Remarkably Bright Creatures(2)

That photo is one of the last in which he looks childlike and carefree. Tova maintains the photos of Erik in chronological order: a montage of his transformation from a gummy-grinned baby to handsome teenager, taller than his father, posing in his letter jacket. Pinning a corsage on a homecoming date. Atop a makeshift podium on the rocky shores of deep blue Puget Sound, clutching a high school regatta trophy. Tova touches the sea lion’s cold head as she passes, quelling the urge to wonder yet again how Erik might’ve looked now.

She continues on, as one must, down the dim hallway. In front of the tank of bluegills, she pauses. “Good evening, dears.”

The Japanese crabs are next. “Hello, lovelies.”

“How do you do?” she inquires of the sharp-nosed sculpin.

The wolf eels are not Tova’s cup of tea, but she nods a greeting. One mustn’t be rude, even though they remind her of those cable-channel horror films her late husband, Will, took to watching in the middle of the night when chemotherapy nausea kept him awake. The largest wolf eel glides out of its rocky cavern, mouth set in its trademark underbite frown. Jagged teeth jut upward from its lower jaw like little needles. An unfortunate-looking thing, to say the least. But then, looks are deceiving, aren’t they? Tova smiles at the wolf eel, even though it could never smile back, not even if it wanted to, with a face like that.

The next exhibit is Tova’s favorite. She leans in, close to the glass. “Well, sir, what have you been up to today?”

It takes her a moment to find him: a sliver of orange behind the rock. Visible, but mistakenly, like a child’s hide-and-seek misstep: a girl’s ponytail sticking up behind the sofa, or a socked foot peeking out from under the bed.

“Feeling bashful tonight?” She steps back and waits; the giant Pacific octopus doesn’t move. She imagines daytime, people rapping their knuckles on the glass, huffing away when they don’t see anything. Nobody knows how to be patient anymore.

“I can’t say I blame you. It does look cozy back there.”

The orange arm twitches, but his body remains tucked away.

THE CHEWING GUM mounts a valiant defense against Tova’s file, but eventually it pops off.

When Tova pitches the crusty blob into the trash bag, it makes a satisfying little swoosh as it rustles the plastic.

Now she mops. Again.

Vinegar with a hint of lemon tinges the air, wafting up from the wet tile. So much better than the dreadful solution they’d been using when Tova first started, bright green junk that singed her nostrils. She’d made her case against it right off the bat. For one thing, it made her dizzy, and for another, it left unsightly streaks on the floors. And perhaps worst of all, it smelled like Will’s hospital room, like Will being sick, although Tova kept that part of her complaint private.

The supply room shelves were crammed with jugs of that green junk, but Terry, the aquarium director, finally shrugged, telling her she could use whatever she wanted if she brought it herself. Certainly, Tova agreed. So each night she totes a jug of vinegar and her bottle of lemon oil.

Now, more trash to collect. She empties the bins in the lobby, the can outside the restrooms, then ends in the break room, with its endless crumbs on the counter. It’s not required of her, as it’s taken care of by the professional crew from Elland that comes every other week, but Tova always runs her rag around the base of the ancient coffee maker and inside the splatter-stained microwave, which smells of spaghetti. Today, however, there are bigger issues: empty takeout cartons on the floor. Three of them.

“My word,” she says, scolding the empty room. First the gum, and now this.

She picks up the cartons and tosses them in the trash can, which, oddly, has been scooted several feet over from its usual spot. After she empties the can into her collection bag, she moves it back to its proper place.

Next to the trash sits a small lunch table. Tova straightens the chairs. Then she sees it.

Something. Underneath.

A brownish-orange clump, shoved in the corner. A sweater? Mackenzie, the pleasant young lady who works the admission kiosk, often leaves one slung over the back of a chair. Tova kneels, preparing to fetch it and stash it in Mackenzie’s cubby. But then the clump moves.

A tentacle moves.

“Good heavens!”

The octopus’s eye materializes from somewhere in the fleshy mass. Its marble pupil widens, then its eyelid narrows. Reproachful.

Tova blinks, not convinced her own eyes are working properly. How could the giant Pacific octopus be out of his tank?

The arm moves again. The creature is tangled in the mess of power cords. How many times has she cursed those cords? They make it impossible to properly sweep.

“You’re stuck,” she whispers, and the octopus heaves his huge bulbous head, straining on one of his arms, around which a thin power cord, the kind used to charge a cell phone, is wrapped several times. The creature strains harder and the cord binds tighter, his flesh bulging between each loop. Erik had a toy like this once, from a joke shop. A little woven cylinder where you stuck in an index finger on either end then tried to pull them apart. The harder you pulled, the tighter it became.

She inches closer. In response, the octopus smacks one of his arms on the linoleum as if to say: Back off, lady.

“Okay, okay,” she murmurs, pulling out from under the table.

She stands and turns the overhead light on, washing the break room in fluorescent glow, and starts to lower herself down again, more slowly this time. But then, as usual, her back pops.