Monterey Bay(67)

“Nothing has changed in here,” she said, wiping her cheeks and trying not to cough.

“Really? I feel like it changes every time I blink. Sometimes I’ll reach for a piece of paper or a book only to find that it no longer exists. That even the place where it stood was gone. But I suppose that happens to everyone.”

He watched her take another sip, and the completeness of the inspection would have thrilled her were it not for its unimpeachable politeness. It was as if he were kicking the tires of a car he didn’t intend to buy.

“You look just fine,” he said.

She looked down at the span of skin between her wrists and elbows. It was marked with welts from the squid’s suction cups, just like his.

“Likewise,” she replied.

“I heard about your father.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve been running the show on your own, then?” He sat down.

“No. I’ve been selling everything off.”

“You must be very rich now.”

“I am.”

“And you dress like it, too. Although I must say I miss the days when you used to walk around here looking like an overgrown newspaper boy. Where’s that funny little bag you always used to carry?”

To punctuate the ensuing silence, she drank again. As the liquid ran down the ladder of her ribs, she closed her eyes, hoping it would wash away everything her heart didn’t need. For a moment, she actually could feel her body become cleaner, her mind lighter. When she opened her eyes, however, the sensation was immediately reversed. He was on his feet now and making his way in her direction.

“And you?” she asked.

“And me?”

“You’ve been well?”

His smile betrayed a lack of conviction that alarmed her.

“I suppose so. It’s been interesting with the sardines or, rather, the lack thereof. We’ve got a top-notch population biologist on the case, woman by the name of Frances Clark. And a young chap from Long Beach has been making the trip up and back, advising on new technologies and the like. Works for the bureau of fisheries. Last name Casey. Don’t remember the first.”

“And the lab?”

“Oh, this old thing?” He waved a hand in a circle above his head. “Hard times, I’m afraid. During the war, I tried to keep it solvent by working up at the Presidio, running blood and urine tests for the army. Then a stint at Cal Pack as a chemist. And then a shred or two of hope regarding the Guggenheim, but that never came to pass.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“Don’t be. The money will come from somewhere. It always does.”

There was the heat of a certain look, but then it subsided.

“And Wormy?”

His eyes narrowed, his arms beginning to fold themselves across his chest.

“Pardon?”

“The woman—”

“Ah yes. She finally came to her senses while the rest of us were away in Mexico, for which I don’t blame her, although I must say it took me somewhat by surprise. As did the departure of our old friend Arthur. Here one day, gone the next. No explanations, no good-byes. Just picked up and went south. Last I heard, he was working in the canneries on Terminal Island.”

He went over to his collection of record albums, selected one, and then put it back down.

“But I think it’s John who’s taken it the hardest of anyone,” he continued. “After his book, things here took a bad turn and he started to feel responsible, so he hightailed it to New York.”

“I was under the impression the book did quite well.”

“It did. And perhaps that was the problem.”

He glanced over at the window, at the faces that were now looking in on them, noses pressed to the glass, eyes leering without compassion or shame.

“You could close your curtains,” she suggested.

“And become a prisoner in my own home? No. I’d rather have people look if that’s what they want to do.”

She turned away from him and met the gaze of the strangers outside. She thought of the huge squid eye, its exaggerated roundness like an artist’s rendering of a shiny black sun, bright with the cruelty of never being able to set. She took another swig from the jug.

“Powerful stuff, isn’t it?” he asked cautiously.

“Are you angry at him?”

“Who? John?”

She nodded. He shook his head.

“His only crime was remembering things a certain way,” he said. “And I just happened to be in the middle of it.”

She drank again.

“You might want to take it easy,” he cautioned. “I only had one sip and it just about knocked me down.”

“Then why don’t you help me finish it?”

He let loose with a stilted laugh. And that’s when he finally closed the distance between them, walking up to the desk and taking the jug from her hands.

“You know,” he said, sipping and then wiping his mouth, “the worst part about getting older isn’t the fear of death. It’s the sadness of things that aren’t anymore. All potential can’t become reality. You’ve got to select. And it can make a person very sad.”

“When I w-was a girl,” she stammered, “on the night of the low tide, when you didn’t come and you sent Arthur to—”