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.
At the sound, the octopus lashes again, shoving one of the chairs with alarming force. The chair skids across the room and ricochets off the opposite wall.
From under the table, the creature’s impossibly clear eye gleams.
Determined, Tova creeps closer, trying to steady her shaking hands. How many times has she passed by the plaque under the giant Pacific octopus tank? She can’t recall it stating anything about octopuses being dangerous to humans.
She’s but a foot away. He seems to be shrinking, and his color has become pale. Does an octopus have teeth?
“My friend,” she says softly. “I’m going to reach around you and unplug the cord.” She peers around and sees exactly which cord is the source of his predicament. Within reach.
The octopus’s eye follows her every movement.
“I won’t hurt you, dear.”
One of its free arms taps on the floor like a house cat’s tail.
As she yanks the plug, the octopus flinches backward. Tova flinches, too. She expects him to slink out along the wall toward the door, in the direction he’d been straining.
But instead, he slides closer.
Like a tawny snake, one of his arms slithers toward her. In seconds, it winds around her forearm, then twists around her elbow and bicep like a maypole ribbon. She can feel each individual sucker clinging to her. Reflexively, she tries to yank her arm away, but the octopus tightens his grip to the point where it’s almost uncomfortable. But his strange eye glints playfully, like a naughty child’s.
Empty takeout cartons. Misplaced trash can. Now it makes sense.
Then, in an instant, he releases her. Tova watches, incredulous, as he stalks out the break room door, suckering along on the thickest part of each of his eight legs. His mantle seems to drag behind him and he looks even paler now; he’s moving with effort. She hurries after him, but by the time she reaches the hallway, the octopus is nowhere to be seen.
Tova drags a hand down her face. She’s losing her faculties. Yes, that’s it. This is how it begins, isn’t it? With hallucinations about an octopus?
Years ago, she had watched her late mother’s mind slip away. It started with occasional forgetfulness, familiar names and dates elusive. But Tova does not forget phone numbers or find herself searching the back of her mind for names. She looks down at her arm, which is covered in tiny circles. Sucker marks.
Half-dazed, she finishes the evening’s tasks, then makes her usual last round of the building to say good night.
Good night, bluegills, eels, Japanese crabs, sharp-nosed sculpin. Good night, anemones, seahorses, starfish.
Around the bend she continues. Good night, tuna and flounder and stingrays. Good night, jellies, sea cucumbers. Good night, sharks, you poor things. Tova has always felt more than a bit of empathy for the sharks, with their never-ending laps around the tank. She understands what it means to never be able to stop moving, lest you find yourself unable to breathe.