by Leyna Krow
The fact that the dream that is also a memory has changed does not bother Dahlia. Memory is, after all, fallible. But the feeling of Squid Days—sun, sand, Mr. Stills—remains consistent. And that, she thinks, is the most important thing.
All the same, Dahlia knows the images from this most recent dream will impact her search for information about Squid Days. Cyril won’t be able to help her if he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. At breakfast, she tells Madison she wants a ride out to the marine lab by Natural Bridges. She says she can be ready to go right away if Madison is worried about being late for class.
“They have an exhibit at the museum I’m very interested in,” Dahlia says. She doesn’t want to be caught in her lie from the previous night, and also doesn’t want to worry Madison more than she already has. And so, she lies again.
As usual, Madison’s facial expression conveys disapproval.
“It’s about squid,” Dahlia says. She has found the best lies often require a little bit of truth.
“Just to look and see,” she adds. “There’s no harm in learning a little bit about them, I don’t think.”
Madison’s expression doesn’t change. “Okay,” she says. “I can take you if we leave RIGHT NOW. But I don’t want this to become a whole big thing.”
Dahlia promises it will not become a whole big thing, whatever that might mean.
At the marine lab, Madison helps Dahlia to the entrance and tells her she’ll be back at noon to pick her up. Dahlia waits until the car is out of sight before she goes inside, to the laboratory not the museum.
Once again, it’s the young woman with the black hair and piercings who greets her.
“Back again, eh?” she asks, her voice high and cheerful.
“Yes. I don’t mean to be a bother, but I’d like to speak with Cyril.”
“No bother at all. I’m just waiting for my data to aggregate anyway,” she gestures to a computer behind her where numbers seem to spill down the screen in no particular order. “It’s pretty boring right now, but in a few more hours I’ll be up to my eyeballs in annual spawning trends. Cyril just went out to smoke. I’m sure he’ll be back in a sec.”
Then, as if on cue, the side door to the lab swings open, banging against the interior wall.
“Cyril, jeez, that’s so loud,” the girl says.
“Sorry,” he mutters.
Cyril gives Dahlia the exact same look as when he first saw her the day before. Clear-eyed and grim-faced. No smile. It’s a strange way to be looked at, to be sure. Dahlia worries he is somehow irritated with her, angry even. She is about to apologize, but he speaks first.
“I’m sorry. I don’t have any information for you yet. I haven’t had time.”
Very business-like. Dahlia respects this. She suspects this is meant to be the end of the brief conversation, but she persists. She assures him that’s fine. In fact, she has new information that might spare him some misguided research. Then she waits. Finally, Cyril shrugs.
“Okay. Come over here and we can talk.” He points to the lab table where Dahlia found him yesterday. She follows him across the room, the tinny sound of her chair’s electric motor seems extra loud in such a big space. And then when she stops, it’s as if there’s no sound in the room at all.
Cyril glances back toward the young woman with the piercings like he doesn’t want their conversation to be overheard. He’s not irritated, Dahlia realizes. He’s embarrassed. But who is he embarrassed for? Himself or Dahlia? She can’t tell.
“I did ask my advisor and another professor if they’d ever heard of anything like what you described. They said they hadn’t. They said it really doesn’t seem like something that could have happened, knowing what we do about squid behavior in the bay.” He looks down at her over the bridge of his glasses while he says this, like he’s a doctor offering her a diagnosis. “They suggested... maybe you weren’t remembering it correctly.”
Dahlia nods. She knows what he really means by this—that the whole story is so odd, it couldn’t have happened. It is only the failings of an old, decrepit mind. But Squid Days did happen. Dahlia is sure of it, even though the dream-memory has changed. She refuses to acknowledge any other possibility.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted to tell you,” Dahlia says, plunging forward. “I wasn’t remembering it correctly. I said that men came to the beach to toss squid back into the bay for Squid Days, but now I’m certain it was the other way around. Men went out on boats to fish for the squid and then when they caught them, they tossed them onto the beach. It was really a tremendous amount of squid.”
“Yeah. My advisor suggested maybe it happened somewhere else. Is that possible?”
Dahlia says it is not. She’s lived in Santa Cruz her whole life.
“Me, too,” Cyril says. The first piece of personal information he’s volunteered, Dahlia notes.
“Is that why you chose to study squid?” Dahlia thinks again about Cyril’s resemblance to Mr. Stills. Perhaps his legacy runs through this young man in some way.
“I’ve just always been fascinated by all marine life,” he says.
“Because you grew up by the bay?”
“Yeah. Because I grew up by the bay and I thought about the whole world of plants and animals that live there but that we don’t even see most of the time. I like getting to see them now.” He looks down at his hands when he says this, like he’s, again, a little embarrassed. There’s a hint of self-consciousness in him Dahlia had not seen during their first meeting. She decides it’s a likable quality.
“How did you get here, anyway?” Cyril asks, as if he’s only just realized the inconvenience of the marine lab’s location for someone like Dahlia.
“My grandniece drives me wherever I need to go. Although yesterday I took the bus. She’ll be back at noon to get me.”
“In the future, maybe you could just call. Save yourself the trip.”
Dahlia accepts this rebuke. The marine lab is not her private research facility. Cyril is busy and doesn’t need to be interrupted by Dahlia everyday.
“Yes, of course. I’ll do that.” She’s turns her chair to leave, but Cyril stops her.
“Well, hey, you don’t have to run off right away,” he says.
Cyril tells her it’s okay with him if she wants to stay in the lab until Madison comes back. She thanks him. She asks if there’s a computer she can use while she waits. He sets her up at a desk next to his and shows her how to access the university library’s online databases, which he tells her will let her search through scholarly works, not just what’s on the Web, and again she is grateful for his knowledge and his help.
She spends the rest of her time in the lab looking for information about Mr. Stills. She and Cyril don’t speak much, except once when he asks if she’d like a cup of coffee and she declines, but she likes working next to him. His posture and focus are so studious. It makes her feel like her own research is, by extension, equally as important.
Dahlia learns there are three Stills families in the Santa Cruz area, but finds nothing about their involvement in any squid-related activities. She does come across an article in a journal devoted to nineteenth century oral history that tells a story of a man named Josiah Stills who, shortly after the incorporation of Santa Cruz as a city in 1876, single-handedly laid nine miles of railroad tracks to connect Santa Cruz to the nearby seaside town of Capitola. Sadly, this Stills was never able to acquire a train to run on his tracks as neither city wanted to finance such a project.
The article provides the story as an example of folk legends from the region. Dahlia, however, prefers to believe it’s true. Certainly no one would attempt such a thing today, but she likes to think there was once a time when an industrious man really could build his own rail line, bolstered only by brute strength and the blind optimism that if he set down the track, a train would be provided.
Dahlia knows her willingness to believe such a story puts her in the minority. Certainly many people, younger
people in particular, would dismiss it as a tall tale. She thinks again about how the kids of Madison’s generation lack a sense of history. She suspects this is, in part, why Madison was so alarmed by Dahlia’s account of Squid Days the night before. If you refuse to acknowledge that the place you live was once very different from how it is now, stories from the past will seem upsetting, and those who tell them will sound like kooks. Though who could blame Madison, or her peers, for harboring such biases? It’s considerably easier to say that an old person with a strange story has lost their mind, than to consider the possibility that the world has changed so much in just a few decades.
When Madison comes to pick her up, Dahlia is waiting outside in the shade of an oak tree. She feels compelled to account for her time. She tells Madison that the squid exhibit was very informative and she went through it twice.
“And they have a computer for anyone to use,” she says. “I did e-mail and read the news.”
Madison, however, does not seem to care.
In the car, Dahlia sinks into the gut-heavy music and the view passing outside the window of the car, allowing herself to be lulled into an almost meditative state. So it is doubly surprising to her when Madison asks, “What’s an ink pop?”
The question is so strange out of context, Dahlia almost laughs. She wonders how long Madison has been thinking of ink pops, trying to piece together an image. Her first instinct is to ask Madison what she thinks an ink pop is and then tell her she’s correct, whatever her answer is for no other reason than to be allowed a moment’s insight into the girl’s mind.
“They’re popsicles made of squid ink.”
“Gross,” Madison says. “Do they taste like fish?”
“No. They taste fruity—sort of like raspberries.”
Madison doesn’t respond to this.
“They are black like ink though,” Dahlia continues. “Little kids get the juice all over themselves. It looks like everyone’s been eating Bic pens.”
“Gross,” Madison says again. But this time she smiles as she says it. Dahlia wonders if she’s misjudged Madison. Maybe she is willing to believe in Squid Days, just a little, after all. Dahlia decides not to press the issue. It’s always such a balancing act, to win Madison’s favor.
This conversation gives Dahlia another idea. When they get home, she waits until Madison is tucked away in her room with the door closed and then goes to the kitchen phone. She looks in the phone book for the number of an ice cream parlor located near downtown, one of the few places still in business from when she was a child. She wonders if they may have been the original makers of the ink pops, and if so, might they be able to validate the existence of Squid Days in some way. She calls and when a young-ish sounding woman answers, Dahlia asks to speak with the person in the shop who has worked there the longest.
“That’s Reed,” the woman says, then there’s a pause and a man’s voice on the line asking what he can do for Dahlia. This man sounds hardly older than the teenager who first answered the phone. Sometimes it seems to Dahlia everyone in the whole city is under the age of twenty-five. It’s no wonder no one remembers Squid Days, she thinks.
She asks if he knows if the shop ever made squid ink popsicles.
Reed laughs. “We’ve made ice cream out of some pretty weird things, but I’ve never heard of that,” he says.
Dahlia thanks him anyway and wishes him a nice day.
“You, too,” he says. Then he adds, “There’s a stall at the farmer’s market that sells squid ink pasta. But that’s really all I know of.”
Dahlia can’t decide if she finds this information useful or not.
Almost as soon as she hangs up the phone, it rings. It happens so quickly, Dahlia wonders if it has something to do with the call she has just made; perhaps Reed, remembering some other detail about ink pops and calling her back to say so. But when she answers the phone, it’s only Joanie.
Dahlia hears concern in her sister-in-law’s voice. “Is Maddy there?” Joanie asks.
Dahlia says yes, and offers to go get her, but Joanie says, “No, no. It’s all right. I just wanted to make sure she was there.”
Dahlia is reminded of how seriously Joanie took her role as Dahlia’s caretaker, back before she got sick and Madison inherited the responsibility in her place. Joanie had spent most afternoons at Dahlia’s house. While she was there, Joanie assumed all tasks, even small ones Dahlia could easily do herself, like checking the mailbox or answering the phone. This is one thing Dahlia appreciates about Madison—the younger woman allows Dahlia her independence as much as possible. If nothing else, Madison is never in the way.
“Well, I was just calling to check in,” Joanie says, “to make sure everything is okay. Is everything okay?”
Dahlia tells her, yes, everything is okay. Why wouldn’t it be?
“To be honest, Isaac asked me to call,” Joanie says. “He said he got some weird e-mails from you.”
This stings. That Isaac would call Joanie—a woman who isn’t even related to him (Joanie and Madison are Terry’s kin), who he’s only met in person a handful of times—to check in on her rather than simply calling Dahlia himself. Typical Isaac, anything to avoid having a real conversation with his own flesh and blood. Dahlia remembers her observation from her first e-mail of the week—were we really so different? And of course the answer is yes.
“Joanie,” Dahlia says, “perhaps you can help me here. Do you remember ever going to any festivals at Cowell Beach when you were young?”
“We went to watch the surf contests sometimes,” Joanie says. “And I remember once there was something with fireworks. For New Year’s, or Fourth of July.”
“What about a festival involving squid in some way?”
Joanie laughs, but her laughter has a nervous edge. And when she speaks, there’s real concern in her voice. “Squid? What do you mean? Is this what you were talking to Isaac about?”
Dahlia knows she’s made her sister-in-law uncomfortable, and instantly regrets it.
“Oh, well, yes, but only as a joke. I was teasing Isaac about a bit of family lore. I thought maybe I could get you in on it, as well,” Dahlia says, in hopes of assuaging Joanie’s fears. “But perhaps I went too far. I didn’t mean to worry him. It was just a little conflict among siblings. You remember how that goes, right, Joanie?”
Now Joanie laughs again, but this time it sounds genuine. “Oh sure. I used to contradict Terry just for the sake of contradicting him. It’s tough being the youngest. There was a time I would have argued the world was flat if I thought it would get his attention.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Sometimes I still catch myself thinking ‘Oohhhh, that will really piss off Terry when I tell him.’ You wouldn’t think so anymore, after so long. But old habits die hard, as they say.”
Dahlia suspects she may never stop thinking of things to say to Terry and then abruptly remembering she no longer can. She and Joanie have never had a lot in common, but they did both love Terry very much and so now they’ve got their shared grief. It’s a strange, sad bond the two women share, but it’s one Dahlia is grateful for. If not Joanie, who else would there be?
“Yes, I know,” Dahlia says.
Joanie asks how Madison is doing. Again, there is worry in her voice. Dahlia wishes she could say Madison is thriving here in her house, coming out of her shell, finding joy in the world around her. But this is simply not the case.
“She seems to be taking school very seriously,” Dahlia says, grasping for something good to share. “She’s really quite dedicated to her studies. In fact, she’s in her room doing homework right now.”
Joanie says she’s glad to hear this and talks for a bit about how she was herself quite the bookworm in her day and would have gone to college had she not been sidetracked by her early and exhausting marriage, the birth of Madison’s mother when Joanie was far too young to be a good parent, divorce, and, finally, raising a grandchild by herself when her daughter abandone
d the infant Madison in Joanie’s care.
“Maybe Maddy will be a professor, or some kind of scientist,” Joanie says.
Dahlia thinks of Cyril’s colleague at the marine lab, the girl so similar to Madison in appearance, but softer in her demeanor. Maybe if Madison had something she could be passionate about, something or someone to truly care about, she could soften in this way, too.
“I think that would be lovely, yes,” Dahlia agrees.
Before she hangs up, she tries once more to mine Joanie for Squid Days information, asking if her family was ever acquainted with a man by the name of Stills. It’s risky to ask another weird question out of context, Dahlia knows, but Joanie does not seem thrown this time. She says no, the name is unfamiliar, but Dahlia can tell her mind is not really on the issue at hand—it’s still with her granddaughter, a person who causes Joanie even greater concern than Dahlia does. She wants so much more for the girl, Dahlia knows.
After dinner that night, Dahlia asks Madison to come for a walk with her.
“Where?” Madison wants to know, her voice full of suspicion.
“Not far. Just down to the beach. I want to look at the water.”
They travel the two blocks to the beach without speaking. The evening is surprisingly quiet; the only sound is the hum of Dahlia’s chair. Madison walks slowly beside her, her arms crossed, head down.
When they reach the sand, Dahlia stops. The beach slopes out in front of them several hundred yards. To the west, the big wooden roller coaster—built before Dahlia was born and rimmed with what look like oversized Christmas lights—blinks, giving off a pulsing yellow glow.
“Pleasant out,” Dahlia says.
Madison points down the road. “If we go a little further this way you can watch the sunset,” she says.
“No,” Dahlia says. “I like it here.”
But Dahlia doesn’t look at the water. Instead, she studies her grandniece. Madison keeps her head down and either doesn’t notice Dahlia staring at her, or doesn’t care. A strap has come loose from the small bag attached to the back of Dahlia’s chair and Madison reaches out, seemingly instinctively, and secures it back into place, then jams both hands into her pockets. Before Madison moved in with her, Dahlia did not know it was possible for a person to be both unflaggingly dutiful and resentful at the same time.