of his six goldfish. Looping, coiled, knotty cores of light at the center of each of his fish. Luther could not believe it. Months of work had come to this. Glowing goldfish guts. He had overfed the fish.
A silence came over the patrons at the bar.
“Darling,” said Serena, “what the hell is that?”
Others were quick to add their two cents.
“That’s repulsive.”
“It looks like X-ray fish.”
“Yuck!”
Luther would not be consoled. “I don’t care,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I just don’t care.” He kept repeating “I don’t care,” over and over. In response to any question
—Do you want another drink? What should we do with the goldfish? Are they radioactive?
—he gave the same answer. “I don’t care.”
Luther was in no condition to drive. So, after we left Serena calling out “Nighty-night!” on her doorstep, I got behind the wheel of his car, drove him home, and deposited him in the living room of his carriage house—the living room that looked out on the Dumpster instead of the garden. The night air seemed to revive him a little.
“I don’t know why I ever fooled around with goldfish,” he said. “I should have stuck to what I know best. Insects. It doesn’t pay to try to change. I’ve often thought of changing my life completely, but it never works. I moved to Florida once, but I came back. I’ve got too much Savannah in me, I guess. My family’s been here seven generations, and after that long a time I suppose it gets into your genes. It’s like the control insects at the laboratory. Did I ever tell you about them? Well, we keep a lot of insect colonies in big glass jars out there. Some of them have been breeding for twenty-five years. That’s a thousand generations. All they know about life is what goes on inside their jar. They haven’t been exposed to pesticides or pollution, so they haven’t developed immunities or evolved in any way. They stay the same, generation after generation. If we released them into the outside world, they’d die. I think something like that happens after seven generations in Savannah. Savannah gets to be the only place you can live. We’re like bugs in a jar.”
Luther excused himself and asked me to wait in the living room. He walked upstairs unsteadily but with exaggerated care, negotiating the false step without mishap. I could hear him crossthe floor overhead. A dresser drawer opened and closed. When he returned, he was carrying a brown bottle with a black screw cap. The bottle was filled with a white powder.
“This is one way out,” he said. “Sodium fluoroacetate. It’s a poison. Five hundred times more lethal than arsenic.” Luther held the bottle up to the light. It had a handwritten label that read: “Monsanto 3039.”
“This is the same stuff the Finns dumped down their wells when the Russians invaded in 1939. The water in those wells is still undrinkable. I could kill damn near everybody in Savannah with this bottle. Tens of thousands of people anyway.” A smile played across Luther’s lips as he gazed at the bottle. “I was in charge of burying a lot of this stuff out on Oatland Island where we closed down a laboratory years ago. I kept some of it for myself, though. More than enough.”
“Ever thought of using it?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ve always said I’d use it if niggers moved into the house next door. Then niggers did move in next door and made a liar out of me.”
“Isn’t it illegal to have it?”
“Highly.”
“Then why do you keep it?”
“I just like the idea of it.” Luther spoke in a taunting way, like a boy with an extra-powerful slingshot. “Every so often I hold it in my hand and think … poof!”
Luther handed me the bottle. As I looked at it, I held my breath for fear that the slightest leaking fumes would be lethal. I wondered what went through Luther’s mind when he held this bottle and thought “poof!” Then I thought I knew. He probably saw the people of Savannah
A silence came over the patrons at the bar.
“Darling,” said Serena, “what the hell is that?”
Others were quick to add their two cents.
“That’s repulsive.”
“It looks like X-ray fish.”
“Yuck!”
Luther would not be consoled. “I don’t care,” he said. “It doesn’t matter. I just don’t care.” He kept repeating “I don’t care,” over and over. In response to any question
—Do you want another drink? What should we do with the goldfish? Are they radioactive?
—he gave the same answer. “I don’t care.”
Luther was in no condition to drive. So, after we left Serena calling out “Nighty-night!” on her doorstep, I got behind the wheel of his car, drove him home, and deposited him in the living room of his carriage house—the living room that looked out on the Dumpster instead of the garden. The night air seemed to revive him a little.
“I don’t know why I ever fooled around with goldfish,” he said. “I should have stuck to what I know best. Insects. It doesn’t pay to try to change. I’ve often thought of changing my life completely, but it never works. I moved to Florida once, but I came back. I’ve got too much Savannah in me, I guess. My family’s been here seven generations, and after that long a time I suppose it gets into your genes. It’s like the control insects at the laboratory. Did I ever tell you about them? Well, we keep a lot of insect colonies in big glass jars out there. Some of them have been breeding for twenty-five years. That’s a thousand generations. All they know about life is what goes on inside their jar. They haven’t been exposed to pesticides or pollution, so they haven’t developed immunities or evolved in any way. They stay the same, generation after generation. If we released them into the outside world, they’d die. I think something like that happens after seven generations in Savannah. Savannah gets to be the only place you can live. We’re like bugs in a jar.”
Luther excused himself and asked me to wait in the living room. He walked upstairs unsteadily but with exaggerated care, negotiating the false step without mishap. I could hear him crossthe floor overhead. A dresser drawer opened and closed. When he returned, he was carrying a brown bottle with a black screw cap. The bottle was filled with a white powder.
“This is one way out,” he said. “Sodium fluoroacetate. It’s a poison. Five hundred times more lethal than arsenic.” Luther held the bottle up to the light. It had a handwritten label that read: “Monsanto 3039.”
“This is the same stuff the Finns dumped down their wells when the Russians invaded in 1939. The water in those wells is still undrinkable. I could kill damn near everybody in Savannah with this bottle. Tens of thousands of people anyway.” A smile played across Luther’s lips as he gazed at the bottle. “I was in charge of burying a lot of this stuff out on Oatland Island where we closed down a laboratory years ago. I kept some of it for myself, though. More than enough.”
“Ever thought of using it?” I asked.
“Sure. I’ve always said I’d use it if niggers moved into the house next door. Then niggers did move in next door and made a liar out of me.”
“Isn’t it illegal to have it?”
“Highly.”
“Then why do you keep it?”
“I just like the idea of it.” Luther spoke in a taunting way, like a boy with an extra-powerful slingshot. “Every so often I hold it in my hand and think … poof!”
Luther handed me the bottle. As I looked at it, I held my breath for fear that the slightest leaking fumes would be lethal. I wondered what went through Luther’s mind when he held this bottle and thought “poof!” Then I thought I knew. He probably saw the people of Savannah
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