Lydia Millet - Magnificence

The koi was hanging beneath lily pads, long and bulbous and graceful — like a zeppelin, she thought. Orange and black fins flicked back and forth, barely moving. She knelt beside the pond and gazed.

A man’s voice interrupted.

“I hear people pay two thousand bucks for those things.”

She jumped to her feet, squinting and brushing dirt from her bare knees. It was her cousin Steven, the computer guy, dressed for leisure in khaki Bermuda shorts and a polo shirt; he wore highly reflective sunglasses in a giant wraparound visor, so the whole upper half of his face was missing in action. He was futuristic, a man who came with his own windshield.

She had to get the gate fixed, she realized. Then she could keep it locked.

“Yeah, there’s breeders and shit, all these fancy Japanese, like, fish farms,” said Steven, nodding sagely. “Big one outside Fresno, they sell the things to Chinese restaurants or whatever. For atmosphere. Not, like, for food. I know. I set up their network.”

“Mine was twenty dollars at the pet store,” said Susan.

“The things are what, obese goldfish?”

“Obese seems, I don’t know, judgmental.”

“OK then. Fucking fat.”

“They’re distant goldfish relatives, I think. A kind of carp.”

“So they’re like, goldfish on roids. Do they get roid rage?”

She found herself gazing at him.

“Hey!” he went on. “You should do mandatory drug testing.”

“Ha,” said Susan wanly. She looked down to the pool at her feet, the gold patches gleaming beneath the surface.

“Well, here we are, huh? Uncle Al left the whole dog-and-pony show to dear little Susan,” said Steven, with a quick sting of anger that took her by surprise.

He looked around, head bobbing in what seemed to be an ongoing skeptical nod. At least, she assumed he was looking around: his head swiveled slowly as it bobbed and sunlight flashed on his metallic lenses.

“Not so little,” she said, still taken aback and stalling. It had never occurred to her that he might feel entitled. Not once. She never had, herself.

She blundered on. “Middle-aged Susan, more like.”

“Nah, really. You don’t look a day over thirty.”

“Aw. Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“Gimme the private tour.”

“Come on in.”

Inside the music room, which opened to the pool and backyard and was full of sheep and goat mounts, he looked around and whistled. Except for a faded, wine-colored velour couch the room was almost empty, only a stand with some colorful guitars in a corner and a dusty double bass with no strings.

“Old guy was crazier than I thought,” he said.

“I didn’t know him well,” said Susan.

“So why’d he pick you?”

“Honestly, I have no idea. Were you two still in touch?”

“We did a couple Turkey Day meals. That kind of shit. Mostly at our place, though, when we lived over in Reseda. He would come in from out of town with a pile of gifts for the kids. So they kinda liked him. Deb didn’t. She thought he was an old lech.”

“Oh yeah?”

“As far as invitations, he didn’t return the favor. Last time I was in this place I was a kid myself.”

“He had a player piano, remember? I haven’t found it yet, though. Maybe he got rid of it. The kitchen’s over here,” she said.

“Building’s massive. Jesus.”

“It’s large.”

“Guy musta had a full-time taxidermist on the payroll.”

“Was he a hunter? Do you know?”

“Well it’s sure as shit not roadkill.”

“Do you remember what he did? For a living?”

“It was like, commodities trading maybe? He was abroad a lot. He was traveling all the time.”

“What can I get you? I have coffee, tea, sparkling water—”

“No beer?”

“Oh. At ten-thirty. .?”

“Gimme a Bud, if you got one.”

She opened the refrigerator as he paced the room peering at the stuffed fish.

“Dos Equis OK?”

“Mexican pisswater? Enh, sure. I’m not picky.”

She almost decided not to hand it over, then reached for the bottle opener.

“What is that, a marlin?”

“I’m still learning. Whatever the label says.”

To occupy herself she reached into the freezer for the bag of coffee.

“So. What brings you by? Wanting to check out the place?”

“Yeah, you know. Though we probably won’t make a claim.”

“What claim?”

“Against the estate. You know.”

She gaped at him. The sunglasses were propped up on his head now, but his eyes didn’t tell her much either. He raised his beer bottle and drank.

A wave of illness moved through her.

“No — what?”

“Like I say, we probably won’t. Tommy’s giving me some pressure. He says it’s the principle of the thing. But listen. I’m like, she’s had a bad year already. That woman has nothing. Zip. Nada. She needed something like this. I go, She needs it more than we do, Tomboy.”

She was unsteady.

“Well. Thanks for that, Steve.”

“Yeah. Well. You know.”

“It was pretty clear in the will, wasn’t it? I mean what do I know.”

“See, though,” and he shook his head, taking a swig from the bottle, “the non compos thing. Not of sound mind.”

“Was he under care or something? In an institution?”

“He lived here by himself.”

“So what makes you think he was—?”

“Shit, woman. I mean the guy was a hermit. There’s no one to say if he was crazy or not.”

She might be having a panic attack. Her breath felt constricted. Spite, she thought. Spite and malice. She wouldn’t be surprised if the old man had left her the house expressly to make sure it wasn’t given to Steven. Possibly when he saw the guy, on holidays, the guy had irritated him. Possibly she was projecting, but possibly Steve’s poor character had been the source of her own good luck.

She fumbled with the coffee grinder as her breathing evened out. It was an excuse to turn away; she’d already drunk her coffee quota. As she pressed down on the lid and the grinder spun and shrieked she raised her eyes to the wall above her, which featured a mako shark. She felt reassured by it. She was a murderer, after all. For once it was a comfort to think so. Being a murderer made her equal to Steven.

She lifted her hands from the grinder and waited till it wound down, then pulled off the top and tipped the grounds into a filter.

“Well, I’m glad you convinced Tommy I wasn’t worth suing,” she said humbly.

A murderer, like a shark, must have rows of hidden sharp teeth behind the ones at the front.

What he said was true, of course, though his whole bearing filled her with resentment. Resentment and unease. Of course she didn’t deserve the house. No one deserved a house like this. She didn’t deserve anything, she knew that. But he deserved even less, she suspected. All she could think of to do was flatter him. She would show him some gratitude, presume a kindness in him and will it into existence. Maybe he would follow a rare generous impulse and leave her alone.

“You liquidated this property, we’re talking megamillions,” he said.

A month ago, T. might have bought it himself. Made her his partner, bulldozed the big house and converted the lot to rows of houses like cupcakes on a tray.

“I would hate to sell it,” she said softly. “They’d tear it down and build a subdivision.”

“Ee-yup.”

“But it’s beautiful,” she said, in a subdued tone. Needing somewhere else to look, she opened the refrigerator with a preoccupied air.

“Spacious accommodations for a single lady,” he badgered.

“I rattle around in here,” she said, though this was not at all the way she felt. In truth she glided through chains of rooms streamlined, perfectly graceful in the long halls. Perfect not in and of herself, but in and of the house.