothes on the floor and bought plastic bins to store the aquarium cleaning equipment, then got upset when I got upset because you bought bins for the fish but not for me. I feed your fish every day so you will not get upset again. 

 

When I feed your fish, I notice they inhabit a pleasant room on the better side of the house where they swim in water that looks so pretty when the sun sparkles on it. The fish inhabit this room because you thought they would be happier here than in the cluttered, gloomy mud room I suggested they relocate to when I moved in, and you didn’t want them to miss their view of the neighbor’s garden. “You could share this room with the fish as long as you don’t make any noise or bring in any of your stuff,” you offered.  

 

As soon as I touched the lid that first of sixteen days, the fish swam behind the gray rock you scrub with a toothbrush every Tuesday. When you feed them, they get excited as soon as you touch the aquarium lid, darting with the urgency of a secret to share. Maybe it is because you sing when you feed them. “I sing to amuse the silver and blue fish, who needs amusement,” you explained to me the day I did not clap with sufficient enthusiasm. As long as I stood near the tank, the fish stayed behind the rock. 

 

On the fifth day I fed them, the fish did not swim behind the rock when I touched the lid. They stayed where they were, hovered, expectant without being excited. As soon as I replaced the lid, they started to eat. One of them watched me, but I couldn’t tell which one. Every time I looked, whoever it was looked away before I could determine who had been looking. 

 

On the tenth day I fed them, they swam up and started to eat before I replaced the lid. I tried to do it as quickly as possible, the feeding and lid replacing, while looking at the garden view. Eye contact is not necessary for fish. 

 

On the fifteenth day I fed your fish, they did the same thing and I did the same thing.  Only the number of eyes watching changed.

 

Today, on the sixteenth day since you have been gone, I fed your fish. They did not swim up. They did not eat because they were dead, all except for one fish, and he did not seem to be hungry. There is nothing wrong with the water. I clean your aquarium every Tuesday, just like you did. I do not use the toothbrush, which seems excessive, but the fish did not die due to dirty water. There is nothing wrong with the food. I use the same can of food you used and I measure the same amount you measured. I do not sing, which seems excessive. The fish did not die from lack of singing. The fish were dead because their heads had been separated from their bodies. The silver and blue fish was not dead. He did not eat the other fish, not their heads and not their bodies. There were nineteen heads and nineteen bodies in the tank. I counted. It took me a while because some pieces had drifted behind the rock or into the castle that looks like it came from the set of The Little Mermaid, some were jumbled together on the neon rocks at the bottom of the tank, and one little head was stuck in the filter, marooned in cotton, which was mostly white because it is Wednesday today. 

 

The silver and blue fish looked at me while I was counting heads and bodies. Our eyes met, and he let me know he knew I was to blame for your absence. He let me know what my future held if I didn’t bring you back. I wish I could. But once you bite off a man’s head, that’s hard to do. 

 

Love, 

Jill

 

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“Is something wrong, Dr. Young?” Jill placed the paper in her right hand on the table next to the chair in which she sat. She noticed Dr. Young, who normally alternated between a spot over and slightly wide of her left shoulder and his reflection in the screen of his computer, was looking at her teeth.

 

“That is an interesting letter, Jill.” 

 

“You told me to put things I was having trouble explaining in the form of a letter to the person involved. I think I followed your instructions.”

 

“Yes, I did say that. Your letter is not quite what I was expecting.” 

 

As Jill rose from her chair, Dr. Young wondered why he had never noticed the canine teeth in his patient’s mouth were longer than the incisors. Jill’s smile widened, into a smile that sparkled like sun on water. “It isn’t what he was expecting either.”

 

Gina Margolies is a writer in New York City. After twenty years as a technical writer, she expanded into fiction and general non-fiction. Her debut story was recently featured in Apple in the Dark journal. Her work can be seen at www.ginamargolies.com. Bienvenue au Danse, Gina.

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