Remarkably Bright Creatures(5)
“Filing,” Mary Ann mutters. “You did filing.”
“And you quit because they couldn’t keep it organized the way you liked,” Janice says, her voice dry. “But the point is, you weren’t down on your hands and knees washing floors.”
Mary Ann leans in. “Tova, I hope you realize, if you need help . . .”
“Help?”
“Yes, help. I don’t know how Will arranged your finances.”
Tova stiffens. “Thank you, but I have no such need.”
“But if you did.” Mary Ann’s lips knit together.
“I do not,” Tova replies quietly. And this is true. Tova’s bank account would cover her modest needs several times over. She does not need charity: not from Mary Ann, not from anyone else. And further, what a thing to bring up, and all because of a little set of marks on her arm.
After rising from the table, Tova sets her teacup down and leans on the counter. The window over the kitchen sink overlooks Mary Ann’s garden, where her rhododendron bushes cower under the low gray sky. The tender magenta petals seem to shiver as a breeze ruffles the branches, and Tova wishes she could tuck them back into their buds. The chill in the air is unseasonable for mid-June. Summer is certainly dragging its feet this year.
On the windowsill, Mary Ann has arranged a collection of religious paraphernalia: little glass angels with cherub faces, candles, a small army of shiny silver crosses in various sizes, lined up like soldiers. Mary Ann must polish them daily to keep them gleaming.
Janice cups her shoulder. “Tova? Earth to Tova?”
Tova can’t help but smile. The lilt in Janice’s voice makes Tova think Janice has been watching sitcoms again.
“Please don’t be upset. Mary Ann didn’t mean anything by it. We’re just worried.”
“Thank you, but I am fine.” Tova pats Janice’s hand.
Janice raises one of her neatly groomed eyebrows, steering Tova back toward the table. It’s clear Janice understands how deeply Tova wishes to change the subject, because she goes for low-hanging conversational fruit.
“So, Barb, what’s new with the girls?”
“Oh, did I tell you?” Barb draws in a dramatic breath. No one has ever needed to ask Barb twice to muse on the lives of her daughters and grandchildren. “Andie was supposed to bring the girls up for their summer break. But they had a hitch in their plans. That’s exactly what she said: a hitch.”
Janice wipes her glasses with one of Mary Ann’s embroidered napkins. “Is that right, Barb?”
“They haven’t been up since last Thanksgiving! She and Mark took the kids to Las Vegas for Christmas. If you can believe that. Who spends a holiday in Las Vegas?” Barb pronounces both words, Las and Vegas, with equal weight and contempt, the way someone might say spoiled milk.
Janice and Mary Ann both shake their heads, and Tova takes another cookie. All three women nod along as Barb launches into a story about her daughter’s family, who live two hours away in Seattle, which one might conclude was in another hemisphere for how infrequently Barb purports to see them.
“I told them, I sure hope to hug those grandbabies soon. Lord only knows how long I’ll be around!”
Janice sighs. “Enough, Barb.”
“Excuse me a moment.” Tova’s chair scrapes on the linoleum.
AS ONE WOULD gather from the name, the Knit-Wits began as a knitting club. Twenty-five years ago, a handful of Sowell Bay women met to swap yarn. Eventually, it became a refuge for them to escape empty homes, bittersweet voids left by children grown and moved on. For this reason, among others, Tova had initially resisted joining. Her void held no sweetness, only bitterness; at the time, Erik had been gone five years. How delicate those wounds were back then, how little it took to nudge the scabs out of place and start the bleeding anew.
The faucet in Mary Ann’s powder room lets out a squeak as Tova turns on the tap. Their complaints haven’t changed much over the years. First, it was what a pity the university is such a long drive, and what a shame we only get phone calls on Sunday afternoons. Now it’s grandbabies and great-grandbabies. These women have always worn motherhood big and loud on their chests, but Tova keeps hers inside, sunk deep in her guts like an old bullet. Private.
A few days before Erik disappeared, Tova had made an almond cake for his eighteenth birthday. The house carried that marzipan smell for days after. She still remembers how it lingered in her kitchen like a clueless houseguest who didn’t know when to leave.
At first, Erik’s disappearance was considered a runaway case. The last person who saw him was one of the deckhands working the eleven-o’clock southbound ferry, the last boat of the night, and the deckhand reported nothing unusual. Erik was meant to lock up the ticket booth afterward, which he always did, dutifully. Erik was so pleased they trusted him with the key; it was only a summer job, after all. The sheriff said they found the ticket booth unlocked, with the register cash fully accounted for. Erik’s backpack was stashed under the chair, along with his portable cassette player and headphones, even his wallet. Before they ruled out the possibility of foul play, the sheriff speculated that perhaps Erik had stepped away for a short time, planning to come back.
Why would he leave his booth alone when on duty? Tova has never understood. Will always had a theory there was a girl involved, but no trace of any girl—or any boy, for that matter—was ever found. His friends insisted that he wasn’t seeing anyone at the time. If Erik had been seeing someone, the world would’ve known about it. Erik was a popular kid.