“Just a little, sweetie. Just like that.”
His lack of coordination nearly dumped the entire can of food onto the desk, but he didn’t mind that either. Delighted by the feathering fins and bulging black eyes, he dipped his fingers into the flaky powder and managed to shake enough into the water to make his mother proud. “Good job, Benny!” she cooed at him and smoothed his dark brown hair.
He looked nothing like his mother. Benny was a distorted image of his father, with dark hair and deep-set brown eyes. When the boy slept, his face placid and smooth, he looked so much like Hank Klussman it unnerved both his parents, but for different reasons.
Papery flecks of red and yellow floated on the surface as Benny counted them, making special mental notes of the flecks that sank, the flecks that clumped together, the flecks the fish ate first. Red. The fish likes the red ones.
“What should we call him?” Frannie asked. It was a dicey question. Frustration often sent Benny into convulsions if he couldn’t make his mouth behave or if he desperately wanted to be understood. Gauging the boy’s faltering expression, she decided to make it a game. “How about Ernie? Do you like Ernie?”
He shook his head.
“Bert? . . . Oscar? . . . Elmo?” She rattled off the entire cast of a children’s show he’d stopped liking years earlier.
No. He shook his head. The name etched itself between the boy’s eyes. Darwin. His name is Darwin. It was the name of a man that studied fish and animals in a book she’d read to him. A scientist’s name. A best friend’s name.
“Daw—” He tried to say it, keeping his eye on the fish. The little thing clung to the green plastic kelp as though holding on to it for dear life. Benny knew exactly how it felt.
Frannie could feel his frustration building at being unable to speak clearly but did her best to ignore it. It had been over a week since he’d smiled, and she wasn’t about to ruin it. “I can tell you have a good one in mind, Benny. Whatever it is, I love it!” She kissed the top of his head and quickly changed the subject. “There are some rules, sweetie. About fish.”
He tore his eyes away from the impossibly thin webbing between the spines of Darwin’s tail and blinked at her. Yes?
“Fish don’t like it when you tap on the glass. It hurts their ears.”
Benny nodded. Loud noises hurt his ears too.
“You can’t touch or pet a fish. It hurts their skin.”
He understood. He hated to be touched.
“And he only needs to eat once a day. If he eats more, it hurts his tummy.”
This one surprised him. Benny liked to eat four times a day. He eyed his mother for a moment as though calculating something important and then nodded his head. He trusted her. Almost.
“We’ll feed him together, okay? Just until you’re used to it.” She patted his hand, knowing full well that he would most likely always need her help. The grim thought almost broke through her smile, but she didn’t let it.
A few moments later, Frannie left the room. She stood outside the door for ten minutes, waiting, listening for a loud thump and the splashing of water, braced to run back in. But there was nothing. Blissful silence. Biting her lip, she debated opening the door and checking on her son but thought better of it. Instead, she crouched down and peeked in through the keyhole.
Benny sat perched on the edge of his bed, staring at the fish. When little Darwin finally emerged from his hiding place behind the green plastic, the boy clapped his hands gently as though witnessing a magic trick.
He sat like that most of the day.
For the next three weeks, Benny did little else but study his pet fish. Darwin was a source of endless data. The boy charted its every movement across the tiny acre of blue pebbles at the bottom of the tank. He noted its reactions to different colors of construction paper he’d set as gently as he could next to its bowl. He timed the number of minutes it took for the shiny thing to vacuum up all of its little paper flakes of food (7.3 minutes!). He played hide-and-seek with it to see if the fish could see him (he could!). He got up in the middle of the night to see if Darwin was sleeping (he wasn’t!). He weighed and measured its growth day to day with his eyes, using the tiny castle as a ruler. He studied every scale on its skin, every spine of its fins, every movement of its eyes.
Frannie was delighted. “I’ve never seen him so engrossed in anything, honey!”
Hank nodded but couldn’t muster her enthusiasm. He’d begun sleeping in the guest room over the garage after their latest fight. You’re not going to make me the bad guy here! I’m just saying he’d be happier in a home where he can get the care he needs. We don’t have to live like this.
Undaunted, Frannie bought Benny books on goldfish that he read voraciously whenever she would help him turn the pages. A new hope lit her tired eyes. Attachment. Focus. Interest. Maybe the fish will help Benny connect with the outside world. She stopped listening for the crash. She stopped waiting for the inevitable.
On the twenty-third day of Darwin’s life in Benny’s room, it happened.
Benny had spent the previous four days becoming more and more agitated. He wants out, a voice in the back of his head whispered. Worry lines etched his concerns over his forehead. He’s bored. The fish would race from one side of the tank to the other, studying the corners, flickering its fins along the edges, testing, hoping. That was when the terrible placement of the tank finally occurred to him.
Darwin had no view. His tank abutted a blank wall, and Benny’s windows were over eight feet away. The world outside was beyond the fish’s reach.
Benny set his chin on the desk next to the tank and turned his head this way and that, gauging how much and how far the fish could see. Walls, fireplace, closet door, light from the windows, and maybe the shadow of a tree, but nothing else. No cars. No people. No colors. No sunsets.
He tried telling his mother. Poor Frannie stood there as he waved his arms and attempted the words. We need to move Darwin’s tank. Help me. “Wnnrr Daaaw!”
“I don’t understand, honey. Are you worried about something? How can I help you?” She picked up lamps and crayons. She offered him food. “Is it the fish?”
He nodded.
“We already fed the fish, sweetie.”
He shook his head. No. That’s not what I mean.
“Yes, we did. Remember? It was after breakfast. I came in, and we even wrote it down.” She was becoming slightly panicked now, watching his body begin to curl in on itself. Muscles clenching. She pointed to the calendar on the wall and the note she’d made. “See? It says Fed Fish. We fed him. It’s okay, honey. I promise. The fish is okay. Why don’t you lie down? Alright?”
She guided him to the bed and tried to roll him onto his side. He tried to let her. He tried to will his muscles to be still, but they were screaming in protest. MOVE HIS TANK! HE NEEDS TO SEE! HE’LL DIE LIKE THIS!
One of his curled hands lashed out of his control and connected with the side of her face with a meaty thwap!
“Benny!” she gasped, recoiling from him, letting his flailing body drop to the floor. She watched him helplessly thumping his limbs against the ground as she held the side of her face, tears streaming. “Hank!” she cried out. “I need help!”
But Benny didn’t hear her. He didn’t feel the many hands pull him up off the ground or the cold stab of medication. All he could see was his fish, hiding behind the plastic kelp, gaping back at him. Trapped in his tiny prison.