Start at midnight and eat clockwise, says Uncle Thoby.
Why.
Because if you go counter-clockwise the orange will peel itself back up.
It turns out an orange has eleven slices. Five on one side, six on the other. It’s missing an hour. I’ve never noticed this because my dad always cut the orange into sixteen pieces, which I then sucked off the peel. But this is what an orange really is, underneath. Not symmetrical.
After breakfast, Uncle Thoby devises a trap for the fruit flies, which he calls the Drosophila Melanogaster Detention Centre. The DMDC is a glass with a piece of orange at the bottom and some cellophane stretched over the top. There are little fruit-fly-sized holes punched in the cellophane. The flies crawl through the holes to get to the orange. They celebrate at first. They do the tango. But then they can’t figure out how to get out. So they stay in there, bouncing, out of breath, perplexed.
When the DMDC is full we have an emancipation ceremony on the porch. Go forth and be fruitful, says Uncle Thoby.
We take him on a tour of the city and finish at the top of Seagull Hill. The wind makes our jackets rattle like they might explode. The seagulls hang suspended. They never have to flap. This is their hill. There are signs that explain about Marconi and the first passenger seagulls. I tell Uncle Thoby that the seagulls have learned a thing or two since then. They don’t fly back to England anymore.
I see, he says. He puts a hand on my head.
Seagull Hill has a square parking-lot top. On one side you can see Newfoundland clearly. On the other side you can see England unclearly. I try to keep Uncle Thoby on the Newfoundland side.
I point out my school. GOLEM, I yell.
What.
God of Light and Eternal Mercy. See the corkscrew Jesus on top.
Uncle Thoby laughs. His pirate patch of hair blows straight up.
My dad wants to show him Cape Spear, which means going over to the ocean side. Cape Spear is the most eastern point in North America. See how the lighthouse blinks. Do not look at the ocean, which is a wide blue road to England. Look at the lighthouse. That is the farthest east you can go, okay.
Uncle Thoby nods.
No easter than that.
Right. No easter.
I climb onto the rock wall. He holds my hand as I walk along. I’m sending you a secret message, I tell him. Are you getting it.
He gives me a funny look. Then he says, Yes, Oddly.
THE PLANE IN THE BASEMENT
Chuck holds me in the palm of his hand and says, Alas, poor Yorick!
His face is so exaggerated that I have to look away. Infinite jest. Etcetera. And smelt so? Pah!
I ponder the irony of being cast in the role of a skull when I will likely outlive Chuck by a century or more. Unless of course he makes good on his threat to throw me in the Willamette.
A knock at the door. He puts me down.
Maybe it will be Julius, the UPS guy, with another gift. A fire extinguisher. A road map with directions to Canada. Something that tells me she hasn’t forgotten. She is thinking of me. I am not off the radar.
But it’s not Julius. It’s Chuck’s actor friends. The thugs are here to rehearse.
This summer, the official Shakespeare in the Parkers are putting on three Antonio plays: The Merchant of Venice, The Tempest, and another one I can’t remember. Chuck’s plan is to stage Hamlet on the other side of the park. Wherein there are no Antonios. That is how he will advertise it. Hamlet: No Antonios!
I head for my pool. One thing I have learned. If my plastron is wet, then I’m off bookmark duty. Chuck won’t go so far as to dry me. And today, as far as I’m concerned, Shakespeare can kiss my ramparts.
Mission aborted. I am picked up en route by Lucius, who is particularly ripe.
I withdraw my head. And smelt so? Pah!
He calls me W-W-Wanda and pretends to eat me. This is apparently funny. The others slap their knees. Then they get down to business. Lucius has been out canvassing for the Heart and Stroke Foundation. Only he does not represent the Heart and Stroke Foundation. So far he has raised four hundred dollars. Renard and Dick’s all-weather discount roofing business is prospering. They specialize in flat roofs where they can’t be seen from the ground.
They used to be a travelling troupe. Those were the good old days. They used to travel to parks all over Oregon, California, and Nevada. Recently, however, due to diminished funds, they have only been lowering the bard locally, venturing no farther than Oregon City, Boring, and Bend. But things are looking up, and there is talk on this rainy solstice of perhaps heading south to Ashland next season, to Shakespeare country, where the plays run frothy all summer long and are not of the in-the-park variety. Ashland is in the Shakespeare business, with shops that sell gloves and gauntlets, and several theatres.
Chuck concedes that he might even say yes to an Antonio role in Ashland. An Antonio in Ashland equals a Hamlet in Boring, he explains.
I slide into my pool. Read the recipe on the bottom, even though I know it by heart. I love the word whisk. Whisk, I sometimes say as I slide into the water. Whisk the egg yolks.
We drove through Ashland once. I remember men in armour. The flash of weaponry. Chain mail. We stopped for gas and a man was fencing with a gas pump.
I stared at him through the bug-splattered windshield.
How do you like his épée, Audrey said, getting back in the car.
I dropped a piece of lettuce.
Nevermind.
We were heading south. She had packed the tent. Come, thou portable room, she’d said, referring to either me or the tent, not sure which. We were charging up Cliff’s credit card. Credit card purchases are like bread crumbs. You leave a trail. But had you asked me then if such a tactic would work, if our racking up gloves and gauntlets, motels and mileage, would act as a Cliff magnet, I’d have said not on your life.
I rode the dashboard through Shakespeare country. She had a stye in her eye from the stress of Cliff’s absence. She was a mess of freckles. We crossed into California, the radio rattling my plastron. We saw windmills. Hundreds, thousands of windmills. It was late afternoon and Audrey said, I don’t see any cliffs.
No. These were rolling hills.
I think we should spring for a motel.
Good. Yes.
We pulled into the Inn Stead, a two-storey motel with cheap rates and a pool. Our room was on the second floor. She carried me upstairs under her armpit. The room was cool and dark, and there was a gap under the door high enough for a tortoise to crawl through. She dropped her bag and said, Come on, Win.
The pool was a bright blue rectangle in the fading light. She sat me on the edge and stripped down to her underwear. I looked around. We were alone. She dove in. Splash.
She swam like a fish. She came up beside me. Curled her fingers over the rim. Grinned. Because she was in a pool. Ha. I got it. She was playing me. I looked down into her eyes. Wet eyelashes. Was the chlorine good for her stye. The windmills turned like plane propellers in the distance.
Where are we going.
She put her head underwater.
Two nights later we camped at a KOA outside Las Vegas. She roasted potatoes from Idaho. I ate iceberg lettuce from a grocery store called Skagway. The fire crackled. The sun set. Las Vegas rose shining out of the desert.
The family camping next to us had four kids. The littlest ran around with no pants and was called Wiggle Worm. She told Wiggle Worm that I was a snapping turtle and he kept his distance. I was allowed to walk around the campsite, sorry Kampsite. I ate an upside-down beetle. I felt bad because this can happen to tortoises too. We can be tipped.
The tent had a ceiling that could be unzipped so you could see the stars through a screen. Look, Win.
We were not allowed to be sad. We were not allowed to think about Cliff.
The sky was not unfamiliar to me. I had crossed the desert a century ago, before I became an object human beings could not say no to. I had seen many stars. The sky at night
looks a lot like the inside of my shell. But of course she would not know that.
We hit New Mexico. Look, Win. The Rio Grande. There were people walking with long sticks like pilgrims. There were red cliffs with graveyards at the bottom. We crossed a mountain pass into a town called Angel Fire. There was only one road into Angel Fire. Population 1,000. Why were we in Angel Fire. Because Cliff had mentioned it once. There was a ski hill there.
We were behind a school bus going 30 miles per hour. She passed it just as its stop sign was extruding. Guess who was behind us. The only cop in Angel Fire. Who followed the school bus every day because what else is there to do. He pulled us over. He said, What you just did. And shook his head and looked over the roof of the car like he couldn’t find the words.
She said she was an excellent driver. She had never had a collision. She would have seen the little sneakers under the bus.
You might have decreased our population to 999.
I would never do that. I would never decrease a population.
Nevertheless, he said. The fine was astronomical.
After the cop left, she said she needed to sit down.
You’re already sitting down.
So she got out of the car and sat on the shoulder, which in some states is called the berm. I waited on the dashboard. When she got back in, she said, I might not have seen the little sneakers under the bus. I was busy looking at the ski hill with no snow on it.
The Grand Canyon was a hologram. We camped at the top. It was cold. A bitter wind. I guess we should go down into it, she said. Meaning the canyon. But we didn’t, not at first. We sat on the edge. It looked fake. Then we went back to the tent and boiled water. Ramen noodles. Brown lettuce.
What was the plan. I don’t think she had one, beyond just driving and spiralling, hoping Cliff would catch up to us, intercept us, or we him.
Let me explain about breakups, how the first one never sticks. I used to live in Texas, in a shallow river. The river was a favourite strolling place for couples. The couples who came in the daytime were breaking up. The couples who came at night were getting back together. They were usually the same couples. I can’t tell you how many times I saw two idiots running into each other’s arms, one from the left, one from the right. Or sometimes, if they were on opposite sides of the river, they would use the tortoises (the largest of which were the size of dinner plates) as stepping stones. We were pretty good sports about that.
No, I am not as big as a dinner plate. I am as big as your fire alarm. If you hold me in your palm, my legs will dangle over the edge. Unless you are Cliff. Who has hands like an orangutan. Then my legs won’t dangle.
Speak of the ape, here he is.
Audrey hasn’t seen him yet. She’s stirring the ramen noodles. I’m surprised she hasn’t heard him. The whole campground is looking. It’s the Harley. He’s on a loud Harley with a tank the colour of a flame. Angel Fire. That is the colour. No helmet. No helmet law in Arizona. Yellow wavy hair. Sunburned nose. Humungous hands.
Audrey is crouched over her tiny stove. Heels popping out of her sandals.
I drop a piece of lettuce. Ahem.
She looks.
He’s picking his way through the campsites. And it’s just like by the river. How their eyes meet and then she is running towards him. Well, stumbling. She loses a sandal. And I am forced to concede that the credit card ploy was a stroke of genius. We have been found.
Everyone watches.
His arms wrap around her like five times.
Show’s over, Cliff says into her ponytail.
The guy in the next campsite tends his fire. Well, that was oddly moving, he says.
Cliff had to buy the Harley to come find her. Find us. Hello Iris, he says to me. He is not sad about buying the Harley. He goes on and on about the Harley. Which is called a Fat Boy.
That night in the tent she says, I had to pretend you didn’t exist. That’s how much it hurt.
I’m sorry.
It is all very touching.
The next day we decide to go down into the canyon. Well, they decide. Cliff says it would be funny to pretend to fall into it. The ultimate stunt. She says, Please no.
So the canyon is not a hologram because we are in it. It is the inverse of a mountain, the sign says. What does that mean. It means you should keep in mind that, unlike a mountain, you will be performing the ascent later, when you are tired. It all feels like a dream right now, as you skip down the switchbacks into warmer climes. But remember that, at the end of the day, when you are tired, you will be schlepping your butt back up to the top.
Cliff scoffs at the warnings. I’m a rock climber, he says and smacks his chest.
I’m wearing sandals, she says.
I’m being carried.
The people we pass going the other way are huffing and looking for any excuse to stop. They lean against the cool canyon wall. Oh my God a tortoise. Did you find her in the canyon.
Yes, says Audrey stupidly.
Well, you can’t take her out.
I’m kidding. She’s a pet.
If she’s part of the ecosystem, they say, getting all strident, you can’t take her out.
Oh boy, says Cliff.
She’s not part of the ecosystem.
The tired hikers inform her that they will be reporting a tortoise stolen from the canyon. When they finally reach the top.
Be my guest.
We carry on down.
We pass a donkey convoy. The riders are loud and stupid. The donkeys have black eyes and wrinkled nostrils. The path is narrow so we pass quite close. One kicks out at Cliff. Cliff just laughs and slaps him on the rump.
Of course she falls in love with the donkeys. She walks in tandem with one and holds me up so I can look in his eye. Look, Win.
I see the Grand Canyon upside down and me in it.
By the time we got back to the top, the sun was setting. She had very bad blisters. Cliff had an empty look like he missed his Harley. We clambered over the rim and met the park police. Lights flashing.
Is that tortoise native to the canyon.
This tortoise is native to me, she said.
We were remanded into custody.
In a beige building we were separated. I was examined by two park rangers in beige. Everything in Arizona is beige so as not to offend the beigeness of the canyon.
They turned me upside down.
I am not native to Arizona. I am native to Texas. But are beige people smart enough to realize that.
They were. It just took them awhile. When I came out of the examination room, she was sitting there alone, waiting. Where’s Cliff.
Cliff had gone to Colorado. And taken his credit card.
I wake with my arms in a double helix, the backs of my hands touching. Rule Number One of Real Sleep. Are you in a corkscrew-leaping position. Then you have really slept.
The first thing I see is the tree on my wall, its bare branches ribcaging around me. It is not quite daylight. I shift my legs out of leaping position. I feel like I’ve finally landed. Like I’m home. Maybe you don’t really arrive at a place until you’ve slept and woken again. Quick montages at the kitchen table don’t count.
The tree’s upper branches bend onto the ceiling like a spoon in a glass of water. What is the word. Refracted. Uncle Thoby painted the tree with his left hand. The brush was very far away. He said he had an advantage over painters with short arms because he could see the big picture while he painted. The branches forked and forked and forked. The tree sprang up in a single afternoon. He glued on the Velcro buds. Then he made the accessories: green leaves for summer, red and yellow leaves for fall, snowflakes for winter, pink blossoms for spring.
Here is the rule, he said. You can only change the tree on an equinox or solstice.
Right.
Do you know, he said, that if there were no leap days, the seasons would wander all over the calendar and pretty soon we’d be having Christmas in July.
So it’s because of me
that we have Christmas in December.
It’s because of you that we have December in winter.
I stuck a leaf in my hair. I keep the seasons in place. Moi.
I unwind my arms and roll over to face the window. It is the solstice. Today or tomorrow. If you are born on a leap day, you can always tell. It is like a superpower. Not a very exciting one, but there you have it. You can recognize a solstice by the end-of-tether quality of the light. The sun is about to rein us in. I can tell an equinox too. Just by the light. When the sun is smack dab at the equator.
It is almost the solstice and that is why the sun left the funeral early yesterday. That is why it is so dark. That is why it is so quiet.
Wait. Why is it so quiet. I lean off the edge of my bed and say Uncle Thoby’s name into the heat vent. No answer. Something else I can tell. When a place is empty.
I get up. Call Uncle Thoby’s name. Still no answer. Call it again. I keep calling as I go downstairs. Are you there. Do you feel like answering. I pause at the top of the basement steps. Uncle Thoby.
He’s not down there.
On the kitchen counter there’s a note. I stare at it from a distance. Oh no. A sinking feeling. Read the note. I can’t. Yes I can. No I can’t. I don’t know how to read. My heart starts to pound.
The note makes no sense. Stupid stupid brain. I turn on the range hood light but only certain words resolve. It is scratched in Uncle Thoby’s worst handwriting. Sweetheart might be sweatshirt. I don’t know. I decipher clipart. What the hell. I decipher stroll. I decipher anon.
Oh. I look up. He is out for a stroll in a sweatshirt. He will see me anon.
At the bottom of the page he has printed the word Toff. That I can read. Followed by a phone number and address. A London address.
The word I thought was clipart is airport.
Grab note. Grab keys. Grab coat. Run outside in unlaced boots. Hurry, hurry. Turn the ignition. My breath is everywhere. As I back out of the driveway, I remember Uncle Thoby on the porch last night. When he thought he was alone. When he thought it was okay to not be okay.
Come, Thou Tortoise Page 19
