Free Aquarium by David Vann

neatly. He was smiling, nervous, his eyes twitching.
    Sir, a man said from behind us. Step away from the girl. Seattle police.
    What? The old man didn’t understand. Three men now, plainclothes officers.
    I’m sorry, I tried to say, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe.
    What is this?
    Please step over here, sir. We’d like to ask you a few questions.
    The men like shadows in their dark clothing, only their faces lit by the tanks. They were taking him away from me, but I followed. I grabbed on to his arm. Please, I said.
    Who are you? the old man demanded of the men. He sounded frightened.
    Seattle police.
    One of the officers took my arm and pulled me away.
    You’ve misunderstood, the old man said. No. This isn’t right. You’ve misunderstood.
    Caitlin! my mother said, loud over everything else, and she was running toward me.
    Sheri! the old man said. Tell them who I am.
    My mother stopped as if she had hit a wall. No, she said. She put her hands up to her face, as if she were praying, and then she fell down to her knees. No, she said. You can’t do this to me.
    The police were still pulling the old man away.
    Sheri! he yelled. You have to tell them now. They think I’m some pervert.
    He’s her grandfather, my mother said. He’s my father.
    The police let go of him then. Caitlin, he said.
    No, my mother said. You stay away from her.
    My grandfather froze, as if my mother could command all.
    I still want to press charges, my mother said. He wanted to take her away to Mexico. Isn’t that child abduction? Or can we keep him away, maybe a restraining order?
    My mother was still on her knees. The uniformed officers beside her now.
    The policeman was slow in his response, his mouth open as he considered. Okay, he said. We can interview your father now. Then we’ll go from there.
    Sheri, the old man said. Please. He walked toward her but the police grabbed him again. Sheri. He stopped struggling, went slack, had his head down. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything. But don’t do this now.

L ike eggs in tight clusters, the most dense of the anemones. A velvet-green moon at the end of each stalk, swaying in current. Lit from within, impossible to locate. There and not there. Some buoyant sense within me, being part of a family now, belonging. The police had separated us, and the policewoman I hated was questioning me again, but I only watched the anemones and thought of all the times we would have together at every birthday, every Sunday, every day after school at the aquarium. My own grandfather. The most wondrous gift of my life.
    You will tell me, the woman said.
    Body of an anemone only some white constellation in the background, hidden and appearing and hidden again. I couldn’t say what jellyfish or anemones were made of.
    When were you going to Mexico? What was the plan?
    My grandfather in some other corridor, out of sight, my mother removed also. My mother become strange, something I couldn’t understand.
    Mexico, Caitlin. Focus. Look at me.
    But the woman didn’t dare touch me. I watched the clownfish slide among the moons, all leaning in, and I knew to say nothing. Close against the glass, my own shadow face, one world hidden within another. And what would I call my grandfather? Grandpa? Or use his name, and what was his name, and where had he been all these years?
    Like clusters of planets, lit by softer suns. Planets huddling together, without orbits, swaying together in some invisible current, no celestial wind but a force magnetic, scattering all and aligning again. Scale lost whenever I stared into a tank. Each universe opening.
    Caitlin, did he try to kiss you?
    I put my lips against the glass and kissed, held in place. My lips the base of an anemone, the foot attaching to rock. My head swaying slowly with those strange arms, my hair come alive, clownfish sliding in and tickling my scalp.
    Caitlin! the policewoman said. She snapped her fingers close to my face, but all sound was deadened,