“You need a ride? I can give you a ride,” Elliot offers for the hundredth time.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Sowell Bay’s pretty far. You’ll be on buses all day and night.”
“I’ll camp on the side of the road,” says Cameron dryly.
“Hey!” Elliot jogs to catch up. “I’ve got a wild idea.”
Wilder than fake pastrami made from yams? Cameron glances back over his shoulder. “What?”
“My buddy has this camper he’s trying to sell. It’s pretty old, but runs great. You buy it off him and then you’ve got a way to get around and a place to crash.”
Cameron frowns. Actually, it’s not a terrible idea. But . . . a camper? Probably more than he can afford. He slips his phone from his pocket and checks the money-transfer app: there it is, two thousand dollars. In the notes, there’s a smiley-face emoji, followed by a warning: Don’t spend this on stupid
When did Aunt Jeanne learn to use emojis? And does a camper qualify as stupid crap? Probably. Mostly to satisfy his curiosity, Cameron asks, “How much does he want for it?”
“Not sure, exactly. A couple grand?”
“You think he’d take fifteen hundred?”
Elliot grins. “I can probably talk him into that.”
Busted But Loyal
At sunset, Sowell Bay’s public beach teems with rock crabs. One summer when Erik was small, the Sullivans were on an after-dinner walk when Erik found one who, by some cruel fate, had lost its hind legs on one side. Naturally, he insisted on bringing it home. He named it Eight-Legged Eddie because it was supposed to have ten limbs and was missing two. For a few weeks, Erik and Will watched poor Eddie clamber awkwardly around a glass tank filled with gravel from the driveway. Tova saved potato peelings and zucchini scraps for Eight-Legged Eddie’s nightly feeding, and once or twice Will drove down to the pet supply in Elland to purchase brine shrimp, which the crab devoured happily.
For a crab, Eddie survived a long time, but one morning Tova found him frozen mid-scuttle, his peering eyeballs paused in that permanent sort of way. Will plucked the corpse between his fingers, ready to fling it into the garden, when Erik emerged from his bedroom in a panic, insisting on a proper burial. The boy dropped to the ground, flung himself around his father’s leg, and affixed himself there, like one of those hippie protestors chained to the trunk of a tree, determined to thwart the injustice.
Erik’s handmade memorial stone still rests in the garden, under the overgrown ferns. RIP EIGHT-LEGGED EDDIE, BUSTED BUT LOYAL.
Never has Tova empathized with that poor crab more than now, as she hobbles around her kitchen with her left foot ensconced in this ridiculous molded-plastic boot. Six weeks, Dr. Remy had said. Six useless weeks that she’ll be unable to pull the dandelions from her rhubarb beds. Six maddening weeks that her hallway baseboards will collect dust. Six unbearable weeks that the aquarium’s floors will be left in the hands of whomever Terry can find to fill the gap.
“You’ve got four good legs,” she remarks to Cat as she pours her coffee. “Perhaps I could borrow one of yours?”
Cat licks his paw in answer.
Before she can take her first steaming sip, the doorbell rings.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” She makes her way to the front door.
“Tova!” Janice’s sharp, clear voice rings through the windowpane. “Sorry to drop by. Are you home?”
Reluctantly, Tova twists the dead bolt.
“Oh, good,” Janice says, bustling in with a casserole dish. Her voice is characteristically flat when she states, “You missed Knit-Wits this week.”
“Yes. I’ve been indisposed.”
Janice scoffs. “As if!” There’s that sitcom speak again. “What happened? You fell at work? That’s what Ethan up at the Shop-Way said.” She lowers the dish onto Tova’s counter.
Blood drains from Tova’s face. Ethan? How would he know?
“Now, I’m not saying anything one way or the other,” Janice says, holding up a defensive hand, “but if you need an attorney, I know a guy.” She reaches for her pocketbook. “I’ve got his number right here.”
“Janice, please. It’s just a sprain.”
“A bad sprain.” Janice eyes the boot. Then she removes her gauzy pink scarf and hangs it, along with her pocketbook, over the back of one of Tova’s kitchen chairs. Humming to herself, she snatches up the casserole dish, carries it to the refrigerator, and begins prodding around, searching for space.