The Back of the Turtle

by Thomas King

  Stories were stories. They were not the laws of the universe.

  Soldier and the sea people. Maybe they had found each other.

  WHEN his sister was nine or ten, she came home and told the family that she had a boyfriend. Joe told his daughter that if she couldn’t have a pet, she sure as hell couldn’t have a boyfriend. Gabriel remembered the tears, the screaming, the slammed doors. Later that evening, he had gone to his sister’s bedroom to offer some comfort.

  There were more boys in the world than girls, Gabriel told her, so statistically she had nothing to worry about. He even drew a diagram to show that this particular boy had little chance of being the perfect boy for her.

  He had spent some time thinking through the logic and double-checking the math, and had not been prepared for her reaction.

  “It’s not about math,” his father told him.

  “She’s a young girl,” said his mother. “You’re not going to find a formula for that.”

  Two weeks later, his sister announced that she had a new boyfriend. After boyfriends three and four, Gabriel stopped trying to keep count, and he never mentioned probability theory to his sister again.

  GABRIEL was seriously considering defrosting the fish, when he remembered that tonight was the party. Crisp’s birthday party. At the hot springs. Crisp would have food. He was too conscientious a host not to feed his guests.

  Gabriel shoved the fish back into the freezer.

  Why did everyone put so much stock in relationships? People were like the universe. Expanding. That was the human condition. Moving away. Babies moved away from mothers. Children moved away from their parents. Lovers moved away from each other. The dying moved away from the living.

  At the end, like a failing star, you collapsed into yourself and disappeared.

  Gabriel shut the refrigerator door. He tried to think whether he had anything to wear that resembled a swimsuit. Stretchy black underwear might work. Once he was in the water, no one would notice.

  Sex with Mara. He’d have to think about that.

  In case she bothered to ask again.

  32

  WHAT THE HELL WAS SHE THINKING?

  Mara stood at her easel and worked the paint onto the canvas with a palette knife. The technique was harder and bolder than using a brush, but the effect fit her mood.

  “Do you have any interest in sex?”

  Had she really said that? It wasn’t what she had meant to say. She didn’t want to have sex with anyone. Sex in general? For comfort? For pleasure?

  Sex for the hell of it?

  That’s what she had said. Sex for the hell of it.

  Mara loaded the knife and pressed it against the canvas with enough force to draw blood.

  SHE and Lilly had spent countless hours talking about boys and sex. Lilly was the bolder of the two, and one afternoon, she had shown Mara a men’s magazine she had rescued from a trash can at school.

  “I saw Eddie ditch it just before Mr. Pratt went through his locker. “It’s all in Spanish.”

  Mara had never seen so many men and women with their clothes off. And not just with their clothes off.

  “That is gross.”

  “Yeah,” said Lilly. “It is.”

  It was also fascinating, even a little erotic. Especially the stills of the couples.

  “She looks like Cindy.”

  “Cindy’s heavier.”

  “Sure,” said Lilly. “But take off fifteen pounds, and it’s Cindy.”

  The initial flush didn’t last very long. As Lilly flipped through the photographs, as everything ran together in a repetitious assembly line of body parts, Mara began to feel bored. Before long she and Lilly were howling with laughter, as yet another couple appeared on the page in a more complicated position than the last.

  “Eight and a half,” Lilly would shout.

  “Not good enough for a medal.”

  And then the comedy gave way to unease and, from there, to repugnance and revulsion. Is that what she and Lilly were going to look like under the bodies of men?

  “You think guys are going to want us to do that?”

  “I guess,” said Lilly. “Looks really gross.”

  Mara wanted to ask Eddie or Leo or any of the boys at school if this is how they imagined women, how they imagined sex, but she knew if she or Lilly let slip that they had looked at the magazine, there would be no end to the trouble.

  After the encounter with the magazine, Mara and Lilly made a pact that they would never do any of that stuff. It was an idle promise, of course, but in all the years as an adult, whenever she had sex, Mara couldn’t help but remember those images and wonder if that was who she became every time she took off her clothes.

  MARA stepped back from the painting. It wasn’t finished. But it was done. She had never considered any of her paintings finished. There were always changes that could be made. What Mara looked for was a place where she could stop, the moment when, for the first time, a painting held its own.

  She had liked that about art, the notion that nothing was ever done, that art was fluid and continuously full of potential.

  She set the painting against the wall and put a fresh canvas on the easel. Mara was pleased to have hit upon this project. She could already feel her creative energies returning. Maybe that was it. She hadn’t asked Gabriel about sex. She had asked him about life.

  “Are you interested in life?”

  That’s what she should have said. That’s what she meant to say.

  Are you interested in life?

  Mara stared at the canvas, trying to decide who to do next. Mrs. Rice probably. Edna and her son had lived next door, had been mainstays in the community. Maybe that was Gabriel’s problem. Maybe he didn’t have a community, didn’t have anyone to anchor him to life. People weren’t single, autonomous entities. They were part of a larger organism. When her mother and grandmother were alive, Mara had flourished. Now that they were dead, she was diminished.

  Living was a process of losing parts of yourself. That couldn’t be helped. But the hope was that, in the end, you’d still have pieces left, that you wouldn’t die alone, that you’d have family and friends at your side to see you off.

  But what if you lost everything? What if you lost everyone? Mara had come home to that reality.

  You could start again. Mara had told herself that any number of times. You could move forward, find new opportunities, cultivate new relationships.

  If you wanted to.

  That’s what she had meant to ask this Gabriel. Not whether he was interested in sex, but whether he was interested in new possibilities, whether he was interested in living. She had just phrased it badly, and she wasn’t sure he was smart enough to figure that out.

  If there was a next time, she’d be more explicit.

  33

  ROSEN’S HADN’T BEEN ENOUGH.

  Even after he left the store, Dorian could still taste Toshi’s office in his mouth. He should have returned to Domidion. He had more than enough work. Instead he walked up and down Bloor Street, touring the other high-end shops and adding some twelve thousand dollars to his credit card.

  It hadn’t been difficult. Along with the Brioni tie, he had found a pair of Ferragamo shoes, a couple of Eton shirts, a bottle of cologne, and a Rolex Milgauss. The Glace Verte model with its distinctive green-tinted sapphire crystal, orange lightning-bolt second hand, and black face. In the world of fine watches, the Rolex wasn’t an expensive piece. A Jaeger or a Patek would have made a larger dent in his expense account—and he had seen a very nice Jaeger—but he liked the casual look of the Milgauss.

  The watch was the perfect sports accessory for a winter getaway, and he was looking forward to wearing it the next time he and Olivia went to Bali or Monaco.

  He had taken his time with each purchase, allowing the salespeople to confirm the value of quality and the pleasures of status. But none of it had cheered him. Twelve thousand dollars, and he was still depressed.

  Maybe
he hadn’t spent enough.

  WINTER Lee was waiting for him in the garage. Dorian had hoped to have a quiet and uneventful afternoon, but seeing Winter standing in front of the executive elevators put an end to that.

  “Good news would be appreciated.”

  “I’m sure it would,” said Winter.

  Dorian inserted his card in the slot and pressed the button for the fourth level. “All right, then, the bad news.”

  “Manisha Khan,” said Winter.

  Dorian frowned. “Khan?”

  “The broadcaster. En Garde.”

  Dorian waited.

  “She called looking for a comment on a story that will air this evening.”

  “What story?”

  “The Athabasca,” said Winter. “There’s been a new development.”

  They rode the rest of the way in silence, and neither spoke again until they reached Dorian’s office.

  “PAM environment.” Dorian hit the Enter key harder than was necessary. He waited for the electronic-voice confirmation, and then he turned to Winter. “A new development?”

  “There’s a problem with our holding pond.”

  “The one that we thought might be leaking?”

  “Evidently,” said Winter, “it is leaking.”

  “Are we still pumping water into the pond to keep the level up?”

  “We are. But the levels are continuing to drop.”

  “And Khan knows this?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Winter. “We believe she does.”

  DORIAN tried to remember if the Jaeger Reverso had been $23,000 or $24,000. It was a handsome piece of craftsmanship. A rose-gold case and band, with reversing black and white etched faces.

  The salesperson had been a woman. Arlene. And she had insisted that Dorian try on both the Rolex and the Jaeger. They were two completely different watches, she had explained. The Rolex Milgauss was a functional piece, like driving a Mercedes E-Class, while the Jaeger Reverso was akin to sitting behind the wheel of a Maserati.

  “It’s not about money,” Arlene assured him, “but how you feel about yourself.”

  Given the way his day had gone so far, Dorian wasn’t sure that was the question to ask.

  “Are you a Rolex or a Jaeger?”

  “Right now,” said Dorian with a smile. “I’m feeling like a Citizen.”

  Arlene had a good laugh about that, and Dorian obliged her by trying on the two watches again. They’re exquisite, she told him, and the intelligent decision might be to buy both.

  DORIAN rubbed his head harder, pinching his temples with his thumb and fingers. The nausea was back. So was the dizziness.

  “No comment for Khan. She’s fishing.”

  Winter nodded. “She also asked after Dr. Quinn.”

  “Are we any closer to finding Q?”

  “Mother and sister are no longer in Lethbridge.”

  “And the father?”

  “Shot and killed in the line of duty.”

  Dorian frowned and waited for Winter to finish the sentence.

  “In Minneapolis,” said Winter. “The transcript of the trial is on your desk. I believe you’ll find it interesting.”

  “So the family is in Lethbridge. Then the father and son go to Minneapolis. The father is killed, and Dr. Quinn …?”

  “Stays at the University of Minnesota. And then he goes to Stanford.”

  “He doesn’t go back to Lethbridge?”

  How could anyone get so far into life so unmarked, so unattended? No wife. No children. No rumour of friends. There was not even a name on the “next of kin” portion of the original employment contract. Had Dorian ever had Quinn over for dinner? Had he ever invited the man to the club for a round of golf? Dorian seemed to recall that Quinn had been with him on that fishing junket to Key West. Or had that been the weasel from the Prime Minister’s Office?

  Dorian put more pressure on his temples. “I find that strange. Do you find that strange?”

  “That he doesn’t go home?”

  “Yes.”

  “He may have gone home,” said Winter. “At this point, we don’t know.”

  The writing was disturbing. Dorian could think of no easy explanation for why Quinn would write on the walls of his house, other than the obvious.

  Which raised the question.

  How had a mentally unbalanced scientist been allowed to work with some of the world’s most deadly pathogens?

  Dorian gave up the rubbing and began whacking his head with his hand. “The family is our best lead.”

  “Are you all right, sir?”

  Dorian hit himself again. The pummelling seemed to help him focus. “Find the mother and sister,” he said. “Find the mother and sister, and we find Q.”

  DORIAN spent the rest of the day reading through the trial transcript. Not the bits and pieces of legal debris that littered the document, but the basic plot of the case. At five-thirty, he put it aside and called for the limo. Enough was enough. Time for a quiet dinner and a good night’s sleep. Everything would look better in the morning. It always did. As he waited at the elevator that would take him to the garage, Dorian wondered what Toshi hadn’t told him. And, now that he had had time to think about it, he realized that Arlene had been right.

  He should have bought the Jaeger as well.

  34

  SONNY SITS IN HIS HOLE AND WAITS.

  Wait. Wait. Wait.

  Sonny likes his hole. It’s dark and quiet, and, when Sonny is in his hole, he is at peace. There’s nothing to do. There’s nothing to think about. There’s nowhere to be.

  Sonny wonders if this is how baby turtles feel. At peace. Sonny wonders if baby turtles ever think about staying in the sand and never coming out. Outside are the birds and the ocean and the things with teeth in the ocean. In the sand, the turtles are safe.

  Why do they come out?

  Sonny tries to think of the reasons he would come out of his hole.

  One, he’d have to come out to eat. Two, he’d have to come out to go to the bathroom. Three, he’d have to come out to clean the pool and to empty the coin box in the EverFresh vending machine. Four, he’d have to come out to watch his favourite television shows.

  If Sonny were a turtle, he wouldn’t have to worry about three and four.

  Eating is the answer. Whether he is a turtle or whether he is a Sonny, he’d have to eat. That’s why the babies leave their perfect world.

  Food.

  Wham-wham, hammer-hammer!

  Sonny is all tingly from getting the answer right, and he imagines how much fun it would be to burst onto the beach with the baby turtles.

  But there are no baby turtles. Not anymore.

  Sonny sits in the hole and thinks of fries. Fries and a toasted cheese sandwich.

  Wham.

  Sonny can feel the day drifting by. How long has Sonny been in the hole? How long will he have to wait? Be patient, Sonny tells himself. Be patient in tribulation. Dad has told him this numerous times. Have patience with all things. Dad has said this, too.

  Sonny reaches up and begins tapping out the Indian song on the bottom of the box.

  “From the land of sky-blue waters …”

  Sonny is about to swing into the chorus when the box moves. Sonny stops tapping and singing.

  Patience.

  The box moves again.

  Patience.

  And then the chest is pulled away from the top of the hole, and now, where there was darkness, there is light. Too much light. Very bright light. Sonny stays in the hole and waits for his eyes to adjust.

  Patience.

  Sonny wonders if baby turtles think about patience as they scamper to the sea.

  Sonny’s eyes have adjusted now, and as he looks out, he sees the Indian girl with the old guy’s power jacket, standing at the edge of his hole.

  Along with the dog.

  The girl is holding the box, and she looks surprised to see Sonny.

  The dog looks surprised, too.

  He
llo, says Sonny. I’m Sonny.

  The girl doesn’t say anything, but Sonny knows that sometimes when people are surprised, they become speechless.

  Welcome home, says Sonny. Welcome home.

  As Sonny is trying to think of something else to say, the dog jumps into the hole and begins to lick Sonny’s face. At first, Sonny isn’t sure how he feels about being licked by a dog, but the dog’s tongue is soft and warm.

  Nice doggy.

  Sonny tries to remember the last time someone touched his face. Dad doesn’t believe in touching. Dad believes in rules. Sonny can’t remember any rule against touching, but neither can he remember one that encourages it.

  Thou shalt touch. Thou shalt not touch.

  The dog’s tongue makes Sonny happy, and he begins to laugh, and the Indian girl with the Indian box begins laughing, too.

  Wham-wham!

  What a wonderful day. Sonny on the beach with friends.

  But before Sonny can say anything, the light softens, and the fog begins moving in, and the Indian girl and the Indian box slowly disappear. The dog stops licking and jumps out of the hole, and, before Sonny can cry out and tell them not to go, they vanish in the mist.

  And Sonny is alone.

  Wham.

  Where did she come from? Why didn’t she speak? How could she disappear like that? Why did the dog follow her?

  And then he understands. As Sonny sits in his hole, staring out at the fog, he has a revelation.

  The girl is a ghost.

  She’s one of the Indians who died. A lost Indian. A sad ghost who is trying to find her way home. And the dog is her guide.

  This is not what Sonny had asked for. He had wanted live Indians returning to the reserve. Sonny isn’t sure what can be done with ghosts.

  Still, it’s a start.

  Sonny stays in the hole. He wraps his arms around himself and sings as he rocks back and forth.

  “Hamm’s the beer refreshing …”

  Patience.