The Back of the Turtle (33 page)

CRISP EASED HIMSELF INTO THE POOL AND HELD HIS BREATH.
Nothing like heat for tired muscles, he reminded himself, but, blistering bunnies, the hot did rip your breath away.

He had enjoyed himself. The food. The company. He and the two families swapping stories and neither side crying hold.

Glorious.

He had noticed Gabriel slip out and then Mara after him. Neither had been in sight when he climbed into his truck, and he imagined that they had gone off to sort the misdemeanours from the felonies.

Crisp was curious just how Gabriel was going to explain himself, curious as to how Mara would react. She was a smart girl. She’d see the complications, resist the easy reactions and the simple answers.

Or she wouldn’t.

Still, the man had a great deal to justify, for recklessness and pride were difficult treasons to defend.

Crisp waded to the edge of the pool and hoisted himself out of the water with just his arms. He stood naked, glistening in the starlight, his head turned to the side to catch any sounds that were blown his way. He could hear the ocean, could hear the
tidal cycle organizing itself for the morning ahead, and, beneath that, the faint crackling sound, as though eggshells were being crushed underfoot.

Strange.

The night was clear. Crisp climbed to the top of the rock. From here, he could see all the way to the beach, and, in that moment, he found the fire flickering in the dark, a guttering candle set at land’s end.

“So, the boy’s done it. The beacon lit.” Crisp slowly stretched out his arms, arched his back, and cried out to the stars. “Is not my word like fire?”

And now on the freshening wind, he could taste the smoke. It had been a long time since he had savoured such a smell or taken pleasure in such a sight.

A blazing tower. At last. A blazing tower.

But the evening was not his to enjoy. Crisp got dressed quickly. There was much to do. Cheese, meat, fish, fruits, vegetables, bread. Beverages for everyone. And something sweet for the coming celebration.

He was almost to his trailer when he heard it. A distant screech that ran across the waves like a knife on steel. At first, he thought it might be the scrape of a raven come back to the bay after all this time, but the sound was too hard, too sharp for a bird.

Crisp waited for it to come a second time, but all he found in the darkness was the sound of his own breathing.

THERE ARE THREE REASONS WHY SONNY DOES NOT SLEEP
through the night.

One. On account of the sharp scraping noise that sounds like the time a long-haul trucker rubbed his trailer against the concrete abutment in the motel parking lot.

Two. On account of the chilly night air that forces Sonny to huddle against the door to Dad’s room for warmth.

Three. On account of the snoring.

Sonny is not really sure about the scraping noise. When he wakes up the first time, the sound is only a memory. Still he did hear something. The cold is more of a problem, but then he is warm and cozy as though someone has covered him with a quilt.

It is the snoring that is the problem.

Be quiet, Sonny tells the quilt. Sonny is trying to sleep.

But the quilt continues to wheeze and snuffle and snort, and finally Sonny rolls over to discover that he is sleeping next to the dog.

The dog from the beach.

Sonny isn’t sure if sleeping with a dog is a good idea, but Sonny likes the warmth, so he tries putting his hands over his ears. He tries humming the turtle-bone song in his head. He
tries patting the dog gently to calm him down, in case the snoring is the result of bad dreams.

Nice doggy. Good doggy. Quiet doggy.

Sonny has almost fallen asleep again, when the dog wakes with a great snort and scrambles to his feet.

Good morning, doggy.

And then Sonny feels the dog’s soft, warm tongue on his face. He has watched television shows about animal babies and animal mothers, where there is a great deal of licking, and Sonny wonders if the dog thinks he is a puppy.

That would be okay. Sonny, the puppy. Someone’s baby.

Nice doggy.

And then the dog stops licking and starts growling. At first Sonny thinks that the dog is angry. Maybe he wanted to sleep longer, but now that Sonny is sitting up, he can see that the dog is not growling at him. The dog is growling at the door.

The door to Dad’s room.

Not so loud, doggy, Sonny tells the dog. You’ll wake Dad.

But the dog doesn’t listen. He growls louder and then begins to bark and scratch at the door.

Quiet, doggy, says Sonny. Quiet.

Suddenly, the dog charges the door and hits it with his shoulder, and Sonny wonders if the dog knows something he doesn’t. Perhaps Dad is sick in bed and can’t get to the door. Perhaps Dad has fallen in the bath, because he doesn’t have the special tub that Sonny has seen on television.

Perhaps Dad is hurt.

Sonny knocks on the door.

Dad!

He knocks harder.

Dad, Dad, Dad!

The dog keeps jumping against the door, and now Sonny jumps with him.

Wham! They hit the door together.

Wham! They hit it again.

Hammer-hammer!

They crash into the door as hard as they can, and this time the frame splits and the door flies open.

Dad!

Sonny and the dog fall into the room.

Dad!

When Sonny gets to his feet, he is covered in cobwebs and dust. So is the dog. Both of them are covered in cobwebs and dust.

Dad.

Sonny can see that Dad is no longer here, that Dad has not been here in a very long time. Sonny sits on the bed, and a cloud of dust floats off the covers and hangs in the air. No wonder Sonny has been so lonely. No wonder Sonny has been so hungry.

Cobwebs and dust.

The dog comes over and licks Sonny’s hands. He lays his head on Sonny’s lap and sings gently. Then he takes Sonny’s shirt sleeve in his mouth and pulls on it.

No, doggy. Sonny does not want to play.

The dog pulls harder.

No, doggy. Sonny is sad.

But the dog does not stop, and it occurs to Sonny that the dog might be trying to tell him something. The dogs on television do
this all the time. Drag people out of the woods. Drag people to anxious relatives. Drag people to safety.

Drag people home.

This dog wants to drag Sonny out of Dad’s room.

Do you want to show Sonny something, doggy? Is that what you want to do?

The dog yanks and tugs on Sonny’s sleeve and pulls him out the door.

All right, doggy, Sonny tells the dog. Sonny will follow you. Maybe we can play together. Maybe we can find some food.

The dog releases Sonny’s sleeve and lopes on ahead. Sonny looks back at the open doorway for a moment, and then he follows his friend down the hill to the beach.

MARA LAY IN HER BED WITH HER EYES CLOSED. SHE WAS NOT
asleep, had not been asleep, was probably not going to get any sleep. She should have been happy and at peace. The stove, the refrigerator, the kitchen table, her grandmother’s cast iron stove. All returned. Mr. Crisp was an enigma, to be sure. What else had the man put into storage? What else had the man rescued?

But Mara wasn’t happy. The fury had been overwhelming, and it had not subsided. So that was why this Gabriel was trying to kill himself. He wasn’t unstable. He wasn’t depressed.

He was guilty.

GreenSweep? That’s what he had called it. As though it were a handy household cleaning product. Who does that? Who makes such a lethal concoction simply because they can? What had he been thinking? He had destroyed a community, devastated an ecosystem, and what had been his reason?

Science.

That’s what he said when she had asked.

Science.

Mara couldn’t think of a single intelligent question that had science as the answer.

Shit!

Shit, shit, shit!

So, she was awake, and she wasn’t going to get to sleep, and if she wasn’t going to sleep she wanted to talk. She wanted to talk with this Gabriel, wanted the hard facts, whole and complete, not just the self-indulgent fragments of remorse and shame.

She wanted the truth.

Well, not the truth. The truth was useless. She knew what had happened. She knew who was responsible. What more was there to know?

And what of this Gabriel? He hadn’t wanted forgiveness, wasn’t seeking absolution. He had wanted confirmation of his transgressions. He had sought out condemnation.

Well, it wasn’t going to be as easy as all that.

Shit.

Mara threw off the covers and stepped onto the cold floor. She stood there for a moment shivering, debating whether this was as good an idea as it had seemed when she had been warm in bed.

Probably not.

But she got dressed anyway. She grabbed the yellow slicker from the closet, laced up her boots, opened the door, and walked out into the night.

THE LOBBY OF THE HERMES WAS SMALL BUT ELEGANT. ART DECO
ironwork framed the doorways and the windows. The walls were patterned with dancing figures that reminded Dorian of the Etruscan frescoes he and Olivia had seen when they were in Rome. The floor was covered with a series of thick Persians, the air scented with the faint aroma of rose.

Yes, they could accommodate him.

Yes, the twenty-four-hour concierge service could provide him with a meal.

Yes, they understood the stresses that captains of industry had to endure.

“We have a junior suite available. Do we need parking?”

“No,” Dorian told the young man. “We don’t. My limo will pick me up in the morning.”

He had thought that the food would relax him, but after he finished his meal—an Algerian lamb shank with seared baby bok choy and couscous, along with a glass of the house red—he was still awake.

The room was spacious, and he tried walking from one end to the other, weaving his way in and out of the bathroom, with its separate shower and tub and an alcove with a door for the toilet.
He turned on the television in the hopes of finding a movie, but there was nothing on the networks, and he had seen everything on the pay-per-view channels.

In the end, he got dressed and took the elevator down to the lobby.

“Is everything all right?”

“Everything is fine,” Dorian told the young man at the desk. “I’m just restless. I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“It’s a lovely night for a walk,” said the young man. “Should I call you a cab?”

“That wouldn’t be much of a walk now, would it.”

“Of course,” said the young man. “Do you require a map of the area?”

“I live here,” said Dorian, his voice warm and generous. “This is my city.”

IT
was four-thirty when Dorian stepped out onto the street. He had already decided on a route. East on Cumberland to Bay, south on Bay to Bloor, and west on Bloor to Avenue Road.

Bloor was the quandary.

If he walked on the north side of the street, he’d pass Harry Rosen, Williams-Sonoma, Burberry, and Louis Vuitton. If he crossed with the light to the south side, he’d be able to look in on the merchandise at Cartier, Royal de Versailles, Coach, and Prada.

North or south. In the end, he might have to flip a coin.

The walk did not start well. In the dark, the shops along Cumberland seemed somewhat mingy and reduced, a little too
common, a little too tawdry. Travel, eyewear, sushi, hair and skin care, lingerie, gelato, luggage, cosmetics, a parking garage, all anchored by a statue of an overweight businessman in hat and overcoat.

The bronze man had his mouth open, one hand raised in a startled expression as though he had just received word of an unexpected downturn in the market.

Dorian strolled past the small park with its ornamental grasses and wooden walkways. There were tables and chairs set in a pebble clearing, trees growing inside concrete doughnuts, a water wall, and an enormous granite boulder that had been brought south in pieces and reassembled next to the TTC station.

Without the sounds of the business day, without the annoying wrangle of traffic and the garbling jangle of shoppers, the street was a dead thing.

So this was Toronto, when no one was looking.

DORIAN
should have checked himself in to the hospital. The problem wasn’t going to go away. The nausea and the pain were more frequent now, the flights of fancy more pronounced. He should have sat down with Toshi, should have listened as a stranger told him that his life was coming to an end.

How did you tell someone that? How did you start?

Six months, eight months, a year? Did you get to spin a wheel?

Dead man walking in a dead town. The difference was the city would come back to life, would rise out of the grave each day and open at nine.

Saturdays and Sundays, ten to five.

Of course, there would be options. There were always options. Toshi would have brochures that outlined the available choices. An operation. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Diet and alternative herbal therapies. A new, cutting-edge risk-reward protocol.

A limited engagement at a hospice.

Or nothing.

There was always nothing.

Dorian stayed on the north side of Bloor. Here, the stores were better lit. Harry Rosen had the spring collection on display.

Teal. The colour for this season appeared to be teal.

There was life on Bloor. Cars were moving, their lights glittering off the glass of the store windows. Dorian could feel his body relax as it soaked up the shifting colours and the liquid reflections.

He was enjoying the moment and didn’t see the woman huddled in the doorway, wrapped in a sleeping bag.

“You got a cigarette?”

“Sorry,” said Dorian. “I don’t smoke.”

“Twenty dollars.”

“Pardon?”

The woman unzipped the sleeping bag and stood up. She was taller than Dorian would have expected and older, with a tangle of black hair and blue eyes that were crisp and startling.

“I’ll read your fortune,” she said. “Twenty dollars.”

Dorian smiled. “You read fortunes?”

The woman stepped in against him. “Did you know that a fortune may be read on a face and a fate found in a query?”

Dorian could feel the heat bristle off her body, could taste her breath on his face. The whole affair was somewhat disconcerting, but oddly enough, Dorian found that he was enjoying himself.

“Twenty dollars.”

“All right,” he said. “Twenty dollars.”

“You get one question.”

“One?”

“You’re already rich, so you don’t need to ask about that. Your wife doesn’t love you anymore, but you know that already. Don’t waste my time with the stock market.”

Dorian took the money clip out of his pocket, removed a twenty-dollar bill, and handed it to the woman.

“Shouldn’t I get three questions?”

“There’s only one question worth asking.”

Dorian felt an unexpected chill snatch at his body.

“Go ahead,” said the woman, her voice soft and low. “Ask.”

Across the street, Dorian could see Tiffany’s rose-speckled stone facade and its alcoved entrance. From a distance, the two windows on either side of the doorway looked like gun ports guarding access to a fortress.

“Why don’t you just keep the twenty.”

The woman reached out and touched his face. “Ask the question.”

“There’s nothing I need to know.”

The woman was smiling now. Her eyes flashed in the night, and her lips curled away from thick, yellowing teeth.

“Ignorance will cost you another forty.”

Dorian looked at the money in his hands.

“Deal,” he said.

The woman picked up her sleeping bag and stepped out into the lights of the city. She looked older now, and her hair wasn’t black, as Dorian had thought. It was dark red, more the colour of old blood.

“I am well,” she said, as she took the twenties, “if you are well, too.”

Dorian watched her walk away, the sleeping bag bundled in her arms.

Will I be remembered?

That’s what he should have asked her. Dorian considered running after the woman. For sixty dollars, she could surely answer that question. But now he was cold from standing in one spot, depressed by what he already knew.

Will I be remembered?

He continued west, walking past Williams-Sonoma and the rest of the shopfronts, hoping to recapture his good cheer and optimism. At his back, the sky was beginning to lighten, and for a moment, he was tempted to turn around and walk into the rising sun.

Instead, he made his way to the Hermes, where the hotel staff knew who he was and were waiting to welcome him home.