Remarkably Bright Creatures(67)

There was a girl. How did she not know? Tova’s eyes seem to tangle with themselves as she tries to focus on the newspaper laid out in front of her with the daily crossword. Five letters: A daredevil’s move. She knows the word is “STUNT,” but her pencil wants to write A-G-I-R-L. Or better yet, the girl’s name. What was her name? Is it buried in her own memory? A name she’d heard but not attached any importance to? Had Adam Wright managed to remember it? Was he even trying? She had tried to look him up in the phone book, but he wasn’t listed, which probably made sense because he just moved back to town. And anyhow, perhaps he wouldn’t even remember their conversation from the Elland Chophouse. He had consumed quite a few martinis.

This, too, nags at Tova. What does anyone really know about Adam Wright? Who says the liquor-fueled memory of a lunchtime lush could be counted upon? He was a school buddy of Erik’s, but not a close friend. He said so himself.

She picks at a peeling edge of Formica on the corner of her kitchen table. A terrible habit, to pick at such a thing. She ought to superglue it down right away. But she keeps picking. Why is everything coming apart at the seams?

If she hadn’t taken her crossword down to Hamilton Park that day, had that moment of connection over Debbie Harry of Blondie, of all things, good heavens . . . would he have recognized her at the Elland Chophouse?

Why is he only now remembering these details about that night?

Why did Erik take that boat out?

Why can’t Adam remember the girl’s name?

Why didn’t Erik tell her about the girl?

Why is all of this coming up now?

“Why?” she says to Cat, who is parked in a patch of sunshine on the linoleum. Cat licks a paw and squints.

It has been years since Tova has juggled so many of these Erik-related questions. It exhausts her, to the point where she lies down on the davenport after lunch for a nap, which is something she hasn’t done in years.

THE PHONE’S RING slices through her sleep. Tova fumbles the receiver, almost dropping it, and croaks, “Hello?”

“I have great news!” It’s a woman’s voice, and for the smallest second Tova’s mind flashes to a girl. But it’s Jessica Snell, the realtor.

“Oh?” Tova sits up and rubs her temple.

“We’ve got an offer. Ten thousand above asking!” Jessica Snell proceeds to spew a litany of details about the buyers and their offer and instructions about what Tova should do next if she would like to accept. “Mind you, we haven’t even done the open house yet, so I wouldn’t blame you if you want to hold out . . . but I can tell you, this is a good offer. We priced it aggressively. We could counter to take it off the market before the open house. What do you think?”

“Yes, yes.” Tova fetches a sheaf of newspaper and a pen and jots down the numbers in the margin next to yesterday’s half-completed crossword. She simply hasn’t had it in her to finish the puzzles lately. Somehow it feels less important than it used to. “Yes, let’s counter.”

“Great. I’ll email you the paperwork. Let’s see, what’s your . . . We don’t have your email on file?”

Tova sniffs. “I don’t have email.”

“Oh, that’s right, you brought the seller’s agreement to my office,” Snell continues without missing a beat. “No problem, we can do it that way. I’ll drop a hard copy of the counteroffer by your house this evening, okay?”

“Very well.”

After hanging up, Tova ratchets out a breath. They’ll accept the counter. A contract will be signed. The house will be sold.

In the kitchen, she pours a cup of cold coffee from the percolator and zaps it in the microwave before heading out the back door. On the back porch, Cat is lounging in a patch of sunlight, and Tova lets out a bitter sigh at the sight of him. When she sits on the small garden bench, he leaps up to her lap, plants his paws on her chest, and butts his head against the underside of her chin.

“What will we do with you, little fellow?” Tova strokes the extra-soft patches of fur behind his ears. “I don’t suppose you can go back to living outside.”

In response, he purrs. Perhaps a problem to be solved another day.

THERE WAS A girl.

The idea of a girl continues to peck at the perimeter of Tova’s consciousness as she signs Jessica Snell’s paperwork. It tap, tap, taps on her brain as she makes supper. It hovers around her like a persistent fly during the short drive down the hill to the aquarium. The turn into the parking lot comes out of nowhere, and Tova almost misses it. The turn she must’ve made at least a thousand times.

Madness. This is how it begins. She’s losing her mind. Because of an offhand remark from a fellow with too many martinis in him.

Cameron seems like he’s in another world tonight, and the two of them work in silence: she fills the bucket with vinegar and water, while he rinses and wrings the mop. Finally, as they’re working their way along the easternmost side of the building, she asks, “Any word from your father, dear?”

“Nope.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She goes on, lifting her voice to an unnaturally cheery tone. “You’ll find him, eventually, and when you do, he’ll be tickled you did.”

“Yeah, maybe.” He works ahead of her, around the curve.

She catches up, pausing to peer into the thick front glass of Marcellus’s tank. He drifts out from behind his rock, blinking in greeting before pressing one of his tentacles against the glass. His perfectly round suckers look like miniature porcelain dinner plates for an army of tiny dolls as he squelches along the smooth surface.