What Do Fish Have to Do With Anything?

“He dumped his money — coins — on the floor.”

  “Please, Madge, I wish you wouldn’t cry.”

  “Ma, do you know what it is like to have a room full of kids who hate you, despise you, have no respect for you? I hate teaching. I used to be good. I can’t stand it anymore.”

  “You’ve had a bad day, that’s all. Or maybe you should think about getting another position.”

  “Sure. And if I can’t get one, what are we supposed to live on? Your social security?”

  “Go to sleep, honey. You’re tired. You’ll feel better when you’re rested.”

  There was silence.

  In the closet, Gregory, who had heard it all, pressed a hand to his heart to keep it from beating so wildly.

  He listened and thought he detected the sounds of someone outside the closet. Was it Mrs. Wessex on her bed? He kept listening. After a while, he began to hear snores. Mrs. Wessex’s snores! He started to laugh, but the laugh faded. He thought of what he had heard, and all he could feel was a heaviness in his heart.

  Quietly, he lowered himself the rest of the way through the trap door. Once in the crawlspace, he looked around for the shoes that had fallen down. He put them back into the closet with care, then shut the trap door and latched it. When he made his way out from under the house, he ran all the way home, dumping the firecrackers in a garbage can.

  The next morning Gregory was waiting at the school before they let the early arrivals into the building. He was glad none of the kids from his class were there.

  As soon as the doors were unlocked, he raced down the hallway toward his classroom. He reached it. Mrs. Wessex was alone in the room. She was at her desk, working on papers.

  Gregory edged into the room.

  After a moment Mrs. Wessex looked up. She began to smile, caught herself, and frowned. “Yes, Gregory,” she said, rather severely. “The bell hasn’t rung. What do you want?”

  In spite of himself, Gregory blushed. “It was about yesterday.”

  “Yes . . . ?” said Mrs. Wessex. There was pain in her eyes.

  Gregory wanted to put his arms around her and give her a hug. Instead he said, “I just wanted to say . . . you’re the best teacher in . . . the . . . the whole world.”

  A startled look came to Mrs. Wessex’s face. For a moment Gregory thought she was going to cry. “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  “I just think so.” He looked down at his feet.

  “Oh . . . ,” she said, very softly. “Thank you.”

  On the playground, his classmates gathered around.

  “Did you get your revenge?” Ryan taunted.

  “Yeah,” Gregory replied.

  “Cool. What did you do?”

  “Never mind what. Just see the way she acts.”

  Gregory was right. It was almost a month before Mrs. Wessex became angry again.

  But not before Ryan had given him a new name: “Teacher Tamer.”

  Eve Hubbard had a passion for pets. Her entire life had been filled with gerbils, hamsters, a rat, turtles, a dog, a salamander, and most recently, cats.

  In the beginning there was Chase. He was the dog Eve’s parents got before she was born. A dalmatian, his original name was Clark, but Eve so loved the way he chased other animals, squirrels, birds, cats, other dogs, that she changed his name to Chase.

  When Chase died of old age, Eve was very sad. She insisted they bury him in their backyard. This yard was enclosed by a high brick wall, crowded with trees, shrubs, and flowers. It was a shady, often damp place, where the moss grew thick, while strange-looking mushrooms sprang up overnight, and withered and died just as quickly.

  Midgarden was a small, murky pool in which, during the summer, fat goldfish swam. As they darted about the dark water, Eve was reminded of summer heat lightning.

  It was in this yard that Chase was laid to rest with a large stone to mark the spot.

  Eve’s parents decided against another dog. But though her young brother, Jeff, was uninterested in animals, Eve was allowed to have many other pets. None seemed to survive for very long. When they died Eve buried them in the backyard, too. In time there was quite a row of stones, even a cluster of pebbles for departed goldfish.

  Most recently Eve came to have two kittens. When she got them she made a vow that these pets would survive. One was white with blue eyes and a pink nose. She named her Angel. The black one — a male with yellow eyes and black nose — she called Shadow.

  Eve lavished so much care and affection on Angel and Shadow that she was quite certain she loved these pets more than the others. She was equally sure they loved her just as much. There was nothing she would not do for them. She fed them. Washed and groomed them. Talked to them. Petted them. Not only did they thrive, they grew to maturity.

  But there were some problems with Angel.

  Early on, the two cats had learned that their food was offered at five o’clock. Twenty minutes before the hour, the two could always be found sitting by their bowls, tails twitching as they waited impatiently for Eve to feed them. If Eve was tardy, Angel scolded her loudly. Once, when Eve was twenty minutes late, Angel nipped Eve’s hand as their bowls were being filled. That, despite an apology from Eve.

  The cats had another eating habit that Eve attributed to a kind of “ladies first” politeness. That is, Shadow always waited for Angel to start before he began to eat.

  Once — just as an experiment — Eve held Angel back in order to let Shadow eat first. A furious Angel scratched Eve and butted Shadow aside.

  “I promise I won’t do that again,” Eve said, sucking the blood from her hand.

  Then there was the time Eve purchased a catnip mouse for the cats. It was a Christmas present she bought with her own money. Instead of sharing it, Angel took the stuffed creature into a corner. When Shadow tried to get at it, Angel hissed. Eve — wanting them to share — took the toy away from her and gave it to Shadow.

  That night, when Eve was going down the steps, Angel got between her legs. If Eve hadn’t managed to grab the banister, she would have fallen. It was almost as if Angel had wanted Eve to hurt herself.

  Now and again, Angel caught one of the goldfish in the garden pool. Not that she ate any of them. Instead, she left them by the edge of the pool, as if to warn the other goldfish of her prowess. And twice — when Eve had scolded her about bullying Shadow — she’d carried a dead goldfish into the house and left it on Eve’s pillow.

  Eve, in her great love for the cats, forgave these excesses.

  One late summer day Angel grew ill. She stopped eating, became thin as a rail, developed a dry nose and runny eyes, and mewed continually, as though asking Eve to do something. Despite the special food Eve prepared, despite her tending to Angel every free moment, the cat’s legs grew shaky. Her fur, once thick and velvet in its brushed and combed lushness, became scruffy and unkempt.

  “I’m afraid it’s feline distemper,” the veterinarian said in his examining room with the stainless steel tabletop. “I’m sorry to say your friend won’t recover. My dear, I think we should put her out of her misery.” He looked from Eve to her father. “One injection will do. I promise she won’t feel the least bit of pain. As it is, your other cat might catch the same disease. Even humans do, sometimes. What’s your cat’s name?”

  “Angel.”

  “I am sorry,” he said, and sounded sincere.

  Tears trickled from Eve’s eyes. There was no arguing with what she could see for herself.

  Though the vet — and her father — advised against it, Eve insisted on holding Angel in her arms when the fatal injection was administered. “You don’t know how much we love each other,” Eve explained softly.

  Angel died quickly and painlessly in Eve’s arms, with barely a sound, save for one long, soft hiss and a frightful last look that Eve interpreted as meaning, “Why have you done this to me?”

  The vet — citing local law — said Angel could not be buried in Eve’s backyard.

  As if all that was no
t heartbreaking enough, when Eve returned home she felt compelled to explain to Shadow what had happened.

  “No more parties for Angel,” she told Shadow. “No more dressing her up and pushing her in the baby carriage or pretending she’s queen of the house and we, her loyal servants. Oh, Shadow, she’s gone. Forever.”

  Eve’s mother offered the gentle suggestion that perhaps Shadow would not understand what had happened to Angel. Indignantly, Eve replied that she was old enough to know her own as well as her cat’s mind. “Shadow will understand,” she insisted. “And nobody loves her pets so well as I do,” she said, midst hot tears.

  Within twenty-four hours Eve began to wonder if her mother was right concerning Shadow’s capacity to understand. He became edgy and acted strangely. He spent hours searching for the dead Angel. Not only did Shadow keep making the rounds of the white cat’s particular haunts, he kept returning to her favorite sleeping spot, the orange seat on the old wing chair in the dark corner of the living room. Though Shadow himself preferred the couch throw pillow, after Angel’s death he spent most of his sleeping hours near her spot.

  Shadow even had to be encouraged to eat. It was as if he could not accept the notion that Angel was not going to return and feared she would not like it if he ate first.

  Two weeks after Angel’s death, in the middle of the night, a noise woke Eve. She was in her bed, on the second floor of her house, beneath a feather comforter, with her body snug and warm, her face open to the crisp air. What was it, she wondered, that had woken her? Was it the cry of a cat?

  In her drowsy state it took her a moment to remember that Angel had died. Usually, the cats lay at the foot of her bed, more often than not with Angel using Shadow as a pillow.

  Eve felt about with her toes. There were no cats on her bed. She sat up and looked on the floor.

  Shadow was not there, either. Troubled, Eve swung her feet out from under the comforter and walked to the door of her room.

  “Shadow!” she called softly.

  When there was no reply she called again, louder.

  Eve went to the window of her room and looked into the backyard. The night sky was lit up by a three-quarter moon of great brightness. Only a few clouds — like knots of darkness — drifted by. Because of the moonlight, few stars were visible. But there was Shadow, sitting by the edge of the goldfish pool, staring up.

  “Shadow!” Eve called.

  The black cat looked at Eve but — as though summoned — quickly shifted his gaze back to whatever it was that was attracting his attention.

  Eve padded downstairs. At the base of the steps she paused to listen. Her parents — she was quite certain — were asleep. So, presumably, was her younger brother, Jeff.

  Eve went out the back door, which was open when it should have been closed. Though the cement patio was cold to her bare feet, she continued on.

  It took Eve a moment to adjust her eyes to the backyard’s gloom, but when she searched about she saw Shadow gazing up just as she had seen him from above. The fur along his black back was standing up. His tail was fluffed out. Eve could see right away that he was very frightened. “Shadow!” Eve whispered. “What is it?”

  The black cat swished his tail but did not alter his gaze. Puzzled, Eve sat down on the ground and put her head next to Shadow’s head — the better to follow his look — and searched again.

  In the tree — out along a branch — was a white cat.

  “Angel!” Eve cried.

  The white cat hissed and vanished.

  Shaken, Eve gathered Shadow in her arms and pressed her face into his thick, sweet-smelling neck. The black cat was trembling.

  Eve carried Shadow back to her room and placed him gently on his accustomed sleeping spot at the foot of her bed. The cat flexed his back, walked a tight circle — as if to unwind himself — kneaded the comforter, then plopped down. But he slept, not by Eve’s feet, but close to her hands.

  “Can animals become ghosts?” Eve asked at the breakfast table the next morning.

  Her father lowered his newspaper. “What?”

  “When an animal dies, can it become a ghost?”

  “What kind of animal?” Jeff asked between mouthfuls of Corn Pops and milk. Jeff was seven.

  Eve gave her younger brother a disdainful glance. “Can animals become ghosts?” she asked again.

  Her mother, who was reading another part of the newspaper, said, “You have to believe in ghosts first.”

  “Guess what,” Jeff interrupted.

  “What?”

  “Animals can’t be ghosts.”

  Eve looked across the room. Shadow was sitting atop the counter, yellow eyes fixed on her. Eve had no doubt he was paying attention to the conversation.

  “Shadow believes in ghosts,” Eve informed her brother and anyone else who might be listening. “So there,” she said and left for school.

  In school Eve went to the library and requested a book about ghosts.

  “A ghost story?” the librarian asked.

  “Not really,” Eve explained. “I need to find out some facts about them. What they are. What they want. You see I have one. An animal one.”

  The librarian looked a little queerly at Eve. But all she said was, “Let me show you what we have.” She found a book for Eve titled The Truth About Ghosts.

  “Cool,” Eve said, and worked her way through the pages. What she learned was that ghosts — if you believed in them — came back to haunt the living because during the ghosts’ lives something had been left incomplete, undone, or unsaid. Perhaps they could not bear to be apart from those still living. Or they wanted something they could not get where they were.

  From the time the cats had been kittens, Eve had tried to train them to lay upon her chest so they could talk out the day before going to sleep. Cats, she knew perfectly well, did not talk. But she was willing to translate their looks into speech. Angel had always refused, but Shadow was willing.

  So that evening he sat on her chest, black nose just a few inches from Eve’s nose, staring at her with his large yellow eyes and purring like an idling motor.

  “Why do you think Angel has come back?” Eve asked. Shadow yawned and turned away.

  “Shadow,” said Eve, “I think she’s haunting you.”

  “I want you to promise me something,” Eve continued. “If you step out to see Angel’s ghost again, let me know so I can go with you and tell her to leave you alone. Okay?”

  Shadow blinked.

  It was two in the morning when Eve woke. Shadow wasn’t there. The door was open.

  Eve hurried down the steps and into the yard. The moon was bright enough that she could spot Shadow at the edge of the pool, staring into a tree. Angel was in the tree.

  “What is it, Angel?” she called gently. “What’s the matter? Why can’t you rest? What do you want?”

  Amid the dark leaves, Angel’s body seemed to be shining. Her tail jerked about angrily. Her glare was hostile.

  Eve felt something prickly against her leg. Startled, she looked down. It was Shadow, cringing behind her.

  “I want you to know,” Eve informed Angel with some indignation, “you are scaring Shadow.”

  The white cat vanished.

  The following day Shadow grew sluggish. That evening he did not eat his dinner.

  “Shadow,” said Eve during their bedtime conversation, “Angel can be very insistent. Remember that time with the catnip mouse?

  “You didn’t eat tonight,” Eve continued. “That’s the way Angel’s sickness began. I think you’re going to get sick, and die, and go to her. I believe she wants you where she is so she can have someone to sleep on. Do you think that’s so? How can I help you stay?” she asked tearfully. “I’ll do anything.”

  Shadow, his front paws tucked rather primly under his chest, gazed evenly at Eve with his round yellow eyes. He licked one of his paws and passed the wet paw over his face, as if wiping away tears. Then he got up and walked slowly to the foot of Eve’s b
ed. Instead of doing his usual turn and settling down for the night, he jumped off the bed and crept out of the room, belly low.

  “Don’t listen to her!” Eve called after him. “Don’t!”

  She went to the window. The moon was close to being full. As she watched, she saw Shadow walk into the garden and take up his position by the goldfish pond. He was staring into the tree. Eve glanced at the stone that marked Chase’s burial spot — and all the other animals’ markers — and decided not to go down.

  Over the next few days Shadow’s health grew worse. Signs of distemper were unmistakable. This time, however, Eve didn’t wait quite so long before asking her mother to take the cat to the veterinarian.

  He set Shadow on the stainless steel examination table and felt around his ears, looked into his mouth, took his temperature.

  “It’s what I was afraid of,” the vet said sadly, once he had concluded his examination. “He must have gotten the illness from your other cat.

  “But cats,” the vet warned, “are a bit like people in regard to illness. Living or dying — it can have a lot to do with what they want. Has this fellow been grieving for his partner?”

  “He’s being haunted by her,” Eve said solemnly.

  The vet exchanged glances with Eve’s mother. To Eve, he said, “Happens that way with humans too, sometimes. Let’s hope you caught this illness early enough,” he said soothingly and offered Eve a packet of pink pills, as well as instructions on how to give them to Shadow. “Call me if he gets worse.”

  That night Eve tried talking to Shadow again. His yellow eyes were dull. His nose was dry. “Please tell me what I can do to help you resist Angel,” she said to him. “It’s not our fault she died. It’s not right that she wants to take you with her.”

  When Shadow made no response, Eve became almost angry. “Shadow,” she said, “who picked you out at the ASPCA? Who always fed you and brushed you? Had birthday parties and Christmas with you? Who talks to you every night? Listens to you, lets you sleep on her bed? Please don’t forget any of that. Please.”

  Shadow shut his eyes.

  “Oh, Shadow!” Eve cried in frustration. “It’s not fair!”