“No, you don’t, Mister. Terry’s on to you,” Tova scolds, and she scoots off toward the door that leads around back to the rear access for all of the tanks along this section of the outside wall. When she comes into the tiny, humid room, she expects to find the creature in the midst of escape, but to her surprise he’s still there in his tank.
“Then again, perhaps you should have one last night of freedom,” she says, thinking of the heavy clamp on Terry’s desk.
The octopus presses his face against the back glass and extends his arms upward, like a child’s plea to be carried.
“You want to shake hands,” she says, guessing.
The octopus’s arms swirl in the water.
“Well, I suppose so.” She drags over one of the chairs tucked under the long metal table and steadies herself as she climbs up, tall enough now to remove the cover on the back of the tank. As she’s unfastening the latch, she realizes the octopus might be taking advantage of her. Getting her to remove the lid so he can escape.
She takes the gamble. Lifts the lid.
He floats below, languid now, all eight arms spread out around him like an alien star. Then he lifts one out of the water. Tova extends her hand, still covered in faint round bruises from last time, and he winds around it again, as if smelling her. The tip of his tentacle reaches neck-high and pokes at her chin.
Hesitantly, she touches the top of his mantle, as one might pet a dog. “Hello, Marcellus. That’s what they call you, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, with the arm still wrapped around hers, he gives a sharp tug. Tova’s balance falters on the chair and for a moment she fears he’s trying to pull her into his tank.
She leans over until her nose nearly touches the water, her own eyes now inches from his, his otherworldly pupil so dark blue it’s almost black, an iridescent marble. They study each other for what seems like an eternity, and Tova realizes an additional octopus arm has wound its way over her other shoulder, prodding her freshly done hair.
Tova laughs. “Don’t muss it. I was just at the beauty shop this morning.”
Then he releases her and vanishes behind his rock. Stunned, Tova looks around. Had he heard something? She touches her neck, the cold wetness where his tentacle was.
He reappears, drifting back upward. A small gray object is looped on the tip of one of his arms. He extends it to her. An offering.
Her house key. The one she lost last year.
Day 1,319 of My Captivity
I FOUND IT ON THE FLOOR NEAR THE PLACE WHERE she stores her things while she cleans. I should not have taken it, but I could not resist. There was something familiar about it.
After returning to my tank, I stashed it in my den along with everything else. There is one place, a pocket in the deepest cranny of the hollowed rock, that even the most thorough tank cleaners cannot reach. It is here that I bury my treasures.
What sort of treasures comprise my Collection, you ask? Well, where to begin? Three glass marbles, two plastic superheroes, one emerald solitaire ring. Four credit cards and a driver’s license. One jeweled barrette. One human tooth. Why that look of disgust? I did not remove it myself. The former owner wiggled it out on a school field trip then proceeded to lose track of it.
What else? Earrings—many single earrings, never a pair. Three bracelets. Two devices for which I do not know the human word. I suppose they are . . . plugs? Humans stick them in the orifices of their youngest children to quiet them.
My Collection has expanded considerably over the course of my captivity, and I have become choosier. In the early days, I had a great many coins, but these are commonplace now and I no longer pick them up unless they are different from the others. Foreign currency, as you humans call it.
I have come across many keys over the years, naturally. Keys have come to be in the same category as coins. As a general rule, I pass them over.
But, as I said, this particular key was oddly intriguing, and I knew I must take it, although I did not understand why it was special until later that night, as I ran the tip of my arm over its ridges. I had encountered this key before. Or, rather, one exactly like it.
I suppose, in that way, keys are not like fingerprints at all. Keys can be copied.
I held a copy of this one when I was very young. Before my capture. It was attached to a circular ring at the bottom of the sea, nestled within a trove of what could only be described as leftover human. Not bones and flesh, of course, as those never last long, but rather a rubber sneaker sole, a vinyl shoelace. Several plastic buttons, as from a shirt. Swept together under a clump of rocks and preserved there. It must belong to the one she mourns.