“Well, what is it?” Tova presses, but then wonders whether she should’ve. Suddenly, she wants nothing more than to be home, sitting on her davenport. Watching the evening news. The tidy, predictable banter of Craig Moreno and Carla Ketchum and meteorologist Joan Jennison. She places the wadded rag/T-shirt on the counter and clasps her hands.
Ethan’s gaze locks on the bundle on the counter. His eyes bulge. “What the . . . ?” He crosses the kitchen and holds up the wine-stained rag. Color drains from his ruddy cheeks.
Tova straightens, nervous.
“What have you done?”
“The dishes.” Tova plants her hands on her hips. “I cleaned the kitchen, washed the dishes, wiped down the counters. I had half a mind to start on that mess under your sink, but—”
“Oh.” Ethan’s voice is hoarse. He slops the rag-shirt onto the table and sinks down into one of the chairs, dropping his huge head into his hands. His voice is muffled when he says, “Grateful Dead, Memorial Stadium. May 26, 1995.”
“What does that mean?”
He looks up, eyes flashing. “Their last show in Seattle. One of Jerry Garcia’s last shows ever.”
“I don’t . . . well . . .” Tova’s head spins. Jerry Garcia was the lead singer of Grateful Dead and passed away in 1995, of this she’s certain. Crossword puzzle makers occasionally use some version of this as a clue, and it always strikes her as somewhat pedestrian for a pop-culture nod.
“The shirt. It was from that show. It’s a rare specimen.” Ethan expels a long breath as he rises.
“But it was under the sink.”
Ethan flings an arm toward the cabinet. “Right. It was in that closet.”
“That’s not a closet. It’s a cabinet.”
“They’re both compartments with doors! What’s the difference?”
Tova folds her arms. “Well, most people keep cleaning supplies under the sink.”
“Who cares what most people do?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Red wine stains. They come out, right?”
“Maybe they’ll lighten,” Tova says. “With undiluted bleach.”
“But that will . . .”
“Yes,” she admits. “It will fade out everything else, too.”
Ethan says nothing but gets up heavily and wanders over to the counter and dumps the remainder of Barb’s Cab Franc into his glass, then finishes it in one gulp. Tova watches, her jaw suddenly wired shut, her feet somehow rooted to the ground. Who leaves a precious garment shoved in a kitchen cupboard? And one in such terrible shape, so horribly faded and worn?
No, not horribly worn. Well loved.
“I’m sorry, Ethan.”
He squares his shoulders. “Aye. It’s all right, love.”
“I’m going to go now,” Tova says, trembling. “Thank you for the meal.”
“Please wait. I have something important to tell you. The reason I asked you over tonight, actually . . .”
But Tova is already halfway across the house, clutching her pocketbook to her hip. The front door shuts quietly behind her.
A Rare Specimen
Tova has never cared much for rock music, at least not the modern kind. As a girl, of course, she liked Chuck Berry and Little Richard. And Elvis Presley, the King himself. When they were newlyweds, Will used to take her dancing at the hall downtown on Saturday nights, where they’d jitterbug until their feet were swollen. But the music teenage Erik used to blast from the boom box in his bedroom? That was noise, pure and simple.
The blend of guitar and drumbeats drifting out of the speaker on Janice Kim’s laptop computer is somewhere in between. Tova can’t understand much of what the lead singer is saying, but his voice is pleasant. The music sounds like it’s wandering, meandering. It isn’t unenjoyable.
“Hang on, let me turn down the volume,” Janice says, jabbing at the keyboard. “Don’t you hate it when websites have script embedded to play music automatically?”
“Oh yes,” Tova says, though she’s not sure what that means. Across the room, on his plush pouf, Rolo lifts his head. The tiny dog yawns, stands, and gives his whole body a good shake before trotting over. Janice scoops him up to her lap, and Tova reaches over and strokes his silky head.
“Ah, here we go. This is the one you’re looking for, right?” Janice zooms in on a photo of a scrawny man holding up a faded white T-shirt, the very same one Tova ruined last night at Ethan’s house. By the time she arrived home, Ethan had already left a message on her answering machine, insisting she not worry about the shirt. This morning, he sent a text message to her cell phone, too, apologizing for the sour note the evening took, and begging her to call him back. She thought about calling back, but she didn’t know how to reply to the message, and in any event, getting in touch with Janice to ask for her help seemed more important.