There’s the octopus, once again hidden behind his rock. A puff of flesh sticks out. His orange is more vivid now, compared to how he looked in the break room, but he’s still paler than usual. Well, perhaps it serves him right. He ought to stay put. How on earth did he get out? She peers through the rippling water, scanning up under the rim, but nothing seems amiss.
“Troublemaker,” she says, shaking her head. She hovers for an extra moment in front of his tank before leaving for the night.
TOVA’S YELLOW HATCHBACK chirps and blinks its sidelights as she presses the key fob, a feature she’s still not accustomed to. Her friends, the group of lunching ladies who affectionately call themselves the Knit-Wits, convinced her she needed a new car when she started her job. A safety issue, they argued, to drive at night in an older vehicle. They badgered her about it for weeks.
Sometimes it’s easier to simply give in.
After depositing her jug of vinegar and bottle of lemon oil in the trunk, as always, because no matter how many times Terry has told her she’s welcome to store them in the supply closet, one never knows when a bit of lemon and vinegar might come in handy, she casts a glance down the pier. It’s empty at this late hour, the evening fishermen long gone. The old ferry dock sits across from the aquarium like some ancient rotting machine. Barnacles cover its crumbling pilings. At high tide, the barnacles snag strands of seaweed, which dry into green-black plaque when the seawater ebbs.
She crosses the weathered wooden planks. As always, the old ticket booth is exactly thirty-eight steps from her parking space.
Tova looks once more for any bystanders, anyone lingering in the long shadows. She presses her hand to the ticket booth’s glass window, its diagonal crack like an old scar across someone’s cheek.
Then she walks onto the pier, out to her usual bench. It’s slick with salt spray and speckled with seagull droppings. She sits, pushing up her sleeve, looking at the strange round marks, half expecting them to be gone. But there they are. She runs the tip of her finger around the largest one, right on the inside of her wrist. It’s about the size of a silver dollar. How long will it linger there? Will it bruise? Bruises come so easily these days, and the mark is already turning maroon, like a blood blister. Perhaps it will remain permanently. A silver-dollar scar.
The fog has lifted, nudged inland by the wind, shunted off toward the foothills. To the south, a freighter is anchored, hull riding low under the rows of containers stacked like a child’s building blocks on its deck. Moonlight shimmies across the water, a thousand candles bobbing on its surface. Tova closes her eyes, imagining him underneath the surface, holding the candles for her. Erik. Her only child.
Day 1,300 of My Captivity
CRABS, CLAMS, SHRIMP, SCALLOPS, COCKLES, ABALONE, fish, fish eggs. This is the diet of a giant Pacific octopus, according to the plaque next to my tank.
The sea must be a delightful buffet. All of these delicacies, free for the taking.
But what do they offer here? Mackerel, halibut, and—above all—herring. Herring, herring, so much herring. They are foul creatures, disgusting little slips of fish. I am sure the reason for their abundance here is their low cost. The sharks in the main tank are rewarded for their dullness with fresh grouper, and I am given defrosted herring. Sometimes still partially frozen, even. This is why I must take matters into my own arms when I desire the sublime texture of fresh oyster, when I yearn to feel the sharp crack of my beak crushing a crab in its shell, when I crave the sweet, firm flesh of a sea cucumber.
Sometimes my captors will drop me a pity scallop if they are attempting to lure me into cooperation with a medical examination or bribe me into playing one of their games. And once in a while, Terry will slip me a mussel or two just because.
Of course, I have sampled crabs, clams, shrimp, cockles, and abalone many times over. I simply must take it upon myself to fetch them after hours. Fish eggs are an ideal snack, in terms of both gastronomical pleasure and nutritional value.
One might make a third list here, which would consist of things humans clamor for, but most intelligent life would consider entirely unfit for consumption. For example: every last offering in the vending machine in the lobby.
But tonight, another smell lured me. Sweet, salty, savory. I found its source in the rubbish bin, its remains ensconced in a flimsy white container.
Whatever it was, it was delicious. But had I not been fortunate, it could have been my downfall.
The cleaning woman. She saved me.
Falsehood Cookies
There were once seven Knit-Wits. Now there are four. Every few years brings another empty place at the table.