Little Fish Read online

  LITTLE FISH

  Copyright © 2018 by Casey Plett

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any means—graphic, electronic, or mechanical—without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.

  ARSENAL PULP PRESS

  Suite 202 – 211 East Georgia St.

  Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

  Canada

  arsenalpulp.com

  The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada, and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program), for its publishing activities.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to persons either living or deceased is purely coincidental.

  Chapter 1 of this book previously appeared in a slightly modified form in Plenitude.

  Cover and text design by Oliver McPartlin

  Cover illustration by Sybil Lamb

  Edited by Susan Safyan

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

  Plett, Casey, author

  Little fish / Casey Plett.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55152-721-5 (HTML)

  I. Title.

  PS8631.L48L58 2018

  C813’.6

  C2017-907216-1

  C2017-907217-X

  For Doug (who else)

  Praying was much like doing housework: it was too easy to think that nothing had been accomplished unless you kept a record. And like housework, where you repeated the same chores over and over, you had to keep praying for the same things over and over.

  —Sandra Birdsell, The Missing Child

  I don’t think anyone really knows how they look.

  —Lexi Sanfino

  Contents

  November

  Chapter 0

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  December

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  November

  0

  The night before her Oma died, Wendy was in a booth at the bar with Lila, Raina, and Sophie. It was eleven p.m., and they were all tipsy. Sophie was saying, “Age is completely different for trans people. The way we talk about age is not how cis people talk about age.”

  “You mean that thing,” said Wendy, “where our age is also how long we’ve been out or on hormones or whatever?”

  “Or do you mean that thing,” said Lila, “where we don’t age as much. Because we die sooner.”

  “Both those things, yes!” Sophie said. “But there’s more! There’s much more. Think of how hormones preserve you. Look—we could all pass for twenty-one if we wanted to. Fuck, I met a lady in New York who was sixty and been on hormones for decades; I swear she barely looks older than us. One sec,” she said as she flagged down the waitress and they all ordered another.

  “For the guys too, hey?” said Lila. “My boyfriend gets carded all the time … He’s thirty-four, man. I’m younger than him.”

  “Exactly,” said Sophie. “And yet not just that!”

  “Are you giving us the latest from Twitter, Sophie?” said Raina.

  “Fuck off,” Sophie snorted into her empty bottle. Wendy couldn’t tell if she’d laughed or was actually upset.

  “You are kinda our link to the Trans Girl Internet,” said Wendy.

  Sophie made an exasperated aachh sound. “This is something I’ve thought of for a while. Can I go on? Is that okay with you?”

  “Apologies,” said Raina. “Please.”

  “Okay,” she went on. “I don’t just mean the difference in how long trans people live. And I don’t just mean in the sense that we have two kinds of age. But the difference with transsexual age is what can be expected from you. Cis people have so many benchmarks for a good life that go by age.”

  “You’re talking about the wife, the kids, the dog,” Wendy said.

  “More than that. And also yes, that. It didn’t stop being important,” said Sophie. “Cis people always have timelines. I mean, I know not every cis person has that life, but—what are the cis people in my life doing? What are they doing in your life? Versus what the trans people in your life are doing? On a macro level. Ask yourself that.”

  “Is that just cis people or is it straight people?” said Lila.

  “Yeah, maybe,” said Sophie. “I just mean: How mainstream society conceives of age doesn’t apply to us. I swear it doesn’t.”

  The waitress came back with the round. “Thanks, ladies,” she said.

  “I wonder if cis people think about their past in the same way we do,” Raina said suddenly.

  “How do we think about our past?” said Wendy.

  And Raina said, “Hmm.”

  “Well,” said Sophie, “if you want news from the Trans Girl Internet—” but then another waitress dropped a tray and some jokers in the bar cheered and Wendy got up to pee anyway and sat sipping from a mickey of whiskey in the bathroom, calmly thinking.

  1

  The night Wendy’s Oma died, she had sex dreams. Only sometimes did she have sex dreams—usually Wendy had nightmares, and usually she was being chased or hurt. But this morning in her dreams, when her grandmother died, a girl was fucking her over an old television in an abandoned gym. She woke up with her phone dinging. Her dad. Call me when you get up it’s important.

  Wendy put her face back in the pillow with her hair piled around her like a hill. She trailed a long arm down the side of the bed and skittered her phone across the floor. Her bladder was pulsing; sunlight through a crack in the curtain hurt her eyes. She was still drunk, and every part of her hurt.

  Wendy lay there curled into herself in the half-light, her head softly beating, not sleeping. She lay like that for a full hour. Her pee swelled, and the light grew brighter.

  When the phone rang, she made her body get up and scrabble for her phone. It was her father.

  “Jesus shitstick Dad, what,” Wendy said. Her voice was deep and raspy, a smoker’s voice though she rarely smoked anymore. Her words felt as chunky in her mouth as a potato. She was still drunk. She’d feel fuzz behind her eyes the whole day.

  Her dad was crying.

  “Ben?” said Wendy, putting a hand to her mottled face, ruddy-cheeked and pale.

  “Ben? Dad?” It was chilly and the first snows were sticking. She tied up the curtain and shut the window to let light and warmth into her room. Her legs were shivering.

  The funeral was quiet and simple, at the EMC Church out in the country. Wendy wore a simple black dress. She cried exactly once, during a hymn, silently and horribly, like a little girl told to shut up. But for the rest of the day she felt warm and blessed. She felt a lot of love for her grandmother. She felt grateful she’d had so much time with her Oma. She felt grateful her Oma’d been given a long life. In that way, Wendy had a beautiful, strange synergy with all the old Mennonites in the room, the ones
who ignored Wendy or spoke to her in microseconds and hushes. The ones who truly believed the old woman was in heaven. They and Wendy both were sad that she was gone. But they were happy to think about her too.

  That’s the difference, Wendy thought, between her grandma and everybody else who’d died.

  She turned away when she saw people she didn’t want to recognize her. It was stupid. It would be hard to mistake her around here—her hair was black and went down to her waist, and she was tall by anyone’s standard.

  And what, what was the point in fighting? Sacrifice wasn’t meaningless. It’d been eight years since she said to them, “I’m a girl,” and some things you couldn’t fight that long. She was angry about it, but she didn’t start anymore. She did not appear in the obituary or funeral program, and her dad had warned her about it (“It’s out of my hands, I’m sorry”) and it pissed her off, but she didn’t say a word. Her family had gotten kinder over the years. It wasn’t that hard.

  Back at her Oma’s house, neighbours brought hot dishes and a Superstore bag of buns, then left. Her aunts began to prepare the table. Wendy came into the room with a beer, looming over them like a tree.

  “Can I help with anything?”

  “Oh, well, thank you, Wendy, but we’re very set here! You just go ahead and enjoy yourself. You go visit.”

  Wendy sat and drank her beer in the living room as her uncles and cousins played on their phones.

  She listened to her aunts gossip about their kids, about their kids’ sports teams. One of them fetched her daughter to run to the van. When they ate, nobody cried. It was like a normal family gathering and no one was crying and did Wendy care every time she heard the cut-off first syllable of her old name and sudden third-person hes and hises? It used to be worse. It didn’t matter. Her grandma was dead.

  Long after everyone else went to bed, Wendy was on the back porch staying up with the men.

  “You remember how Mum would pack us homemade tomato juice?” yelled her dad.

  “Oh! Najo.”

  “Hahahahaha.” He was blitzed. “Complete with fuckin’ tomaaaaato chunks! You’d be trying to be all fuckin’ cool for some girl and take a swig and your whole mind’s on how you’re ever gonna get your hand up her shirt SPLOOSH,” and Wendy and her uncles all laughed and drank and laughed.

  There were cigars. Wendy smoked one. She enjoyed the rich ugliness of cigars. Someone took a picture that she later loved and put on her wall, back in the city: She’s sitting dazed and drunk on the bench next to her dad, cigar in her mouth, her hair streaming down her sides like onyx waterfalls and light snow coming down, American postcard-style snow. Ben was laughing and leaning back with his mouth tilted against the sky, grey hair flowing to the ground.

  “There’s probably tomato juice still in there.”

  “Is anybody else frightened to look in the fridge.”

  “Need the morgue more for the fridge than we did for her.”

  “Najo.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Ben said. “So when Wendy’s mum—God rest her soul—when she first ever came to the house. She’s this big city girl from university, right. Here at our fuckin’ backwater-ass—”

  “—and you’re still trying to get your hand up her shirt.”

  “Probably on this bench.”

  Wendy laughed and hacked something up.

  “You okay, girl?” said Ben.

  Wendy coughed. “I’m fuckin’ grand.” She loved hearing stories about her mom. She had no memories of her.

  “So here she is,” he continued. “This smart and sophisticated city girl, she thinks she’s coming to the farm for some hearty country meal, right? And Mom comes out with a big fuckin’ vat of soup, slams it down, and there’s a fuckin’ chicken leg sticking right out of it!”

  “Chicken’s probably still there too.”

  “Your mother said grace on that one, God bless her.”

  Wendy hadn’t brought her winter coat. She was so sleepy, and almost went in to bed, but instead got a blanket and wrapped it over herself and sipped her dad’s vodka and listened. Wendy liked being quiet around her family. And being quiet wasn’t usual for her. It was nice. She didn’t remember going inside.

  Two mornings later in her dreams, Wendy was being chased down a long hallway with carpet. And white wallpaper with the patterns of cherries and locked wooden doors. Her hair was short in this dream. She was running fast, but they were faster.

  When she woke, it was morning but not daylight. Her long muscles creaked and uncreased as she stood up from the living room fold-out in her nightgown, lacy and shimmering and moon-blue.

  She went to start the coffee and stood by the kitchen window where outside, slivers of purple were breaking through the dark. The coffee burbled, and rays of orange and magenta and violet spread out over the snow. Everyone else was gone, and Wendy and Ben were going back today. It was always sad leaving here. And how many more times would she be coming back now. Realistically.

  “Dad.”

  “Yeah.”

  “When are we leaving?”

  “I thought we’d head out at one.”

  “You’re kidding me! That’s so early.”

  “I know, I got this guy to meet.”

  “Whatever. It’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  “Who do you—”

  “Ssssh sssh ssssh—this part’s important!”

  They were watching cartoons. Wendy rolled her eyes and got up for more cereal; her grandparents’ old house was the kind of space it was hard not to eat in.

  Then, in the kitchen, the phone on the wall rang.

  “Hello?” Wendy said into the receiver.

  “Hello!” The voice was unfamiliar and female and old. “Aganetha?”

  “Aganetha?” said Wendy, confused at first. “No, there’s no Aga—.” Wendy put her hand on her forehead. “I’m sorry,” she said. “No, this isn’t her. We called her Nettie. I’m so sorry. She’s dead.”

  Silence.

  “Five days ago. It was sudden,” she added.

  More silence, then the woman said, “Oh my word.” A long time passed, then she added, “My condolences. I knew. She had not. Been well.” Wendy thought the woman might be crying, but then she said, in a heavier tone, “She’s with the Lord now.”

  “Yes.”

  “No one told me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Wendy said genuinely. “I—I am. Someone should have.”

  “Am I speaking to family?” said the woman.

  “Yes.”

  “And who am I speaking to?”

  Wendy’s reflexes kicked in. “I’m more like a close friend. Friend of the family.” Her voice became higher, more melodious. “Would you like to speak to Ben? He’s just over in the living room. I’ll get him.”

  “No!” said the woman. “No. No, I don’t think Ben—well.” More silence. “Is someone else at home?”

  “No.”

  “Ah.” This puzzled Wendy. Most people calling on Nettie liked speaking to Ben. They got a bang out of him.

  “May I ask who you are?” said Wendy.

  “Anna C. Penner,” the woman said. “From Morweena. Morweena, Manitoba.”

  Wendy waited for her to say more.

  “That’s north of Arborg,” Anna continued. “In the Interlake.”

  “There are Mennonites up there?” Wendy said before she could stop herself.

  “Oh, yup. Quite a few,” said Anna. “Doesn’t surprise me some people may not know that, but. Aganetha and I. We went to school together.” The woman was clipping her individual words but her sentences were slow, rushing through some parts and leaving gaps of quiet in others. And the accent in her voice was coming out clearly now, the kind that paradoxically turned school into skul and Pepsi into Pahpsi. She continued: “I just called to—so, you’re a friend of the family. Your name?”

  “Wendy.”

  “Don’t know of a Wendy,” said Anna. Then she made a slight titter. “Oh! I suppose you’re.
Seeing Ben. Forgive me, I didn’t mean—”

  “Bless me!” Wendy said acidly. “You know, perhaps I would rather not have this conversation over the phone.”

  “Of, of course, forgive me, rude of me—well. I’ll just tell you. I wanted to tell Aganetha something that concerns her husband. As well as her grandson. Ben’s son. You know Ben’s son.”

  Wendy was silent.

  “You must,” clipped Anna definitively. “Goes by Tulip now. Or some such name. To my understanding.”

  Tulip had been Wendy’s first name for about a year.

  “I know about Tulip,” said Wendy. More silence then: “Anna, why are you calling?”

  “Is another family member coming later in the day? One of Aganetha’s sisters, I wonder I should speak with them.”

  “No!” Wendy said. Suddenly she was done with this conversation. “Look,” she said, summoning up old codes, what’d pass with this woman for angry. “I do not mean to be rude. However, we are sorting out quite a lot right now. Our grandmother is dead and there is a house and there are—cats, and … There is so much to do!” she concluded. “So, if you would like to tell me your business, I would be happy to assist you, but if not, perhaps you could simply send condolences, I am sure you know our address.”

  “You said you were a friend,” Anna said quietly.

  “I’m a—” she said loudly and cut herself off, but a surge of anger that’d stayed down in Wendy for days suddenly raged through her blood, like she’d breathed it in with the air. She clenched her fist and bit down on her knuckles—

  “Who are you talking to?” Ben called.

  Gently, she calmed herself and put her body back down on the ground. She was about to excuse herself and say goodbye and hang up when Anna said something in Low German she couldn’t understand. Then she said, “You must have heard stories about Henry. Aganetha’s husband.”

  “Yes.” Her Opa had died when Wendy was nine. He had been a quiet, stable, and gentle man. The opposite of her dad. Wendy had loved him deeply. For a short time in Wendy’s adolescence, his memory had provided her with the kind of man she’d hoped she might be.