"Holy Mackerel"
by Michael Dell

She heard the car door slam. Stanley was home. She raced from the bedroom, shutting the door behind her, and hurriedly tried to fix her hair in the hallway mirror. He was already barreling towards her. She had to stay calm.

"What are you doing home, dear? Is anything wrong?"

"He's in there now, isn't he, Bearnice?" growled her husband.

She stepped in front of him to block his way, still nervously trying to adjust the belt of her robe and hoping against hope that Stanley didn't notice the red lingerie it was hiding. "I don't know what you're talking about, sweetheart."

"Don't play games with me, Bearnice! I know he's in there!"

"Are you okay, Stanley? You look terrible." She grabbed his arm and attempted to lead him to the kitchen. "How about I go fix us some coffee? Wouldn't that be nice? A nice, hot cup of coffee..."

Stanley broke free from his wife's desperate grip and bolted for the bedroom. "I'll murder him!"

"Stanley, don't!"

It was too late. The bedroom door was open. And there, lounging on Stanley's side of the bed, with its head upon Stanley's own pillow, was a fish. It wasn't a particularly large fish, measuring what Stanley figured to be about two feet from mouth to tail. It was bluish green in color with small fins protruding from its spine and belly.

"How could you, Bearnice?"

"Let's talk outside, Stanley." Her husband, stunned, allowed himself to be guided from the room. Bearnice quietly shut the door and took a deep breath. She had been dreading this moment.

"A fish?" muttered her husband.

"He's not a fish," mimicked Bearnice. "He's a mackerel." The last word was spoken with immense pride. "And I love him. I'm leaving you, Stanley."

"You're leaving me for a fish?"

"He's a mackerel, Stanley."

"How long has this been going on?"

"Long enough."

"Twenty-seven years of marriage out the window for some overgrown sardine?"

"Mackerel!"

"How's he gonna take care of you, Bearnice?" Silence. "How could he possibly support you?"

"He's a really good swimmer..."

"How's that gonna pay the bills?"

"I don't know!" sobbed Bearnice. "I don't care! I love him! He loves me, Stanley! He cares about me! He cares about what I think, what I want! He listens to me, Stanley! He listens!"

"I find that hard to believe, Bearnice, seeing how he doesn't even have any ears!" Stanley's voice rose to a shout towards the conclusion of the statement, driving the insult through the bedroom door on the off chance that the fish was, indeed, capable of auditory response. "Listen to me, Bearnice. What about the children?"

"The kids are grown, Stanley. They'll understand. They'd want me to be happy."

"Happy? Who doesn't want to be happy? Hell, I'd like to be happy! You know what would make me happy, Bearnice?" Stanley spun a hasty retreat. "I haven't had a good fish sandwich in years."

"Stanley!" shouted Bearnice, chasing after her husband. He was pulling a butcher's knife from its rightful drawer when she reached the kitchen. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Oh, wouldn't I?" mocked Stanley. "Do we have any tartar sauce?"

"Give me the knife, Stanley," commanded Bearnice. Stanley began a determined march. Bearnice tried to slow him, obstructing his path with her body and outstretched arms. "I won't let you hurt him, Stanley." She was pushed backwards the length of the hall until the bedroom door halted her.

"Get out of the way, Bearnice."

"Don't you understand? I love him, Stanley!"

"Bearnice!" roared Stanley. "Get away from the door!"

"No."

Stanley lowered his shoulder and used his distinct weight advantage to forcibly remove his wife.

"Stanley, no!"

He gave her an extra shove to create distance and barged into the bedroom.

"Stanley!" Bearnice pounded furiously upon the locked door. "Please, don't hurt him! Oh, Stanley! Please!"

Stanley was immune to the tormented cries of his wife. Her frantic banging amounted to little more than background noise when compared to the mad rush of his blood. For he was now face to face with his rival, his enemy.

The fish was lying peacefully; apparently unaware of the raging conflict it had spawned. Stanley tightened his grip on the knife. Where to cut first? Its head. He'd chop off its head.

Then he saw it. There was a gleam, a faint glimmer of something in the fish's perfectly round, delicate eye. He was suddenly struck by the sweet innocence of its lips, the knowing confidence of its expression. Stanley marveled at how the light danced playfully along its moist scales. It was beautiful.

Bearnice tried not to think about what was going on behind the door. The wait was agonizing. She continued to weep for her lover's life. Then, without warning, the lock clicked. Bearnice turned the knob. The door opened to reveal Stanley facing the bed, his arms dangling at his sides, the knife on the floor. The mackerel was untouched.

"Stanley?" whispered Bearnice, as she cautiously approached her motionless husband. "Are you okay, Stanley? I'm sorry, Stanley. I never meant to hurt you." She placed a gentle hand on his back. "Stanley?"

That's when Stanley Gordon, devoted husband and father of three, turned to his wife and asked the only question of importance.

"Does he have a sister?"