Tova’s day starts early. She has much to accomplish.
First, she drives downtown and parks her hatchback, which is no small task because of this enormous ramshackle camper taking up two spaces between the realtor’s office and the paddle shop next door. Blocking the view of oncoming traffic. Not that there’s much oncoming traffic in downtown Sowell Bay at nine in the morning on a Thursday, but one can never be too careful.
Shooting one last perturbed glare at the hulking vehicle, she shuffles into her destination. Jessica Snell tilts her head curiously as she comes through the door.
“May I help you, Mrs. Sullivan?”
“Yes, I should say so.” Tova calmly recites the explanation she rehearsed, then leaves the office thirty minutes later with an appointment for the realtor to come for a preliminary walk-though at the house this afternoon.
Next, she walks down the block to the bank. The Charter Village application requires a cashier’s check and a copy of her account balances. To make sure she can afford it, Tova supposes. She wishes they would take her word for it that her finances won’t be a problem. Her accounts at Sowell Bay Community Bank have always been robust; the substantial sum she received from her mother’s estate has hardly been touched all these years. Tova has never needed to spend much.
As she pulls open the bank door and steps into the lobby, which smells like fresh ink and peppermint candies, as
usual, it occurs to her Lars must have used up most of his half of their parent’s inheritance with his stay at Charter Village. When the lawyer followed up about the other assets, it was only a few hundred dollars. Practically speaking, Lars died with only a bathrobe left. For a moment, she hesitates. It really is an extravagant sort of lifestyle they promote at Charter Village. Not her style. But at least it’s clean. And Lars lived there for over a decade. The monthly dues add up.
“Thank you, Bryan,” she says to the teller, who hands her the check with an ever-so-slightly raised brow. Bryan’s father, Cesar, used to play golf with Will. She wonders whether Bryan will phone him and tell him about today’s transaction.
She makes a deliberate decision not to care. Such things are going to happen. People will talk. People in Sowell Bay always talk.
Her next stop is Janice Kim’s house. Janice’s son has some fancy computer scanner, and when Tova called this morning to ask if she could stop by and use it, Janice agreed immediately.
“You hanging in there?” Janice lowers her glasses, eyeing Tova’s boot skeptically. Tova isn’t known for requesting spur- of-the-moment visits.
“Of course. Why do you ask?” Tova keeps her voice even. The application requires a copy of her driver’s license, but when Tova explains this, she declines to elaborate on the nature of the paperwork.
Janice helps her scan the card and shows her which buttons to press on the printer. When they’re finished, she asks, “You want to stay for coffee?”
Tova anticipated this. She built a Janice coffee delay into her schedule.
An hour later, after departing the Kim home, Tova drives down to Elland. This would be a quick ten-minute trip if she took the interstate, but as always, Tova takes the back
roads. Half an hour later, she arrives at the chain drugstore listed under “Passport Photos” in the Snohomish County phone book. The application requires two such photos, and having never been issued a passport, Tova is in possession of no such thing.
A young woman who could not possibly be more bored with her job directs Tova to stand against a blank white wall and instructs her to remove her eyeglasses, which she does without argument, clutching them in her hand and squinting at the camera as it flashes twice.
“That’ll be eighteen fifty,” the clerk says, handing over a small folio with the two square, unsmiling photos tucked inside.
“Eighteen dollars?” “And fifty cents.”
“Good heavens.” Tova pulls a twenty-dollar bill from her pocketbook. Who would’ve thought two tiny photographs could cost so much?
Her final errand brings her back to the northern edge of Sowell Bay, nearly an hour-long journey from Elland, to Fairview Memorial Park. The afternoon has grown lovely, and the gates are propped open like welcoming arms under the clear, cloudless sky. A footpath winds around the cemetery lawn, gentle curves heading this way and that, never a straight line. Like it was designed to make the walk seem as soft as possible. The grass is flawless, edged meticulously around the identical headstones.
She kneels on the grass and traces along the engraving on his stone. The smooth, polished rock is warm under her fingers, basking in the hot July sun. WILLIAM PATRICK SULLIVAN: 1938–2017. HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND.
When she’d submitted the epitaph to Fairview Memorial Park’s coordinator, the woman had the nerve to ask if she was sure she didn’t want to add more. The package included up to 120 characters, she explained, and Tova had
only used half. But sometimes less is more. Will was a simple man.
Next to Will’s headstone is Erik’s. Tova hadn’t wanted one; Will had insisted. It has always bothered her that Erik’s commemoration lies here, in this grassy field, when his body never left the sea. But the stone sits here, with its overly fussy font that reads, ERIK ERNEST SULLIVAN. Whomever Will had designated to take care of it hadn’t even bothered to record Erik’s name correctly. Tova’s maiden name, Lindgren, is supposed to be Erik’s second middle name. She has always fantasized about stealing Erik’s headstone and hurling it off the end of the pier, but one can’t do things like that, of course.
The third stone in the row is blank, meant for her. There’s a series of questions on the application about this, too. Wishes, preferences. Meant to be a supplement to one’s legal arrangements, Tova supposes. She has made her preferences clear in her own documents, of course, but what if someone tries to insist on a service? She could see Barb, in particular, doing something like that. Tova must broach the topic with her before she leaves. A marker will be fine, but she prefers no service.
Voices drift across the lawn. She turns to see old Mrs. Kretch ambling up the path. Heavens, the woman must be in her midnineties. But she’s getting around well, by the looks of it. She’s brought her great-granddaughter with her today, a coltish thing with legs as long and straight as a pair of knitting needles.
“Hi, Mrs. Sullivan,” the great-granddaughter says as they pass. Old Mrs. Kretch nods, her eyes meeting Tova’s just long enough to impart a pitying look.
“Good day,” Tova replies.
The great-granddaughter has a basket slung over her skinny arm. They stop six plots down and spread out a picnic. Tova catches a whiff of deli chicken as they settle in. Then the two women chat with their dead patriarch,
showing no self-consciousness about talking to the manicured turf, the cold gray headstone. A one-way conversation with thin air itself.
Tova has never spoken aloud to Will’s grave. Why would she? His tired, sickened body turning to dust underground cannot hear. Cancerous flesh cannot reply. She cannot bring herself to emulate Mary Ann Minetti, who keeps her husband’s ashes in an urn on her mantel and converses with him daily. He can hear me from heaven, Mary Ann always says, to which Tova simply nods, because it brings her friend comfort and harms no one. Such is the case with the Kretches, as well. So why must the sight of them bantering with the deceased as though he were seated on their red- and-white checkered blanket, sipping lemonade right along with them, make her wish she were invisible?
But there’s a first time for everything. The Kretch ladies eventually rise, and the great-granddaughter gives a tired wave as they make their way out, their afternoon shadows grown long and tall. Tova ought to get it over with, the thing she came here to do. She homes her focus on Will’s headstone, runs a tongue across her lips. Then in a low voice, she says aloud, “I’m selling the house, dear.”
She trails a finger across the headstone as if the action might summon tears to her eyes.
THAT EVENING, AFTER Jessica Snell’s tour, and after a reheated casserole supper, she organizes the application and her collected documents.
Ten minutes later, she’s driving again. The very first line of instructions had stymied her. Please complete in black ink. So, one more errand today, to purchase a proper black pen. After trying out all of her writing utensils, she determined that none of them contained truly black ink. A scrupulous eye could only conclude that the most promising samples were actually dark gray.
“Tova! Evening, love,” Ethan Mack calls from the Shop- Way deli, where he’s wiping down tables.
“Hello, Ethan.”
Right up at the front of the grocery section, there’s a display of sundries, including pens. She scans the options: Rollerball or felt-tip? Gel or ballpoint?
Ethan tucks his rag in his apron pocket and saunters over, slipping into his station behind the register. “How’s the bum leg holding up, then?”
Tova leans on her cane. Her one concession. “Healing as expected, thank you.”
“Glad to hear it! Modern medicine is brilliant, innit? Can you imagine livin’ in cave-people times? You tweak an ankle and they leave you behind for the dinosaurs to eat!”
Tova raises an eyebrow. He can’t be serious. Dinosaurs never lived concurrently with so-called cave-people, or any people at all. They were separated by sixty-five million years. But then, maybe Ethan never had occasion to learn this. Tova, like every mother of a little boy, had gotten a thorough education in dinosaurs when Erik was young. At one point he’d checked out so many dinosaur books the library put a hold on Tova’s card.
Ethan shuffles, looking sheepish. “Anyway. Help you find something?”
“I need a black pen.”
“A pen? I won’t let you pay for a bloody pen! Here.” He plucks one from behind his ear, where it must have been hiding in his bushy mass of reddish frizz. “Don’t remember if this one’s blue or black, though.” He tries to wake the ink, scribbling on a scrap of paper next to the cash register. The tip of his tongue peeks between his lips as he focuses.
“Thank you, but I’ll take these. And I’m happy to pay for them.” Tova puts a two-pack of classic ballpoints on the counter.
Ethan’s pen starts to cooperate, producing a mess of marks on the scrap. “Eh! This one’s blue anyway. But you’re
welcome to have it as a backup. Can never have too many pens!” He offers it to her.
Tova chuckles. “I beg to differ! Before he passed, Will used to swipe them from restaurants and bank counters. Our junk drawer was always overrun with them.”
“Aye, doesn’t surprise me. Think I might’ve looked the other way while he walked off with a ballpoint or two from the deli, over the years. He used to come here and have a sandwich and read a book a couple of times a week, but I’m sure you know that.”
The smile on Tova’s face hangs there, for a long moment, like it’s unsure whether to fall off or not. Finally, she says warmly, “Yes, he did like to get out of the house. Thank you for not calling the authorities on account of the pens.”
Ethan bats a hand. “He was a good bloke, Will Sullivan.” “Yes, he was.”
“Well, then.” Something in Ethan’s voice reminds Tova of a soufflé that’s begun to sink. “Guess you definitely don’t need this.” He tucks the pen he’d offered her into his apron pocket.
“It was a very kind offer. But the form states specifically to use black ink.”
“A form?” Ethan blanches, his tone now wary. “What form is that, love?”
“An application,” she answers evenly.
“I knew it!” Ethan’s jaw flaps. “You’re doing it. Moving up to that . . . home. Tova, love. That place! It’s . . . not you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Ethan sniffs. “What I mean is, it’s not good enough for you.”
“Charter Village is one of the finest facilities in the state.” “But Sowell Bay is your home.”
To Tova’s horror, her eyes well, stinging. She sets her jaw, willing the tears away. Evenly, she explains, “Mr. Mack, I am a practical person, and this is a practical solution. I’m not a young woman. I’m, well . . .”
Her gaze drifts to the boot. Ethan’s follows, and Tova would swear that, under his big beard, his chin is trembling. She places a hand on his freckled forearm, the wiry hairs tickling her palm. His skin is surprisingly warm.
“I’m not moving right this minute, Ethan.” Technically, this is true. It will take some time for the house to sell. For Charter Village to review her bank statements, eighteen- dollar photos, and black-ink-printed forms.
“Aye” is all Ethan says.
“And it’s the right plan,” she adds. “Who else will take care of me?”
The question hangs in the air for a long moment. Finally, Ethan says, “Well, this is an important application. You don’t want those pens, then.” He nods at the two-pack. “Those are rubbish.” After running a searching finger along the display, he pulls off a different package, this one with a flashier logo. “Cadillac model, right here.”
“I’ll take it, then. Thank you.” “Anytime, love.”
She clears her throat. “How much?”
He bats a hand. “Like I said. Won’t let you pay for a pen.
It’s on the house.”
“No, no.” For the second time today, Tova removes a twenty from her pocketbook. “Ring them through later and you keep the rest. For making the recommendation. Thank you.”
“If you want to thank me,” Ethan blurts, “perhaps you’d join me for tea sometime.”
Tova freezes. “Tea? Here?” She glances at the deli.
“Well, no, not here. The tea here is shit, to be honest. But it could be here, if you’d like. I hadn’t actually worked that part out yet.” Ethan bites his lower lip and drums his meaty fingers on the register. “Somewhere else, then? Or not at all, perhaps. Never mind. Rubbish idea.”
“It wasn’t a rubbish idea.” Tova is astonished to hear the colloquialism come out of her mouth. Is this how Janice
picks up her sitcom talk? Before she can stop herself, she finds herself replying, “Certainly, we can have tea sometime. Or coffee, perhaps.”
Ethan shakes his head. “You Swedes and your coffee.”
Tova feels herself flush, wondering if she ought to make a joke about him being a Scot, but before she can come up with one, he hands her a scrap of paper, the same one that he scribbled on. In blue ink on the back, he’s written his telephone number.
“Give me a ring, love. We’ll set something up. Before you
. . . go.”
Tova nods, then ducks out of the Shop-Way, astounded at how difficult it’s suddenly become to breathe normally.
IT’S PAST TEN now, and daylight has finally drained from the sky. On her way home, Tova makes an unplanned turn.
One more errand today.
The aquarium’s parking lot is empty, except for a dilapidated camper, the same one that was parked in front of Jessica Snell’s office earlier. Perhaps the owner is a fisherman. She scans the pier, looking for a figure with a pole, but it’s empty.
Hobbling up to the front door, she pauses. Terry had forbidden her from coming to clean, naturally, but he hadn’t expressly instructed her not to use her key for a social call. In fact, when she’d tried to give the key back, he’d insisted she hang on to it, which she’d taken not only as an affirmation of her trustworthiness but also as a vow of confidence in her resilience. You’ll be back before you know it, Terry had said.
The same force that drew her to Will’s headstone earlier today has led her here. To . . . communicate. To notify the octopus of her plan to move to Charter Village. Although neither Will nor Marcellus the Octopus can understand her, both deserve to know. And, less urgently, he might lead her to a solution for this mess she’s gotten herself into with
Ethan Mack and his tea. Unless she ought to keep that to herself; perhaps if she pretends it never happened, the invitation will simply vanish? She can practically see how Marcellus’s shrewd, knowing eye will glare, how his sucker- lined arm will waggle, scolding. Tova clicks her tongue at her own behavior. Pretending to speak with the insentient. She’s ten times worse than Mary Ann Minetti and old Mrs. Kretch put together.
The door clinks open. Everything else aside, she must admit she’s curious about how the place has fared, hygienically speaking, in her absence.
She holds her breath, ready for sloppy tile and smudged glass, but to her shock, things look decent. This fellow Terry brought on to fill in is managing well. This begets a small corollary disappointment, the dull realization that she is not indispensable. But overall, this is a good development. More than once, the thought of the aquarium being cleaned in a subpar manner has given her pause about her plans to leave. Perhaps this new fellow can stay on after Tova’s departure.
Heading around the hallway toward the octopus’s tank, she moves as discreetly as she can with this wretched boot. Which is unnecessary, because she’s the only human here. Whispered greetings to her old friends, the Japanese crabs, the wolf eels, the jellies, and the sea cucumbers, linger for a moment in the dark corridor then vanish into the bluish- green air like wisps of smoke. Even if they could, these creatures would never tell anyone she was here. It’ll be their secret.
She passes the sea lion statue and, as always, pauses to stroke its head, reveling in the fleeting illusion of her son flickering within her when she touches something he so adored.
Approaching the entrance to the back of the octopus enclosure, Tova frowns. A fluorescent glow seeps from under the door. Someone has left the light on.
Then a terrible clatter erupts inside.
