The Back of the Turtle (19 page)

GABRIEL AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO FIND HIS ARM
hanging over a pillow. He tried lifting his hand.

Nothing.

He tried moving his fingers.

Nothing.

He dragged the arm free and waited for the pain to begin. Not pain exactly. More an ache, an excruciating pricking that bordered on arousal, without any of the pleasure. All he could do was bury his face in the bed and wait for the sensation to pass.

His last clear memory was of being pressed up against Mara, his hand on her breast. Now her side of the bed was empty. Most likely she had realized her mistake and slipped away in the night.

Just as well.

If she were still here, he would have had to come up with something to say, something to mark the moment. Something wise and gentle. Something that didn’t sound like the inside of a greeting card. It wouldn’t need to be profound or apologetic. They hadn’t had sex. They had simply slept together.

The blood had returned to his arm now. Gabriel flexed his hand and drew it to his mouth, tried to find her taste on his fingers.

THE
morning that they left Lethbridge for Minneapolis, Gabriel had helped his father pack the truck, while his sister stood on the sidewalk and watched.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“We’re all going,” he had told her. “As soon as Joe finds a place and we get settled, you and Mum are coming down.”

His sister had kept her eyes on the ground the whole time. “Mum doesn’t want to go,” she said, “and you’ll never come back.”

“It’s an RCMP exchange program, Little. Three years. Then we’ll all come home.”

Little had taken an envelope out of a pocket. “Here,” she said. “This is for you.”

Inside was a laminated picture of a turtle.

“Turtles carry their houses on their back,” his sister had said. “Everything they need, they carry with them.”

“Cool.”

“That’s what you are. A turtle.”

“I like it.”

Little had started to cry then, and she wrapped her arms around his waist. “I’m not a turtle.”

“No,” Gabriel had told her. “You’re my little sister, and we’ll all be together again in no time.”

THEN
again, maybe Mara had gone to the bathroom to pee or brush her teeth. His own mouth felt slippery and treacherous.
Gabriel rolled over and was debating what to do next, when he noticed an unfamiliar dresser and realized that he wasn’t in his trailer. Mara hadn’t gone home. She was home. He was the intruder.

Okay. That was embarrassing.

So, he was going to have to come up with something thoughtful after all, and he was never at his best first thing in the morning. If Mara wasn’t in the bathroom, maybe he could get there undetected.

He got as far as the doorway.

“Down the hall. First door on the right.”

“Bathroom?”

“Down the hall. First door on the right.”

He looked worse than he had imagined. His shirt was wrinkled, and his hair was pushed to one side, as if his head had been caught in an avalanche. He found the toothpaste and debated the social and hygienic implications of using someone else’s toothbrush, before settling on his finger. If he had had his razor with him, he might have shaved, but that wasn’t urgent.

Last night had been perplexing, the signals confusing at best. Mara had invited him to share her bed. She had been clear about not wanting sex. However, she had been open to being held. They had lain against each other. She had moved his hand to her breast. He had been aroused and might have considered something more intimate, if Mara had indicated a firm interest.

That hadn’t happened.

Gabriel stood by the sink and soaked his hair. He took in a deep breath, wondered whether last night’s adventure had left a residue
of sexuality behind, something that might suggest possibilities.

But if such a trace was in the air, he couldn’t find it.

GABRIEL’S
mother hadn’t come out of the house to see them off.

“Your mother’s not feeling well,” his father had told him. “Your sister’s going to stay with her.”

“Mum’s angry, isn’t she.”

“She has to wrap up some things here, and then they’ll join us in Minneapolis.”

“That’s not true.”

“Sure it is,” his father had said. “She just needs a little time.”

“But what if she doesn’t come.”

Joe had smiled. “You got a lot to learn about women.”

MARA
was in the living room at her easel. The painting had been little more than a sketch when they had gone to bed. Now, it was all but finished.

Gabriel checked his hair with his hand. “Good morning.”

“You want coffee?”

“Sure.”

“In the cupboard.” Mara stayed at the easel. “You want eggs?”

“Okay.”

“In the refrigerator.”

He had used a bit too much water on his hair, and now it was dribbling down the sides of his face. “Scrambled?”

“Sunny side up would be nice,” said Mara. “Potatoes are in the drawer.”

Gabriel had tried to come up with something intelligent and thoughtful to say. He had stood in front of the mirror and practised a series of banalities.

“Bacon,” said Mara. “Freezer. Extra crispy, please.”

Why did he feel responsible? Mara had invited him home. She had been the one who suggested that they share a bed. He had simply been … co-operative.

“Last night was nice.”

“There’s some onion in a glass container on the top shelf,” said Mara. “You like onion in potatoes?”

“I do.”

“Did you know you snore?”

“Really?” Gabriel found the grater in the drawer by the stove.

“Not bad. Rusty gate stuff.” Mara stepped away from the canvas. “So what are your plans for today?”

“My plans?”

“Tide isn’t low enough to get to the Apostles. I was wondering if you wanted to give me a hand.”

“Sure.”

He put oil in the pan and turned the burner to medium.

“I have to go up to the reserve, and I can’t carry everything by myself.”

“You don’t have a car?”

“I don’t have a car.” Mara took the canvas off the easel and set it against the wall with the others. “It’s nothing heavy. Just awkward.”

“Sure,” said Gabriel. “We could look for Soldier along the way.”

Mara angled her head. “You lost Soldier?”

“More like he lost himself.” Gabriel dumped the shredded
potatoes into the hot oil. They made a satisfying sizzle. “He ran off.”

Mara set a new canvas on the easel and loaded her knife with paint. “He’ll come home,” she said. “Unless someone else is feeding him.”

Gabriel worked the bacon under hot water, peeling off the strips in order.

Mara wiped her palette and set it on the easel. “Did you know that Crisp is Sonny’s uncle?”

“Nope.”

“Neither did I.”

“He’s a little strange.”

“Crisp or Sonny?”

Gabriel set the eggs on the counter. “Both, now that you mention it.”

“Are you going to cook the eggs in butter?”

“Is that a problem?”

“No,” said Mara. “I like butter.”

“Is there anything else you’d like?”

“Coffee,” said Mara, stretching her arms over her head and leaning to one side. “I’d like some coffee.”

HIS
father had eased the pickup away from the curb, and his sister had followed, keeping pace with the truck, calling out, trying to get their attention. Joe had kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes straight ahead.

“Don’t look.”

At the corner, Joe turned left and headed for the river valley and the east side of town. All the way down to the river and up
the other side, Gabriel had watched the road behind them in the side mirror, but the only reflection that he had been able to find was the bright sky arching over the dark land.

LAST
night had been perplexing. Mara didn’t know what had possessed her, inviting a virtual stranger into her home and then into her bed. They hadn’t done anything, but that hadn’t been Gabriel’s fault. She had been poised, had gone so far as to move his hand to her breast. The manoeuvre had inadvertently brushed a nipple, which set off a minor riot in her body.

She had stayed there in the bed, frozen in position, with Gabriel pressed up against her, and it was all she could do to keep from pushing back. She had felt his arousal and knew that all he had to do was to grasp her hip and pull her into position.

Instead, he had held to his place and went to sleep, while she was left wide awake with a body in flames.

Strange. She wasn’t particularly attracted to this Gabriel. He wasn’t handsome or even rugged. He was, in most respects, ordinary. All the damage and pain were in his eyes.

Mara hoped that this Gabriel didn’t think she was easy. Or worse, weak. Did he think that she was one of those women who needed a man to complete her? If they were going to spend any time together, she’d have to make short work of that fantasy.

The chances of a relationship were slim. He had the Apostles and this on-again, off-again death wish. Frankly, she wasn’t sure he knew what he wanted to do, and, for her, indecision in a man was in the same category of defects as smoking and religious zeal.

She could just have sex with him and walk away. She’d done that before with no ill effects. But what she had felt last night had not been simple passion, and Mara was curious to see if she could find it again.

SONNY WAKES TO A FARAWAY SOUND THAT REMINDS HIM OF
aluminum cans being crushed. In the good days of plenty, when there was an abundance of tourists and turtles, Sonny had flattened a great many shrieking cans with his feet, so he knows that they don’t like being mistreated.

It is a disturbing sound, a sound that Sonny has never trusted, and he rushes out the door, past the injured vending machines, his hammer at the ready.

Make way for Sonny!

But when he looks down on the beach, all he can see is fog.

Once, Sonny found a definition of “fog” in a dictionary. “Droplets of liquid water suspended in air near the earth’s surface.” That’s what the book said. Sonny laughed when he read the definition.

Everyone knows that fog is smarter than that.

The ghost Indians.

That could be what he heard. Ghost Indians singing. Now that Sonny thinks about it, Indian singing sounds a lot like aluminum cans being stepped on.

SONNY
goes back to the room and brushes his teeth. He washes his face. He combs his hair. He puts on clean socks. There is still sausage and cheese left over from the night before. Sonny puts these in a plastic bag and fills his water bottle at the sink.

Now he’s all set. Time to check the beach for salvage. If Sonny runs into the ghost Indians, he’ll let them know that it’s okay to sing on his beach. Maybe they’ll invite Sonny to sing with them.

Sonny shakes the plastic sack. He’s sorry he doesn’t have more food. If he had more food, he would be able to share it with the ghost Indians. Dad knows a trick to deal with such situations, but Sonny hasn’t learned it yet.

SONNY
starts down the hill to the ocean, and as he slips and slides on the steep slope, he decides that today he is going to do something important. Today, he is going to do something that will impress Dad. Today, he is going to show the world that he can be about his father’s business and be a good son as well.

What would Dad expect?

What would Dad demand?

What would Dad do?

These are the questions Sonny always asks himself when he runs out of answers.

WHEN
Sonny gets to the beach, he stops and stands very still. Maybe the answers to these questions can be found in the stories that Dad likes to tell. One of Dad’s stories has a garden in it. Several feature walls, while others mention boats. Sonny
concentrates as hard as he can. Gardens, walls, boats. Gardens, walls, boats.

Towers.

Wham!

That’s the answer. Towers.

Sonny dances around, his feet kicking sand into the air. Dad is very fond of towers. There are any number of towers in Dad’s stories. A tower would be less work than a boat but would be more satisfying than a wall or a garden. A tower would take a certain amount of skill but not too much.

But why would it be important? What could a tower accomplish that a wall or a garden or a boat could not? And now Sonny finds his thoughts running into one another.

Not just any tower.

Sonny stops dancing and concentrates on thinking.

A beacon. A tower beacon. A lighthouse. More or less. A symbol of hope. A guiding light. A monument to perseverance.

That’s what Sonny will build. Right here on the beach. A tower. A bright tower that will stand against the dark sky and bring the turtles home.

AT SIX IN THE MORNING, DORIAN FOUND HIMSELF STARING AT
the ceiling, his body crackling with energy. Given the night before, he shouldn’t even be awake.

The Sound of Music.

He had stayed up and watched the entire movie. Worse, partway through the film, he had begun singing along with all the songs. At one point, he had actually come off the couch and danced around the room like an idiot.

Three in the morning.

That’s when he had finally gotten to bed.

All right. So, he was awake, and the first thing that came to mind was exercise. When he had been a student at the University of Toronto, he had started out each morning with a routine of push-ups and sit-ups. He had done one hundred of each in five sets of twenty on the floor of his apartment.

Could he still do that? Only one way to find out.

The floor felt cold against his chest, but he did the first set of push-ups and sit-ups with relative ease. By the time he got to the third set, he was breathing hard. The fourth set was a strain, and the last set required determination.

But he had finished. He had finished the routine, just as he had done when he was twenty-two. And it had felt good. Terrific, in fact. As though he had been able to turn the clock back and recapture all the vigours and enthusiasms of youth.

It was probably the medications.

He stripped off his sweaty clothes, stepped into the shower, and discovered that he was fully erect.

Nice.

Dorian couldn’t remember when water had felt this good. And soap. What genius had invented the stuff? Magic, really. What a way to spend a day. Standing under hot spray, getting all lathered up with a bar of slippery soap.

How long could a person stay in a shower?

God, but he felt alive.

Dorian took his time with the bath sheet that Olivia had bought at the Pottery Barn on Bloor. It was large and soft, and when he had finished, Dorian wrapped it around himself in the manner of a Roman senator. In the fogged mirror, he could have mistaken himself for a latter-day Caesar.

Even shaving was a pleasure.

As he got dressed, he was struck by an intriguing idea. Why not take the morning off? Why not reprise one of those mornings he had spent as a student? Out of bed early. Exercise. Shower. Breakfast.

The Bluebird.

The Bluebird Café near Church and Wellesley. A hole-in-the-wall greasy spoon pinned between a convenience store and a tattoo parlour. The menu had been limited to the usual suspects, but the Bluebird also served a thick, spicy sausage that
Gus Mavrias made himself. Two eggs scrambled, toast, fried potatoes, sausage, and Dorian had been good to go.

Dorian wondered if the café was still there, if Gus was still turning out the sausages for a newer and younger troop of students.

That’s what he would do. Forgo the limo, or a taxi for that matter. Catch a streetcar. Or the subway. Dorian tried to remember how to get to the Bluebird using public transportation and was delighted to find that he could remember the route with no difficulty at all.

He folded the tie and slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. Casual was the order of the day. Slide under the radar. Dorian Asher, CEO incognito.

The streetcar from Queen’s Quay to Union Station was crowded. The subway from there to Wellesley was a crush of warm, perfumed, and sweaty bodies, all of them standing much too close to one another. But none of this interfered with Dorian’s feeling of euphoria, and he stepped off the subway just as cheery and hopeful as when he left the condo.

The walk along Wellesley was a stroll through his past. Most of the businesses were still there. Some had been replaced. There was a McDonald’s where a bookstore had stood, and some clever developer had torn down half a block of brick fronts and thrown up a residential-commercial condo. But that was to be expected.

Nothing to get upset about. Nothing to mourn.

Progress was a celebration of life.

THE
Bluebird was still there. The sign was the same. The exterior the same. But when he walked in the door, Dorian could see that changes had been made. The old Bluebird had been a tacky arrangement of chrome, Formica, and red Naugahyde. The new Bluebird was creamy white counters, black and white tile floors, cherry wood booths and dark green upholstery, with a flat-screen television hanging near the register, and another on the back wall. Dorian missed the older decor, but he had to admit that the new, upscale look was an improvement.

Gus must have died or sold the place. Or both.

A young man, slender with perfectly groomed stubble and an earring in one ear, seated him.

“Our special today is Red Tofu with Ho Fun Noodles and Scallion Pancakes.”

“When Gus had this place, he made his own sausage.”

“Your first time here?”

“I used to be a regular,” said Dorian. “When Gus Mavrias made his own sausage.”

“We don’t have sausage.”

Dorian glanced down the menu. “I don’t see eggs.”

“No eggs either,” said the young man. “You might try our Sweet Potato Oatmeal Breakfast Casserole.”

“No eggs?”

“We’re a vegan restaurant.”

“Ah.”

The young man cocked his head and frowned. “Has anyone told you that you look like James Coburn?”

“Really?”

“When he was younger,” said the young man. “Are you into old movies?”

“Sure.”

“
The Great Escape,
” said the man. “Coburn was hot in
The Great Escape.
”

“Didn’t he play a psychiatrist?”

“
The President’s Analyst.
” The young man put a hand over his heart and worked it back and forth. “He was so much fun in that. The scene with the family and the station wagon and the guns?”

Dorian couldn’t recall the scene, but he smiled and nodded.

“You’re not vegan, are you?”

“No,” said Dorian, “I’m not.”

“Then why don’t you try the Raw Buckwheat Breakfast Porridge.”

THE
Raw Buckwheat Breakfast Porridge was not what came to mind when Dorian thought about breakfast. It had walnuts on it and tasted like something he might have stumbled across in a field. Who would think of putting walnuts on porridge? Evidently vegans.

The coffee was excellent.

“Could I get a side of toast with butter.”

“We don’t serve butter.”

“Honey?”

“We have apple butter.”

Dorian was almost afraid to ask. “Muffins?”

“Blueberry,” said the man, “and oatmeal raisin.”

“Blueberry,” said Dorian. “I’ll take a blueberry.”

THE
café had filled up since Dorian had sat down. He was surprised that so many men found the food appealing. He could understand the attraction for women. Olivia was always looking for something new and healthy to try.

“How was the porridge?”

“Just fine.”

“I’ll get you more coffee, Mr. Coburn.”

The television on the back wall was showing a soccer game, and Dorian wondered if the overpaid kid in the sports magazine was playing. He watched the players as they loped up and down the field, but he didn’t see the point. Try as he might, he found soccer slow and boring.

Unlike hockey, which he found fast and boring.

He was relaxing over coffee and the muffin, when he noticed that the café had gotten remarkably quiet.

“The fuckers!”

Dorian looked up. The soccer game was gone, replaced by a news broadcast. The sound was off, but the picture showed a woman in a yellow trench coat standing by the bank of a river. The screen was too far away, but there was something familiar about the reporter.

“Turn the sound on!”

One of the servers aimed the remote at the screen and the woman’s voice sprang to life.

“… reporting from the Domidion tar-sands facility on the
banks of the Athabasca,” said the woman. “I’m Manisha Khan for
En Garde.
”

A heavy-set man was out of his seat. “Fucking Domidion!”

Dorian turned, so he could see what the man had ordered. If that was the Red Tofu special, it didn’t look bad at all.

“The bastards!” the man shouted. “The fucking bastards have destroyed the Athabasca.”

The action on the television had switched back to CBC’s main broadcast studio, where Peter Mansbridge was going over the particulars of the story.

“Early this morning,” Mansbridge began, “an earthen dam at Domidion’s oil-sands facility gave way and dumped thousands of gallons of toxic sludge into the Athabasca River. A spokesperson for the corporation has told CBC that a cleanup crew is on site and that the spill does not constitute an immediate hazard to local communities or to the environment.”

Dorian put the coffee down and quickly checked his phone.

Shit.

He had turned it off the night before and had forgotten to turn it back on.

The protest group that had met him in the parking lot of the university had had an almost festive air to it. The gathering in the café felt more murderous. Dorian looked around. There was no easy exit. Many of the men were on their feet, and some of them had even started chanting “Domidion” in four distinct syllables.

“Do-mi-di-on! Do-mi-di-on!”

Now the image on the television was of Tecumseh Plaza and Domidion corporate headquarters. Superimposed in one corner of the screen was a picture of … him.

“CBC has tried to speak with Dorian Asher, the CEO of Domidion International,” Mansbridge was saying in a calm monotone, “but a spokesperson tells us that Mr. Asher is currently unavailable for comment.”

It wasn’t an up-to-date photograph. He had had longer hair then, and he had been a fraction slimmer. But it was Dorian Asher, and if anyone in the Bluebird looked hard at the image on the screen and at the man in the booth, things could get out of hand.

Dorian ran a hand through his hair to muss it up. The sleeve of his jacket slid up and there was the Rolex, a lightning rod in a room of storm clouds. He dropped his hand into his lap and worked at the clasp. It wouldn’t open.

Great.

He kept the Rolex arm below the table and raised the other one.

“Do-mi-di-on,” he chanted, his voice blending in with the other men. “Do-mi-di-on.”

And then it was over. The chanting stopped. Everyone took his seat, and the business of breakfast resumed. The server brought the coffee by, but Dorian waved him off.

“I have to get to work,” he told the man.

“Man, is that stock going to take a hit,” said the server.

Domidion headquarters and Dorian’s picture were still on the screen. Why the hell couldn’t they go back to images of the river?

“Fuckers,” said Dorian.

“Damn straight,” said the server. “This will rip the lid off the garbage can.”

Dorian had no idea what that was supposed to mean, and he
didn’t ask. He paid the bill, left a reasonable tip, and was at the door when the server stopped him.

“You know,” the man said, gesturing towards the back wall, “he looks like him, too.”

Dorian quickly glanced at the television. He was still an insert on the screen.

“James Coburn,” said the man. “Both of you look a lot like James Coburn.”