Free Bone Dance by Joan Boswell Page B

Bill watched Myrna flipping through
Getting Started in Salt Water Aquariums
and making an ominous list, he could see his last dollar sinking faster than the loonie. And when the nursing home called to tell him they hadn’t received the monthly check for his mother’s care, cold sweat formed on his brow and his chest pumped like the Aries going up a hill. Not Mom’s trust fund! “Did you send out the Happy Valley payment?” he asked.
    Myrna clipped a romaine lettuce leaf to the tank for Annie the ancistrus and hummed a little tune. “Don’t worry your pea-brain about that. Bunny Bagshaw says everyone’s doing it.”
    â€œDoing what?” Bill gasped, his knees weakening.
    â€œLiquidating, of course. That way the government picks up the tab quite nicely. The supplement for indigents kicks in. What a country.”
    â€œIndigents! You mean you told them Mom is broke? It meant everything to her to pay her own way! She trusted us!”
    â€œDon’t be a fool. She doesn’t have to know, but she will have to leave her semi-private for a quad. Big deal. Give her more company anyway.” She attached the Python hose and began to suck up Bubbles’ tank, swirls of debris forming miniature tornados.
    Bill braced himself against an onset of vertigo. As Myrna started the refill, with a strange and sudden focus, he saw the dangling electrical cord for the immersion heater. He had connected the system and knew the dangers. What would cause Myrna to be careless? The death of one of her favourites?Bubbles? Yet Bill hated to see even a guppy suffer. He heard Myrna open the front door. “I’m going to Popeye’s for some Fung-All,” she called. “The barbs have been scratching.” The door slammed, and the Aries groaned into action.
    Bill rummaged in the basement freezer. There it was, a nice medium sized Pacific salmon languishing through the months since Myrna had stopped cooking. He gently removed the wrappings and scrutinized it from all sides. It resembled Bubbles, or would with the lights off.
    Back upstairs, he removed the cover from the big tank, disconnected the electrical cord and set to work. First, he dipped down with a big net and hauled out Bubbles, placing her in a full, lukewarm bathtub. Then, with dark thread the same colour as the fish, he tied the salmon among the heavier plants under the large heater tube. He connected the thread to the tube and unscrewed the heater until it rested perilously in place. “CAUTION: Do Not Immerse Beyond This Point!” it warned. Finally, he replugged the main cable and waited, turning off all the lights in the house.
    As soon as Myrna opened the door, he yelled, “Come here! The power’s off, and there’s something wrong with Bubbles!” Myrna rushed over, bugged out her eyes and plunged her hand into the tank, pulling the heater element with her. “Bubbles!” was her last word.
    In the ten minutes before the ambulance came, Bill shut off the main breaker, chopped up and flushed the helpful salmon and thread, set up the fluval, and dabbed a bit of cayenne into the corners of his eyes. “I took the big fish out of her tank to give the walls a good cleaning. I guess Myrna didn’t see her, panicked and reached in to move the plants,” he told the attendants, and later the police as he blew his nose. “That fish meant the world to her.”
    Bill was given the week off to make arrangements for the funeral. Along with the obituary, he included a note that, in lieu of flowers, donations could be made to the African Knifefish Rescue Association.
    Back from a weekend of trout fishing, he made plans to return his charges to the pet store. The tanks might make attractive terrariums for the nursing home. Then Bubbles hove into view. The large, placid fish had missed her guppies and was staring out through the glass, clown dots undulating along grey velvet folds, eight on one side