THE GOLD FISH: Habits and Horrors (3.9)

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It was Sunday morning and, as was her habit, Joan had made a big pancake breakfast. Although technically, it wasn’t really morning. It was just past eleven, the time at which Don could dependably be relied upon to be awake and wearing pants.

Not always, of course, but usually. Which was fine and dandy with Joan. Sundays were supposed to be a goddamned day of rest, and even though it seemed that nearly every day was a day of rest for Don, why fight with him over something so trivial when she usually had bigger fish to fry. Besides, she didn’t mind a leisurely morning. She relished them. Especially since she had stopped going to church.

The first seed of her rebellion and rejection of the Catholic church had been planted during that horribly deflating conversation with Father O’Connell all those years ago, but it had really gained momentum after one too many mornings hurriedly dressing her cranky, recalcitrant daughters in their Sunday best, dragging their tired, hungry bodies into the car, and trying to keep them still and quiet during those boring, hour-long services. Services which, by the way, no longer provided any kind of insight or comfort. It goes without saying, of course, that Joan did all this on her own. While Don slept the untroubled sleep of an atheist. So one day, she just stopped.

It had been the most deliciously liberating thing she’d ever done.

This was the 70s, mind you, way before the “f” word came into fashion. But if it had, Joan -- who was an inveterate curser, who Pop often said, with no small amount of pride, had the mouth of a sailor -- might have said “fuck it.”

And now every Sunday Joan woke up and realized she did NOT have to endure that horrible ritual, that she could actually enjoy a second cup of coffee by herself while the rest of family slumbered peacefully, she could almost drop to her knees and weep with relief. If she hadn’t already lost her religion, liberation from Sunday mass might have been enough for her to find it again. Almost. But not quite.

Suffice it to say, Joan was feeling fairly good that Sunday morning.

Barbie, however, was not. She was reeling, reeling from the one-two punch of losing her friendship with Bridge and losing her money. Which brought with it the realization that her gold (pause) fish probably wasn’t getting stuffed anytime soon. She just didn’t think she had the energy to restart her whole embroidery scheme again, especially after she’d given Pickles and her high-paying friends the boot, and suspected, in her heart of hearts, that she would never get her money back from her father.

If, that is, he even remembered taking it. Which was highly debatable given his drinking habit. And even if, miracle of miracles, he did remember, he’d probably delay parting with the bills he owed her for fear of carrying an insubstantial wad of cash. He would put it off and put it off, until one day, he truly would forget that he owed her a thing.

Suffice it to say, Barbie was not feeling good. The wind that had been lifting her sails for the past two months had vanished. She was now lost in the doldrums, her head propped dejectedly under one fist, watching her father Don gleefully and meticulously arrange his breakfast plate -- as was his habit -- seemingly unrepentant over his crime and the pain he had caused.

In fact, judging from his expression, Barbie thought the odds were pretty damned good that her father had already forgotten about his -- let’s just call a spade a spade -- theft. And that suddenly filled her with a fury so pure and hot, it contorted her normally guileless face. One of her upper lips curled in teenager-y hostility and disgust, a look that heretofore had only been worn -- and one might say perfected -- by Karen.

But no one noticed the look on Barbie’s face because they were all watching Don, who was stacking and buttering his pancakes with an amount of butter equal to the amount of buttercream a normal person might use to frost an entire three-layer cake. It was insane. And if that wasn’t enough fat to stop his heart, the gallon of King Syrup he poured over the top of the stack might have finished the job.

It was disgusting. And the kind of overindulgence Don was famous for. And suddenly, to Barbie, it was emblematic of everything that was wrong with him. Her eyes narrowed, and if she had been an angry cartoon character, steam would have begun erupting from her ears.

Blissfully oblivious to anything or anyone around him, Don continued his preparations, moving on to laying an even dusting of salt and pepper across a lumpy mound of scrambled eggs before covering that with a layer of Heinz Ketchup. Next, he cut up his sausages and laid the resulting greasy circles around his plate’s periphery like a pair of breakfast-y parenthesis. Satisfied with his creation, he set down his knife, switched his fork to his other hand, and smacked his lips in excited anticipation.

“Jesus, Dad.”

Joan’s head whirled to Karen, ready to pounce on her eldest for disturbing the peace, as was her eldest’s habit. But it wasn’t Karen who spoke this time. It was Barbie.

“Hmmm..?” said Don, his eyebrows raised.

“Why do you have to be so—” Barbie began in a lethally contemptuous tone, but just then, the phone rang, cutting her off mid-sentence.

“I’ll get it,” said Karen, jumping up to answer it. She was expecting a call from Shay to finalize details of a rollerskating outing later that day, but kept her eyes on the table lest she miss out on any delicious family drama.

“Helloooo,” she said cheerfully into the phone. But almost immediately, frowned in confusion.

“Shay?! Shay? What’s wrong? Oh my God… tell me what’s wrong!”

At this tone shift, the entire Ward family went quiet, seeming to hold their collective breath.

Karen’s face fell as she listened, and she shook her head. “No. No. No. No. NOOOOO!” Suddenly Karen was sobbing, big fat tears rolling down her face.

The Belle, as if catching some sort of airborne crying virus, started to whimper along with her.

Barbie stood up from the table, a roaring vacuum filling her ears, a feeling akin to following behind a speeding train. She knew, somewhere deep inside her body, that wherever this train was going, it wasn’t good. And it was taking the Sullivans with it. And no matter how much she might want it, the train couldn’t be stopped.

Joan jumped up from the table and grabbed Karen by the arm. “What is it?”

Karen just shook her head, and continued to speak into the phone. “Oh my God, Shay. I’m coming over. Right now.” She hung up the phone and stared off into space, seemingly unable to move.

“What happened?! demanded Joan.

Karen turned slowly to her mother, her wide, impossibly green eyes swimming in tears and innocent incredulity. “It’s Wes…” she began, almost in a whisper. Like she was trying a truth on for size, a truth that didn’t quite fit. That would never fit.

“Wesley. He’s been… he was… killed. Last night. In a car accident.” She took a breath before continuing. “I gotta go. I gotta go be with Shay.” And with that, she turned and ran out of the house.

The Belle’s whimpers turned to full on wailing while the roaring inside Barbie’s head became an unearthly scream of banshees. She stood stock still, her hands clasped into fists at her sides, her mind grasping for something to hold onto.

“Nooooooo,” moaned Joan. She leaned over the table and smacked it, sending plates, glassware, and cutlery clattering. “Not that boy. Not that dear, sweet boy. Of all people.”

Don blinked, a forkful of drenched pancake held mid-air, before a fat splat of King Syrup dropped onto his plate, catching his attention. He put his fork down and shook his head.

“Only the good die young,” he said blithely.

Barbie then turned to him and with the force of a million hot suns spewing white hot lava roared. “SHUT UP DAD! JUST SHUT UP. YOU DIDN’T EVEN KNOW HIM. YOU DIDN’T TRY TO KNOW HIM. BECAUSE YOU DON’T TRY TO DO ANYTHING!”

And with that, she flew into the kitchen, flung open the freezer door, pulled out her bundled fish, and threw it with as much force as her skinny arm could muster straight into the trash can.

Don just sat there in confusion, stunned into silence. Then said, to no one in particular. “I do try to do things. I really do.”

Joan spun in circles, unsure of which daughter to try to comfort first. The Belle was now kicking at her highchair’s footrest so violently that getting her out would take the strength of Hercules. So instead, she followed Barbie into the kitchen and tried to grab for her. “Barbie… honey.”

Barbie spun away from her grasp and screamed again. “IT’S ALL MY FAULT. DON’T YOU GET IT?! EVERY THING IS MY FAULT. BECAUSE I KILLED HIM,” she pointed at the trashcan. “FOR NO REASON!” And with that, she flew out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her room.

As the door to Barbie’s bedroom slammed shut above her, Joan blinked in horrified confusion, before going over to the trash can and retreiving the foiled wrapped bundle Barbie had thrown in. She placed the bundle on the counter and peeled back a corner of the foil, revealing a beautiful expanse of golden scales. “Oh my God…” Joan breathed as recognition hit her. “It’s that fish.”

Don quietly came up beside her. “It’s what?”

“IT’S HER GODDAMNED GOLD FISH!” she wailed. Then collapsed against the counter, her shoulders shaking, for a good, long time.

Next → Broken (3.10)