Come, Thou Tortoise

by Jessica Grant

  Why don’t you use a protractor on your own arms, I tell him.

  I connect the dots on my arm with blue pen. Triangles. The letter W, over and over. Then I copy the shapes onto paper. It is easy to map the freckles below my shoulders because they are sparse, but my shoulders are impossible because there are millions of freckles up there. It is like when you look at the sky and see four, maybe five stars, but then you turn off the porch light and holy, there are millions behind the ones you first saw.

  The nail in the coffin of Jim Ryan’s biography was when he started painting his deck with a known carcinogen. My dad went outside and had a fight with him. Sorry, a tête-à-tête. He went out there and warned Jim Ryan of the dangers of that substance and said he did not appreciate being downwind from it. Jim Ryan waved his paintbrush around and told my dad to stop being so foolish. My dad cited various studies. Jim Ryan called my dad a rude word. I did not hear it or I would not withhold it. But my dad came inside and said Jim Ryan had called him a rude word.

  Goddamn it. I threw down my pen. Jim Ryan’s biography is over. Rule Number One of Biography: Never be rude to your biographer’s father.

  Good rule, said my dad.

  And Rule Number Two, for the fathers of biographers: Do not get into your kid’s biography.

  Is that what I did, said my dad.

  My dad knocks on my door and says, Sorry to bother you.

  I put away my Audrey’s Arms notebook.

  How’s it coming, he says. Good, good. How can I help you.

  It is fun to talk like this when you’re sitting at a desk. Try it.

  My dad sits on the little square ottoman. He is too tall for it and his knees are up near his chest.

  I have some information to share with you, he says, playing along.

  Please, I say. Which means: Share that information.

  Uncle Thoby is coming to visit.

  I lose all composure. Glee. Glee is what I feel. It’s like hearing that a famous person is coming to town. It’s like getting mail on Saturday.

  I jump up and put my hands on my dad’s knees and do a little dance.

  What are you doing, doofus, he says, which is his new favourite word. He bounces his knees awkwardly, which is the most dancing he will ever do.

  I’m glad you’re glad, he says after a moment. Because it will probably be a long visit.

  I write down a list of questions about Uncle Thoby and over breakfast I make my dad answer them. Interviews are not normally conducted at the breakfast table. They are like dreams and biographies that way.

  Me: I have some questions for you. Are you ready. Here they are. Where will he sleep.

  Dad: Who.

  Me: Uncle Thoby.

  Dad: Oh. In the guest room for now.

  Me: Can you clarify what you mean by “for now.”

  Dad: I mean that if Uncle Thoby stays longer we might turn the basement into an apartment.

  Me: Can you clarify what you mean by “we.”

  Dad: No. What are you writing.

  Me: Your answers.

  Dad: Looks like scribbles to me.

  Me: It’s code.

  Dad: So now you’re, what, a journalist.

  Me: Perhaps.

  Dad: Perhaps. What happened to a biographer.

  Me: You ruined that career.

  Dad: Come on, Audrey. I ruined one biography. And I apologized for the Jim Ryan brouhaha.

  Me: Laugh all you want. Ha ha. Brew. Yes. Does the arm come off.

  Dad: What. Haven’t we covered this.

  Me: I’m just wondering if you’ve obtained any more information on the arm.

  Dad: No, I have not. Next question.

  Me: Will Uncle Thoby be able to do the Northwest Shove. Considering his arm, etcetera.

  Dad: We’ll teach him.

  Me: Can you clarify what you mean by “we.”

  Dad: Jesus.

  Me: Okay. Moving right along. Does Uncle Thoby like Clue.

  Dad: He adores Clue.

  Me: What character does he like to play.

  Dad: Mr. Green.

  Me: How does Mr. Green feel about Miss Scarlet.

  Dad: You mean Miss Sarcastic.

  Me: Brew ha ha. I mean moi, Miss Scarlet.

  Dad: Ah. Toi. He finds Miss Scarlet very jumpy. The way she jumps around the board without rolling the dice. That alarms Mr. Green, who is afraid of flying.

  Me: Is Uncle Thoby afraid of flying.

  Dad: Wouldn’t you be if your arm had disappeared in a plane.

  Me: Holy Lada, yes.

  Dad: Can I drink my coffee in peace now.

  Me: What’s his favourite food.

  Dad: Shepherd’s pie.

  Me: What’s that.

  Dad: You want the recipe.

  Me: No. Does Piety make it.

  Dad: Unlikely.

  Me: Will you still read after dinner.

  Dad: Unless Uncle Thoby objects.

  Me: Do you think he will.

  Dad: No. But he might object to Shirley MacLaine.

  Me: Shirley he won’t object to her holding up the window.

  Dad: Shirley not.

  Me: Does he know about me.

  Dad: Of course he knows about you.

  Me: Have you been telling him my biography.

  Dad: More or less, yes.

  Me: What do I sound like.

  A week before Uncle Thoby is scheduled to arrive, my dad and I head to Julian-Brown’s Furniture. We are in the market for a coffee table. We are in the market for a bed for the guest room. We are not in the market for a cheval glass.

  But the cheval glass steals the showroom!

  Yes, well.

  Apparently a mirror, if it can stand by itself and take a bow, becomes a glass horse. Of course I’m in love with it. Of course I want it. Try this. Stand to the side of a cheval glass and move one arm and leg in front of the mirror so that your reflection appears to be floating.

  My dad does not try it. He is trying out beds. Fine.

  There’s a baby on the floor who belongs to the store. He’s mesmerized by my floating trick.

  Bonjour bébé, I say, and wave to him in the mirror. He reminds me of Beaker on the Muppets, the mute scientist with a tuft of upward-growing red hair. Imagine growing up in Julian-Brown’s Furniture, with fifty rooms crammed into one. And every room like a set from a TV show. You can be in a sitcom or a love scene or a murder. The baby can choose the room he grows up in. He can choose his show.

  He toddles into a floral-printed living room and crawls under a coffee table. He looks up at me through the glass. This is his trick. Maybe I can float in the mirror, but he can crawl under a table.

  I press my fingers against the glass like a spider doing push-ups.

  My dad says, Is that our coffee table, then.

  I would not say no to a cheval glass in the living room instead of a coffee table.

  My dad makes big batty eyes at the baby. I would, he says. I am. Saying no.

  I point out that a cheval glass could double as a table when swivelled sideways.

  My dad points out that such a table would see-saw precariously.

  I point out that it would not see-saw if it were properly supported at both ends.

  My dad points out that he would rather not have to concern himself with converting a cheval glass into a coffee table when he could just buy the coffee table.

  I concede that point.

  A few days later the new bed and cheval glass are delivered.

  By which time Uncle Thoby’s arrival is imminent and there is much tension at number 3 Wednesday Place. My dad has become an uptight Modern Major General, like the one in the opera, sorry operetta, who wields a protractor and has many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. He takes a weird geometric delight in arranging the furniture in the living room like a gnomon. Which means a clock, not an idiot. The furniture is now arranged in a circle with Wedge overseeing. All feet, when people are seated in here, will now point to the c
entre.

  But will there be room to sit in here. Bien sûr, because my dad is saying adieu to the stacks of Lionel de Tigrels with their—what is this, Audrey—ice cream sandwich stains. That’s disgusting. But I did it for you. Oh, well, thank you. Welcome. Anyway, no more Lionel de Tigrel articles or bizarre gifts from Patience. All this stuff is being cleared out, and when the sun comes through the window it will tell the time on the floor, using the furniture.

  The room also tells infinity because the cheval glass is across from Wedge, and behind Wedge, on the wall, is another mirror, so the two mirrors play tennis, with Wedge as ball, and make a tunnel of Wedges into forever.

  My dad looks at all the Wedges and says either that is his worst nightmare or his dream come true, he doesn’t know which.

  The Pirates of Penzance plays on the stereo. It is a pretty good story. You can follow it, even with the songs interrupting. There’s a guy with my birthday who has a big obstacle to overcome. He gets in with the wrong crowd who turn out to be the right crowd. The pirates have huge hearts and all you have to say to make them love you is: I’m an orphan. My dad’s favourite song is the one about the hypotenuse. He chuckles to himself every time he hears it. There are thousands of jokes in The Pirates of Penzance. Naturally I only get twenty percent. But I get that Frederic was supposed to be apprenticed to a pilot and was mistakenly apprenticed to a pirate, all because someone mispronounced a word. That is pretty funny.

  Also that he is twenty-one, but really only five and a little bit older.

  As for the tension. Right. The tension arose when I was first recruited by the Major General to clean up the living room and we pulled back the sofa and found a card shuffler, which my dad said was a gift from Patience. An idiotic gift, he said. Who can’t shuffle cards.

  I pointed out that a one-armed man could not shuffle cards.

  My dad looked abashed. You’re right, he said.

  We also found a mushroom-growing log. It was in a box that said SHIT on the side. I laughed at the word shit until my dad told me to stop being such a doofus. It’s shiitake, he said. It’s a log that grows shiitake mushrooms. Also a gift from Patience.

  Shit cake, I pronounced. Log.

  My dad was not finding me funny. He was throwing out the shiitake log and the card shuffler and a mug with the Charter of Rights on it. Good riddance.

  Wait. I grabbed the card shuffler. I have a home for this.

  No, my dad said. It takes a nine-volt battery.

  So.

  So it will be noisy.

  So.

  We don’t have any nine-volts.

  I think we really do.

  Not the fire alarms.

  I went off in search of a nine-volt. I found one in a fire alarm. I dragged over a stool. It is really not hard to disable a fire alarm. Then I took the card shuffler and battery to my room. As I passed the living room, my dad said, Hey, I need some help in here.

  Yup, I said.

  I installed the nine-volt. I love nine-volts. I love saying nine-volt. I love how they are rectangles. I would like to keep one in my pocket just to show people. Or not show them. Just to have on hand. What’s that you’ve got there.

  Oh nothing. A nine-volt.

  Did she just say nine-volt.

  The card shuffler came with a deck of cards, which was nice of it. I tossed out the instructions. I mean, come on. You’d have to be an idiot. You split the deck in two, put half the cards on one side, half on the other, and then push the red button. A racket ensues. It sounds like a lawn mower hitting a rock. And then, ta-da, cards all over your room.

  My dad called up from downstairs, Is that the shuffler.

  No comment.

  Where’d you get the nine-volt.

  And so I am yelled at because we could have burned alive in our beds and terrariums without an alarm to accompany our burning.

  Speaking of beds, there is a brouhaha over the new bed. The new bed has circular knobs on the four posters. I have drawn happy faces on those knobs. To make Uncle Thoby feel more welcome.

  My dad sees the happy faces and makes an unhappy face. He shakes his head.

  I shake my head too. What.

  Those knobs are not very nice. Yes they are.

  You’ve vandalized his bed.

  I kick the bed. Bad bed.

  Go to your room.

  And so off to my room I go, viciously kicking cards out of my path. Later I will take a marker and return to the guest room and make all those smiles fangy.

  The day Uncle Thoby is scheduled to arrive, my dad buys plants. This is maybe the weirdest thing. We have never had plants in the house before. But now we have to rush out to Canadian Tire and buy plants that look like slices of somebody’s hedge and put them in the corners of the living room and on the stairs and in the upstairs hallway.

  Uncle Thoby likes plants, my dad says. What’s next.

  We are in final countdown mode. The guest room is ready. Wedge has been combed and fluffed. I have been combed and netted and hard-hatted. I stand, looking over my shoulder into the cheval glass.

  Mirror mirror nowhere near the wall, who is the fairest of them all.

  My dad walks by. Stops. Points at his own head. We’re going to the airport not the stable.

  The airport is across the runway from the stable.

  So.

  So.

  Fine. He carries on into the kitchen. It’s two thirty. Let’s go.

  Does your tooth hurty, I ask as we get in the car, but he doesn’t even smile at our favourite Christmas-cracker joke (when is a good time to go to the dentist). He just says, Seatbelt, and starts the car.

  We are forty-five minutes early, so there is time for soggy fries at the Bite-to-Eatery. My dad doesn’t eatery. Every so often I wave a fry near his mouth and he swats it away.

  Ladies and gentlemen. The flight from London has arrived.

  My dad jumps up. He is a gentleman. I am a lady. I shove the five remaining fries in my mouth and race after him.

  I hop aboard the baggage carousel as soon as I see it and am promptly lifted off. What does that sign say, my dad asks.

  NO RIDING THE BAGGAGE CAROUSEL EVEN THOUGH IT’S CALLED A CAROUSEL.

  My dad is wearing jeans with a dapper white shirt. His hair is fluffy. I hug him hard before he puts me down. I burp gravy.

  A few ladies and gentlemen smile at my headgear. I salute them.

  Okay, I’ve decided not to ask Uncle Thoby about his arm in case this causes him trauma. I’m not even going to look at it. Much.

  The passengers from England will not be coming down the usual brick hallway with velvet ropes at the end to corral them. They will emerge from behind a wall once they have successfully cleared customs. I forget what customs is. Customs, says my dad, are police who make sure you aren’t carrying dangerous items from non-Canada in your luggage.

  Like what.

  Oh. Like meat.

  Meat! We have meat in Canada.

  Right. But we only like our own.

  Oh.

  Speaking of meat, did we take the shepherd’s pie out of the freezer.

  Yes.

  I’ve asked you that already, haven’t I.

  Yes.

  The wall protecting us from non-Canada is just a flimsy wood board. You can see the nails holding it up and everything. I knock very discreetly on that wall.

  Audrey.

  What.

  Stop that.

  I knock again, smiling up at my dad.

  No one knocks back. But I can hear them talking. At first I think they’re making fun of my dad. I clench my fists. Then I remember, no, that is how people talk in England.

  Bags plop down onto the carousel.

  The carousel is laying eggs, I tell my dad. This is a joke, sort of, but he doesn’t smile.

  Those eggs are from another flight, he says.

  Oh.

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and watches the place where the wall ends and Canada begins. So far, everyone wh
o has stepped out from behind that wall has two arms the same length.

  Meanwhile people are leaning in sideways and picking bags off the carousel, like, no big deal, plane, carousel, home. They roll away.

  I pull my dad’s hand out of his pocket and hold on to it. I do a half-spin and push my face between his arm and his side. He smells Daddish.

  Don’t glom on, Audrey.

  We wait. Finally we sit on the edge of the carousel, even though this is not allowed. There are only three bags left. I check the tags. None says Uncle Thoby.

  He wasn’t on the plane, I say.

  He might be tied up in customs.

  With ropes!

  No, not with ropes.

  But wouldn’t his bag be on the carousel.

  Didn’t I say those bags are from another flight.

  Okay. Jeeze Louise.

  My dad pushes up his hair. What is this Jeeze Louise. You can say Jesus Christ.

  I’m beginning to feel like we are dumb. Like someone is playing a joke on us. I want to hug my dad and protect him. But I also want to kick him.

  I hear laughter from behind the wall. Which is unacceptable. I decide to march right over there into non-Canada.

  Wait, Audrey.

  Two men in uniform. No ropes. What a good laugh they are having.

  Ha ha, I bark from under my black visor.

  Their mouths close.

  Are there any more non-Canadians left to come. They exchange looks.

  No my duck, says one, bending down. You missing someone.

  My uncle.

  Audrey, says my dad from behind me. He apologizes to the customs men.

  Quite all right.

  Takes my hand. We’re going home.

  In the car I rearrange my feelings. I want to hug my dad. I want to kick Uncle Thoby. Why wasn’t he on the plane.

  My dad is quiet. He’s driving slow, which is not like him. He’s driving like there’s a rubber band on the bumper still attached to the airport, and although we can stretch that rubber band, we can never break it.

  Dad, shift into fourth for the love of God.

  He looks at me, like, what is fourth.

  Gear.

  He shifts.

  I didn’t know Jeeze Louise was short for Jesus, I say, staring out the window.

  It’s not short for Jesus. It’s a euphemism for Jesus.

  Oh.

  Don’t be sarcastic. A euphemism—