The following Saturday at five o’clock, Tova arrives at Ethan’s house.
It is not a date.
The glass bottle is cool on her bare arm as she tucks it in the crook of her elbow, the way one might very awkwardly hold an infant. This strikes her as a better manner of presenting the gift to Ethan than the way Barbara thrust it at her, clutching it crudely by the neck, blabbing on about how it was last season’s Cab Franc from that winery over in Woodinville and how it was so delightful, she must bring it for her date.
Not a date, Tova had insisted over and over. A million
times, as Cameron might say. It’s nothing more than supper.
A quick supper. She had clarified this when she accepted the invitation, citing her need to keep packing for her move. In truth, her free time has been consumed with searching every volume the Snohomish County Public Library would allow her to check out for any information about Daphne Cassmore. But the research has stalled, and Tova has learned very little of use. What harm could come from taking an evening off to share a meal with a friend?
With a friend? Is Ethan her friend?
In any event, it would be rude to arrive at someone’s house without a gift. Tova is not much of a wine drinker herself, but this is what people do. Some small part of her is thankful for Barb’s pushiness. Without it, she might’ve committed the faux pas of arriving empty-handed, and even
if she had thought to procure one on her own, she couldn’t have exactly marched into the Shop-Way and bought one from Ethan himself.
Head high, she strides up the short driveway toward the squatty bungalow. Her ankle is nearly healed now, only the tiniest hitch. An overgrown hydrangea with periwinkle blossoms encroaches upon the small porch. Tova lifts a branch out of her way to pass and, before she can change her mind, presses the doorbell.
“Evening, Tova,” Ethan says, stepping back and motioning for her to enter. His voice is strangely quiet. She hands him the bottle, and he thanks her, then offers to take her pocketbook, gesturing toward a slightly crooked coatrack in the corner.
“Thank you, but it’s no problem to keep it with me.” Tova clutches the bag to her hip like a biblical fig leaf. As if she’d be bare naked without it.
“Brilliant, then,” Ethan says.
Making her way across the natty carpet, Tova can’t help but stare at the feature that dominates the house: an entire living room wall dedicated to a record collection, the cheap shelving’s veneer peeling back from the particleboard. If this had been their house, back then, Will would’ve tacked the loose laminate down. Tova resists the urge to go pick at it, like a half-attached scab better removed, lest it snag on something.
Entering someone’s home is always an intimate act. She looks around for photos, but there are none. Instead, the walls are decorated with beautifully framed concert posters: Grateful Dead, Hendrix, the Rolling Stones. The style should befit a teenager’s room, yet somehow, it seems to match Ethan perfectly.
She follows him into a surprisingly tidy little kitchen, which smells of simmering mushrooms, while they make small talk. Tova has never cared for small talk, and she stumbles through it now. When Ethan hands her a goblet
filled to the brim with Barb’s delightful Cab Franc, she takes it gratefully.
“Cheers, love,” he says.
“Cheers,” Tova echoes, clinking his class.
After several moments and several more sips, she picks up a pair of sunglasses on the counter, recognizing them as Cameron’s. “It’s been kind of you to open your home to him.”
Ethan pours a swish of red wine into the skillet, which hisses in response, releasing an enormous puff of steam. “To tell you the truth, it’s nice having a bit of company.”
Tova nods. She knows what he means. It’s been nice having Cameron down at the aquarium, too. “Yes, I should say so.”
“D’you know, I came from a family of fourteen. Eleven brothers and sisters. When I was a wee lad, I always imagined my adult self in a house bursting at the seams.”
Tova permits herself a smile. “I thought it was the Irish who were known for big families.”
“Eh, we Scots can hold our own.” He flashes her a grin, scraping mushroom sauce over two plump chicken breasts, one on each plate. To Tova’s astonishment, her mouth waters. How long has it been since anyone prepared such a lovely meal for her?
THEY’RE SAVORING THEIR last bites when a screen door bangs. A moment later, Cameron whirls into the room, darkness shadowing his face. The glower lifts briefly, replaced by a confused look when he sees Tova sitting there with Ethan at his kitchen table.
After a moment, the glare returns, although it’s pointed exclusively at Ethan. “Hey, man. Can I talk to you for a sec?” It sounds like his teeth are clenched.
“A’course. Shoot,” Ethan says.
“I was hanging out down at the paddle shop, and Tanner, that kid that works at your store, came in with his buddies.
Do you know what they happened to mention?” Cameron’s tone is cool. “Said you were talking about my—”
“Right, then.” Ethan vaults from his seat. He gives Cameron a pointed look as he guides the boy toward the living room. Over his shoulder, he excuses himself and insists Tova keep enjoying her meal, what’s left of it, anyway, and that he’ll only be a quick minute. The two of them vanish through the small house, presumably into some back bedroom, well out of earshot.
What would be wrong with the boy? A twinge of guilt tugs at her. Perhaps she would know, if she hadn’t missed their last two cleaning sessions.
The “quick minute” drags on. Tova decides the least she can do is to start cleaning up the cooking mess. It’s something to do. And what a post-cooking disaster this kitchen is. Head feeling somewhat lighter than usual, thanks to the wine, she searches for a sponge, and clicks her tongue when she fails to find one anywhere in the proximity of the kitchen sink. What does Ethan wash his dishes with? There isn’t a sponge or a dishcloth anywhere in sight.
The drawer next to the sink seems like a logical place to look. But it seems to be a junk drawer. She opens the next one over, but it’s also an assortment of papers, tools, oddities. Tova lets out a sigh. Why must men do this? If Will had had his way, he’d have allowed every bureau in their house to slip into junk-drawer status. She lets out a soft chuckle, thinking of Marcellus and his collection of oddities, stashed under the gravel in his den. Apparently, this tendency of males to assemble useless dross transcends species.
Under the sink, there ought to be something to use on the dishes, but as Tova swings open the cabinet, she’s greeted with boxes of cereal and stacks of those microwavable instant-rice cups. Her jaw drops open.
Who keeps a pantry under the sink?
Adrenaline rushes through her head, making her dizzy. There’s much she could do here. Reorganize the entire kitchen. Wipe down the interior cabinets and drawers. Does Ethan have any idea how much he needs someone like her?
She closes her eyes and takes a grounding breath. For now, she ought to focus on the dishes.
Inspecting the cupboard under the sink again, she spots a rag. Upon further inspection, it’s an old T-shirt, white with faded print. Clearly a rag. Perfect for cleaning.
When the last dish has been nestled on the drying rack, she uses the shirt to wipe down the counters, swiping over a puddle of Cab Franc that had splashed on the counter with Ethan’s haphazard pouring. Wine seeps into the soggy cotton, the stain fading into a shade of muted violet when she rinses and wrings it in the sink. Pride swells within her as she surveys the sparkling kitchen, and as if on cue, voices drift from the other room. The boys are coming back. Perhaps they’ve smoothed over their spat.
Cameron won’t meet her eye before he ducks back out the rear door. A moment later, the camper’s grizzly ignition sputters to life.
“Tova, love,” Ethan says. His voice is tight.
“Are you all all right?” Tova ventures, taking a step toward him.
“I should tell you something.” He shifts on his feet. It seems he hasn’t even noticed that Tova cleaned the entire kitchen.
“Well, what is it?” Tova presses, but then wonders whether she should’ve. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to be home, sitting on her davenport. Watching the evening news. The tidy, predictable banter of Craig Moreno and Carla Ketchum and meteorologist Joan Jennison. She places the wadded rag/T-shirt on the counter and clasps her hands.
Ethan’s gaze locks on the bundle on the counter. His eyes bulge. “What the . . . ?” He crosses the kitchen and holds up
the wine-stained rag. Color drains from his ruddy cheeks.
Tova straightens, nervous. “What have you done?”
“The dishes.” Tova plants her hands on her hips. “I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, wiped down the counters. I had half a mind to start on that mess under your sink, but—”
“Oh.” Ethan’s voice is hoarse. He slops the rag-shirt onto the table and sinks down into one of the chairs, dropping his huge head into his hands. His voice is muffled when he says, “Grateful Dead, Memorial Stadium. May 26, 1995.”
“What does that mean?”
He looks up, eyes flashing. “Their last show in Seattle.
One of Jerry Garcia’s last shows ever.”
“I don’t . . . well . . .” Tova’s head spins. Jerry Garcia was the lead singer of Grateful Dead and passed away in 1995, of this she’s certain. Crossword puzzle makers occasionally use some version of this as a clue, and it always strikes her as somewhat pedestrian for a pop-culture nod.
“The shirt. It was from that show. It’s a rare specimen.” Ethan expels a long breath as he rises.
“But it was under the sink.”
Ethan flings an arm toward the cabinet. “Right. It was in that closet.”
“That’s not a closet. It’s a cabinet.”
“They’re both compartments with doors! What’s the difference?”
Tova folds her arms. “Well, most people keep cleaning supplies under the sink.”
“Who cares what most people do?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Red wine stains. They come out, right?”
“Maybe they’ll lighten,” Tova says. “With undiluted bleach.”
“But that will . . .”
“Yes,” she admits. “It will fade out everything else, too.”
Ethan says nothing but gets up heavily and wanders over to the counter and dumps the remainder of Barb’s Cab Franc into his glass, then finishes it in one gulp. Tova watches, her jaw suddenly wired shut, her feet somehow rooted to the ground. Who leaves a precious garment shoved in a kitchen cupboard? And one in such terrible shape, so horribly faded and worn?
No, not horribly worn. Well loved. “I’m sorry, Ethan.”
He squares his shoulders. “Aye. It’s all right, love.”
“I’m going to go now,” Tova says, trembling. “Thank you for the meal.”
“Please wait. I have something important to tell you. The reason I asked you over tonight, actually . . .”
But Tova is already halfway across the house, clutching her pocketbook to her hip. The front door shuts quietly behind her.
