Those weeks on the ocean liner are largely a blank space in Tova’s mind, which is a shame, as it’s probably the most adventurous thing she’ll ever do.
Among her few clear memories from aboard the SS Vadstena is the Walrus. That wasn’t really his name, of course, but that’s what Tova and Lars called that passenger, with his long, gray, whiskery mustache dangling around each corner of his mouth like a set of tusks.
The Walrus liked to play cards. After dinner in the parlor, while Lars lined up his toy soldiers along the red velvet booth-backs, the Walrus tried to coax Tova and her mother into playing gin rummy. At first, Mama said ladies ought not to partake in card games, but eventually she relented. By the dim light of the glass lamps, Tova learned to play rummy and hearts and twenty-one. Sometimes, with a sly wink, the Walrus would slip in a card trick as he shuffled, daring her to guess what card he held between his fingers, then flipping it around to prove her wrong before producing the very one she’d named from under his collar or beneath his cuff.
Always expect the unexpected, child, the Walrus would say, chuckling as little Tova scowled at being fooled yet again.
She feels a scowl cross her face now, watching this young fellow pick up a pair of fallen canisters and return them to the shelf, not seeming to care that he’s placed them upside down. For the last two weeks, Barb Vanderhoof and Ethan Mack and their ilk have been churning the rumor mill with their talk of the fellow from California, the homeless man, who has taken her place. But Cameron has clean fingernails and nice, white teeth. And he’s well versed in the works of Shakespeare, apparently. He has promised to keep her secret, and for some reason she can’t quite identify, she likes him. She might even trust him.
He is not what she expected.
In the humidity of the pump room, the pink bandage is already starting to peel back, and now it sits askew on his damp temple. Tova resists a deep urge to reach up and press it back on with her thumb. When he notices her watching him, he flashes a sheepish grin. “Sorry, I swear I don’t usually go around quoting dead bards. It’s been a weird night.” He blinks, as if wondering if any of this is actually happening, a feeling Tova can very much relate to.
She peers past Cameron into Marcellus’s tank, where the surface of the water shimmers gently around the pump—no sign of the octopus himself. What would have happened if she hadn’t arrived?
“I should say it has.” She clears her throat and straightens. “In any case. How are you finding the conditions here? Did Terry train you? And do you need . . . supplies?” The acrid smell of that caustic green junk has already started to seep in. The jug of vinegar in her trunk could fix this.
“I mean, yeah? Dragging a mop across the floor isn’t exactly rocket science.”
Tova clicks her tongue. “Perhaps not, but there is a proper way to do things.”
“Am I doing something . . . improperly?”
“Well, let’s have a look. Come along, dear.” Tova opens the door and motions to Cameron to follow her into the curved hallway. The floors, as she’d noted on her way in, look decent, but linty streaks run along the glass fronts of the tanks. Tova runs a finger through one. “You must use a cotton cloth on the glass. Not polyester.”
Cameron folds his arms defensively. “It looks fine to me.”
“You must look more carefully, then.”
“What are you, some expert on glass cleaning?”
Tova tuts. “Decades of experience.”
“Well, no one said anything about polyester or cotton or whatever,” Cameron says with a huff. “I’m using the rags that were here. How was I supposed to know?”
He has a point. Tova will need to speak with Terry about training if the boy might be her permanent replacement. She makes her way over to one of the garbage bins and points to the rim. “Also, see this here? The bag must hook all the way around, or else it slips off when the can becomes full. Then trash will fall directly into the bottom and make an even bigger mess.”
“Oh, please. I know how to put a bag in a garbage can.”
“Clearly, you do not.” Tova’s tone sharpens. “I don’t know how they install trash liners down in California, but—”
“Wait, what?” Cameron interrupts. “How did you know I was from California?”
“People in Sowell Bay like to talk.” Tova flattens her lips. She wishes she could take the comment back. How often has she, herself, been the subject of town gossip?
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” Cameron pauses, and something glints in his eyes. “I’m sure the rumor mill would have a feast, hearing about you being here tonight. Visiting an octopus.”