Remarkably Bright Creatures(78)

“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?