You may object to my rumination on the topic of bliss, considering I am imprisoned in this dreadful place. What would a captive cephalopod know of joy? I will never again know the thrill of a wild hunt in the open sea. I will never bask in a silver shimmer of moonlight as it filters down through the water from an endless midnight sky. I will never copulate.
But I have knowledge. To the extent happiness is possible for a creature like me, it lies in knowledge.
As you already know, I am adept at learning. I have easily solved every puzzle or brainteaser Terry has provided: the locked box with a scallop inside, the small plastic maze with a mussel at the finish. Child’s play, as the humans might say. Then I learned to pop the top of my tank, and how to unlock the pump room door. I learned how to calculate precisely how far I may venture, and for how long, before I begin to suffer The Consequences.
It may not be bliss, if such a thing even exists, but with this knowledge, I have achieved something akin to contentment. Or, perhaps more accurately, a temporary abatement of misery.
Ah, to be a human, for whom bliss can be achieved by mere ignorance! Here, in the kingdom of animals, ignorance is dangerous. The poor herring dropped into the tank lacks any awareness of the shark lurking below. Ask the herring whether what he doesn’t know can hurt him.
But humans can be wounded by their own oblivion, too. They do not see it, but I do. It happens all the time.
Consider, for example, a father and son I witnessed recently, right here in front of my tank. He claps the adolescent on the back as they talk of an upcoming sports match. The father is certain the son will prevail, telling the young one, You’ve got my throwing arm, and I was an all-state quarterback. I do not know what a quarterback is, but I can tell you this: the boy has no genetic relationship with the man. The father is a cuckold. One of my favorite human words, I must admit.
Moments later, the child’s mother joins them, and the three of them shuffle along to stare at the sharp-nosed sculpin exhibit next door, unaware of the treason that will one day cleave their family.
You ask, how do I know? I observe. I am very perceptive, perhaps beyond the bounds of your comprehension.
Thousands of genes mold an offspring’s physical presentation, and many of these pathways are as clear to me as letters on a page are to you. For one thousand, three hundred and twenty-nine days of this wretched captivity, I have honed my observations. In that particular case of the sporting son and his quarterback-cuckold guardian, the list of traits would be too long to name here, but: the shape of the nose, the shade of the eyes, the precise position of the earlobe. The inflection of the voice, the gait. Ah, the gait! That is always an easy tell. Humans walk alike （or, in this case, unalike） far more than they realize.
But the former cleaning woman and her replacement. They walk alike.
There is also the heart-shaped dimple that sits, unusually low for such a feature, on each of their left cheeks. And the greenish golden flecks in each of their eyes. The toneless manner in which they both hum while they mop （quite annoying, to be honest, although the whir of my pump muffles it, mercifully）。
Circumstantial, you say with a dismissive wave. Coincidental. Heredity works in strange ways. You point to the doppelg?nger phenomenon; nearly identical humans of no relation born on opposite sides of the world.
You know, as do I, that the woman has no surviving heir. You know her only child died thirty years ago. You know, too, of her grief. Grief that has molded her life. Grief that, for the time being, drives her into seclusion. Eventually, I fear, it may drive her to something worse.
Your skepticism is understandable. It appears to defy logic.
I could go on with more evidence, although now, I must rest. These communications exhaust me, and this one is getting very long.
But you would do well to believe me when I tell you this: the young male who has recently taken over sanitation duties is a direct descendant of the cleaning woman with the injured foot.
Hard Left, Cut Right
One morning in late July, Cameron finally lands a promising clue.
Elusive real estate tycoon Simon Brinks spends summer weekends at his estate in the San Juan Islands, a lavish Tuscan-style villa tucked up on a cliff overlooking some obscure strait. This is according to the old magazine article Cameron dug up on some obscure website. Once he had the town and photo, it was easy enough to unearth the address. It’s a two-hour drive from Sowell Bay.
That would be four hours in the car alone. Cameron scrolls through the address book on his phone. His thumb hovers over Avery’s number.
Would tagging along for a shakedown of a man who might be his biological father be a weird date? It would. Is Avery weird enough to be down with it? Possibly. Everything seems fifty-fifty with Avery, and even though they’ve managed a few coffee dates and a late-night dinner, once, at the pub down in Elland, half the time she develops some snag with her schedule and has to cancel, which seems oddly complicated for a single woman. Paddle store stuff, Cameron assumes. What would he know about owning a business? Holding his breath, he places the call.