The Dead Fish Museum Read Online Free

and walked out where the firelight failed. I heard him whistling in the dark.
    Son? Mr. Cheetam said.
    What? Donny asked.
    Come on over here a minute, Mr. Cheetam said.
    They were in the shadows. I heard Donny say, What does Mom think?
    That’s the thing, Mr. Cheetam said. Your mother would stay.
    I don’t know, Donny said. How long would we be gone?
    Donald, Mr. Cheetam said, don’t be stupid. We’re divorcing, your mom and I. You see, we won’t come back—we’ll live in a brand-new house there.
    Donny begged, But why?
    Donald, come on. You see how things are.
    The two of them were quiet and staring ahead, like their next thoughts might fall out of the sky.
    What can I say? Mr. Cheetam said.
    Nothing, Donny said.
    I love you, Donald. You know that.
    I crawled inside our tent. A little while later, Donny got in his bag, buried down inside. He was crying and choking. I whispered, Donny, hey, hey Donny? Donny? I think I hear something out there. Do you hear it? Let’s go look! I hugged my arm around him and he started jerking in his bag and sat up and cried to me, Here’s your stupid spatula! Then he crossed over into Mr. Cheetam’s tent but kept crying and begging even louder for no divorce.
    Look, I heard Mr. Cheetam say, after your sister died—His voice fell apart. That’s too easy, he said. I’ve met someone else. He was quiet a minute. That’s the truth.
    I thought the crying would go on forever, but eventually Donny must have fallen asleep.
    I turned over and over in my sleeping bag, and then I put on Sister Celestine’s scapular and grabbed the flashlight and crawled out of the tent. The fire made a hiss and I kicked the last few embers around in the bed of ash. Mr. Cheetam snorted in his sleep and I heard Donny say, Dad? and Mr. Cheetam say, What? but there was nothing after that, even though I stood outside their tent a long time, listening.
    I aimed my flashlight ahead to the flat rock rim of the lake and followed the narrow beam up there. I sat, dangling my feet, and snapped off the light. I think I was feeling sorry for myself. Suddenly it felt like we’d been gone for ages. Was it Sunday? I gathered up ten rocks for a rosary, to count my prayers. I rattled them in my hands and started the Our Father but my voice was weird. I shook the rocks in my fist like dice. I threw one in the lake, and a little while later I heard the splash. Circles opened out where the stone had vanished. I thought of saying something in Latin but couldn’t recall a single word, except amen. I yelled out, A-men! and heard back, Hey-men, hey-men, hey-men, smaller and smaller.
    I stretched out on the rock. Sister Celestine’s scapular was old, the wool worn soft from handling. Once, at the Home, I had climbed the stairs, six flights up from my room in the basement, to see where she lived. We weren’t supposed to go up there. I saw why. Hosiery hung from the water pipes. Candy wrappers were crumpled on the floor. A black habit lay like an empty sack beside the bed. The bed was unmade, and I could see the hollow where Sister Celestine slept. A pale green blanket and a thin yellow top sheet had been twisted into a tight braid and kicked off the end of the mattress. The only decoration was a black wooden crucifix, nailed on the wall above the bed like a permanent shadow.
    I was still lying there when Donny and Mr. Cheetam came running up the rock in their undies. Hey, what’s going on? they asked. They said they’d heard me shouting and were afraid I’d got lost or seen something.
    Maybe the Sasquatch, Donny said.
    God damn it, Donald, there is no such thing, Mr. Cheetam said. That’s just a myth.
    Oh yeah, Donny said. How do you know?
    Don’t worry, I said. It was nothing.
    You sure? Donny said.
    It was nothing, I said. I’m sure.
    A wind was blowing and it was a little cold on that rock. Nobody knew what to say.
    See out there? Above Mount Olympus? That green star? Mr. Cheetam said, pointing. We all looked—a vague