At sunset, Sowell Bay’s public beach teems with rock crabs. One summer when Erik was small, the Sullivans were on an after-dinner walk when Erik found one who, by some cruel fate, had lost its hind legs on one side. Naturally, he insisted on bringing it home. He named it Eight-Legged Eddie because it was supposed to have ten limbs and was missing two. For a few weeks, Erik and Will watched poor Eddie clamber awkwardly around a glass tank filled with gravel from the driveway. Tova saved potato peelings and zucchini scraps for Eight-Legged Eddie’s nightly feeding, and once or twice Will drove down to the pet supply in Elland to purchase brine shrimp, which the crab devoured happily.
For a crab, Eddie survived a long time, but one morning Tova found him frozen mid-scuttle, his peering eyeballs paused in that permanent sort of way. Will plucked the corpse between his fingers, ready to fling it into the garden, when Erik emerged from his bedroom in a panic, insisting on a proper burial. The boy dropped to the ground, flung himself around his father’s leg, and affixed himself there, like one of those hippie protestors chained to the trunk of a tree, determined to thwart the injustice.
Erik’s handmade memorial stone still rests in the garden, under the overgrown ferns. RIP EIGHT-LEGGED EDDIE, BUSTED BUT LOYAL.
Never has Tova empathized with that poor crab more than now, as she hobbles around her kitchen with her left foot ensconced in this ridiculous molded-plastic boot. Six
weeks, Dr. Remy had said. Six useless weeks that she’ll be unable to pull the dandelions from her rhubarb beds. Six maddening weeks that her hallway baseboards will collect dust. Six unbearable weeks that the aquarium’s floors will be left in the hands of whomever Terry can find to fill the gap.
“You’ve got four good legs,” she remarks to Cat as she pours her coffee. “Perhaps I could borrow one of yours?”
Cat licks his paw in answer.
Before she can take her first steaming sip, the doorbell rings.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She makes her way to the front door.
“Tova!” Janice’s sharp, clear voice rings through the windowpane. “Sorry to drop by. Are you home?”
Reluctantly, Tova twists the dead bolt.
“Oh, good,” Janice says, bustling in with a casserole dish. Her voice is characteristically flat when she states, “You missed Knit-Wits this week.”
“Yes. I’ve been indisposed.”
Janice scoffs. “As if!” There’s that sitcom speak again. “What happened? You fell at work? That’s what Ethan up at the Shop-Way said.” She lowers the dish onto Tova’s counter.
Blood drains from Tova’s face. Ethan? How would he know?
“Now, I’m not saying anything one way or the other,” Janice says, holding up a defensive hand, “but if you need an attorney, I know a guy.” She reaches for her pocketbook. “I’ve got his number right here.”
“Janice, please. It’s just a sprain.”
“A bad sprain.” Janice eyes the boot. Then she removes her gauzy pink scarf and hangs it, along with her pocketbook, over the back of one of Tova’s kitchen chairs. Humming to herself, she snatches up the casserole dish,
carries it to the refrigerator, and begins prodding around, searching for space.
“Try the bottom shelf,” Tova mutters.
“Aha! There we go.” Janice swipes her hands. “Barb made that for you. Potato-leek, she said? Something like that. She was going on and on about some recipe she found online.”
“How kind of her.” Tova limps toward the percolator. “Shall I put on coffee?”
“No, you should sit. Put that foot up.” Janice scoots in front of her and barricades the carafe. “I’ll do the coffee.”
Janice’s coffee is always on the weak side, but Tova sits as instructed, keeping a watchful eye as Janice measures the grounds and water.
“Does that cat need to be fed?” Janice lowers her round glasses to peer skeptically at Cat, who is parked under Tova’s dinette chair. A gesture of solidarity on the animal’s part.
“Thank you, but he’s already had breakfast,” Tova says. Then, before Janice can get any ideas about cooking, she adds, “We both have.” Cat flops over onto his side, showing off his new, rounder belly. All that casserole has plumped him up, and it suits him. Sympathy weight, as Tova calls it affectionately.
“Okay, chill. I’m just trying to help.” Janice sets two steaming mugs on the table and sits. “Did you see Dr. Remy?”
“Of course,” Tova says with a huff. “And?”
“I told you. It’s a sprain.”
“How long will you be off work?”
“A few weeks,” Tova says truthfully. She leaves out the part where Dr. Remy ordered a bone-density test, and cautioned her that at her age, returning to work might not be advisable. Might not, he’d said. Nothing is set in stone yet. So why mention it?
“A few weeks,” Janice repeats, eyeing the boot skeptically. “Anyway, I came over for a reason. Aside from making sure you were, you know, alive.”
“I see.” Tova takes an evaluative sip of the coffee Janice prepared. Might have used another tablespoon of grounds, but it’s decent.
“Two reasons, actually.” Tova nods, waiting.
“Okay, so first thing I need to tell you. If you had been at Knit-Wits last Tuesday, you would’ve heard Mary Ann’s big news, but since you were gone . . .”
“What is it?”
“She’s moving in with her daughter.” “With Laura? In Spokane?”
“That’s right,” Janice confirms. “When?”
“Before September. She’s putting the house on the market.”
Tova nods slowly. “I see.”
Janice takes off her round spectacles, then plucks a paper napkin from the holder on Tova’s tabletop and wipes the lenses. Squinting at Tova, she says, “It’s for the best. The stairs in that house are steep, you know, and with the laundry in the basement . . .”
“Yes, that’s a challenge,” Tova agrees. The basement laundry was to blame for Mary Ann’s fall last year, the one that she was lucky to escape from with only a set of stitches. “It’s wonderful that Laura will have her. And Spokane. That will be quite a change.”
“Yes, it will be.” Janice replaces her glasses. “We’re planning a special luncheon to say goodbye. It might be a few weeks off, depending on how quickly everything moves, but you’ll attend, of course?”
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it, even if I have to hobble there,” Tova says. And she means it.
“Good.” Janice looks up, her face inscrutable. “You know, after Mary Ann’s gone, we’ll be down to three Knit-Wits. At some point, we might ask ourselves what our long-term plan is, here.”
Tova draws a long breath, trying to imagine how the Knit- Wits might function with just Barb, Janice, and herself. Without Mary Ann and her store-bought, oven-warmed cookies. They’ve been meeting for decades. Going to Knit- Wits is a well-worn habit.
“Well, something for the three of us to talk about.” Janice rises and wraps her scarf around her shoulders. The scrape of her chair on the linoleum causes Cat, who’d apparently fallen asleep, to lift his head and open a distrustful eye. “I’d better scoot. Timothy’s taking me to lunch at that new Tex- Mex place down in Elland.”
“How lovely,” Tova says, trailing Janice to the front door. Janice’s son is always taking his mother out to eat. She imagines them dipping tortilla chips in a shared guacamole bowl.
“Oh! I almost forgot the second thing.” With a short laugh, Janice spins around and pulls a mobile phone from her pocketbook. “Here. This is yours.”
Tova’s eyes narrow. “I don’t have a cell phone.”
“You do now.” Janice thrusts the device at her. “It’s Timothy’s old one, nothing fancy. But it’ll work in an emergency.” Inconspicuously, her eyes dart toward Tova’s boot.
Tova’s jaw sets. “How many times have I explained that I don’t need one of those? There’s a perfectly good telephone right there in the den. I don’t need to carry one around in my pocketbook.”
“You do, Tova, if you’re going to live here alone. Not to mention working alone in that aquarium, whenever that starts back up. What if you fell again? We all talked. We all agreed. You need a phone.”
After a long pause, she extends her hand and allows Janice to drop the phone into her open palm. “Thank you,” she says quietly.
“Good, good.” Janice smiles. “I’ll have Timothy call to give you a little tutorial. And I’ll be in touch about Mary Ann’s luncheon. In the meantime, if you need anything . . .”
“Of course.” Tova latches the door after Janice leaves.
SUPPER WILL BE potato-leek casserole. Barb is not renowned for her culinary skills, but the dish smells delicious, and it bubbles tantalizingly as Tova peers through the oven door. At any rate, it’s a welcome change from her usual chicken and rice for supper. She must send Barbara a thank-you note.
The timer dings. Tova leans over to pull the steaming dish from the oven. She has it halfway out, carefully balancing on her good ankle, when something inside her pocket attacks her.
Zap!
The casserole dish crashes to the floor, sending up a spray of oil and cheese. Zap! Tova takes one step toward the counter on the creamy linoleum and her boot slips out, sending her crashing down on her tailbone for the second time in a week.
Zap, zap, zap!
She pulls the wretched device out, its tiny strip of screen announcing an unknown caller. Jaw set, she flings it away.
Why can’t people simply mind their own business?
But now she must get herself up, and that’s going to be a challenge. Every time she tries to stand, she slides in the mess. The phone rests belly-up like a silver beetle on the far side of the kitchen. Not that she would even know how to operate it if she could get to it. Finally, she manages to hoist herself up into one of the dinette chairs.
“For heaven’s sake,” she mutters, using an absurd number of paper napkins to wipe her hands free of potato-
leek casserole.
CHICKEN AND RICE for supper. Eaten on the davenport, with the plate balanced on her lap. Just the way Will used to take his meals sometimes when there was a game on.
“My, look at us. How far we’ve fallen, haven’t we, Cat?” She strokes his soft forehead, then grabs the remote and turns on the evening news.
The talking heads drone about the stock market and the weather, but Tova can’t focus on it. Her thoughts linger on Mary Ann’s big news. The beginning of Mary Ann’s ending, the first sentence of her last chapter. Unable to continue living on her own. Reverted to childlike dependence. At least her daughter Laura has the sense to take her in, rather than shuffling her off to one of those homes.
Barbara would be taken care of by her girls down in Seattle. And Janice? She and Peter already live in the basement suite of Timothy’s house, tucked away neatly under her son and daughter-in-law’s busy lives above. Everyone had to go somewhere at some point.
A man’s average life span is several years shorter than an average woman’s, and Tova has always considered this a quiet injustice. Will’s death was relatively straightforward, at least for Will himself. The cancer, the hospitalizations, the treatments: all of that was awful, but then nearly as terrible had been the paperwork, the insurance appeals, the arrangements. Tova had spent hours alone at the kitchen table, late at night, trying her best to sort it out. Who would repay her the favor when her time came? Or would the onslaught of paperwork simply shuffle off into an heirless void?
She puts the bowl of chicken and rice on the coffee table (on a coaster, naturally) and makes her way over to the mantel, the plastic boot scuffing the rug. She trails a hand over its smooth cedar corners, hand-sanded and stained by her papa. The very bones of this house had been hewn by
his axe, craftsmanship from the old world, good Swedish work that would stand for centuries. How much longer will she herself stand before something stokes the embers of her frailty? The narrow stairs, the uneven driveway? An errant casserole dish, a floor slick with cream and potatoes?
Will they find her on the kitchen floor? Summon an ambulance to take her to the hospital? Who will fill out the admit forms, clipped to their clipboard? And that will merely be the beginning.
Unless.
That packet she picked up at Charter Village. Perhaps it’s time to fill out the application.
