Page 41 of The Tenant
I take a few deep breaths to get my emotions under control. Shouting back at Krista is only going to make things worse.
“Krista,” I say softly. “I’m sorry. I did care about Goldy. I mean, I do care. And I really want to do this funeral. She was a good fish.”
“Shewasa good fish,” Krista sniffles.
She doesn’t say anything else about the bleach, which makes me think she doesn’t believe that is what killed the fish. Strangely enough, when I smell the bowl again, it doesn’t smell quite as strongly. But I’m not imagining it.
Whitney killed our fish. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.
And I have a bad feeling this is just the beginning.
25
We have a small backyard,which isn’t so much of a backyard as a little patch of dirt and grass behind our house, although that’s a haven in Manhattan wherenobodyhas outdoor space. I had imagined Krista and I might eventually set up a small table and chairs to dine outdoors in the fall, although we haven’t gotten around to it yet. Instead, the first use of our backyard will be to serve as Goldy’s final resting place.
I fished Goldy out of the bowl, stuck her in the baggie, and then went upstairs to change into actual clothing, because apparently an undershirt and boxer shorts are not “appropriate attire” for a goldfish funeral. I contemplate putting on a pair of jeans, but the last thing I want is for Krista to get upset that I’m not taking this seriously, so I put on some nice khaki slacks and a dress shirt. I draw the line at putting on a tie for a fish funeral. On the plus side, the itchy rash seems to have disappeared since Krista started doing my laundry.
When I return to the living room, Whitney has come home from a half shift at the diner. My heart sinks at the sight of her and Krista talking quietly while Krista wipes her eyes. I wonder what Whitney is saying about me—definitely nothing good. I especially don’t like it when she seems to be pointing emphatically in my direction. I can only imagine what they’ll talk about during their nextlunchtogether. But then Krista waves up at me, and she doesn’t seem angry, only sad.
“Whitney wants to join us for Goldy’s funeral,” she tells me.
I didn’t think there was anything that could have made this funeral less appealing, but there it is. “Wonderful,” I say.
Whitney’s mild brown eyes stare back at me. “It’s so sad about Goldy. She really felt like part of the family.”
“She really did,” Krista agrees.
I glare at Whitney.You killed our fish, you bitch.
Whitney turns her head in the direction of the fishbowl. “Let me store that somewhere for you. It must be hard to look at it now that it’s empty.”
“Yes,” Krista says. “You’re right. Thank you so much.”
I don’t want Whitney to get rid of the bowl and the water inside it. I want to prove that there is bleach inside—there must be a way to test for it. But if Whitney gets rid of the evidence, Krista will never believe me.
So before Whitney can get to the bowl, I touch Krista’s arm. “Maybe we shouldn’t. We don’t want to just throw away Goldy’s memory, right? We should, you know, preserve it as long as possible.”
Krista looks at me like I have lost my mind. “It’s dirty fish water. I think we can pour it out.”
I start to protest again, but Whitney has already grabbed the fishbowl, and all I can do is watch her disappear with it to the kitchen. There’s the sound of splashing water, and any evidence that our fish was poisoned has literally gone down the drain.
Whitney emerges from the kitchen empty-handed. I don’t know where she put the fishbowl, but she looks awfully proud of herself. She winks at me so quickly, I’m sure Krista misses it.
The three of us head out to the small backyard for the goldfish funeral. Krista located a large rock to serve as the gravestone, and I grabbed one of the large metal spoons from the kitchen to dig the grave.
“How deep should I make this?” I ask.
“Well,” Krista says thoughtfully, “for a person who is about six feet tall, you’re supposed to make the grave six feet deep. So for a fish that is about two inches long… I don’t know? Just a few inches, I guess.”
That’s great, because I’m not excited to dig through dirt with a spoon.
After I’ve dug out a few inches of dirt, Krista tenderly lays Goldy inside. She kisses her fingers, then lays them on the plastic-encased fish. I then use the spoon to cover Goldy’s body with dirt, and Krista places the rock on top. As Krista is tearfully kneeling beside the fish grave, I look over at Whitney, who is smirking. I want to reach out and strangle her.
“We should say a few words about Goldy,” Whitney speaks up.
Krista gets back to her feet, wiping her eyes. “That would actually be really nice.”
“Blake,” Whitney says, “would you like to begin?”
