Tova sighs. Family is family. She knows Ethan means well, but what a ridiculous saying. Of course family is family; what else could it be? Lars was her last living relation. Family, even though she hadn’t spoken to him in years.
“I must get going,” she finally replies. “My feet are quite sore from work.”
“Aye! Your aquarium gig.” Ethan sounds thankful for the change in subject. “Say hello to the scallops for me.”
Tova nods gravely. “I will tell them hello.”
“Let ’em know they’re livin’ the high life compared to their cousins over there, in the seafood case.” Ethan ticks his head toward the fresh seafood department at the back of the store, the one that, with a few local-catch exceptions, offers mostly previously frozen seafood. He leans his elbows on the checkout counter with a bemused look in his eyes.
Tova’s cheeks flush, having picked up on his facetiousness an instant too late. Those scallops in the cold case, rounds of translucent white . . . at least Sowell Bay is too provincial to support a grocery store that sells octopus. She heaves up her grocery bag. Predictably, its contents list toward one end and the jam jars clink again.
Sometimes there is simply a correct way to do things.
With a pointed glance at the new bagging fellow, who is slumped on the deli bench now, jabbing at his phone, Tova sets the bag down and moves the marmalade to the other side of the grapes. The way it ought to have been done in the first place.
Ethan follows her gaze. Then he stands and barks, “Tanner! What happened to stocking the dairy case?”
The kid stuffs his phone in his pocket and stalks off toward the back of the store.
Tova hides a smile at how satisfied Ethan looks with himself. When he notices, he runs a hand over his short wiry beard, which is mostly white these days but clings to a reddish hint. Soon, he’ll let it grow in anticipation of the holidays. Ethan Mack plays a very convincing Scots Santa Claus. Every Saturday in December he’ll sit in a chair in the community center in a polyester costume, taking photos with the town’s children and occasionally a small dog or two. Janice brings Rolo to visit Santa every year.
“Kids need a little direction now and then,” Ethan says. “Then again, I suppose we all do.”
“I suppose so.” Tova picks up her grocery sack again and turns toward the door.
“If you need anything at all . . .”
“Thank you, Ethan. I appreciate it.”
“Drive safe now, love,” he calls as the chime dings.
AT HOME, TOVA unties her sneakers and turns on the television to channel four. The eleven-o’clock news is only tolerable on channel four. Craig Moreno and Carla Ketchum and meteorologist Joan Jennison. Channel seven is tabloid nonsense, and who can stand to watch that blowhard Foster Wallace on channel thirteen? Channel four is the only sane option.
The show’s jingle drifts into the kitchen, where Tova unloads her groceries. She hadn’t bought much; her refrigerator is already stuffed with casseroles, left on her porch over the last few days by the Knit-Wits and other well-wishers intending to comfort her over Lars’s death.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” she says, bending down and rustling around her jammed fridge, trying to finagle a space for her grapes around an oversized pan of ham-and-cheese gratin Mary Ann dropped off yesterday.
A scratching sound startles her. She stands upright.
It’s coming from the porch. Another casserole? And at this hour. She makes her way past the den, where the television is blaring a commercial for life insurance. The front door is still open from her carrying in the groceries, so she squints through the screen door, expecting to see an offering on the doormat, but it’s empty. And no car in the driveway, either.
The door creaks as she opens it. “Hello?”
More scratching. A raccoon? A rat?
“Who’s there?”
A pair of yellow eyes. Then a reproachful meow.
Tova lets out a breath she hadn’t meant to hold. Stray cats roam the neighborhood, but she’s never seen this gray one, now sitting on her porch step like a king on his throne. The cat blinks, glaring up at her.
“Well?” She frowns, flapping a hand. “Shoo!”
The cat tilts its head.
“I said, shoo!”
The cat yawns.
Tova plants her hands on her hips, and the cat saunters over and winds its narrow body between her feet. She can feel each tine of its rib cage against her ankle bone.
She clucks her tongue. “Well, I have ham gratin. Would that suit you?”
The cat’s purr has a high-pitched tinge to it. Desperate.
“All right, then. But if I catch you using my flower beds as a litter box . . .” She slips back through the door, leaving Cat, as Tova decides it should be called, peering through the screen.
After returning with a loaded plate, she sits and watches from the porch swing as Cat devours cold ham, cheese, and potato. When Tova returns the dish to Mary Ann later, she won’t mention who consumed it.
“Shame to see it go to waste, so I’m glad to share,” she confides to Cat. And she means this. How much food do her friends think she can possibly eat? Tova sets a mental reminder to collect Cat’s dish in the morning and goes back inside, closing the door behind her.
From the den drifts the sound of the news, which has returned from a commercial break. “Well, Carla, I know I’m ready for some summer weather here in Seattle.” Craig Moreno chuckles.
“I’m more than ready, Craig!” Carla Ketchum’s laugh is watery. Next, she’ll lean her forearm on the desk and beam at the camera before turning to her co-anchor. She’ll be wearing blue, as she seems to believe it flatters her best. And because it rained today, her blond hair will be wavy instead of tamed into a bob. Of course, Tova can’t see any of this from the kitchen, but she’s certain.
“We’ll see what Joan has to say about that. After the break!”
Now the camera will pan back to Craig Moreno. His tone will rise a smidgen when he says Joan’s name. This began a few weeks ago. Presumably when he and the weather lady began having relations.
Tova doesn’t stay to hear the forecast. Doesn’t need to—it’ll be cloudy and drizzly. More June gloom.
Chasing a Lass
Though he could do with a spot of sun lately, Ethan Mack doesn’t mind foggy nights. Halos gather around the streetlights; a ferry horn bellows somewhere in the brume. Midnight chill seeps down his collar as he sits on the bench in front of the Shop-Way, puffing his pipe.
Strictly speaking, this is not permitted. Per the handbook, Shop-Way employees must clock out for smoke breaks. Of course, Ethan himself is the one who wrote that handbook, although even so, he tries not to lift himself above the rules. But he and Tanner are the only ones here, and the kid is in the back, none the wiser.
Watching Tova go into the night always prickles his nerves. According to his police scanner, there are always lunatics on the roads at night. Why must she do her shopping so late?
It’s been almost two years since she started coming late in the evening. Since Ethan started pressing his flannel collar before his shift. Trying to make himself a bit tidier. Make himself seem more presentable.
He pulls the pipe’s warmth into his chest, then exhales. The smoke melts into the fog.
The fog reminds Ethan of home: Kilberry, on the Sound of Jura in western Scotland. Still home, though he’s lived in the United States forty years. Forty years since he packed a duffel and quit his post as a docker in Kennacraig. Forty years since he chased a lass.
It had fizzled with Cindy. The plan was rubbish to begin with, shacking up with a holiday-making American, pissing his savings on a ticket from Heathrow to JFK. He still remembers how the isles grew smaller and smaller through the little oval window.
Tanner pokes his muttonish head out the door. If he registers Ethan’s rule breaking, he doesn’t show it. The lad’s not the brightest bulb. He says, “Did you want me to do the entire cold case?”
“A’course. What do you think I’m paying you for?”