Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 64
The picture of Leonard Gray’s corns dangling between the dripping jaws of a crocodile proved too much for Mrs. Lamb. She turned her back upon her terrifying husband and covered her face with her hands. A sudden liquid plop startled her into reversing her position. Mr. Lamb was no longer there. Amazingly, the potential crocodile had vanished. His last words, she remembered, had been, “just as sure as I’m standing here,” but the man was not standing there, and Mrs. Lamb seriously doubted if he ever had stood there.
The confused woman was about to hurry from the room when her eyes were drawn to the aquarium where a fourth and larger goldfish was chasing the other three round the tank in frantic circles.
Recalling the liquid plop she had heard, Mrs. Lamb slowly and thoughtfully left the room. A sweet, womanly little plan was buzzing in her mind. As she prepared herself for bed she wondered idly how Lady Macbeth undressed while engaged in perfecting one of her many dirty tricks.
While this dramatic disrobing was in progress Mr. Lamb, with an exasperated nose, was busily budging the turtle over the floor of the aquarium. When the little russet man had taken a sudden fancy to change him into a goldfish there still had been a number of things on Mr. Lamb’s mind he had wanted to say to his wife. Now he was taking his irritation out on the turtle.
“Never thought of a goldfish,” Lamb said to himself. “From a crocodile to one of these made-up sardines. . . . What a let-down!”
He gave the turtle an especially vicious budge.
“Get a move on,” he muttered. “Shake a leg, you old scow. Show us what you look like inside. Out with your head.”
After many disturbing budges, the ancient turtle protruded his neck and, looking resentfully at Mr. Lamb, gave utterance to the equivalent of:
“What in hell, may I ask, do you think you’re trying to do with me? This is a private home. Flip on.”
“I won’t flip on,” replied Lamb. “And I’m going to budge you to my heart’s content. Are you so confounded thick-shelled you don’t know when you’re being budged?”
“I know when I’m being budged, all right,” retorted the turtle, “and I know when I’m not being budged, but what I don’t know is what purpose all this budging is going to serve. I never have dealings with goldfish. We’re not on the same level.”
“No,” replied Lamb, “you’re on the lower level.”
“Not low enough for you,” said the turtle.
“You should be delighted I even budge you,” answered Mr. Lamb.
“I’m not delighted,” said the turtle. “And I hate ostentation.”
“I’m only a goldfish pro tem,” offered Mr. Lamb. “Tomorrow I may be a zebra.”
“There’s no such thing as a zebra,” the turtle retorted. “It’s all a lie — the whole sordid story.”
This fruitless conversation did not serve to restore Mr. Lamb’s good humor. The turtle, he decided was just about as opinionated and ignorant as the seagull who had so revoltingly invited him to eat fertilizer.
“Don’t make a display of your vast ignorance,” said Mr. Lamb. “I myself have seen any number of zebras.”
“Show me only one,” challenged the turtle.
“There aren’t any zebras here,” replied Mr. Lamb.
“That proves it,” said the turtle with a nasty laugh. “That makes a liar of you. The first thing I know you’ll be trying to tell me there’s such a thing as a lion.”
“Got you!” cried Lamb exultantly. “If there aren’t any lions, how did you know their name?”
“I didn’t say I did,” replied the turtle. “Good-night. I loathe a liar.”
With this he withdrew not only his head but also his four feet.
“Budge and be damned,” came through the slit in his shell. “I’m going to sleep.”
“You’ve never been awake,” Mr. Lamb threw back, as he flipped himself to the surface of the tank.
“All goldfish are living lies,” the turtle shouted after him, popping his head from his shell. “There’s not a gram of gold in the whole silly mess of ’em. Just try to spend one, and see how much change you get back . . . not even a slim sardine.”
Lamb dived swiftly back and made a vicious snap at the turtle’s head, which was neatly withdrawn.
“I hope your stomach turns up before dawn,” he bubbled through his shell.
“I’d like to meet you in a plate of soup,” was the best Mr. Lamb could offer on the spur of the moment.
Still in an evil mood Mr. Lamb swaggered up to the goldfish now huddled in a corner and, singling out one of them, addressed himself to it.
“What sort of fish are you?” he demanded truculently. “Male or female?”
“Female,” snapped the goldfish, “for all the good it will do you.”
“Hold on, baby,” said Mr. Lamb. “I’m a fast and ruthless worker. No morals at all. I take my fun where I find it, and I find lots.”
“Well, don’t feel funny round here,” the other retorted. “Go somewhere else and grab off your fun.”
Mr. Lamb regarded her broodingly for a minute.
“The lot of you get out of this corner,” he said at last. “I sleep here.”
He chased the goldfish to the other end of the tank and swayed moodily off to sleep, thinking disagreeably about his wife. He strongly suspected that the good lady was planning something, that if she could only muster sufficient evidence to prove that he turned into things she would try to obtain a divorce. It would make a pretty case, one of the most unusual in the history of that splendid institution. Mr. Lamb did not object to being divorced. To him it was an end highly to be desired. But he did object to being divorced on the grounds of being a kangaroo or a horse or a seagull. That would be just a trifle too sensational for him.
His life as a goldfish was not a constant round of revelry, and he was forced to resort to various little devices to keep himself from being too oppressively bored.
His first effort in this direction was extremely elaborate and gave him no little satisfaction. He had discovered that by rubbing his nose against the side of the tank he was able to trace a clear impression which would, under favorable conditions, remain visible for a few minutes. This opened up rare possibilities. Mr. Lamb wondered why other goldfish had not hit upon the idea before. He began by tracing letters much in the manner of a sky-writer, and at last succeeded in mastering the art of writing backwards. After much practice he became highly proficient, so much so, in fact that he felt himself qualified to give a public demonstration.
One evening when Leonard Gray was dining at the house for the further development of his art, Hebe called the attention of that gentleman and her mother to the strange behavior of the new goldfish, which Mrs. Lamb for purposes of her own, claimed to have purchased.
“Why, that new goldfish is actually tracing letters on the side of the tank,” announced the acute Hebe. “Look, everybody! It seems to be trying to write something.”
Everybody looked, including Thomas and one of the maids. All eyes grew wide with surprise, some even with consternation, when they spelled out the boldly written word:
ADULTERER
It is perhaps not edifying to record that the youngest person present was the one least shocked. With amused eyes Hebe looked from one blank face to another.
“Now I wonder,” she said musingly, “just who that fish is panning. Are you by chance an adulterer, Thomas?”
Thomas looked really pleased.
“While my wife was alive, Miss Hebe,” he explained, “she was a just but exacting woman. I had neither the time nor the energy, miss.”
“I understand and sympathize, Thomas,” the girl continued. “Well, how about you, Nora?”
“Why, Miss Hebe,” Nora faltered, quite red but undismayed, “you know very well I’m not married.”
“You win on a technicality,” said Hebe. “Neither am I married, so a little possible adulteration lies for us in the future. Leonard, you don’t need to be married, so that leaves only—”
“Hebe!” cried Mrs. Lamb, her voice well out of control. “Please bring this farce to an end. Immediately!”
Mr. Lamb, seeing that his efforts had not gone unrewarded, cut jubilant capers across the surface of the tank and before the dinner was over achieved the following cryptic warning:
KEEP OUT OF MY BED
Again Hebe made sure that this feat, though clearly unappreciated by her mother and Mr. Gray, did not pass unread by them.
From this point on, conversation became a matter of eloquent silence pierced by furtive glances. It is to be doubted if either Mrs. Lamb or her leading man was aware of what they were eating. Mechanically they masticated, sedulously averting their eyes from the tank containing the loquacious goldfish.
Later that night when Sandra Rush and Melville Long dropped in, Hebe introduced them to the remarkable goldfish, who with great speed and celerity traced on the side of the tank:
JAILBIRDS
He also attempted to flip some water in Sandra’s face with his tail, but only succeeded in spotting her dress.
“It’s the attenuated one all right,” replied Sandra, “but very much compressed. I recognize his feeble sense of humor. Let’s take him out and make him gasp a bit.”
She made a snatch at the goldfish, but some clever fin work sent him to the floor of the tank where he remained craftily alert. Hebe stood considering the goldfish with an unusually serious expression. Long, taking note of this novel manifestation, asked the reason for it.
“Sapho says she bought him herself,” replied Hebe. “Wonder why she claims that?”
Sandra looked at her quickly with large, comprehending eyes.
“Perhaps she intends to do in earnest what I suggested in fun,” she said. “You’ll have to stand guard over that goldfish, Hebe. Perhaps your little russet friend didn’t foresee such a possibility as this. The attenuated one is quite defenseless now.”
Sandra, too, was a little more serious than was her wont. For a long time she stood looking down at the goldfish lurking at the bottom of the tank.
“How long do you suppose this animal stuff is going to continue?” she asked of no one in particular. “It would be nice if he remained himself for a while, so that a person could get to know him.”
The following evening Mr. Lamb arranged still another little diversion for the edification of his wife. When she put in an appearance for dinner she found him floating gruesomely with his belly prominently displayed for all the world to see. The other goldfish, huddled in a corner, seemed to be regarding the corpse with frightened eyes.
An expression of gratitude to God escaped the lips of the fish’s wife. He had spared her the annoyance of being a murderess. The happy woman raised up her voice and called for aid.
“Hebe!” she cried. “Nora! My poor goldfish is dead.”
When these witnesses had been summoned to her side Mrs. Lamb proceeded to do a thing that revolted her every instinct.
“See,” she said in a voice of anguish as she dipped her hand in the water, “the beautiful thing must have died. What a pity, and what a darling he was!”
“You’ll look swell in mourning,” observed Hebe, closely scrutinizing the goldfish. “Are you going to give it a church funeral?”
“Don’t be silly, Hebe,” she replied casting her daughter an uneasy look. “This is no time for humor.”
To hold a fish either dead or in the full flower of youth is not one of life’s most reposeful moments — not for the vast majority of normally constituted persons. Mrs. Lamb, though not normally constituted, felt far from well when she fished the slithery body of her husband from the water.
“Nora!” she cried. “Get something to put him in . . . the garbage can.”
“Him?” inquired Hebe mildly. “Do you know that fish’s sex?”
It was at this moment that Mr. Lamb decided it was about time to stop playing dead. He had sacrificed for his art practically all the breath he could well afford to lose. If he ever got into the garbage can he felt sure he would sacrifice his entire quota. Therefore, with an artful wriggle, he flipped himself from the delicate grasp of his wife and plopped gratefully back into the water.
When Nora returned with a coffee-strainer held diffidently in her hand she had the joy of seeing the goldfish sporting briskly about in his temporarily natural element.
Mrs. Lamb was not able to dine. She was revolted as well as disappointed. When she attempted to express her profound pleasure at the restoration of the goldfish to its former good health and spirits her voice choked with the insincerity of her emotion.
Naturally this altogether uncalled-for conduct on the part of a goldfish did not pass unnoticed by his colleagues in the tank. Their first attitude of fear passed to one of pity, for they felt that the poor fish was indeed a child of God, more than a little cracked about the gills. This attitude, however, soon gave place to one of admiration when they realized that there was a method behind the apparent madness of this resourceful companion of theirs. The lady goldfish, taking Mr. Lamb at his word, gave evidence of the sincerity of her admiration by suggesting the production of goldfish on a modest scale. Mr. Lamb toyed with the idea, but realizing he might be a bull or a zebra by the time his progeny were goldfish, the incongruity of the situation robbed it of its attractiveness.
He succeeded in teaching them to swim in formation like airplanes, putting them through loops, nose dives and tail spins. The servants could hardly be driven away from the tank so great was their interest in these aquatic displays. The climax was reached one morning when the four goldfish were discovered solemnly swimming backwards round their tank. There was no ostentation about this performance, no suggestion of a desire to please or to attract attention. It was as if overnight the fish had come to the decision that it was about time to reverse the order of things. They merely swam backwards with a naturalness that would have led one to believe that fish had always swum backwards from the infancy of Noah.
It was difficult to serve breakfast that morning through Nora’s inability to keep her attention fixed on her ordered duties. Even the impeccable Thomas seemed a trifle vague and preoccupied. Mrs. Lamb endeavored to ignore the goldfish, but Hebe’s cheers of enthusiasm made it hard to pretend that all was not as usual.
The turtle was disgusted. When Mr. Lamb with pardonable pride asked him what he thought about it he replied that it was “Silly damn rot,” and that no good came from going against the laws of nature.
With the turtle Mr. Lamb could find no point of agreement. They began to argue and bicker whenever they tried to converse. The turtle insisted on criticizing the furniture and appointments of the dining-room. He was particularly sarcastic about the design of the rug. Mr. Lamb naturally took this to heart, the dining-room being more or less his, and although he was not responsible for its arrangements he found himself defending them with the fervor of a zealot. To hear him argue with the turtle one would have thought that Mr. Lamb had personally selected each article of furniture in the room. Relations between the two were finally broken off when the turtle referred in the most disparaging language to a “long drink of water,” who used to be seen hanging about the place and whose absence he noted with gratification. Mr. Lamb, fully appreciating the fact that he himself was the long drink of water in question, cursed the turtle roundly and was in turn as roundly cursed.
The fat was in the fire when Mr. Lamb wrote one evening for the benefit of his wife the following disquieting announcement:
TODAY A FISH: TOMORROW A SNAKE
Upon reading this warning Mrs. Lamb realized that it was high time to act. Her husband as a snake would be a far different matter from her husband as a goldfish. She nerved herself for action, endeavoring to absorb into her spirit the murky mood of Lady Macbeth on one of her bad days.
When the household was quiet that night she corded her dressing-gown round her waist and crept downstairs. For a wonder Mr. Lamb was actually asleep and balanced on an even keel in his own private corner. This time Mrs. Lamb’s hand was swift and sure. With a sharp intake of breath, she seized her unsuspecting husband and carried him to the kitchen. Here she looked desperately about for something in which to put him — not the garbage can, for his remains might be discovered there and the crime traced to her. Mrs. Lamb wanted a modest but secure sarcophagus for the body of her husband. An empty sardine tin would have done splendidly. A soda box would have been a great help at the moment. She was even considering the possibilities of squeezing him into a small bottle when Mr. Lamb made an energetic flip for liberty and life. The flip was only partially successful. It transferred him from Mrs. Lamb’s hand to Mrs. Lamb’s stomach where he continued his flipping, the cord round his wife’s waist successfully preventing further descent.
Mrs. Lamb was no fit woman. She is not to be blamed. No woman is quite at her best with a wet and determined goldfish flipping clammily against her stomach. It is to be doubted if many men would have retained the stoicism and dignity of the more insensitive male under the same circumstances.
The picture Mrs. Lamb presented was that of an utterly abandoned muscle dancer, one thoroughly interested in her profession. It was an animated picture. Nor was it unaccompanied by sound. Little ecstatic cries, sharp exclamations, gasps of vital anguish fell from the convulsive lady’s lips. They made the picture complete. At least so thought Hebe as she stood in the doorway and witnessed her mother’s contortions.
Then before the girl’s startled eyes an amazing thing took place. She saw Mrs. Lamb suddenly bulge to almost twice her size. She heard the rip of her nightdress, and before she had time to realize exactly what she was witnessing, she saw her mother flat on her back on the kitchen floor and her father, dripping wet, standing beside her. The little russet man had not deserted him. Mr. Lamb had been saved in very much less than the nick of time.
Mr. Lamb was breathing hard and apparently his wife was not breathing at all. When she did breathe it was to give utterance to a wild cry.
