Magnificent Vibration (31 page)

I run outside to shut the McKia’s wimpy horn up as, unknown to us, sightseeing cruise boats and pleasure craft are leaving the Loch and heading for the safety of their respective berths. Today’s outings are cancelled until the water’s surface calms itself and any danger of rockslides is assessed. Local radio and TV stations announce the closure of the Loch, but we are aware of none of it.

L.V. is on his feet and helping Alice straighten lamps, sweep up broken china, and mop up spilled tea as I enter and happen to glance over at his sofa/bed. Sticking out in plain sight from under his pillow (?) is the very ugly, very dangerous-looking revolver that he has, in his street wisdom, seen fit to procure. The menacing thing looks like it was made in someone’s backyard shed. Even to my untrained eye it appears to be a semi-professional piece of gunsmithing; it is, I would imagine, what they call a “Saturday-night special.”

“He sleeps with it under his pillow?” I ask myself silently, rhetorically, and incredulously. Isn’t that just something they do in old gangster movies? Real people don’t actually put loaded weapons under their pillows, right? He could shoot his own ear off. Or one of
us in the next room. These interior walls look solid enough, but who knows?

I silently grab his attention as Alice continues to clean, and give him the old “head-jerk toward the sofa” gesture with the old “What the fuck?” look on my face until he notices the old “gun under the pillow” thing.

He grimaces and heads into the living room to make the old “conceal the dangerous fricking gun from the little woman” move.

I make a mental note to tell him to stash it somewhere else when I get the chance. I still can’t figure out how he managed to get his hands on a weapon in the first place. Pretty savvy in the old “ways of the street” is Lexington Vargas. But then, I bet he doesn’t know how to do the old “rent-the-Kia-with-the-over-the-limit-credit-card” thing, so I guess we’re a well-matched pair.

Loch Ness is now, and for the first time in a long while, completely free of all water traffic. Unaware of this, I’m looking forward to our trip on the legendary lake of my prepubescent fantasy.

Throughout the day, and without a word to one another about why we are even doing it, we take turns stepping outside and staring up at the heavy, gray sky. I think we’re looking for a sign—but a sign in the old biblical sense, which is crazy because this whole thing has hardly followed regulation biblical procedure. At least I don’t believe so, although I’ve never actually
read
the Bible. Maybe it’s time I did. I need to do
something
with these hours until we hit the mighty Loch, so I head on into the house and start rummaging around for a Bible. A home like this has to have a Bible.

In my search I open a cupboard and see a few framed pictures stacked on a shelf. A couple of them reveal an older woman with soft eyes and a good smile. There’s about a half dozen lovingly framed
photos of two dogs, who look like Toto’s brothers from another mother, as they both journey through their lives from puppyhood to old age.

A sad memory of Murray, who never got to grow old with me, surfaces. My lungs suddenly reach for oxygen as though the air has thinned, but I choose not to succumb and instead pick up a photo of an older couple. The woman is the kind face from the first shot, and with her is an old man in fishing gear, his features mostly obscured by a long billed cap, sunglasses, and a thick white beard. Someone from McGivney, McGivney, and McGivney must have shelved them prior to our arrival, thinking perhaps that photos of complete strangers all over the house might weird us out. It felt like there was something missing, and now I know what that something is. It’s a family house without family photos. I close the cupboard door and see a frame I’ve missed, lying facedown on the floor. It must have fallen in the earthquake. Another photograph of the deceased and beneficent couple. It’s a good shot of the two of them, and they both look content in a way I think I have never experienced. I like the shot, so I walk it out into the living room and set it on a side table. It feels like it belongs there.

I’m waiting anxiously for the afternoon to roll around, thoughts of my beloved monster, Nessie, running round and about my inner twelve-year-old. Back on the Bible hunt, I eventually locate one and begin reading it for the first time in my life. The verses I scan conjure up visions of an Old Testament God who is remote, harsh, unforgiving, and demanding. Sounds like my mother.

I flip to the New Testament, where I believe there is a kinder, gentler God, and I am trying to reconcile the teachings of Jesus with the very human and flippant attitude that “Arthur” displayed on the phone. I guess humor was not a big prerequisite in the minds of the Gospel writers, because whether I like it or not, Arthur does have a
rather incongruous and off-putting sense of humor. Jesus, in this biography called the New Testament, seems very loving and pure-natured (except for the bit where he throws a wobbly in the temple), and he exhorts us all to follow his example, so why did Arthur seem so, well, odd? And with all the talk of peace and love and treating thy neighbor as thyself, why does he/she create something as naturally brutal as the Australian hunting wasp, which lays its eggs on a spider’s abdomen so that when they are born, the little hatchlings can eat their way into their living host, causing considerable distress and, eventually, considerable death to the spider? I guess that’s filed under “Shit happens.” I don’t know. I never was good at
reconciling.

I think I should have done a bit more biblical research before we left on this trip, but then I realize that we have our resident expert, the lovely and beguiling Alice of the Good Book, who might be able to answer some questions for me, although, since the death of her friend Genevieve, she has seemed to be slightly spiritually adrift. And I think Arthur is done playing chess and that we are now officially on our own with this one, boys and girls, whatever
it
is.

“S
omething is coming,” says Merikh to the one he is guiding along the path less traveled. It is an unusual journey for both of them.

“What is it?” asks the other.

“I’m not sure,” Merikh answers.

“Will it be good or bad?”

“There is no good
or
bad. There is only both: good
and
bad together,” says Merikh.

“I see,” says the other, but Merikh doubts that.

“The ones who call themselves ‘zhongguo ren,’ and who the world know as the Chinese, have a symbol for ‘crisis’ that is actually
two
symbols: Danger and Opportunity, which is quite correct.”

“I’m not sure I follow you,” replies the other.

“It doesn’t matter,” says Merikh. He is done conversing and must now watch and wait for his moment.

A
lice and I leave the severely aquaphobic Lexington Vargas to his own devices and motor to the meeting place by the legendary Urquhart Castle. I am beyond excited, Alice not so much, but she seems happy to be out in the fresh, biting air. There really
is
a newly constructed oak jetty by the castle where the old guy said it would be, so I have high hopes that the rest of his spiel will be equally on the money. Yes, I’m referring to an actual encounter with the great beast of the Loch. Alice can’t even keep a straight face when I bring it up. But as we stand on the small wooden pier in the brisk breeze, I say to her that she believes in certain things I find fanciful, so why shouldn’t I believe in the possibility of a Loch Ness Monster?

“What exactly are you referring to?” she answers with mild amusement.

“Well,” I waffle, “There are some things in the Bible that stretch the credulity of the reader, if I may be blunt.” I could be skating on thin ice here, so I keep my tone light—even though I think I may have a pretty good argument.

“Are you actually comparing stories of this Loch Ness Monster to the Word of God?” she answers, accompanied by the very annoying “WTF” look.

“Er . . . possibly?” I try. “At least we have
photos!
”

“That’s like me saying I have proof of God’s existence because there’s a photograph of what looks like the face of Jesus on a burned taco shell,” she says, dive-bombing my “pretty good argument” and strafing the hell out of it. Alice laughs, and she sounds like a girl making fun of a boy at school who maybe she likes just a little.

This is the last time I will ever hear her laugh. I don’t know this, of course, but in retrospect I will wish I had known. I would have savored it and locked it safely within my memory for the rest of my life.

We are distracted from our debate by the sound of an approaching engine. The two of us turn to see a small fishing boat headed our way. At the helm is the old guy I met earlier this morning. Yes! My twelve-year-old claps his hands with glee, jumps up and down, and does a white-boy butt-dance of joy and excitement. The grown-up me says, “Okay, here’s our guy.”

“Well, well. Off we go, I guess,” replies Doubting Alice.

As we climb aboard the compact but apparently well-loved vessel, I introduce Alice to the old man, who announces that we should call him “Skipper.” It’s a good name and it suits him. He has an old salt’s lined, rough-hewn face that seems to echo the surrounding Highlands in its furrows, contours, and age.

“You look a lot like your grandmother, lass,” says the Skipper to Alice as we settle in.

“You knew my father’s mother?” she asks in surprise.

The Skipper smiles fondly as he turns the small craft out into deeper water.

“I did,” he answers. “Quite well.”

The boat jostles and bounces on the rough surface.

“You’re as bonnie and beautiful as she was in her youth,” he offers.

“What a sweet thing to say,” says Alice. Then she hesitates.

“Did you know my father at all? Devin Young?”

The water is calmer now that we are farther out into the Loch. I’m amazed at the serendipity of this meeting, but I’m also scanning the renowned lake for any signs of a mythical aquatic beast. Any ruffles on the surface that don’t resemble the natural wave patterns. I am walking on the moon, yessir. Me and Neil!

“I did know Devin,” answers the Skipper.

That seems to be the end of the conversation, as no one is picking up the ball. It appears that Alice doesn’t really want to know any more and the Skipper is reluctant to continue. I guess we had similar fathers in some ways, Alice and I.

“It’s pretty crazy that you knew Alice’s family,” I tell him.

“Inverness is a wee town, really. We’re all in and out of each other’s business fairly regularly,” acknowledges the Skipper with a chuckle.

I scan the horizon of the twenty-one-square-mile body of very famous water.

“Wow, it seems like we’re the only ones out here. How come? I don’t see anybody else driving a boat,” I say, sounding very un-nautical even to myself.

“I think perhaps you’re right, lad,” the Skipper answers, not really answering.

We chug on around the headlands in silence and I finally get to see for myself how impressive this glacially scoured ten-thousand-year-old lake really is, its size aided and abetted by the fault line it sits directly over. The old sailor seems to know where he’s headed and I am really, really happy about that. Although it hasn’t been officially stated since I was a boy, I do still believe there is a creature living here in these cold, deep waters, and I don’t mean a fish. I wobble to a standing
position and yell at the top of my lungs, “NESSIE!!!” It bounces and reverberates off the surrounding crags. My awestruck grin is like that of a child who’s hearing his own echo for the first time.

“I wouldn’t do that, son,” cautions the Skipper.

“Oh, okay, sorry.” I sit back down, chastised by the old mariner and smirked at by the young proselyte.

“We don’t want to frighten the old girl away,” he continues, and I think I catch a covert and conspiratorial wink to Alice.

Let them laugh. They laughed at Columbus, too. I man the gunwale and scan the waters, knowing full well that the odds of a chance meeting are slim to nonexistent, even if I
am
one of the faithful believers. There are people (Charlotte, my ex, called them “fucking nutjobs”) who have dedicated their whole lives to catching a glimpse of the acclaimed and elusive creature of the Loch and still come up empty-handed. But for me, just walking on the moon like this is joy and distraction enough from whatever has called us here. For whatever unknown purpose. I definitely needed the break. We cruise on past partially sunken logs, dead fish, and other detritus that could conceivably, through serious wishful thinking, be mistaken for a fabled leviathan. The journey is certainly taking its time, as the old vessel toots along at a mild meander. I am starting to wonder, “Where is this hotspot?” Suddenly I see a disturbance in the water that looks like no wave action I am familiar with. “No way,” I think to myself. “I just saw something,” I say out loud.

Everyone is alert, no matter his or her level of belief in the disrespected and highly maligned Loch denizen.

We crane our necks instinctively.

“Come on,” admonishes Alice. “Really?” and there is actual disbelief in her tone. Oh ye of little faith.

The sunless water has folded in on itself and back-filled over what
I thought I might have seen. The Skipper kills the engine. I take note of this. I’m pretty sure they only stop the prop so as not to scare away any local aquatic life, yes, no, maybe?

We are all standing as the boat jostles us slightly but not uncomfortably. With the motor silenced, the air is suddenly still.

“Of course you’re going to
think
you see a shape of some sort.” Is Alice trying to pop my balloon? I am staring at a point twenty yards away and to the right of the gently bobbing craft. I don’t blink. I hold my breath. I think maybe my heart has stopped. No, it’s thumping like a jackrabbit who’s being chased by a coyote. No one is moving. Time stands still for a kid from the San Fernando Valley as he bobs like a cork on the great Loch Ness here in the Scottish Highlands. All is quiet. All is still.