Remarkably Bright Creatures(96)

I speak to the wolf eels in soft platitudes as I enter their enclosure. The large male glares at me, his garish head hovering in the mouth of their den; after a moment, his female mate joins him.

You are both looking lovely today, I say, hugging the glass on the opposite side of the tank. The creatures blink. My organ heart pounds.

I have no intention of lingering here, I promise as I sink toward the bottom.

Their tank bottom is made of sand, whereas mine is coarser gravel, and I am surprised at how soft it feels as I dredge through it, searching. The two pair watches, having emerged a bit more from their den now, their jutted jaws opening and closing robotically, as always. Their thin dorsal fins ripple like ribbons, but they do not approach.

I sweep the sand at the base of the plant, and finally the suckers at the tip of my arm brush something cold and heavy. I snatch the chunky ring and curl it in the thick, muscular part of my arm, where I know it will be secure. I glance at the wolf eels, who are still watching my every move. I hope you do not mind my taking this.

Even the short journey back to my tank saps my strength. I am weakening by the day. Still carrying the heavy ring, I slip into my den and rest, as I will need stamina for my next trip. The last one.





A Goddamn Genius


The serpentine belt, Cameron discovers, is aptly named. The thing winds around under the hood of the camper like a very long snake. The dry air smells like dust and burnt-up brake pads, and the morning sun is relentless. Every few seconds, with a loud whoosh, a burst of wind smacks him in the side of the head as another semitruck hurls down the freeway, like a parade of oversized beetles, mocking him with their menacing grilles as he stands on the shoulder in front of the camper’s popped hood. With one hand, he yanks on the snapped belt. In the other, he holds the new one from the glove box.

“What in the hell,” he mutters to himself, staring at the vehicle’s innards. He recognizes the major parts. Engine block, radiator, battery, dipstick. Thingy that holds the blue stuff that cleans the windshield.

The new belt was sitting there the whole time, right there in the glove box. Why didn’t he have it replaced? That squealing noise. It was never going to go away on its own.

It certainly did not go away during the last twelve hours of driving.

Well, that’s not exactly true. The squealing did disappear . . . along with the power steering, on this barren stretch of interstate outside Redding, a hundred-something miles south of the Oregon-California border. Is there anything Cameron can’t fuck up? His attempt to flounce after a humiliating failure is, itself, a humiliating failure.

How very meta.

“Okay, I can do this.” He blows out a breath, then squints again at the video, propping the phone on the bumper. There’s no other option. If he keeps driving, it won’t be long before the engine overheats and shits the bed. Well, that’s not exactly how the video described it, but . . . it’s not good.

Besides, putting in the new belt can’t be that hard, and he, Cameron Cassmore, is a goddamn genius.

It’s time he started acting like one.





The Eel Ring


On Thursday afternoon, Tova’s last day of work, Janice Kim and Barb Vanderhoof materialize on her porch with a rectangular box.

“Come in, won’t you?” Tova says. “I apologize for the state of the house. All the packing is just . . .” She sweeps an arm around the clutter. “I’ll put on coffee.” That’s one thing that hasn’t been packed yet: the percolator. It will be the last thing to go.

She takes the box from Janice, assuming it’s some sort of casserole, but it’s far too light. She sets it on the kitchen counter and flips open the lid, revealing a small sheet cake shaped like a fish. Congratulations on Your Retirement, the icing reads.

“You shouldn’t have!” Tova laughs. “But it’s accurate. I’m actually retiring.”

“At long last,” Janice says, producing a parcel of paper plates and disposable napkins.

“I’m sure you’ll talk them into hiring you to dust baseboards at Charter Village,” Barb adds, lowering herself into a chair at the kitchen table.

“Well, I’m not ruling it out,” Tova says, smiling. The percolator hisses as the coffee brews, and Tova stoops down to run her hand along Cat’s back as the animal strolls into the kitchen.

Janice regards Cat skeptically. “What’s happening with that fella?”

“Well, he can’t come with me,” Tova says. “I suppose he’ll go back to living outside full-time, unless one of you is in the market for a pet?”

Janice holds her hands up. “Peter’s allergic. Plus, Rolo is terrified of cats.”

Cat leaps up onto Barb’s lap, landing on light paws, and purrs loudly as he stretches upward and rams his furry head into her chin.

“I’m a dog person,” Barb says. She scratches behind Cat’s ears. “My, you’re soft, though, aren’t you? Did I tell you all about the cat Andie’s kids found last year? Lives in their bedrooms now, sleeps with them under the sheets and blankets. I told Andie she needed to make sure the thing was treated for fleas, because you never know what animals bring in from outside, do you? Anyway, then she said—”

“Look Barb, he’s totally into you.” Janice giggles. Cat is licking the back of Barb’s hand now, as if he’s grooming her, still purring like a buzz saw.