by Leyna Krow
“Madison, what would make you happy?” Dahlia asks.
“I’d like to go back and finish my homework. I have a big assignment due at the end of the week.”
Typical Madison, Dahlia thinks. Refusing to consider any question beyond its most immediate, superficial meaning. Such a peculiar and passive kind of obstinance.
“I mean in general. You seem unhappy so much of the time.”
“I’m not unhappy.”
“But you’re not happy.”
“Well, nobody’s really happy.”
“That’s not true.”
“Name one person who’s happy.”
“I come in contact with people all the time who seem happy.”
“People who seem happy. They’re just pretending because that’s how they think they’re supposed to be. There’s a lot of societal pressure to act happy even if you’re not, you know.”
“Is it boys?” Dahlia asks. “Are you having trouble with boys, I mean?”
“Jesus, no, Dahlia. It’s not boys.”
“Because you’re really very pretty when you let yourself be. Any boy would be lucky to have you.”
“Jesus,” Madison mutters again.
“In fact, I recently met a very nice young man you might like. He studies marine biology at the university. Maybe I could introduce you.”
“No,” she says.
Dahlia scrapes some sand that has collected on the edge of her chair into her hands. She rubs her palms back and forth to feel the scratch of it. This isn’t really the conversation she hoped to have with Madison.
“You know,” Dahlia says, “for a long time I was very unhappy because I was lonely. I worried no one could ever fall in love with me because who would want to be with a woman in my condition? My life would always be a small, sad thing, I thought. But then I met Terry and he made me feel like I was so dumb to even think I was unlovable. All that loneliness just rushed away. And after that, I only wished I had been more patient and not spent so much time being sad. It’s a hard thing, not knowing what comes next. But I think you have to trust it will be something good.”
And when Madison doesn’t respond to this, Dahlia adds, “That’s all I wanted to say,” and means it.
“Are you lonely again now that Terry’s gone?” Madison asks.
The childishness of this question surprises Dahlia. As if her grandniece, in spite of her own parent-less upbringing, and her moping and angst and sad music, has never considered the implications of loss for people other than herself.
“In a way I did not think possible,” Dahlia says.
She rubs her hands back and forth until she’s certain the granules of sand have wedged themselves into her fingers for good and will stay with her forever. She remembers evenings on this beach with Terry. On warm nights, they would come down here together after dinner with a blanket and sometimes a bottle of wine. They’d leave Dahlia’s chair on the sidewalk and Terry would carry her, gently, across the sand. Even in her prime, Dahlia never weighed more than 110 pounds and it seemed to her that big, strong Terry could have carried her like this all the way to Mexico if he’d wished. They’d pick a spot to sit and chat and watch the sunset and though it was nothing glamorous or special, just a pleasant routine, they would luxuriate in the simple joy of being with each other. This memory is certain and fixed in Dahlia’s mind. She doesn’t need history books or news clippings or marine biology students to prove to her it is true.
Dahlia’s dream is also a memory. Same as before, there is the sand, the sun, the laughing, teasing children. Same as before, Mr. Stills reaching for her, carrying her, as if she weighs nothing, down to the water so she can see better. The feeling of being so safe bound up in his arms, like wherever he wanted to take her that would be all right.
But this time, there are no men at all. This time, there are only the squid. Out in the bay, they leap in and out of the water. They are flying. They are dancing. Their movement seems both deliberate and purposeless at the same time. Back on the beach there are no magicians, no vendors. The other children, who are far fewer in number, limit their play to the top of the beach near the boardwalk. They do not want to get too close. There is something unnerving in the way the squid move, yanking themselves free of the water only to crash back into it seconds later, and Dahlia thinks the other kids are right to be wary. But when Mr. Stills turns like he’s going to walk away from the shore to return Dahlia to where he found her, she says “no.” She wants to stay longer.
Unlike the previous two dream-memories, Dahlia finds no joy in this one. Instead, she wakes with a sense of melancholy she cannot shake. It’s not that she didn’t enjoy the dream. But rather that its end is unbearable. There is no Mr. Stills anymore. There’s no more Mother and Father. There’s barely even Isaac. And if there still had been Terry, none of these other absences would be so consuming, but of course, Terry is gone, too. Dahlia feels overwhelmed by her losses, weighed down by them, and cannot get out of bed.
Outside her door, she hears Madison stomping around the house, doors opening and closing, quiet punctuated by bursts of activity. It’s Saturday, the day Madison runs errands for Dahlia and also for Joanie. Dahlia knows she should catch Madison while she can and write up a grocery list for her. Otherwise Madison, left to her own devices, will bring home only cold cereal and microwave foods. But she lacks the energy.
She keeps her eyes closed and pictures the squid jumping from the bay. Why did they do that, Dahlia wonders. And if there was no real festival, then was there also no Isaac eating ink pops, no mother sitting nearby on the beach blanket? No boasting, taunting hoards of children? Perhaps, truly, they were never there at all. Perhaps it was always just Dahlia and Mr. Stills at Squid Days. There is something freeing in this thought—that Squid Days was not a shared experience, but rather something privately hers. It is possible she is the only person in Santa Cruz who knows about it because she was the only one who was there. Just her and Mr. Stills, who would certainly have long since passed away.
It’s early afternoon by the time Dahlia leaves her bedroom. She finds Madison in the den on her knees, her head and torso underneath Dahlia’s ancient writing desk. On top of the desk is a cream-colored computer monitor. A keyboard, mouse, and tangle of wires lie on the ground near Madison’s feet.
“What’s all this?” Dahlia asks.
“It’s so you don’t have to go all over town just to check your e-mail,” Madison says.
“You bought this for me?”
“Used. It’s nothing fancy, but it will do Internet stuff and word processing. I figured that’s all you need, right?” Madison has extracted herself from beneath the desk. She is looking at Dahlia like she’s waiting to be told she’s done good. Dahlia can’t remember the last time she saw Madison this way—a little girl, eager to please.
Dahlia smiles at her. “It’s lovely,” she says. “Thank you. Really.”
Madison blushes, then quickly turns back to whatever she was doing with the wires.
“Well, like I said, it’s stupid to have to go to the library or whatever for something you can do at home.”
Dahlia’s first e-mail sent from her new computer is to Cyril. She is embarrassed, having to write him again to correct her account of Squid Days. She worries he really will begin to think her demented, if he doesn’t already. But she also figures Cyril can’t find information about Squid Days if he doesn’t know what he’s looking for. It is important to be as accurate as possible.
Dear Cyril,
It appears I might once again have been wrong about the annual Squid Days event. There may have been no fishing of the squid after all. And, perhaps, no carnival to accompany the occasion. It now seems that the most likely scenario involves squid (still in large quantities) jumping in and out of the bay by their own volition. For what purpose, I do not know. This occurrence may have gathered a small, loyal group of viewers, myself and Mr. Stills included, but it is unlikely that it was a city-sponsored event as I origina
lly thought.
Apologetically,
Dahlia Fitzsimmons
Cyril responds, thanking Dahlia for the update. He says he has something he’d like to show her. He wants to know if she has a TV and a DVD player and, if so, can he come over?
This request comes as a surprise to Dahlia, both the enthusiasm, and the forwardness of it. She and Cyril do not know each other well. But then, maybe this is another manifestation of Cyril’s Stillsness—a cavalier streak in the form of a marine biology house call. And so Dahlia replies that, yes, she does have a TV and DVD player. She gives her address and nearest major cross streets.
Cyril arrives an hour later. Dahlia answers the door when the bell rings and is surprised to see how different Cyril appears outside of the laboratory. He wears no lab coat, just a faded plaid shirt, jeans, and sandals. His hair and beard look unkempt and his face, instead of cool detachment, betrays a kind of nervousness.
“I wasn’t certain I had the right house,” he says in a breathy way, as if he’d jogged there.
Dahlia watches Cyril’s face as he peers past her inside. Something has caught his attention and is adding to his nervousness. She looks back and sees Madison standing beside the door to her bedroom, watching, her arms crossed. Dahlia ushers Cyril inside.
“Madison, this is my friend from the marine lab who I was telling you about.”
Cyril nods as if eager to validate this story. He holds up a white DVD case in his left hand.
“I’ve got a video to show your aunt,” he says.
Madison stays put and says nothing. Dahlia can’t decide if the girl is being deliberately rude, or is simply unsure of how to act appropriately around men.
“You can watch it with us if you want,” Cyril adds. “It’s not very long.”
Madison shakes her head, and when she walks past Dahlia and Cyril into the kitchen and out of sight, Cyril seems visibly relieved. Dahlia wonders if maybe Cyril isn’t sure how to act around women either.
“So, uh?” Cyril holds up the DVD case.
Dahlia points him to the small TV in the corner of the living room. He turns it on, puts the disc in, and sits down on the side of the couch closest to where Dahlia has parked her chair.
“Now, what I’m wondering is,” Cyril says, “did it look like this?”
He presses play on the remote and there, before Dahlia’s eyes, are the squid. They leap and dive, frantic, some almost slamming into others midair. It is a strange and violent scene, hundreds of squid, tentacles pinched, eyes open, silvery bodies shuddering. The video ends after just ninety seconds. There is no sound and no credits. And yet, the action is just how Dahlia remembers it, only these squid are different—they are smaller, more angular, and darker in color.
It’s odd to see, this vision from her mind projected on the television. Dahlia waits to feel the surge of emotion she associates with waking from her dream-memories. But it doesn’t come. She feels hardly anything, no more than she would watching any other video that had nothing at all to do with her personally.
“Yes,” Dahlia says to Cyril. “It was very much like that.”
She wants to know when the video was taken. Cyril says the film was made the previous year by students at a university in Poland. The leaping squid live in the Baltic Sea. Researchers don’t know why they jump like they do, but it happens every spring. There are no recorded instances of other squid doing the same thing elsewhere.
“But that doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened,” Cyril adds.
Dahlia asks to see the video again. She hopes maybe another viewing will spark something of that Squid Days magic within her. But its images seem just as remote the second time around. While it plays, Madison emerges from the kitchen with two glasses of what appear to be pomegranate juice. She hands one to Dahlia and sets the other in front of Cyril who half-coughs a thank you.
So at least Madison is making an effort to be a good hostess, Dahlia thinks. Although she’ll have to find a time to let her grandniece know that tea or coffee are the traditional beverages to offer guests, not whatever weird juice you happen to have around. She turns to suggest that a plate of cookies might also be nice, but Madison is already gone, having shuffled off to some other corner of the house.
The video has ended again, but Cyril is still looking straight ahead. He holds his juice glass in both hands, like a toddler. He seems to have sunken into the couch somewhat and it makes him look smaller, his arms and shoulders less prominent. His resemblance to Mr. Stills has all but drained out of him.
“You remind me a lot of my grandma,” he says, suddenly.
Dahlia nods, unsure how to respond. She is still thinking of the squid, of Madison, of the cookie plate.
“She used a wheelchair, too, from polio.”
Dahlia tells Cyril she did not have polio herself; that she was born without the use of her legs.
“Well, that’s not the only reason you remind me of her.”
He goes on to tell Dahlia how his grandmother was also interested in marine science, all science really, although only as an amateur pursuit. And how she’d encouraged Cyril as a boy in his own interests and was a good audience for all his childish theories and questions about the natural world, even helping him to run small experiments and collect creatures from tide pools to keep in an aquarium in his bedroom. And about how he would go over to her house every day after school to help her with little tasks she couldn’t do on her own. How he misses having someone like that in his life. She passed away his senior year of high school.
Dahlia does not think any of this sounds much like her in particular.
“You remind me a bit of my little brother, Isaac,” Dahlia says, not because it is true (hardly anyone ever reminds her of the inscrutable Isaac), but because the truth—I thought you reminded me of Mr. Stills, but I was mistaken—is too cruel, and unnecessary besides.
“Cool,” Cyril says. “That’s cool.”
He talks for a little longer, about squid mostly. He tells Dahlia about the research he’s doing for his dissertation and Dahlia thinks at first maybe he’s telling her this because it relates in some way to her memory of Squid Days, but she can find little connection and decides really he’s just talking to talk.
After a few more minutes, Cyril catches himself. His monologue ends abruptly and he stands to fetch his DVD from the player.
“Sorry,” he says. “That’s probably more information than you wanted.”
Dahlia assures him, no, it was all very intriguing and she was happy to hear it. Cyril smiles at this, a look of relief.
“Hey, I’m taking a boat out tomorrow to tag market squid for my research,” he says. “They’re the most common species in this region. If you want, you can come with me. That way you can at least see if they’re the same as the kind of squid you remember.”
It’s a nice offer. Again, more than Dahlia would have expected, given the nature of their relationship. Her gut instinct is to say no, thank you, that’s not necessary.
But then Dahlia thinks it’s maybe just what she needs—to be out on the bay, in the immediate presence of its creatures. Dahlia will see the squid in real life with her own eyes and it will fuse dream, memory, and present-day into one, and she will know for certain whatever there is about Squid Days to know.
She tells Cyril yes, she’d love to go out on the boat with him. He smiles again, says he’ll e-mail her with the details.
When Cyril has gone, Madison emerges once more from her bedroom.
“What’s that guy’s deal, anyway?”
Dahlia asks what she means, and wonders for a moment if Madison finds Cyril attractive, and might be, in fact, interested in Cyril.
“Because he seems like a total creeper,” Madison says. “You aren’t planning on spending any more time with him are you?”
Dahlia tells the truth and says she is.
Dahlia spends the rest of the day wondering about the dreams that are also memories. They are so much sharper than her other dream
s, so much more vivid. In them, she feels the heat of the sun-warmed sand against her body, the salt from a recently eaten fried squid snack lingering in the corners of her lips. And of course, the power of Mr. Stills’ arms when he carries her. All these details, as real as the days they happened. Is it possible these dreams are a sign of some change in her body or her brain? She’s worried for the past several days that other people will take the dreams as a sign she’s losing her mind. But what if they really do indicate some sort of approaching decline? A stroke? Dementia? Even death? Dahlia thinks an afterlife spent on Mr. Stills’ shoulders would not be so bad. Eternity as a long ride toward the water, the squid nearby, her friend holding her up.
But Dahlia dismissed these thoughts easily. She is in good health for her age. She feels fine.
She wonders, too, about the disconnect between the dream-memories and the video Cyril showed her. Granted, those weren’t really her squid; they weren’t even from the same continent. But they were doing the same thing, weren’t they? The leaping? And yet, it meant nothing to her beyond the intellectual recognition that, yes, she had seen something like it before. Unless she hadn’t, of course. Unless she’d only seen men throw squid from the bay onto the beach, or from the beach onto the bay. It occurs to her that just because the leaping dream came last, doesn’t necessarily mean it’s the most accurate. Or that any of the dreams were wholly and individually accurate. This makes Dahlia wonder if, even as a child, she ever really understood what Squid Days was about in the first place.
Truly, the only constant in all of the dreams is Mr. Stills. And Dahlia knows, of course, no matter where she looks, she’ll never find him. Mr. Stills, the man, is long gone.
So, the more she thinks about it, the less sure she is of what she hopes to gain from a boat ride with Cyril. In fact, she has lost the little enthusiasm she first had for the trip. She wonders if she’s been looking in the wrong places for Squid Days entirely. Perhaps that’s why she’s gained so little traction in her week of searching—why every piece of information she finds seems somehow amiss. She’s been looking out—to Isaac, to Cyril, to newspapers, Web sites, ice cream parlors, and now boat rides—when she should have been looking in. She should be solving the Squid Days puzzle within herself. Whatever that might mean. Whatever shape that search might take.