It was the first time Loo had ever heard anyone use his first name. Principal Gunderson paused, strips of plastic curtain on his shoulders. Mary Titus’s eyes were shining and on the brink of tears, just as they had been that night long ago when she’d told Loo about her first husband. And Loo realized then, for the first time, the real reason why the widow wanted to make the Banks a sanctuary. It wasn’t to save a disappearing fish—it was because the father of her only child had drowned there.
It was like looking in a mirror. The same flickering hope in Loo, the same desperate need to be loved, was right here in Marshall’s mother. And it was in Principal Gunderson, clutching Lily’s waist in that old prom photo. And it was in Agnes, pressing her feet into the stirrups, listening for her child’s cry. And it was in Hawley, mourning with his scraps of paper in the bathroom. Their hearts were all cycling through the same madness—the discovery, the bliss, the loss, the despair—like planets taking turns in orbit around the sun. Each containing their own unique gravity. Their own force of attraction. Drawing near and holding fast to whatever entered their own atmosphere. Even Loo, penning her thousands of names way out at the edge of the universe, felt better knowing others were traveling this same elliptical course, that they would sometimes cross paths, that they would find love and lose love and recover from love and love again—because, if they were all going in circles, and Loo was Pluto, then every 248 years even she would have the chance to be closer to the sun.
Principal Gunderson crossed the frozen room, past the meat and baskets of icy vegetables, and wrapped his arms around Mary Titus. “It’s all right,” he said. “Whatever it is, it’s all right.”
Mary Titus clung to him and wept, as if her husband had died all over again. Principal Gunderson said nothing and stroked her hair. Loo watched them embrace and take comfort in each other and felt ashamed and jealous and ashamed that she was jealous.
When Principal Gunderson finally glanced over Mary’s shoulder, his face full of questions, Loo said the only thing she could think of that would make everyone feel better. “We’re leaving town. Me and my father. So I guess I quit.” Then she stepped outside the freezer and watched the clock on the wall as the cooks wove around her and steamed clams and shucked oysters and rang the bell for pickup.
After a few minutes, the door opened and Principal Gunderson and Mary Titus emerged holding hands. Their faces were pink. Mary Titus looked ragged, but Principal Gunderson seemed energized.
“This is over now, whatever was between you two,” he said. “You should shake hands.”
Mary Titus and Loo stood their ground, eyeing each other like children forced to apologize. Sorry but not meaning a word. Until at last Loo held her palm out. And Marshall’s mother touched it with her cold, damp fingers.
“You ruined my life,” said Mary Titus.
“You’re welcome,” said Loo.
Principal Gunderson released a small belch into the air. “I have your last paycheck,” he said. “Why don’t you come with me, and we’ll let Mary get back to work.”
The widow wiped her eyes with the hem of her skirt, just as she had long ago in Loo’s kitchen. It had seemed so important to wound her. But now Loo’s hard feelings had been washed away, like the grime on the floor of the freezer. She watched Mary Titus set the empty carafe back on the burner and return to her empty tables.
“You certainly know how to keep things interesting,” said Principal Gunderson, as he dug around in the register. “I just hope you use that strength of will for good. I think it could take you to extraordinary places.” He pulled out an envelope. “We’re going to be sorry to lose you.”
“Really?” Loo asked.
“Of course,” he said. “You’re a bright student. And not everyone can handle the Sawtooth. It takes a lot. Physically, I mean. And mentally. The ladies who work here—they’re Amazons.” He slid some extra cash into Loo’s envelope and passed it over. “So are you.”
The paper was heavy and thick beneath her fingers, like an announcement or an invitation. “I didn’t mean to screw everything up.”
“Nobody ever does.”
She tucked the envelope into her jeans. “I guess I should say thank you.”
Principal Gunderson shut the cash register slowly until the drawer caught and the bell let out a muffled ding. “Just take care of yourself, my dear.”
Loo shifted on her feet. She didn’t know what to do next, and so she held out her hand again. Gunderson shook it.
“Do you know where you’re headed?”
“Not sure yet.”
“I never thought you were going to stay long.”
“Because of my dad?” Loo asked.
“No,” Principal Gunderson said. “Because of your mother. All she ever talked about was leaving this place.”
—
LOO RODE PAST the pier where Hawley had danced on the greasy pole. Past the impound lot. Past the beach where Marshall had stolen her shoes. When she finally got home her father’s truck was in the driveway. She hurried inside and found him in the kitchen. The bags of Chinese food were still sitting unopened on the counter. Hawley was at the table looking grim.
“What did the police say?”
“That Jove got washed overboard. They have his boat docked at the marina. They said they didn’t find anything unusual but I wanted to be sure so I snuck inside and checked it,” said Hawley. “Jove was on a job. Sailing to a marker offshore to make an exchange. I went through the hold. I looked everywhere, even under the floorboards. But there weren’t any goods in the cabin and there wasn’t any money, either. And there should have been a lot of money.”
Loo felt a cold unease spread across her skin. She remembered the conversation she’d overheard the first night Jove had showed up at their door.
“You think someone might have killed him.”
Hawley chewed his lip. “They’re still searching. The Coast Guard is dragging the area where they found the boat.”
“This isn’t your fault, Dad.”
“It is,” said Hawley. “Everything that’s happened and is happening and is going to happen.”
Loo got the whiskey out of the cabinet over the sink. She poured her father a shot and set it beside him. He took the glass and drained it.
“We should go out there,” said Loo. “Look for him.”
“He’s already dead.”
Hawley poured himself another whiskey. “Whoever hired him asked for both of us. They knew my name.” He rubbed his face. He cupped his hand around his drink. Then he looked straight at his daughter, and she remembered all the nights Hawley had stared out their windows and polished his guns.
“Maybe nothing happened,” said Loo, her voice tight. “Maybe it was just an accident.”
“Maybe.” Hawley stood up and walked to the counter. He started pulling out the containers of Chinese food. “We should eat. I got all of your favorites.”
“It’s cold.”
“Then we’ll heat it up.”
Loo watched him take down plates from the cabinet and pull silverware from the drawers, like it was any kind of normal evening. She swallowed hard. Tried to stifle the choking feeling at the base of her throat.
“You think whoever did this might come here.”