Come, Thou Tortoise

by Jessica Grant

  ’Tis the season.

  We pass a Byrne Doyle sign. Byrne Doyle! He is looking very Jacob Marley.

  Poor Byrne Doyle, says Uncle Thoby, his usual refrain.

  I want to see a Clint sign.

  Coming up.

  We are approaching the dispatch office. It is really just a shack with a car on the roof. But boy does that car surprise you, every time. A Clint’s cab! On the roof! And you wonder, why did you not become a cabbie when you had the chance.

  The shack glows like a spaceship. The Christmas lights are dazzling. The lonely-inventor’s blue has nothing on the green. You are like Superman in the presence of kryptonite. You are getting weak. You gear down. And gear down again. It’s like the green is alive and all the other colours are dead.

  We turn the corner and come face to face with a giant picture of Clint. He’s got an orange scarf wrapped doubly, Bob-Cratchitly, around his neck. ORANGE YOU GLAD CLINT’S RUNNING IN ST. JOHN’S CENTRE, says the sign.

  There’s another sign: DRIVERS WANTED.

  Much AVD.

  As I pull away from the shack, the road gets very dark. I think my retinas are damaged. Is that a red light ahead.

  That’s the pond.

  Okay. Well, I can only see red.

  Did you look directly at the green.

  Should I not have looked directly at the green.

  Well.

  The car skids a bit. Don’t brake. Palpitate. Is that the pond.

  Yes. You might want to stop.

  I’m blind.

  Give them a moment, he says. Meaning my pupils.

  We live on the other side of Wednesday Pond. We’re almost there. But now I can’t see, so we’ll have to wait. I guess we could get out and walk. Uncle Thoby could lead me. We could stumble together like orphans over the winter topography. There is enough sidewalk today that a sideways tree might just miss your medulla oblongata.

  The day my dad was struck down there was snow, lots of it, and no sidewalk.

  I rub my eyes. We flew over the pond tonight.

  Mundy Pond.

  No it was Wednesday. Also, I had a flight attendant called Tuesday.

  Uncle Thoby leans over and wipes the windshield with his long arm.

  Are there decorations up at home, I ask.

  No.

  You took them down.

  He nods.

  Don’t picture him doing this.

  There’s a rumour (more than a rumour, a theory) that Wednesday Pond has no bottom. My dad found this theory ridiculous. Bollocks, he said. Of course it has a bottom. Uncle Thoby, who did not find the theory ridiculous, said, Well, Clint said. Oh boy, said my dad. What. Nothing. Please continue. Clint said a man disappeared in that pond once, and the police tried to dredge it, but lo and behold, there was no bottom to dredge.

  The discussion proceeded like a tennis match.

  Just because the police do not, or did not at the time, possess the proper equipment to dredge—

  How do you explain that it never freezes, Walter.

  It did freeze once, said my dad.

  When, said Uncle Thoby.

  Before you came.

  That’s sweet of you to say, but—

  What are you talking about. Sweet of me to say.

  —but it has never frozen in my or Clint’s or Oddly’s memories, Uncle Thoby finished.

  True enough, I said.

  It did freeze once when you were a baby, said my dad. We skated on it.

  Doubtful looks exchanged between me and Uncle Thoby.

  I put you in your stroller and we went out onto the pond and I pushed you at great speed across the ice.

  Jesus!

  You loved it.

  As far back as I can remember we have lived on Wednesday Place. The pond is our backyard. We are number 3. All the houses on Wednesday Place are odd numbers and the best houses are prime.

  The porch wraps all the way around the house. All the way. You can go into orbit if you’re not careful. The boards bounce when you walk. That bounce can be felt inside the house and possibly inside all the houses on Wednesday Place. It is quite a bounce. The porch has also been known to support upwards of 5,000 watts of Christmas lights. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen our house with all its lights reflected in the pond. But tonight there is no wattage. What is the wattage of a full moon. Because that is the wattage as we approach the house. Maybe 25 watts.

  Our front door does not lock but seems locked to people who don’t have a special relationship with it. It can only be opened with the Northwest Shove.

  I bypass the front door and carry on around the porch.

  Oddly, says Uncle Thoby. But he follows me, my bag bouncing behind him.

  There are forty-seven ducks (native) and two swans (not native) living on Wednesday Pond. When the swans put their heads underwater, they look like baby icebergs. When they lift their heads, they look surprised. Did you see the bottom. No. Did you. No. Let’s check again. They have been checking for years and continue to be surprised.

  Come inside.

  In a sec.

  He parks my bag.

  I have a question, I say. Are you ready.

  Okay.

  Remember the bracelet.

  Because I am remembering a bracelet my dad had, like a medical alert bracelet except that it had instructions for accidental death. It said ABSOLUTELY NO EMBALMING. There was an 800 number to call. A SWAT team was supposed to arrive by helicopter and take my dad to a facility in Arizona where his brain would be kept on ice until the necessary technology for, say, repairing a damaged medulla oblongata was developed.

  The bracelet was a joke, Uncle Thoby says.

  How do you know.

  I gave it to him.

  You did. When.

  On one of our birthdays. Your dad called cryonics the domain of Disney.

  He would. But whatever. Is it too late to call the SWAT team. Because let’s call them.

  Let’s not, he says.

  Let’s. And I Northwest Shove the door open.

  Five minutes later I’m on the phone with Phoenix, my dad’s bracelet in hand. The CRYNOT representative, Darren Lipseed, or maybe Lipsey, says my dad’s subscription expired back in 1996.

  Okay. Minor setback. Let’s renew it.

  There are forms to fill out, Ms. Flowers. Many many forms.

  Please call me Audrey.

  Okay, Audrey. Your dad’s going to have to sign some forms.

  Well, that’s going to be a problem.

  Why’s that.

  And I explain to Darren Lipseed the details of my dad’s accident. Sorry, collision.

  Are you pulling my leg, he says.

  Oh Darren Lipseed.

  Yes.

  I am not pulling your leg. Um. I don’t think my dad signed any forms the last time. I look at Uncle Thoby.

  Uncle Thoby taps his chest.

  Apparently my uncle forged his signature last time.

  Well, that would nullify the contract, says Darren.

  Look. Let’s just get the SWAT team en route and we’ll work out the details later.

  Uncle Thoby pours some sherry into a glass.

  I’m afraid we can’t send a SWAT team to Canada.

  But you have subscribers in Canada.

  Yes, we do. I’m going to put you on hold now, Ms. Flowers.

  Why.

  Just ’cause.

  This is bad, I tell Uncle Thoby. This is unbelievable.

  He anchors his hand, with the glass, to the counter. Aren’t you tired, sweetheart.

  No.

  I think you really are.

  I turn my back to him. I read the silver bracelet again.

  Push 50,000 U Heparin IV. Do CPR while cooling with ice to 40°F. Keep pH 7.5. Call 800 544 7000. absolutely no embalming.

  I shake my head. Such a simple formula. And we failed to follow it. Well, one of us did. At least we haven’t embalmed.

  We haven’t embalmed, have we, I ask.

  N
o.

  What is embalmed.

  Darren comes back on the line. He explains why he, or rather the CRYNOT SWAT team, cannot transport a dead, or rather vitrified, body across the border. You would not believe the hoops at customs—

  Oh I would believe the hoops, Darren.

  Not to mention the fact that the body is already dead.

  Don’t refer to my dad as the body.

  Sorry.

  S’okay.

  Of course, there are degrees of dead, says Darren.

  I consider this. I can hear a clicking sound. Are you knitting, Darren.

  Darren says, A baby blanket. I have to put you on hold again, Ms. Flowers.

  Why.

  Dead air.

  I’m on hold again.

  Uncle Thoby takes the phone. Hangs up. We need sleep, he says.

  But I’m still in a different time zone.

  Nevertheless. He puts his glass in the sink.

  I jingle the bracelet. Remember in The Empire Strikes Back when Darth Vader freezes Han Solo. How he’s unfrozen in the sequel. Remember.

  That wasn’t cryonics. I don’t know what that was.

  It was George Lucas. Not Walt Disney. And therefore possible.

  Here is something to do if you are unslept and have a ponytail: Bring that ponytail around under your nose like a moustache. This will calm you down and make you sleepy. Also it will force you to let go of the table. Where I have been sitting since Uncle Thoby went downstairs to bed.

  See you anon, he said.

  I had forgotten the word anon.

  The SWAT team might still come, I said.

  He creaked down the basement steps. Go to bed, sweetheart.

  I nodded. Instead I went to table. Drummed my fingers. Eventually stopped drumming and started holding. Forced myself to stop holding.

  Hey. My ponytail smells like Air Canada.

  And I remember something. How, on the plane, on the news broadcast, the word disappeared was used in a way I’d never heard before. How did it go. Some people have been disappeared, said a reporter. Not disappeared. Have been disappeared.

  It was as if that word, which had always sat in a dark corner like a piece of furniture, had got up and started to move.

  I pick up the phone. Dial Linda’s number. Chuck answers. I’ve woken them up. Sorry about that. I was just wondering how Winnifred is—

  Who.

  Can I talk to Linda.

  Oh the tortoise. She’s great. We’re the ones who’re sweltering. It’s a hundred degrees in here.

  Can I talk to Linda.

  Rustle of sheets.

  Hi Audrey. She’s fine.

  Could you get up and check.

  It’s 2:30 in the morning.

  Please.

  Sigh. Hang on.

  And I hear Chuck say, What, the armpit wasn’t enough. We’re supposed to sleep with the Jesus tortoise.

  Linda, from far away: Shut up.

  A minute passes. Another minute. Finally, she comes back. Tortoise alive and well. She woke up when I turned on the light and knocked on her shell.

  So she seems okay.

  She seems pissed off actually.

  Oh. Good. Okay.

  I drum my fingers.

  Audrey.

  Yeah.

  Oh. I thought you’d hung up.

  No.

  How’re things there, she asks.

  Um. Smaller. The trees are smaller.

  But otherwise—

  Fine. I’m sorry I woke you.

  No sweat.

  Speak for yourself, I hear Chuck say. I’m sweating like a—

  Bye.

  Bye.

  I sit there for a moment thinking about how Winnifred is fine, just fine. How it is hot, very hot, in that apartment. Then I pick up the phone. Chuck answers. Sorry to bother you again, I say.

  Jesus Christ this is not acceptable.

  I was just wondering if you have a fire alarm. And what kind of heaters. And where the castle is in relation to those heaters.

  Click. Dial tone.

  Right.

  I read the CRYNOT bracelet, now around my wrist. How can the directions be to keep a person cool. Surely you should keep him warm.

  Outside the pond is silver. It is almost dawn. The all-year-round swans bounce by. The trees on the other side look small and friendly. Make that small and fierce. And where does the pond go. Where. I used to think about Wednesday Pond when I mowed the grass around the reservoir in Portland. There was a high spiky fence around the reservoir so you couldn’t poison the city’s water supply. At least I assumed that was the reason. I mowed the grass and looked through the spikes and thought about how a reservoir has no bottom. How maybe if you swam down and down through the pipes and took all the right turns you’d splash up somewhere totally unexpected, like, say, Wednesday Pond.

  Were the two bodies of water connected, is what I wondered.

  I’m sorry I didn’t climb the fence and swim through the maze of pipes and try to come home, Dad. I’m sorry my great safe adventure kept going and going. I lost track of time. I was afraid. I don’t know why I didn’t make the cross-continent leap sooner.

  There’s a sound behind me so familiar, like the heat coming on, that at first I don’t notice it. A squeak and whir coming from the living room.

  Wedge!

  I drop my ponytail.

  Not that I assumed he wouldn’t be here. I just forgot. I skid across the kitchen floor. Stop in the arch. By the wattage of an incomplete dawn I see Wedge glowing white on the mantelpiece. His wheel flashing.

  Mr. Sam, I whisper. Mr. Wedge Man.

  He stops running.

  I approach the cage, sorry terrarium.

  Hey, look at you.

  He fluffs up his forehead fur. How do I look.

  Good.

  He carefully dismounts his wheel. There’s a half-eaten Licorice Allsort in his bowl, along with the usual pellets.

  So who are you running from today, I ask. Or chasing.

  Wedge has a wicked imagination, so likely it’s a mountain lion or the Russian mafia.

  I remove the metal grid and pick him up.

  He is hot and fluttery. His little heart makes me catch my breath. I’m not used to mammals anymore.

  He touches his nose to mine. My wheel could use some WD-40.

  Right.

  I take him into the kitchen. He explores the table. When he gets too close to the edge, I put my finger on his tail. He looks over his shoulder. Someone’s stepping on my tail. I lift my finger. He scurries off in another direction. We play this game for a while. Finally, as the sky gets brighter, he settles down. Nocturnal creatures do. He sits in the enclosure I make with my arms and grooms himself. I put my head down and watch the sun come up between his ears. From behind, with the light streaming through, the tattoo on his ear says 81.

  Assume life, my dad says, can go on indefinitely. We are in his lab, watching the mice swim. I’m small. My lab coat drags on the floor. He puts a hand on my head. Barring accidents, he says.

  Right.

  Indefinitely means forever.

  I know what it means.

  He is wearing a stopwatch like a necklace.

  It is mouse vacation. Each mouse has his own pool. There are five pools. Twenty mice. There are cages like hotel rooms stacked against the wall. Each hotel room has a room number. Each mouse has a room number tattooed on his left ear.

  The left ear is the key.

  Five mice go swimming for ten minutes. Then five more. Then five more.

  In the water their fur puffs up with worry. Are they swimming or are they trying to climb out. They are trying to climb out. I do not see one mouse do the breaststroke or the butterfly or float around on his back. They swim in circles, scratching the sides of the pool.

  It is not really mouse vacation. It is a Forced Swimming Test. The pools are garbage cans from Canadian Tire. But don’t tell the mice that.

  According to my dad, we are made up of
little circles called cells. As we get older those cells get dirty and bent out of shape. Then we die. But cells, even the oldest and most wrinkly, remember how to be young. The knowledge of how to be young is still in there. And so all you have to do is jog their memory. Jog, jog. Remember how to be young. Recall your youth. It sounds easy, but no one has figured out how to jog a cell’s memory.

  Well, that is not quite true. A man at Cambridge University has made a frog remember how to be a tadpole.

  Light, which is made up of circles called photons, also has a memory. No one really understands how that works, but light sometimes makes a choice based upon its past. So does water. If you boil water, it remembers being boiled and will boil faster the second time. I mean, after it’s back at room temperature. Hey, I know how to boil. Whereas the first time it had to ask, What is boil.

  So how does the Forced Swimming Test jog a cell’s memory. It doesn’t. This is just a sidebar. We are just talking. There is no connection whatsoever, says my dad. Oh.

  There is a brain in the lab. A human brain. It sits on a shelf in a Tupperware container filled with formaldehyde. Now think about this: That is a person up there on that shelf!

  Who is that. What’s his name.

  I have no earthly idea.

  Could you find out.

  My dad looks reluctant to find out.

  Can I name him.

  No.

  Can I hold him in my lap as long as I don’t open the lid.

  Okay.

  Hello there cauliflower brain. Mr. Cauliflower. You are so small and meaty. And yet you are also a person. I don’t know if I can love you if you are not cute. Yes I can.

  It makes no sense to me how small a brain is.

  Consider the distance between a mouse and a person in my dad’s brain. It is very long. There are miles and miles of words between them. Just look at one of his articles. You will probably not see the word mouse. But the mice are in there. And so are the people. And the word mouse, cleverly disguised, eventually leads to the word person, also cleverly disguised. But the mouse never equals the person. My dad would not write: The mouse hated swimming and longed to be back in his hotel room.

  He would write … I don’t know what he would write. Something about how much the subject drank afterwards. In grams.