Free Octopus Alibi by Tom Corcoran

clean the showerhead so its spray would go to the pits and not the eyeballs. I made mental plans to scrub the floor slats and varnish the inside of the door, and find a new soap holder …
    But I couldn’t get my mind off Naomi Douglas, our ten-year friendship, the levels of our friendship.
    At times I had put her on a pedestal, viewed her as a grand angel who had come to bless the island. Other times we were equals, co-conspirators, planning how my photos or some new promo approach would best benefit the cause, the charity of the moment. She possessed a liveliness, depth, a unique air, a sharp sense of business. Her cantankerous moments were few, and taken for regality. She had showed few eccentricities, though one was her unwillingness to dwell in the past. She once told me that she loved the future as a concept, but worked to live each day for itself.
    Naomi always wore light cotton, never denim, and expensive walking shoes, not just sneaks. She had worn minimal, distinctive jewelry—two rings, a bracelet, a shirt pin, earrings with an artsy flair. Either her hair never grew, which I doubt, or she was careful to have it trimmed often to a length that spoke of comfort and elegance. I had come to count on the constancy of her appearance, her outlook, and her cheer.
    Eight or nine years ago Naomi gave me the swelled head. My housemate then, Annie Minnette, had always pointed out her favorite photographs, had told me which ones were “good,” and which images didn’t work well. Naomi had gone beyond one-word critiques, had told me that she liked where I had placed my horizon, or the picture’s offset balance, the play of tone, the war between colors. She had urged me to take myself more seriously, or at least express myself without an amateur’s cynical mask of uncertainty. Naomi claimed to see art in my workaday photos. I still recall the exact spot where I stood, in the San Carlos Theater lobby, when she said to me, “I need to ask two favors.”
    “I’ll say yes twice.”
    “Don’t be so hasty. I want to buy two of your photographs.”
    “The brochure’s got—”
    “The brochure’s at the printer,” she had said. “It’s behind us, and thank you. But I see something in your pictures that’s higher than illustrating a darned brochure. I want two prints”—she indicated the ones she liked—“matted and framed. And signed, of course. You name the price, and don’t think for a minute that I’ll accept them for free.”
    When she paid me for the two framed prints, she also gave me a book of Walker Evans’s photos from the 1930s. She ordered me to keep up my habit of taking pictures as often as possible, told me that I could become the next Walker Evans. Most of her flattery had bounced off, but her words had been pleasant to hear.
    Several years ago I had helped her construct a display kiosk for a charity function, and we had gotten sweaty and dusty in the yard behind her house. We’d stopped for a break, some bottled green tea. Something about the afternoon light, or the perspiration on her upper lip, or her different look with her hair tucked behind her ears …
    My gaze must have given me away.
    She’d said, “You look at me like that, I wonder about your thoughts. You know that I’m broad in the beam and light of sail. I’m not shaped like your girlfriend.”
    “I’ve always been a sucker for eyes and smiles.”
    She had laughed. “Then you better watch yourself, buster.”
    Nothing ever came of it. I suppose I didn’t want to change the nature of our friendship. She was honorable enough not to cause problems in my then-current relationship. Our social and business friendships had brought me pleasure. I had a girlfriend who made me happy.
    Yet I wished I’d spent more time with her. There must have been many days when I rode my bicycle across Grinnell, past her house, and hadn’t stopped. Perhaps I had pressing appointments, or didn’t want to socialize just then. There’d always be