Remarkably Bright Creatures(13)

A scratching sound startles her. She stands upright.

It’s coming from the porch. Another casserole? And at this hour. She makes her way past the den, where the television is blaring a commercial for life insurance. The front door is still open from her carrying in the groceries, so she squints through the screen door, expecting to see an offering on the doormat, but it’s empty. And no car in the driveway, either.

The door creaks as she opens it. “Hello?”

More scratching. A raccoon? A rat?

“Who’s there?”

A pair of yellow eyes. Then a reproachful meow.

Tova lets out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Stray cats roam the neighborhood, but she’s never seen this gray one, now sitting on her porch step like a king on his throne. The cat blinks, glaring up at her.

“Well?” She frowns, flapping a hand. “Shoo!”

The cat tilts its head.

“I said, shoo!”

The cat yawns.

Tova plants her hands on her hips, and the cat saunters over and winds its narrow body between her feet. She can feel each tine of its rib cage against her ankle bone.

She clucks her tongue. “Well, I have ham gratin. Would that suit you?”

The cat’s purr has a high-pitched tinge to it. Desperate.

“All right, then. But if I catch you using my flower beds as a litter box . . .” She slips back through the door, leaving Cat, as Tova decides it should be called, peering through the screen.

After returning with a loaded plate, she sits and watches from the porch swing as Cat devours cold ham, cheese, and potato. When Tova returns the dish to Mary Ann later, she won’t mention who consumed it.

“Shame to see it go to waste, so I’m glad to share,” she confides to Cat. And she means this. How much food do her friends think she can possibly eat? Tova sets a mental reminder to collect Cat’s dish in the morning and goes back inside, closing the door behind her.

From the den drifts the sound of the news, which has returned from a commercial break. “Well, Carla, I know I’m ready for some summer weather here in Seattle.” Craig Moreno chuckles.

“I’m more than ready, Craig!” Carla Ketchum’s laugh is watery. Next, she’ll lean her forearm on the desk and beam at the camera before turning to her co-anchor. She’ll be wearing blue, as she seems to believe it flatters her best. And because it rained today, her blond hair will be wavy instead of tamed into a bob. Of course, Tova can’t see any of this from the kitchen, but she’s certain.

“We’ll see what Joan has to say about that. After the break!”

Now the camera will pan back to Craig Moreno. His tone will rise a smidgen when he says Joan’s name. This began a few weeks ago. Presumably when he and the weather lady began having relations.

Tova doesn’t stay to hear the forecast. Doesn’t need to—it’ll be cloudy and drizzly. More June gloom.





Chasing a Lass


Though he could do with a spot of sun lately, Ethan Mack doesn’t mind foggy nights. Halos gather around the streetlights; a ferry horn bellows somewhere in the brume. Midnight chill seeps down his collar as he sits on the bench in front of the Shop-Way, puffing his pipe.

Strictly speaking, this is not permitted. Per the handbook, Shop-Way employees must clock out for smoke breaks. Of course, Ethan himself is the one who wrote that handbook, although even so, he tries not to lift himself above the rules. But he and Tanner are the only ones here, and the kid is in the back, none the wiser.

Watching Tova go into the night always prickles his nerves. According to his police scanner, there are always lunatics on the roads at night. Why must she do her shopping so late?

It’s been almost two years since she started coming late in the evening. Since Ethan started pressing his flannel collar before his shift. Trying to make himself a bit tidier. Make himself seem more presentable.

He pulls the pipe’s warmth into his chest, then exhales. The smoke melts into the fog.

The fog reminds Ethan of home: Kilberry, on the Sound of Jura in western Scotland. Still home, though he’s lived in the United States forty years. Forty years since he packed a duffel and quit his post as a docker in Kennacraig. Forty years since he chased a lass.

It had fizzled with Cindy. The plan was rubbish to begin with, shacking up with a holiday-making American, pissing his savings on a ticket from Heathrow to JFK. He still remembers how the isles grew smaller and smaller through the little oval window.

Tanner pokes his muttonish head out the door. If he registers Ethan’s rule breaking, he doesn’t show it. The lad’s not the brightest bulb. He says, “Did you want me to do the entire cold case?”

“A’course. What do you think I’m paying you for?”

Tanner grumbles as he slinks back inside. Ethan shakes his head. Kids these days.

New York City was gritty in the seventies, and before long, Ethan and Cindy had bigger plans. Cindy emptied her flat in Brooklyn to buy an old Volkswagen van, which they drove across the country, and its vastness blew Ethan’s mind. Pennsylvania, Indiana, Nebraska, Nevada. Any one of them could’ve contained Scotland entirely.

When they found the sea again, Ethan was relieved. They lingered on the coast of Northern California for weeks, making love in the shadows of giant redwoods, before working their way north along the Pacific Coast Highway. In a ramshackle chapel somewhere near the Oregon border, he and Cindy tied the knot.