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Natural History
by Feech
In the thin dark of the lecture room I am
left, effectively, alone with my thoughts. The
film plays on, and I am engrossed in it,
forgetting and forgotten by the other fifty-five
students in the gradated plastic seats.
I am almost there, in the green-blue water
that swarms with soft and hard-bodied plankton. I
am almost able to sink beyond the hard plastic
chairs, through the cloth screen, into an ocean
dimly lit by divers' water-proofed bulbs. I do
not know nor, at this moment, care, how, if at
all, my Oceanography classmates are affected by
this thirty-minute film. I know only that I ache
to be among the divers who move before me on the
cloth screen.
In the film there is a manta ray, female,
huge, a glorious black and white sea goddess
deigning to keep company with the divers. She is
not shy, nor is she aggressive, but holds a
self-possessed grace and evident intelligence that
seems to awe the persons surrounding her winged
form. I know it awes me.
This sea animal, not human, somehow
infinitely more beautiful than human, returns each
year when she knows the divers will be present,
and dances for them. She feeds unconcernedly in a
circle of men, taking obvious pleasure in their
admiration, employing all of a ray's abilities
simply so they can watch. This year, our
professor says, the manta ray brought a young male
to feed and dance with her. He would not approach
as closely as his mate, but showed interest in the
divers nonetheless.
The rays are not fed by the humans. They eat
plankton naturally occurring in the area. They
simply visit the humans. And I watch this
display, and see the gentle yet proud demeanor of
the sea creature, and I very nearly cry.
The film ends, of course, much too abruptly,
and as the lights come on I feel unfocused and
lost. Then someone next to me picks up her books
to leave, and I make myself hurry out of the way.
In these narrow lecture-hall aisles it can quickly
get chaotic when an individual fails to move on
cue.
Out the tan, laminated door and on to
Biology.
This is the only conceivable major for me to
take. The oceans have been my passion ever since
I was so small that, when I stood, I was
face-to-face with the characters on my father's
television screen. I used to sit in the dark,
fearfully watching nature programs, huddled in my
faded pink-flowered nightie as I fervently wished
to be one of the fishes or other strange creatures
who lived in the sea.
Daddy wouldn't find me if I sank down low, I
believed... If I could live where the
bioluminescent (I learned that word,
"bioluminescent", early in life and equated it
with the magic of the natural world I wondered at
on public television), pressure-immune jellyfish
and anglers dwelled... Down, miles down where even
the greatest divers and filmmakers of all time had
not yet explored... If even my heroes, the
oceanographers who braved sharks and poison snails
and rough water to bring us closer to the sea
life, if even they could not find me, then I would
be safe.
Under all that water my soul could never
escape my body and I would stay, peaceful, feeding
on plankton and letting all others be. I never
chose a form in these dreams, just a place. A
darkness.
I sang with John Denver's tribute to my hero,
one of the few times my voice was ever raised in
any kind of joy. I never had a bedtime, and
when my father was not around I made peanut-butter
toast for myself and spoke softly to the whales
and fishes and cried when the nature shows were
over.
The only thing I ever recall asking my father
for was a ride on a boat. What followed was one
of the nights I don't remember.
I frequently wished that Jacques Cousteau
could be my father.
This hall, Stark Hall, was built three years
ago, well before I registered this fall, but it
seems never to have aired out enough to rid the
place of those blasted new-building chemical
scents. I avoid spending time in the groups of
students who congregate between classes. The
classrooms themselves don't have such a strong
aftertaste of construction, so I get to mine as
quickly as possible and stay there.
The science departments here at Hayden Heath
are fine, quality-wise, but given any kind of
choice I would have gone to a university near a
coastline. My scholarship here lasts four
years... I don't know whether in that amount of
time I can acquire enough credentials, especially
without any real, hands-on marine experience, to
get an internship with an ocean exploration group.
But I'd do any job I could get, if it meant I
could just be near the water.
I avoid telling most people this, but I have
never been near the ocean.
The closest I've come to actually contacting
marine life has been wistfully staring at the
tropical fishes in pet stores. They are all
remarkably beautiful. I have not acquired any for
myself because whenever the university goes on
break I have to go to the charity housing I have
generously been granted through a school
program... I stay with six other students in a
house north of here. If I lived with any pets,
the poor things would either have to stay here or
travel with me. They are so fragile they could
easily die. But I wish...
At any rate, I have finally garnered enough
wages from my post as one of the night
watchpersons for our dorm that I am going to do
something which makes me a bit overwhelmed to
imagine.
I am going to visit an aquarium.
An honest-to-God, state-of-the-art,
specimens-of-creatures-never-before-seen-in-captivity
AQUARIUM. It's some seventy-eighty
miles or so from Hayden Heath, and I've known about it
since registering, of course, since the Bio. and
Oceanography professors have glossy little
brochures describing the experience. The classes
only work up a trip every few years. There's a
lot of expense involved with that kind of thing
and we don't have a club for our major yet, so, as
last year was a trip year, I figured to myself I'd
have to wait.
But then I had a rare flash of something new
to me. A flash that said, Hell, girl, you're in
college now, you're on your _own_ (the fact that
the school pays for everything but your Goodwill
clothes notwithstanding), and if you save a little
of that part-time pay you can just as well go see
the ocean displays _by yourself_.
And I thought, hey. Why not.
I've never been anywhere by myself before,
unless you count lurking in the living room all
during...
Well, anyhow, I'm going to an _Aquarium_.
I haven't told my acquaintances because
they'd probably wonder what all the excitement is
about. Sometimes, when I've avoided spending a
bit here and there, I've been tempted to say
something, but then they might think I'm trying to
get money out of them or something. I don't want
anyone to think I'm not grateful for what I have.
I huddled in my nightie in the dark but
whenever he wanted me he found me. Funny how kids
and baby animals always think that if they're
frozen in place the bad things, whatever they
might be, won't get them. I just sat there, and
went sort of limp when he picked me up. I never
cried during. I never asked him to stop. Never
asked him for anything except a ride in a boat.
Some nights come back to me and some don't but I
know tears soaked my chin and chest even before he
got me to the bedroom, the time he turned off a
show on narwhals before it was over.
"Daddy loves his little Laurie-mouse.
Laurie-mouse is so pretty."
Laurie is a little girl who wishes she was a
fish, but whatever, Dad. I always thought Jacques
Cousteau would never have called me a mouse. It
didn't occur to me that other fathers might also
refrain from inflicting torture on their
daughters' little bodies.
When I became too heavy to lift, although I
have never been big for my age, he would just call
to me.
And I would slowly snap off the light that
came from the TV set, and go to him.
I'll be taking a bus to the Aquarium. That's
the expensive part, really. Admission shouldn't
cost too much.
I can let my mind wander because the Biology
discussion is really just a review of an earlier
Oceanography lesson. I half-listen to the
discussion of ocean trenches and half-daydream
about the reality of gars and groupers and moray
eels watching me from behind the glass of a
miniature sea, each in its own perfect world,
glowing and glossy as any brochure photos but
_real_.
Trenches. The experts can only guess at how
deep they are. Weather patterns over the entire
globe are better understood than an undersea
canyon off the coast of California. I imagine
that I might explain it all someday. Detail all
the answers of the trenches beyond a shadow of a
doubt.
Oh, I know, it's highly unlikely that someone
like me will accomplish what generations of my own
heroes have debated for years. Can I stop the
debates and make a name for myself in the
textbooks? It's a silly question. Probably, to
most people, not worth speculating about. But I
have always lived comfortably, or at least as
comfortably as I can be said to have lived, with
my fantasies.
I'm not usually one to get giddy with
anticipation, but between being here at Hayden
Heath, free for the most part to do as I please,
and the thought of taking one more step towards my
dreams, I am rather-- well, very-- excited.
A freshman in college and never seen an
Aquarium.
I didn't even know, until I came here, that
it may actually be common practice for parents to
indulge their children's' interests.
All through high school I kept my mouth shut.
When I got the scholarship I did not tell my
father. It was offered to me in the fall of my
senior year, so I could make a decision. I was so
overcome by the idea of living away from home, of
being in a houseful of girls, that I almost did
not accept. My father was just my Daddy. We did
not share, we did not discuss, and I did not leave
him. But then came the night that left me no
choice.
Sometimes we can be glad of tragedy.
My father was not home when I grew sick.
This was not uncommon. I had been alone and ill
many times. I shook, my teeth chattered, I
wrapped all the blankets I could find (three,
counting an old rag) around myself.
It never occurred to me to call the hospital.
My Daddy was the only one I had and he never
seemed to trust those places. I took
over-the-counter cold and flu remedies, hoping one
would work, and called myself in sick to school.
I felt too hot, uncovered myself, fell asleep
and had nightmares of banshees screaming and
eating my flesh. I awoke freezing cold, shook
uncontrollably as I wrapped myself up again, could
not gain enough strength to rise and clean up the
reeking vomit that had materialized on the floor.
I seemed to have all the deadly symptoms I had
ever heard about and I believe I fainted from
sheer terror.
I gained a sort of consciousness several
times, but the room kept changing color and I
thought I heard sounds of animals in pain. The
house was so empty and I was so hungry that I
thought I should eat myself, then everything would
go away.
The high school tried to call, but no one
answered. Worried, the secretary in the office
sent a janitor to check on things at my home.
Three days after I was hospitalized, my
father returned from wherever he had been and came
to visit his daughter.
"Laurie-mouse is as pretty as she ever was."
I had not known before that I had always
hated the way he smelled. The odor was familiar,
yes. But never welcome. I began to wonder
whether we were related. But I knew we were. We
looked alike. Or at least, we had before I had
gotten sick.
I said nothing and tried to focus on his
face. He was stroking the area between my rounded
ears. His hands were rough but his touch light.
For now. In the hospital. Maybe if I freeze, I
thought. Play dead. Maybe then they'll keep me
here.
But I got better.
To some extent.
And having me around all those people, within
easy access of them, made my father nervous. So
he took me home.
"Well, Laurie, you've had a hard time,
haven't you Darling. But Daddy's had a long and
tiring trip, and he has a hard time too. You know
how it is, Laurie-mouse. Daddy goes through so
much for his little girl."
His little eighteen-year-old.
"Why don't you turn off the TV and come in
here."
Pause. Just a bit of one. I don't know
where it came from. Maybe it was the slight
difficulty of motion with a changed, though still
humanoid, body. But whatever the reason, there
was a pause before, as always, I did as he said.
"You are still the apple of my eye. No head
or body is going to change that. I'd better look
at all of you, first, to make sure you can still
help me. Drop your clothes, Honey, and turn
around. Be a good little mouse. That's my pretty
girl."
Not a mouse, Dad. A slow-moving,
steel-jawed, weird-voiced, _butt-ugly_ devil.
You're sick.
I have read, since that night, a passage in a
book on Australian and other marsupials that said
something like: "No one will ever accuse a
Tasmanian devil of being beautiful."
And when I read that, I cried for nearly an
hour.
"Well, well, you're a lucky little mouse.
Still Daddy's girl, I see."
_You're_ _sick_. The thoughts came from
nowhere I had ever been before. I realized that a
lot of the scars and evidence from before were
probably gone. Gone. Different now. Not the
same girl. Not... his daughter.
Still the pattern repeated itself and as I
allowed the lifelong ritual to go on I even then
instinctively believed that if I was gentle, and
let him be, then he would let me go, I would hide
in the dark and he would never come for me again.
I was difficult to see in the dark and
sometimes he did not even know if I was in the
living room unless he spoke to me. One night I
did not answer him.
I was half-curled in the corner, away from
the television set, reminiscing about Calypso and
gnawing on a ham sandwich. When his voice reached
me, my ears flicked, but I growled low in my
throat and surreptitiously continued my gnawing.
I swallowed the sandwich and he still had not seen
me. I covered the band of white fur that was
visible below my neck and crouched, silent.
"Laurie?"
Dad snapped on the light and I blinked
indignantly. That feeling came back... The
alienness of my father. Mine, but not mine. I am
not your daughter.
I won't move unless you make me.
So he grabbed the nape of my neck and yanked
me to my feet.
"You may look like an animal, _Darling_, but
that is no excuse for behaving like one. Let's
go."
And he prodded me ahead of him into the
bedroom. "I just don't know about you sometimes,
Laurie-mouse. Don't you care about your Daddy?"
I looked back over my shoulder and hissed at
him. He slapped me.
I cowered.
The pattern repeats.
Except...
_It HURT_. It had always hurt. Always. But
the brain, my brain, snapped, changed, boiled and
denatured... The devil remembered this smell,
this man, this thing and it was not good.
No, Laurie-from-before agreed. It was never
good.
It hurts! Stop! You're holding me let me
go!
I'm warning you...
I warned him. I heard the growl, the
hissing, still hear it and know I warned him. I
was so afraid I urinated and soaked him and
myself.
He held me around the neck and shoulder even
as I twisted to get away, and when I felt a blow
from the other hand, against my face, my terror
grew to a frenzy of need, to escape, to survive.
I knew he could kill me.
He would have, too. Devils are small things,
normally. No match for a man like my father. But
I was a young woman, not strong, no, but designed
differently since the disease.
And with no path left open to me I began to
chew.
Through the arm, kicking, scratching as I
went, aware of the blows but knowing only one way
to escape.
I let loose a hideous sound as I ripped at
the limb, thinking still to frighten the opponent
away. If you have heard the growl of an angry cat
you can begin to imagine. But you can only just
begin.
My furred face was wet with spurts of Daddy's
blood. I felt no pain but deepest fear. Then,
with a wrench and a twist, I opened my jaws and
was free.
To hide under the bed.
Liquid from my father's arm kept dripping to
the floor where most of the limb already lay. I
tried not to pant, not to call attention to
myself. I tried, somewhere within my mind, to
sink all the way from my father's house to the
ocean... Seawater, I knew, could cure me if I
reached it. I would dive in and the ache of my
father's attacks would wash away. He would never
find me. My wounds would heal and I would swim,
maybe to a place where other devils lived.
Or maybe other devils like me lived only in
Hell.
Maybe halfway to Tasmania I would sink, past
the warm surface, past the sea snakes, then the
flying fish and the whale sharks, down past squid
and sperm whales and even the head-and-tail-lights
and the bioluminescent jellyfish.
Maybe I would sink forever. The dark could
close over me and in the depths of all depths,
below even the ocean of my childhood fantasies, no
light could ever be shed on Laurie's body.
Hell, I thought, would be a very cold and
comforting place right now.
They put me in a cage.
I spent the rest of the night alone under the
bed, feeling my throat strain to make a sound and
hearing a wail that went on and on, yet never in
my mind connecting the two until much, much later.
When they couldn't coax me out they dragged
me out by the tail, which hurt, but I would not
emerge voluntarily into an area reeking of Daddy.
I was placed in a cage at the police station,
but just when I thought this must be where all of
my kind stay, the school secretary and the
janitor, along with several of my teachers,
vouched for my character and got me released.
They do not know the whole story, but I am
eternally grateful, now that I can think straight,
for their insight.
I was taken to the hospital again for
treatment of my wounds, and allowed to stay at the
school secretary's house until graduation. We can
be glad of tragedies sometimes. I know I am one
who has said that. But I was quiet, would not
speak nor ask for anything, except in conjunction
with homework, and spent most of my time keening
under my breath with the television playing
softly.
My father did not survive.
I am, as I have said, eternally grateful to
the high school staff who saw me to graduation and
then, with much well-wishing and helpful advice,
shipped me off to Hayden Heath. I would never
have been released from police custody or, if I
had, I would almost certainly have been placed in
a home for questionably sane SCABS victims.
Treated, well, treated as I had behaved. That
night. As an animal. Shudder.
I will try to pay them back someday. Maybe I
can make a big discovery, about the trenches or
something even more romantic, and then credit them
in my article. It's a warming thought.
But, first things first.
I hop off the bus and look at my brochure.
The Aquarium is only about fourteen blocks from
the station. I sigh with repressed anticipation
and begin to walk.
I'm here on a weekday, having taken some time
off especially for the purpose, but even so there
are a few other patrons in line at the desk at the
same time as myself. I get my wallet and money
ready.
"I'd like admission for one adult for one
day, please," I say, noting as I do so that the
trio in line behind me consists of a young father
and two preschool-age children. I smile at the
kids as best I can and then turn back to the
receptionist, waiting.
She says, "Where is your escort, Miss?"
It is said so politely that I do not even
comprehend the meaning for a minute. "Sorry?"
She sighs. I can't tell whether that means
she is impatient with me or apologetic. She
smells ambiguous. "The Aquarium includes many
displays which are open to the visitors. We're
sorry, but in the interests of safety to the
animals and to yourself, we have had to adopt a
strict policy of not allowing any predatory SCABS
morphs into the facility without a normal escort.
You may not enter the Aquarium alone."
I can sense the impatience of the children
and their father waiting behind me. Still, I have
to make one attempt.
"I'm trustworthy, really I am, Ma'am. Is
there no way to make an exception? I came from
Hayden Heath for personal research... I came all
the way here to..." I have never felt quite this
humiliated. I can't believe I'm grovelling like
this. I turn to go. And the family steps forward
in line.
I tell myself not to make it worse by crying.
I even tell myself that there will be other times,
that I can go next time my department arranges a
trip and we'll all have escorts. I find myself
wishing for my Oceanography professor, not just
because he's normal and could get me into the
Aquarium, but because he has shown me so much
already. In some way I am desperately lonely for
a father.
And at that, and at the thought of my first
all-by-myself-really-out-on-my-own plans down some
bigot's drain, the tears come.
I can't show them. I have to hide them. I
have to hide _me_.
There's a circular outdoor table near where I
am walking. I dive under it and stay there.
More than one person approaching or exiting
the Aquarium notices me, and begins to ask if I am
all right, but when I lift my head and gape my
jaws at them a scent of fear wafts over and they
quickly leave me be.
The afternoon wears on.
People come and go.
I weep. Then I stop. I feel better, almost
ready to go on, then remember that I can't, that
they won't let me in, and I sink into myself again
and wait for night to come.
But before it does, another passerby, this
one heading in to the Aquarium, notices an
oddly-shaped lump under the outdoor table and
cautiously bends down for a better look.
I hiss and grumble, thinking he'll get the
message, but he doesn't. At least not the message
I'm currently trying to convey.
"Hello? Miss? Are you all right?"
Grumble mutter.
"Has someone hurt you?"
That's a new one. I open my black, slanted
eyes and allow one curious glance in his
direction. He's tall, sandy-haired, not too
remarkable but so friendly-smelling. I venture to
speak. "I came under here by myself."
The man hunches down to my level, concern
evident in his expression and scent. "Well, even
if that's true, is there anything you need?
Something I can help you with?"
I start to say no. I mean, I don't know this
man in the least, he's certainly got better things
to do, and... and...
He's smiling, encouraging me.
The only other time in my life I ever asked
for anything was when I asked my father... for a
boat ride... one of the nights I don't remember...
I sense nothing of my father here. I am the
only person here, _anywhere_, related to my
father, anymore. There has been a change. Well,
many changes. I begin again to convince myself
that I should stay the way I was, hold onto
something. But the allure of the dream-Aquarium
is too strong. I straighten my posture a little
bit and the sandy-haired man nods, waits for my
words. I am afraid of what I say but my voice
goes on without me, as if my subconscious is the
wiser of my two minds and has decided to simply
let me catch up later.
"Well, Sir," I say, "I was going to go to the
Aquarium, and there's a rule..."