Funny how when she started this job, having only sea creatures for company was the thing she liked most about it. It was something to do, a way to keep busy while keeping to herself, no need to get her hands in anyone else’s business. But now, cleaning alone seems oddly wrong. Cameron should be here, without a doubt. The surety of this sentiment surprises her.
But he’s probably in California by now.
After finishing, she makes one last trip down the dim hallway. To the bluegills, she says, “Goodbye, dears.”
The Japanese crabs are next. “Farewell, my lovelies.”
“Take care,” she says to the sharp-nosed sculpin. “So long, friends,” to the wolf eels.
Next door, Marcellus’s enclosure seems calm and still. Tova leans in and scrutinizes the rocky den, looking for any sign of him, but there’s nothing. She hasn’t seen him all night.
She goes back into the pump room, but can’t see him from the rear, nor from the top looking down, either. She puts the stool back and hovers over the barrel, where through the screen she can see the new lady octopus still curled, compact, on the bottom, surrounded by a scattering of mussel shells. “Did you see anything? Is he gone?” She jams a hand over her mouth. “Did he—” A choking sob steals the word from her.
The new octopus curls up tighter.
Tova returns to the hallway and places a hand on the cool glass front of Marcellus’s tank. No point in saying goodbye to rocks and water. The single tear that leaks from her eye rolls down her wrinkled cheek and falls from her chin before landing on the freshly mopped floor.
TERRY’S DESK IS a disaster when Tova goes in to leave her key card there, as she had promised to do. With a defeated shrug, she leaves the plastic card on top of the mess.
Her sneakers squeak on the floor as she crosses the lobby. She’ll throw the sneakers out when she’s finished tonight. They’re battered from years of cleaning here; not even the secondhand shop would want them.
Short of the door, she stops in her tracks. There’s a crumpled brown object on the ground, right in front of the door, as if blocking her way. She squints through the dim blue light. A paper bag? How could she have walked right past it on her way in?
A tentacle flickers.
“Marcellus!” Tova gasps, rushing over and dropping to the hard tile floor beside him. Her back pops loudly, but she hardly notices. The old octopus is pale, and even his brilliant eye seems diminished, like a marble that’s gone cloudy. She places a gentle, searching hand on his mantle, the way one might touch a sick child’s forehead. His skin is sticky and dry. He reaches an arm up and winds it around her wrist, right over the silver-dollar scar, which has now faded to a ghostly ring. He blinks, giving her a weak squeeze.
“What are you doing out here?” she says, softly scolding. “Let’s get you back into your tank.” She unwinds his tentacle from her wrist and stands, then tries to lift him, but her back strains, an ominous pain shooting through her lower spine.
“Stay here,” she commands, then hurries off to the supply closet as quickly as her body will carry her. A few minutes later, she returns, wheeling her yellow mop bucket. Inside, several gallons of water slosh, moved there from his tank with the old milk jug Tova keeps in the supply closet. Relief washes over her when he blinks. He hasn’t gone yet. She sops her cloth in the tank water and wrings it over him, wetting his skin. He heaves one of his strange human-esque sighs.
This revives him enough to move, it seems. With effort, he lifts an arm. Tova pulls the bucket up right beside him, and she gives his bottom （or what she supposes might be the equivalent of his bottom） a little boost as he heaves himself up over the bucket’s plastic yellow rim and plops into the cold water inside.
“What are you doing out here?” she asks again. Then she sees it.
Something chunky and gold glimmers on the floor, right in the spot where Marcellus had lain crumpled. She crouches and picks it up. SOWELL BAY HIGH SCHOOL, CLASS OF 1989. She’d thought it looked like a class ring yesterday when Cameron mysteriously hurled it in with the wolf eels.
How did Marcellus get it out of there? And why?
And Sowell Bay, class of 1989? Is this Daphne Cassmore’s ring? But it’s a man’s ring. Cameron had believed it was his father’s . . .
It sits on her palm, cold and heavy. Like a memory. Erik had one just like it. She was so proud, as all parents are, of what it symbolized. She assumed he had been wearing it on that night. A ring also lost to the sea.
She turns the ring over, squinting at the letters engraved on the underside. Her heart starts to beat in her eardrums. She wipes the ring on the hem of her blouse and reads it again.