Tova’s recollection of her voyage from Sweden is patchy. After all, she was only seven years old at the time, and Lars only nine. A train ride from Uppsala, a stiff goodbye to their father at their hotel in Gothenburg; he flew to America on an airplane, arriving several weeks ahead of the family in order to secure their paperwork and housing. The hotel had thick white sheets smelling of lavender and a television on a table, which Tova and Lars watched for several hours a day while they awaited their embarkment date, and there was a restaurant in the lobby that served chocolate pudding in tiny goblets, of which Lars once ate so many he got a stomachache and upchucked on the white sheets. She recalls how the SS Vadstena looked like a big gray layer cake alongside the dock when the driver dropped them off, that bright May morning in 1956. Two months later, they arrived in Portland, Maine, where they lived in an apartment for two years before uprooting again and relocating here, to Washington, to Sowell Bay, ostensibly to be closer to a handful of distant cousins, although Tova never met any of these supposed kin. It was always just the four of them.
Those weeks on the ocean liner are largely a blank space in Tova’s mind, which is a shame, as it’s probably the most adventurous thing she’ll ever do.
Among her few clear memories from aboard the SS Vadstena is the Walrus. That wasn’t really his name, of course, but that’s what Tova and Lars called that passenger,
with his long, gray, whiskery mustache dangling around each corner of his mouth like a set of tusks.
The Walrus liked to play cards. After dinner in the parlor, while Lars lined up his toy soldiers along the red velvet booth-backs, the Walrus tried to coax Tova and her mother into playing gin rummy. At first, Mama said ladies ought not to partake in card games, but eventually she relented. By the dim light of the glass lamps, Tova learned to play rummy and hearts and twenty-one. Sometimes, with a sly wink, the Walrus would slip in a card trick as he shuffled, daring her to guess what card he held between his fingers, then flipping it around to prove her wrong before producing the very one she’d named from under his collar or beneath his cuff.
Always expect the unexpected, child, the Walrus would say, chuckling as little Tova scowled at being fooled yet again.
She feels a scowl cross her face now, watching this young fellow pick up a pair of fallen canisters and return them to the shelf, not seeming to care that he’s placed them upside down. For the last two weeks, Barb Vanderhoof and Ethan Mack and their ilk have been churning the rumor mill with their talk of the fellow from California, the homeless man, who has taken her place. But Cameron has clean fingernails and nice, white teeth. And he’s well versed in the works of Shakespeare, apparently. He has promised to keep her secret, and for some reason she can’t quite identify, she likes him. She might even trust him.
He is not what she expected.
In the humidity of the pump room, the pink bandage is already starting to peel back, and now it sits askew on his damp temple. Tova resists a deep urge to reach up and press it back on with her thumb. When he notices her watching him, he flashes a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I swear I don’t usually go around quoting dead bards. It’s been a weird night.” He blinks, as if wondering if any of this is actually happening, a feeling Tova can very much relate to.
She peers past Cameron into Marcellus’s tank, where the surface of the water shimmers gently around the pump—no sign of the octopus himself. What would have happened if she hadn’t arrived?
“I should say it has.” She clears her throat and straightens. “In any case. How are you finding the conditions here? Did Terry train you? And do you need . . . supplies?” The acrid smell of that caustic green junk has already started to seep in. The jug of vinegar in her trunk could fix this.
“I mean, yeah? Dragging a mop across the floor isn’t exactly rocket science.”
Tova clicks her tongue. “Perhaps not, but there is a proper way to do things.”
“Am I doing something . . . improperly?”
“Well, let’s have a look. Come along, dear.” Tova opens the door and motions to Cameron to follow her into the curved hallway. The floors, as she’d noted on her way in, look decent, but linty streaks run along the glass fronts of the tanks. Tova runs a finger through one. “You must use a cotton cloth on the glass. Not polyester.”
Cameron folds his arms defensively. “It looks fine to me.” “You must look more carefully, then.”
“What are you, some expert on glass cleaning?” Tova tuts. “Decades of experience.”
“Well, no one said anything about polyester or cotton or whatever,” Cameron says with a huff. “I’m using the rags that were here. How was I supposed to know?”
He has a point. Tova will need to speak with Terry about training if the boy might be her permanent replacement. She makes her way over to one of the garbage bins and points to the rim. “Also, see this here? The bag must hook all the way around, or else it slips off when the can becomes full. Then trash will fall directly into the bottom and make an even bigger mess.”
“Oh, please. I know how to put a bag in a garbage can.”
“Clearly, you do not.” Tova’s tone sharpens. “I don’t know how they install trash liners down in California, but—”
“Wait, what?” Cameron interrupts. “How did you know I was from California?”
“People in Sowell Bay like to talk.” Tova flattens her lips. She wishes she could take the comment back. How often has she, herself, been the subject of town gossip?
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Cameron pauses, and something glints in his eyes. “I’m sure the rumor mill would have a feast, hearing about you being here tonight. Visiting an octopus.”
Tova’s mouth pops open, then she quickly presses her lips together again.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. I promised,” he mutters. She continues to regard him through narrowed eyes when he continues, “Any other thrilling job tips for me?”
Tova straightens. “Yes, one more thing. The matter of the door. I think you’ll agree, nearly allowing one of the aquarium’s most popular exhibits to wander out is hardly acceptable.”
Cameron lets out a beleaguered sigh as his eyeballs flick momentarily, almost imperceptibly, upward. The gesture unravels a thread somewhere in the depths of Tova’s memory; it’s almost exactly what teenage Erik used to do when he was annoyed with her. She clicks her tongue again. Young people. Although this one must be at least twenty- five, from the looks of him, Tova has the distinct impression he has some growing up to do.
“How could anyone think that was my fault?” Cameron’s voice bursts out. “Maybe someone could have given me a heads-up on the possibility of free-range kraken? And maybe they should put a lock on his tank.”
“Marcellus can undo locks,” Tova points out. “How do you think he left the pump room?”
The boy frowns. He doesn’t have a comeback for that.
Instead, he asks, “Why does he do it?”
Tova pauses, considering this. It’s a question she’s asked herself many times, and one for which she doesn’t have a clear answer. She goes with her best guess. “I believe he is bored.”
Cameron shrugs. “I guess it would suck to spend your whole life living in a tiny little tank.”
“Yes,” Tova agrees.
“Especially when you’re so smart.” “Marcellus is very bright.”
Panic flashes in Cameron’s eyes. “What am I supposed to do if it happens again? If he gets out, I mean. While I’m here cleaning.”
“Leave him alone, of course,” Tova says, because what other response can there be? It won’t do to have the boy wielding a broomstick at the octopus.
“Right. Leave him alone.” Cameron casts a leery look down the hallway, as if Marcellus might be lurking there.
But something nags at Tova. If she’d left the octopus alone when she discovered him under the table in the break room, hopelessly tangled up in electrical cords, what would have become of him? Until tonight’s attempt to leave the building, she would’ve thought Marcellus had enough common sense to avoid such bold stunts, to keep his nightly hijinks to his usual: teasing the seahorses, poking around in the sea cucumber tank for a midnight snack. A sudden dread seeps through her at the thought of Marcellus dying alone, a vague shame at her own inability to prevent it, even if she were working here as normal. After all, he could break out of his enclosure at any hour of the night and find himself in danger in the empty building.
Perhaps letting Marcellus escape the building would be merciful. He could pay Erik a visit, down so deep, on the floor of Puget Sound. The thought feels wildly inappropriate. She can’t help but smile.
The boy tilts his head at her. “What’s so funny?” “It’s nothing.”
“Come on, Tova. Share with the class.” A tiny sparkle flicks through Cameron’s eyes, good-natured teasing.
“Truly, it was nothing.”
“Nothing is nothing!” Cameron grins at her. He really is a charming young man when he’s not being so insolent. Erik was like that, too; she and Will used to throw their arms up at his attitude, but he was so effortlessly endearing, the kind of person everyone wants to befriend.
An idea springs to her mind.
“Follow me,” she beckons, shuffling back toward the pump room. “I have a plan.”
“A plan? For what?”
“For next time you encounter Marcellus outside his tank.” “I thought you said I should leave him alone.” Cameron trots along behind her. “Are you going to show me how to
capture him?”
She turns back to him. “Not exactly. I’m going to show you how to make friends with him.”
“Friends?” Cameron stops in his tracks. “Seems like a long shot. Scylla the sea monster wasn’t exactly warm and fuzzy with me during our little hangout earlier.”
“Expect the unexpected, dear.” Tova smiles.
