The Merry Spinster: Tales of Everyday Horror(46)

“We will think about it,” his friend said. They had a quiet breakfast together.

The next day, after he had come home from the sea, the fisherman’s friend said to him, “Our new house is lovely—too lovely for the kind of friends you have insisted on bringing around in the past. Go see the flounder tomorrow, and tell him that we need a better class of people to associate with us, to go with the house.”

“What kind of people?” the fisherman asked.

“People of consequence,” his friend said. “Interesting people. Attractive people. People I would not be ashamed to have here.”

And the fisherman, who did not know his friend had been ashamed, did just that.

*

“Well, you’re back again awfully soon,” the flounder said.

“I did not know enough to be ashamed before I met you, flounder,” said the fisherman. “But my friend, who is very helpful and who I am very lucky to have, is teaching me.”

“What does your friend want, then?” the flounder asked.

“The people we associated with in our old house are no longer fit for us,” the fisherman said. “We would like a new class of people to be our friends.”

The flounder said, “It’s done,” and disappeared. The fisherman sat in his boat for a long time. He forgot to put his hook in the water.

When he got home that night, his friend said, “Now you really do look sick. You should get into bed; a party would wear you out entirely.”

“Are we having a party?” the fisherman said.

“I’m having some people over later,” said his friend. “We’ll be quiet, and I’ll make sure no one disturbs you.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to greet them?” the fisherman said. “I could rest first.”

“Why would you want me to host a party and look after you at the same time?” his friend asked. “Could you please try just a little to make things easier for me, and get into bed, and rest?”

So the fisherman did. He said, “Talk to me, while I am resting?” What he was trying to say, of course, was, I am sorry; please don’t stop helping me.

“All right,” his friend said. “Let me think of a story to tell you.” He sat back and thought. He thought and he thought. “I cannot think of a story to tell you.”

“It’s not important,” the fisherman said.

His friend shook his head. “Obviously it is. It was important enough for you to ask me to stop and think of one while I am trying to get ready for our party, and now I won’t be able to concentrate until I tell you a story, because you are sick and I want you to get better. I am not going to be able to get any of the things done that I wanted to, because of this.”

“I’m sorry,” the fisherman said. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Please don’t lie to me on top of everything else,” his friend said.

“I’m sorry,” the fisherman said again. “I didn’t mean it.”

“Tomorrow you should go and ask the flounder for another house,” said his friend, “because I do not think you like me to live with you. Then you could have all the peace and quiet you needed, and I would not bother you so much, if I had someone over.”

“No,” the fisherman said. “No, I do not want my own house; please do not ask me to do that, please don’t.”

“It’s not for my own pleasure that I said it,” his friend said. “I am only thinking of you.”

“I am so sorry,” the fisherman said, “only please do not ask me to leave you.”

“I am going out to the front porch,” his friend said, “and there I will walk up and down until I have thought of a story for you, even though it is very cold outside, and I have no coat. I will do this for you.”

“Please don’t,” the fisherman said.

“Why are you making me feel guilty for trying to do something nice for you?” his friend said.

“I do not know how to stop hurting you,” the fisherman cried. “I must be doing something very wrong.” His friend went out to walk up and down the front porch, and the fisherman stole out of bed and left the house by the back entrance. He walked down to his little boat in the dark and pushed out to sea.

“Flounder,” he called when he had sailed out a ways. “Flounder.” The water was black and boiling. “Flounder.”

The flounder appeared. “Fisherman,” it said, “this was not exactly what I intended, when I told you I could give you something no one else could.”

“What did you mean, then?” the fisherman said, and if he was crying, he could not help it.

“I could help you,” the flounder said, “if you would ask me for something else, and not what you came out here to ask me.”

“My friend wants me to wish for my own house,” the fisherman said, “which makes me miserable, because I want to live with no one but my friend.”

“You do not live with a friend,” the flounder said. “I have seen your home and the one who lives there with you, he is no friend to you.”

The fisherman snatched the flounder out of the sea with his right hand. It flashed and flopped all over the bottom of the boat. Next he tore out its gills with his thumbs and ran his fingers through its belly, from throat to tail, until its insides were quite clean. He threw the flounder’s guts back into the sea, and then he went home. The party was over, and all of the guests had left. His friend was still walking up and down the porch, shivering and stamping. “Where have you been?”