by Tess Little
Lillie was holding the refrigerator door open, staring into the light. Her hair was wet and she was dressed in sweats. She did not answer.
“Are you going to eat something? I could make you a grilled cheese, or…”
“I don’t think I want anything; I’m not sure what I’m doing.”
She shut the fridge but did not turn to face me.
“Do you remember when you were little,” I said, “and you woke up with a nightmare? I used to make a midnight snack—bread pizza, you called it. Your favorite toppings were canned corn and ketchup, but we’d make it with whatever was in the cabinet. Olives, anchovies…
“There was one time,” I continued, “you must’ve been about four, when we’d run out of toppings but you refused to have it with just the cheese and tomato. Then I found a packet of beef jerky. I cut it up small so you could sprinkle it over. It wasn’t too bad, once you could finally chew through it.”
Lillie turned and looked at me as if I were a stranger—not a hint of recollection.
“Have you had trouble sleeping?” I asked. “I know you always used to when you were worried about tests. We could watch some TV together—what was the name of that show you liked?”
“No,” she said. “I think I should go back to bed.”
“Lillie,” I said quickly, before she could leave, “I know it’s difficult to—”
“Do you, though?”
I didn’t know what she meant.
“Do you know?” she said. “Because I’m not sure I know. I don’t know what to think, Mom. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. What am I supposed to do?”
How could I answer that?
“I think,” I said, “we’ve just got to get through it. You’ve just got to look after yourself, that’s all you can do.”
She nodded, but I wasn’t sure she had heard. I wasn’t sure that mattered. I didn’t know what I was saying. I tried a different approach.
“I was just thinking,” I told her, “I’m going to need some more things. Because Scott says the investigation might take a while, and if I’m going to be staying with you, I’ll need…Do you want to come shopping with me tomorrow? It might be good to get out.”
Lillie’s head dropped. Her shoulders were shaking—was she crying?
And then I heard it: a mechanical laugh.
“Go out?” she said hysterically. “You want me to go out? You want— Should I wear a Day-Glo T-shirt too? So that the camera lenses can pick me out?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think.”
Lillie stopped laughing abruptly.
She sniffed, crossed her arms. Traced her slipper along the groove of a kitchen tile.
“I know,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m not mad. I’m just—tired.”
The icemaker in the fridge hummed and clattered.
“I keep picking up my phone,” Lillie said. “It’s like this habit. Because I always check social media when I’m bored, and I don’t think sometimes, I just pick up the phone. And then I suddenly remember, as the apps are opening. I close them as fast as I can.”
The fridge fell silent.
“I don’t want to see what people are saying,” she said.
“So you haven’t spoken to your friends?”
Lillie looked up. “I meant people on social media. But my friends…To be honest, I haven’t heard much from them. When the news broke about Dad’s death, people kind of knew what to say. I mean, they didn’t always say the right thing, but at least they were reaching out. Since the media heard about his…”
“The investigation,” I offered.
“The investigation,” she said carefully. “Over the past few days, I don’t think anyone—I mean, I wouldn’t know what to say to me either.”
“You have to give them time,” I said.
“But,” Lillie said, “if they find it difficult now, what about when more details come out? What about when the media reports that it happened at his house, or that drugs were involved, or they start to speculate about who was there? What about when they talk about the—his throat?”
My breath caught. I hadn’t known which details Lillie had been given.
(The wounds; the bruises; a long, blunt object.)
It took me a few moments to realize that I’d left her questions unanswered.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“No one does,” she replied.
Before Lillie could escape, I wrapped her in my embrace. She was unmoving, arms hanging by her side. Her hair smelled fresh and fragrant, figs and cut grass.
I didn’t have much to be thankful for in that moment, but I was glad of one thing: that Lillie had not been there that night; that she had not found her father’s body; that she would not face the detectives’ suspicion. I could bear it all if I reminded myself this was for the best—for the burden to fall on me and not her.
“Lillie,” I said, as the question occurred to me, “why weren’t you there that night? Where were you?”
She pulled away.
“I mean, it doesn’t matter,” I quickly added, “but you told me you’d be arriving at the party after visiting your friend, so I just wondered…”
Lillie’s shoulders fell; there was pain in her eyes. This was the wrong time to be questioning her.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Let’s— We’ll talk another time.”
She returned to her room, left me dawdling with an empty glass.
I rarely saw her that week at all. Under one roof, we lived separate existences. Every now and then, passing her bedroom door, I heard evidence of life: a theme song or snatch of dialogue from her laptop speakers. I felt like a ghost. It was her space—potted palms and blue ceramics, photographs of friends I had never met. The shower refused to obey my commands. Glasses and plates were never in the first cabinet I opened.
I kept a notepad and pen on the coffee table. But I’d written only one line: the time of my flight to L.A. and the time I’d arrived at Richard’s. I would do what Scott had asked, I told myself. I would do it later. I would do it tomorrow.
Instead, I watched drug commercials on TV. Ignored my calls and texts. Ate nothing but a bowl of plump, cold blueberries I discovered in the fridge—two or three at a time—washed them down with a chilled sauvignon blanc, past its best. Saw Richard’s body, and his fingers, and his neck. Vomited up the blueberries.
Every so often, I would find another task and throw myself into it. Lillie’s laundry basket; a stain on the carpet. I cleaned out the fridge, scrubbed every corner with bleach. I dusted her bookshelves and rearranged cushions—found things that she’d taken from our apartment in New York without having asked me first. A salt pig that had been a wedding present. Silverware, a French press.
There was one area of the house that I tried to avoid: Lillie’s living-room wall, covered in framed prints. But I couldn’t help myself. I had to straighten them every time I walked past. A fraction to the left, a hair’s breadth to the right. They never lined up. And they were always there.
Richard stared out at me, a young man in gelatin silver, sandwiched between glass and wood. It was a moody portrait that had accompanied his first big magazine profile, his first award season after The Anatomy of Inquiry—taken by Leibovitz. Or was that later? But I remembered the reviews well: A young British director’s ode to the classic New York noir. Elspeth Bell, as Cassandra DiSotta, embodies a female fragility—at once fierce and vulnerable. The image had been hung next to an original poster from the film: that iconic silhouette of my lips and nose, the silver barrel of a pistol.
I counted four photographs of Richard and Lillie together, chronicling her youth, and there was another, a candid shot, from the set of Dominus. Richard was studying papers; Lillie rested her chin on his shoulder. I tilted the frame to the left, the right. Tried to leav
e it alone. Tried to walk away. Tried to ignore the fact that there was only one photograph of my daughter and me, which had been stolen from one of the albums that sat beneath my coffee table.
Astroland, Coney Island, back when bread pizza had been her favorite meal.
* * *
—
Squeaking chews filled the room.
“Hmm, rubbery,” Charlie said through the flesh. A drop of juice rolled down his chin.
I caught a flash of movement from the tank behind him. Persephone’s eight limbs flicked and writhed. I could not imagine this creature dead, no matter how chopped and canned the body.
The heat of bile crept up my throat.
“How is it like?” Sabine hovered over Charlie.
“Fishy. I want to say…almost smoky? Briny, for sure.” Charlie overenunciated, spoke slowly through his mouthful. He wanted the room to cling to his every word.
“Okay, I will taste,” said Sabine, picking a smaller slice.
Kei looked uncomfortable. “Really? This seems wrong.”
Sabine held up a hand. “Frankly, my dear—”
“Don’t be such a pathetic killjoy,” Richard said. “There’s nothing wrong with it. They don’t hunt them; they just accidentally get stuck in the fishing nets.”
“They could throw them back,” said Kei.
“And it’s very good for you. High in protein, low calorie.”
“Delicious and nutritious,” Charlie said, staring at Richard. The actor laughed, loud, like he’d told a witty joke.
I watched him as he realized Richard would not respond, watched him survey the group, a claw for attention. I looked the other way when his gaze swept over me.
Charlie sat back down. Picked up his glass. Pretended to be bored; a little boy, salty with neglect.
Sabine gave her verdict: “It needs vinegar.”
“All right, all right, pass it here,” said Jerry. “Come on.”
Tommo asked whether I would try. “Aren’t you curious?”
“Not at all.”
He left my side to join the carnivores.
“Persephone would eat it,” said Richard. He walked to the tank and cooed, “You would eat it right up, wouldn’t you, my sweet? You would hunt your lover without a thought. You would devour every inch and you would suck the beak clean.”
I looked away; I felt sick. Jerry giggled. I could still hear that crunch of shell and flesh as he had torn the lobster apart. Was I imagining it, or did it still linger in the air—the brine, the sweet, fishy odor?
“I swear to fucking god”—Kei was not joking—“if you feed that to her in front of me, I will leave.”
“Suit yourself. She can finish the tin later.” Richard passed the can to the nearest waiter, nodded toward the kitchen.
Honey muttered something under his breath.
“What videos?” asked Kei.
Persephone was crawling away from us, slipping between two rocks.
“No, no.” Our host shook his head. “Honey, baby, they don’t want to watch that. It’s so dull. It’s neither the time nor the place. Not now.”
“Watch what?” asked Jerry. “Now, if you’re into those sicko tentacle things, I’m telling you, I’m getting outta here.”
“It’s not that,” Honey began, barely audible. “It’s…He films it.”
“The octopus? Doing what?”
Richard did not answer; he looked to Honey. I saw his jaw clench.
Honey stared him back.
“They don’t want to see it, baby,” Richard muttered through his teeth.
My throat was tacky. I tried to swallow.
“See what?” asked Sabine. “Now you must tell.”
Honey turned away from Richard’s warning glare and answered her.
“Richard films the octopus.” He pointed to a CCTV camera, red light blinking, in the corner of the room. “She escapes from the tank every night.”
“She escapes every night?” said Kei. “And you film it? Dude, what the fuck.”
“That’s messed up,” Miguel said. “Rich, that is messed up.”
“There’s not much I can do about it.” Richard raised his voice over the protestations. “She escapes through a valve in the water-filtering system.” He took a step toward her. “But she can’t get far; she needs water to breathe. So she squashes herself back—pulls one of the little metal levers through after her to keep the valve open. Clever old bitch.”
“I feel a little nauseated,” said Tommo.
“Oh, she’s sentient, yes.” Richard bent down to her level. “But I find that makes them all the more delicious.”
Persephone had positioned herself in front of him, suckers gripping the glass, velveteen skin rippling slow. I was so engrossed in this swaying, I could have been next to her, submerged in the tank; not a part of the group, but watching from the water.
Then she blinked and I was in my body again—skirt sticking to my thighs.
“…but it’s not a big deal,” Richard was saying. “It’s just like a dog streaking away when you unclip its leash. It returns because it wants to, because it needs you.”
With a flash of outrage, I heard myself protest, “It returns because it’s suffocating. It should be in the ocean.”
“Calm down, darling, the tank is huge.” Richard batted the criticism away. “Much bigger than regulation. You should see the boxes they stuff them into at proper aquariums.”
He stood up and stretched his shoulders. “It’s all fine, really. I have a guy, a neuroscience student with aquarium experience, looking for a bit of spare cash. So he comes round to check on her and the tank. He says the escaping is harmless as long as I don’t mind it. It’s a game for Persephone, something to keep her occupied. Okay, yes, we could seal the filter, but then he wouldn’t be able to reach it for cleaning.”
Charlie yawned. “Are we gonna watch the video or what?”
“If you insist.”
Richard took a remote control from his pocket; the music stopped, the tank whirred and bubbled. Then a screen unrolled from the ceiling with a hum. Tommo nudged me, sniggered. Richard, flicking through his phone, mumbled, “Aha.”
An image of the atrium fizzed into life from the projector: a collection of pale infrared shapes. In the bottom right-hand corner of the tank, a murky silhouette shifted.
“So that’s where the filter is?” said Charlie, pointing at the aquarium beside him, to the corner nearest the seating area.
“It’s concealed by a fake rock. She lifts it,” Richard said.
A dark plume of dust puffed from the floor. The silhouette appeared to shrink.
“This is the amazing part—she squeezes herself through the pipes, then unscrews the panel from behind.”
A small object fell from the base of the aquarium. Then another. Miguel whistled, low. The panel flipped open.
There was no sound in the room—then cries of disbelief. I heard Tommo take a short, sharp breath. The enormous creature had begun to squash her body, viscous, through an opening so small it could not be seen onscreen. She was materializing before our eyes.
“How?” Charlie exclaimed.
“Like a magician pulling a handkerchief from his fist,” Richard said. “She’s barely solid.”
“Toothpaste,” said Sabine.
“Snot,” said Jerry.
Richard pressed fast forward. We watched the shadow slump across the floor, almost reaching the doorway through which I had just walked. There she sat, motionless, for what appeared to be a minute. Then she crawled back, pulling the flap shut behind her.
“We have to screw those bloody things back every morning.” Richard was switching off the projector. “And she trails water all over the floor. Yola—our housekeeper—hates it.”
“Will she make the esca
pe tonight?” said Sabine.
We looked to the tank.
“She only tries in the dark, when no one else is around,” Honey answered. “She can tell when humans are here.”
The opening in the creature’s eyelids was thin as a bobby pin. I would have thought them shut, had they not blinked at that moment.
* * *
—
It wasn’t until the night before my next interrogation that I began the task Scott had set. He’d called after dinner from his hotel, confirmed the time I needed to arrive at the station, and then said, “And you’ve made your notes?”
I lied.
“Great,” he replied. “We want you to feel confident about what you can remember.”
Guilty, I took the notepad to Lillie’s kitchen table and opened my laptop, as though a change of medium might jog me to action. I copied the one line I had written into a Word document. My arrival in L.A., my arrival at the party. I couldn’t type any more—I didn’t know how to separate the evening into events. There was the party and then the morning. His body on the couch.
“What are you doing?” asked Lillie, finding herself a plate.
I almost didn’t tell her.
“Scott wanted a record of that night,” I said. “The police are questioning me tomorrow afternoon, remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Maybe one day Lillie would want the sequence of events for herself. She hadn’t asked me any questions about that night yet. And I had certainly not volunteered the memories.
“I was thinking,” I said, “after I’m done, I might watch a movie?”
“Sure,” she said. Took some chocolate from the cupboard. “Do you need me to show you how to—”
“I thought we might watch together.”
“Oh.” She hesitated. Snapped a row of squares from the bar and then put it back. “Um, no. I don’t think—I’m actually in the middle of a book, so…”
“What are you reading?”
“I Capture the Castle.”
“Is that the beautiful secondhand one you used to have? With the blue cover?” She nodded; I smiled. “You carried it around everywhere when you were little. Was it for school? Did I buy it for you?”
